My Eating Disorder is Just as Grotesque as Yours

You know, telling me to eat a sandwich is just as rude as me knocking yours out of your hand, mid-bite. Every time you say "put some meat on them bones" and then shove a handfull of walnuts into your chubby squirrel cheeks, I feel offended, not flattered. You are not giving me a compliment when you remind me that my collar bones protrude disgustingly from my chest or that my usually round face looks gaunt and skeletal.

I know you thought it was kind of nice to have a conversation with other people, in front of me, about how I would be pretty if I were one of those "cracked-out heroin models" but I really don't look pretty at all this thin.

I remember how it used to be cool in the 80's to have anorexia. It was the designer eating disorder. Then came bulimia. You weren't cool if you weren't barfing up all the food you had just gorged yourself on. Then in the 90's diet pills and laxatives were all the rage. Shitting your pants in public was almost cool, as long as you could still shop at 5-7-9. But now, someone decided that being an overeater is a disease too. Jillian Michaels and the Biggest Losers made that possible. Now society doesn't feel the same way about skinny bitches, now they are just bitches. The newest fad in eating disorders is the comfort eater. The over eater who eats to take control of their environment. Now we all cry with joy when someone looses enough weight to make a whole other person.

So, please, let's just ignore when I take my belt off at the airport, my pants fall down, and I won't draw attention to the fact that while you read this, you ate an entire loaf of banana bread. I hate my body just as much as you hate yours. The only difference is that I don't ridicule you about it.

Dear Skank at the Old Wal-Mart,

I noticed you at the old Wal-Mart the other night. Not the new one, the old one that they remodeled a couple of years ago. I guess you must have watched Pretty Woman earlier that day before you got dressed to go do your shopping at the Wal-Mart because girl, you were dressed to the 80's nines. Those thigh-high boots were something else. I didn't even know they still made those in periwinkle suede. Or maybe you got them at the Goodwill, because they did look pretty worn out, and you weren't older than maybe twenty two, so I know you haven't owned them since Pretty Woman came out in theaters.

I also saw how your pimp, or baby-daddy or whatever, was kind of helping you push the cart. Although, he had to stop a lot and touch his chin with his thumb and nod at other skanks passing by. And he could really only push with one hand because his other hand was otherwise occupied with holding up his pants.

It was of some concern to my boyfriend how your butt cheeks came out of the bottom of your lycra skirt when you bent over to make your selection from the bottom shelf of vodkas in the Wal-Mart liquor aisle. And I noticed how the little boy riding in the cart looked really sleepy. It's probably because it was about eleven at night, or maybe it was just the FAS-like face he was making. It's hard to tell.

Anyways, it was cool seeing you. Stay real.

And the Award Goes To...

I know my sister thinks that I think she is an A-hole, just because she doesn't pick up trash she drops on the floor or wear clean socks that match. But she isn't an A-hole. She is A-mazing.

We just got back from a terrible battle with Brain Tumor Pirates (Please refer to "Pirates Are Holding My Father Hostage") and I have to say, that if my sister had not been one of my shipmates on this voyage, we may never have made it home at all.

Despite what you may have heard about her, during this battle, never once did my sister: Shoplift, wipe up a spill with a sock, take a crap in anything that was not a toilet, leave broken glassware and a pile of wine soaked towels on the bathroom floor for me to clean up the next morning, barf in the bathtub, barf on me, barf on my mom, barf in a Whataburger parking lot, threaten bodily harm to strangers, loose her shoes, loose my shoes or get arrested.

So I don't know if Vikings gave awards to each other back in the day, but this family of Vikings does. And I will have you know, that Best Supporting Sister will be going to my sister.

Maybe Unconditional Motherly Love is a Myth

When I was a child my mom used to volunteer for the Right to Life organization in a booth at the state fair. She would sit proudly and distribute literature and pencils to cowboy-booted and mustachioed passers by about the miracle of life and how that miracle begins at conception. "Every life is precious" she would announce. Her deep rooted belief that every child has the right to be born was evident in the fierce, blue eye shadowed stare she would shoot at the Right to Choosers across the way.

Until recently, I have always felt that my mother loved my brother, sister and I, no matter how many times we annoyed her or made her so angry that most moms would have wished they had exercised their right to choose. A few months ago I drove up to my mom's house for a visit and we were out running errands. We drove past a billboard that featured several middle aged women with somber looks on their faces and a slogan that read "We had abortions and we regret it." My mother looked at me and I expected to hear her agree with the anti-abortion message. Instead she just said. "I regret not having three abortions."

So There's That.

There is some order to the universe, or I used to believe there was. Like, if you are driving a minivan, you have no business wearing a cowboy hat. If you are wearing a cowboy hat, then you may not wear flip flops. If you are wearing flip flops, then you have no grounds to be intimidating. If you have a reputation of being intimidating, then your reputation is ruined the minute you say "my grama, who goes to church, says the world won't end in 2012."

This Universal Order is totally fucked. Sorry boys and girls. I usually try to keep the language content reasonable, for all 4 of my readers. But it's true. It turns out that whatever entity was keeping cosmic order went to fucking lunch.

What downer this post has turned out to be, but you know what? Usually I'm quirky and fun, but now I guess  I don't have to be. Since the rest of creation doesn't have to follow the rules, why should I? Since everyone else can go out in public in tube tops and yell as loudly as possible at the prescription window at Walgreens about their ailments, why can't I write a depressing post?

