As a young girl, I had this fantasy about having my very own “Signiture Scent.”
My dream was this (and yes, I actually remember saying these words outloud) “I want my very own smell, one that people know me by, so that when I walk by when they have their eyes closed, they’ll know it was me just by the smell of the air as I pass by.”
Oh, The Dramatics. I think I was about 8 when I said that and man, I meant it.
I would spend hours in the bathroom mixing powders with water and lotions, trying to create my very own scent, but, I quickly learned that powder+water= paste and NOT perfume, so I was forced to chose a scent that was already in existence and make it my own.
Unfortuntely for everyone in my life, especially those who had to sit next to me for an entire church service, I decided that my “Signiture Scent was TEA ROSE!”
But that only lasted for a little while, because, one day, whilst cruising the isles of Kmart, I discovered “Wild Musk” by Coty.
That “Signiture Scent” only lasted a few weeks, because one day whilst looking for a new flavored lip gloss at Kmart (or Ha! HA! “Came Apart” as my husband, the Really Funny Guy, likes to call it because, GET IT? K-mart, came apart?), I discovered “Sand and Sable”.
Helloooo, coconut beach in a bottle on my body!
I realize now how incredibly confusing this must have been to The People, because, the whole idea of a “Signture Scent” is that when people are praying and I walk by they know it’s me by “my smell” but I was changing smells every other week, so, HOW COULD THEY KNOW IT WAS ME?
I have no idea why the “scent” thing was such a big deal to me, but it was. I was obsessed with the idea of being recognized by a particular scent. As I grew up, I realized that this idea was ridiculous because MAN, there were a lot of beautiful scents out there and I could not limit myself to one.
Many of my “pre-kids” shopping days were spent in the beauty department at Macy’s and I always got the “new” scents as soon as they came out. I developed the incredible skill of being able to guess what perfume a women was wearing at any given moment.
“Is that ‘Pleasures’ your wearing?” I’d ask the random stranger at the market.
And I’d always be right.
I never imagined a day would come where I’d no longer recognize the latest “scents” from Macy’s because I’d not be able to afford the “good perfumes” and I’d be forced to douse myself in cheap body sprays from Target and Bath and Body works.
And THE LORD KNOWS I never saw the day coming in which my “Signiture Scent” would be “Tittymilk mixed with a lil’ funky arm pit with a just a hint of bad breath”.
I’ve always been somewhat jealous of “creative” type people.
Especially Creative Moms.
I’m talking about the mom’s who can make their children halloween costumes, the kind moms who can decorate their children’s rooms and make them look like something out of a magazine. The moms who take unique, beautiful photographs of their children.
The kind of mom I certainly am NOT.
Not for lack of trying. Lord knows I try. But, I am just not a creative, artistic type person.
Of course, this is my mother’s fault.
My mother, Bless her fart. She, like me, did try. But the woman didn’t have a creative or artistic bone in her body. One look at the way she decorates her house and it’s obvious the women is creatively challenged. I always dreaded the “special event days” at school because I knew whatever it was, I would SUCK because my mom wouldn’t have a clue on how to help me.
I’ll never forget “Crazy Hat Day” in the 6th grade. All of my friends talked about how Wild n Kahraaaazzy their hats were going to be. Surely, I could out do them! Me and my mother would think of something that would make their hats cry.
The morning OF Crazy Hat Day. My mom still had not come up with any ideas for my hat. In an act of desperation, she ran out to the front yard. “I know!” she said. “We’ll pick some ivy and wrap it all around the hat with some sticks! That’s CRAAZZZZZY.”
I started to cry. “That’s not crazy! That’s dumb! I’m not wearing Ivy on my head!”
But that was all she could think of. In her totally uncreative mind, Ivy + Sticks = CRAAAZY.
Needless to day, I didn’t participate in Crazy Hat Day. Instead, I moped around all day, envious of all the other children and their Crazy Hats.
Had I known I would grow up to be JUST LIKE MY MOTHER, I wouldn’t have been such an ass about her inability to be creative.
How was I to know that I would one day think “My baby boy is going to be a clown for Halloween and I will paint his face just like a real clown and he will be so cute and everyone will love him because he will look just like a real clown because I know how to paint clown faces!” And then, years later, find the picture and realize that “OH MY GOD. THAT IS NOT WHAT A CLOWN FACE LOOKS LIKE! My poor child, I took him out in public like that and I bet the people were laughing at me because…. HAHAAAAAAAAAAA. It doesn’t look like a clown face at all, but, like, he tried to eat my lipstick and HOLY CRIZAP, I am my mother!”
I believe I wrote about “My Big Fat Stupid Ugly Germican Wedding” once before. However, today, I was doing what I do when I get emotional…looking through photo albums. As I flipped through the pages of my wedding album, I thought OMG! I have to take pictures of this for The Internet to see how HILARIOUS my wedding was.