My dad, a previously invincible man, is dying of brain cancer. We found out three months ago, and he's not going to last much longer. This is lame. This is out of order. This is not OK. My dad used to be able to kick the top of the door jam, now he can't even talk. So many other people need to be dying of brain cancer instead of him. I know that's not a nice thing to say, and I don't care. I don't have anything inspiring or intelligent to say about it. I don't think it's part of a bigger plan. I think it's fucked.

So there's that.

Is There a Disease Where You Get Addicted to Discovery Health and TLC?

I think I'm coming down with something. I have all these weird symptoms. It started with congestion, fatigue and the chills. Then it progressed into depression-like symptoms. Then all of a sudden I realized that I can't stop watching reality shows on Direct TV that are based around other people's mental illnesses or unusual lifestyles. First it was the shows about people with bad wardrobes, then the wedding dress shows. Then those spoiled little brats who compete in beauty pageants. After that, it all started snowballing into people who hoard and eat toilet paper and laundry detergent. Now it's pregnant women who have their babies while they are in prison and Mormon fundamentalist polygamists with 4 wives and question and answer shows with some "sex doctor" who tells me that it's possible to get herpes from the stagnant pools of water around public hot tubs! Great, now everybody will be using that as an excuse!

I can't seem to shake it. I try to change the channel, get interested in a cop drama or family film, but my hand always finds the remote and suddenly I'm watching someones life that is almost as screwed up as mine. Granted, their father isn't being held hostage by pirates, but their situation is still pretty bad. I mean, did you see the outfits that woman was wearing in public? Ugh! I'm just thankful no one has been secretly following me around with a camera for two weeks. Although the $5000 shopping spree in New York might just be the cure...

Dear Single Dads,

I am not interested in your:
Hobby, lifestyle, means of employment, exotic pet, socioeconomic status.

I already have a boyfriend with more:
Money, hair, attractive features, charisma, teeth, height, grooming habits.

I don't like your:
Birkenstocks, angry teenager, Jeep, teeth, jokes, face.

Kids Don't Know How to Work for Anything Anymore

Well, it's Mardi Gras again. Time for all the semi-attractive females to let lose their sweater puppets for an onslaught of drunken college boys and desperate, lonely men. In New Orleans there are actual cultural festivities associated with this pre-Lent observance, but for the rest of the country, it is just an excuse to come to work with a hangover on a Wednesday.

This year I am most offended because Mardi Gras beads are being sold at lunches to our students. Not because they represent a celebration marked by drunkenness and debauchery, but because in my day, we had to work for our beads! There was no way we could pay fifty cents a strand and walk around campus as if we had actually done something to earn those beads. We had to bear all in the freezing winter temperatures to greasy creepers. We wore those beads as a badge of honor, not a hip accessory.

So shame on you, society, for taking away the opportunity for our girls to learn the value of good, honest, hard work!

In My Day, We Didn't Call Our Teachers "Pirate Hookers"

I've sat through all the PowerPoint presentations developed by Human Resources about how kids are part of a more advanced society than we were. I understand they see and hear things that are more adult-themed than I ever did when I was a child, but in my day, we never called our teachers "Pirate Hookers." To their faces. Especially as a compliment.

Alright, alright. I may have made hurtful comments about a teacher's outfit, face, limp, accent, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status or apparent gender identity crisis. But never to their face. OK, there was that time I called Sister Sue "Mister Sue", but it was totally an accident. And you can't tell me that in all her 76 years of teaching she'd never heard that one before.

Here's my point. When I'm taking attendance and a kid yells "Hey Miss, you like a pirate hooker, in a good way." I'm thinking maybe there is something wrong with our society. Have we taken away the fear and respect kids should have for adults? Or should I have rethought the knickers, puffy sleeved blouse and 4 inch spike heel ensemble?

Attention Frat Boys and Pizzaria Owners:

Vintage 1995
55" Curtis Mathes projection screen television has just been let out into the public market!
Because of the extremely high demand for such rare and collectible items, this piece will be available for viewing by appointment only. Buyers may request a ticket to view and place a bid on this valuable piece of historic and profitable equipment by contacting the seller directly. Since this is most likely a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for most people to even see such a piece of entertainment spectaularity, a special public viewing will be announced Friday at midnight.

Pirates are Holding My Father Hostage

And when I say "pirates" I mean brain tumors.

About 5 years ago the news channels began airing stories about actual pirates. There are still sea pirates who take boats hostage and rob them. Real live pirates who live on ships and survive off the plunder they steal from other ships they catch whilst sailing around in the ocean. More recently on the news, there was a story about these four people who had a boat full of bibles, pirates attacked and killed all of them. They weren't just robbed by pirates, but killed by them too! The pirates' rage is escalating!

So when these brain tumors finally take my dad, I'm just going to tell people that it was pirates. You know why? Because then I won't have to listen to people tell me about their own aunt who personally struggled with liver/breast/colorectal cancer but ultimately survived. Because I don't want to know that your great uncle had lung cancer from smoking! That doesn't make me feel better! When you ask me how my dad died and I say "Pirates killed him." I want you to look at me in disbelief and not know what to say, then walk away or change the subject or give me something expensive or delicious. Because honestly, how many people have a response to "Pirates killed him."? I mean besides the families of those four people.