People. It IS hilarious.
I must defend myself before you see these pictures.
1.) It was 1990. “Bigger” “Puffier” = “Better”
2.) I was only 19 years old. My parents still controlled everything
that I did. I’m not bringing that up because I’m bitter, but
because that explains a)why I am NOT wearing makeup. b)why I am
NOT wearing jewelery. c) MY HAIR
3.) I wish I had a third reason, but I don’t. But, man, I wish I
Are you ready for Pure Puffy Hotness?
Let’s start with The Bangs, shall we? Because I KNOW you’re freaked out by The Bangs. A week before the wedding, I had no bangs. My hair was all one length and MAN, was it long. My friend was going to pay for this really awesome stylist named “Johnny” to do my hair. BUT, for reasons that I will not get into here, my parents didn’t want “Johnny” to do my hair, SO, I decided to use my mom’s friend’s “stylist” (and I use that term VERY LOOSELY). She decided to chop me some bangs, an entire TOP OF MY HEAD worth of ‘em and RAT THEM TO HEAVEN. Then, she just put the rest of my hair in a BUN that half fell out before the wedding even started. Perfect!
The Veil. What can I say about The Veil? “IT was HUGE?” “Man, that’s a LOT of pearls!” Seriously. It is what it is. And, what it is, was FUGLY.
The Dress. I was so damn proud of those “puffy sleaves”. I aint even gonna lie. What I did not realize was how “Amish” the dress was. Because… THERE IS NO SKIN SHOWING WHATSOEVER. But, hey, it had puffy sleaves AND “A Train” “With Bows”!
Lack of makeup/jewelery. It was against my parents religion. That’s all I can say about that.
I think I’ll let those pictures speak for themselves.
Remember, I said “Bigger”=”Better”? That would be why my cake was BIGGER THAN GOD. 3 foot base cake, with 4 round cakes, a fountain, and a stairway to heaven. Don’t be jealous of my Cake With A Fountain.
There is ONE picture from our wedding that I love. For several reasons. My Tiny Waist, the smile on Tony’s face (because, you know why.), how happy we look. And for a moment, when I look at that picture, I forget how, um, HORRIBLE everything about our wedding was, but then, I LOOK AT THIS WITH THE HAIR STYLE FROM HELL and I am reminded that, yeah, our wedding was so very ugly. (But so very hilarious. At least I can laugh about it.)
Now I understand why my dad used to take a ruler to my bangs and then, after I had spent HOURS getting them “just right”, take his hands and push them down while I cried “nooooo, they weren’t THAT HIGH!”
Now I understand why “grooming your eyebrows” is so important.
But THANK GOD for “clear mascara” because look how it made my eyes “pop”.
(Does the title of this post make The Internet uncomfortable? Because, it’s ok to laugh. Really, it is. Infact, it would make me feel better if you did. He’s not going anywhere, because he kissed me all over this morning and told me he loved me, but I can’t help but think he might change his mind when he’s at work because HELLO? I’m OVERLY DRAMATIC.)
I got carded tonight, bitches!
Sort of. Kind of. Almost.
Ok. I didn’t get carded at all.
But My ASS totally did.
That’s right, apparently, my ass looks underage, but MY FACE does not.
As I was checking out at the self check out lanes, the lady who works there yelled out “I’m going to need to see I.D” because I had scanned a 12 pack of beer for Tony. “NO PROBLEM!” I shouted, as I pulled out my wallet.
I turned around to show her my card and the ho was all “Ohhhhhhhhh from behind you looked REALLY YOUNG, NEVERMIND, I DON’T NEED TO SEE IT.”
“You could have seen the I.D all the way through, even after you realised I look like an OLD HAG, to save me from feeling like an ass, ya know”
She apologized a hundred times and it took everything within my soul to not give her a round house kick to the ribs and knock all of her teeth out. Like, SHUTUP ALREADY AND GO AWAY BECAUSE I’M TIRED OF PEOPLE STARING AND LAUGHING ALREADY, HO!
My ass taunted me the whole way home. “Ha! I may be fat, but I can lose weight and you can’t lose those wrinkles ALL OVER YOUR FACE YOU OLD HAG!”
I hate my ass.
But not as much as I hate that stupid skank who halted “the carding” the minute she SAW MY FACE.
Celebrating by jumping up and down in the middle of the basketball court after your son wins his second playoff game in one day + 42 E cup boobs + a nursing bra that snaps open in the front =
a) Whomp! There it is!
c) Like, WOAH.
d) The most embarassing moment of my life.
e) Tittysmack to the face.
f) For the love of God, cover the children’s eyes!
g) ALL OF THE ABOVE.
I am dangerous with scissors.
My husband could tell you stories of the many times I got pissed at my hair and decided to cut it myself and how one time when I did it, he came home to find me in the bathroom with his hair clippers, crying really hard, SHAVING MY NECK because the fantasy I had that I cut “texture the back of my hair” went bad and I cut it THAT short.
Snoop could tell you a story about the time I decided to “trim his hair a little”.
My boys could tell you about the time I decided to save money and give them haircuts myself and how they’d cry because I’d take 3 hours to do it and their hair looked like shit when I finished.
The reason I’m telling you this is because I’m THIS CLOSE to cutting Gabby’s hair right now. I know I shouldn’t, but OH MY GOD, her hair is irritating me. It’s getting so long in the back and the front? It keeps getting in her eyes.
See what I’m talking about? Hair. All in her face. The girl needs a bang trim and I knows how to give bang trims.
Here’s the thing. Once I get the urge to cut someone’s hair, be it my own, my dog’s, my children’s, I can’t stop myself. It’s like I become possessed by the scissors and even though I know I shouldn’t and that my husband will want kill me, I’ll do it anyway because…the scissors MADE ME do it.
I’m fighting it because I don’t want to make my daughter ugly, and I certainly don’t want to accidently cut her, but I’m staring at her bangs and I swear to God, the scissors are whispering “just doooo iiiitttttt, you know you want to dooooo iiiiittt“.
I hope I beat this battle of the urge to cut. For Gabby’s sake.
While standing in the diaper isle at Target, trying to find my daughters size, I noticed a man looking (staring, actually) at me with a disturbed look on his face. Clearly, he wasn’t thinking “Damn, she’s hot” or anything like that. It was more of a “what in the hell” kind of look. I was trying to remain calm and not be all “What’s your problem, beyotch?” Then, I realised what he was looking at and why he was so frightened..
I was playing with my belly. That’s right, apparently, I play with my belly in public. When I say “play with”, I mean my hands are all up on my gut and I touch it, rub it, hold it while jiggling it around, sometimes, I gently tap it while I’m looking around. Like an old man showing off his beer gut in an attempt to make everyone laugh, only, I’m not an old man, and I’m certainly not trying to show anything off, nor? Am I trying to be funny.
Now that I’m aware of it, I have to fight the urge to PLAY WITH MY GUT. It’s not a big deal when I’m at home. Hell, I make music on it while it’s hanging out here in the privacy of my own home, but doing it in public? That’s just sick.
But how does one break such a habit? What do I do when I start feeling the urges to grab that sack of fatty goodness where babies once grew and start feeling it up whilst out in the real world? Tap dance instead? Randomly sock people in the head?
I suppose it could have been worse, I could have been talking to it.
Have you ever laughed so hard while with your friends, you lost control of your ‘Tocks and without warning, you let one rip. And it’s so loud, that the entire group hears it and stops laughing for one second to verify who it was, but they pretty much figure out it’s you right away, so they start laughing AT you, which makes you laugh so hard AGAIN that you lose control of the “other” exit and you pee a little?
Ok, then, have you ever been standing outside the front of your church building, right after church was over and while everyone is out front drinking punch and coffee, a really cute boy who you have a crush on yells from across the street “Hey, you! Want a ding dong?” And you lose control because you’re addicted to food with cream in the middle so you take off to run across the street, IN YOUR DRESS AND PUMPS and you slip in the middle of the street, causing your dress to fly up in the air while landing on your back and everyone sees you and they start laughing, while you frantically try to cover your crotch?
Have you ever been in Vegas for a wedding and got all dressed up in a cute blue and white polka dotted dress with a hat and high heels and thought you looked REALLY HOT and just before the wedding starts, you have to go pee, so you run to the bathroom, do your business, wash your hands and start trottin’ your hot stuff out into the lobby and you think everyone is staring at you because you LOOK SO HOT, only to have some lady yell out “Your dress is TUCKED INTO YOUR PANTYHOSE, MISS” and suddenly you realise people were staring at you because YOUR ASS WAS EXPOSED?
Damn, I had at LEAST 5 more, but Gabby is up and she’s calling for The Tit.
I’m such a dumbass.
Ethan has handcuffs on him that won’t come off. And there’s no key. The kids said they are real handcuffs and I just believed them. They don’t LOOK real, but they’re not plastic.
I called the fire department to see if I could take him down there and have them cut off. I told the lady they were real, so she called a police officer and he’s on his way to my house to try to open them with his key.
I ask the kid who they belong to “Where did you get these handcuffs” He says “From the ICE CREAM MAN, HE SELLS METAL ONES.”
What the hell am I going to say to the officer that comes out here thinking these are real handcuffs? And I can only imagine he’s going to be pissed that he had to drive all the way over here for this.
Oh Mother of Heysoos, this is only week one of summer vacation!