I Didn't Realize Being Judgemental Was a Job Qualification For Albertsons Employees

Oh, OK. I see how it is. I can see by the look on your face as you are ringing up my purchases that you think you are better than me. What you don't understand Miss Alberstsons Courtesy Clerk, is that this collection of items that I am purchasing from right now is not a fair representation of my lifestyle.

You see, I stopped on my way home from work to pick up a few necessities for my upcoming weekend. I can understand how eight Lean Cuisine microwave dinners, a bag of cat food and two packages of chocolate chips may come across as rations for a very sad and lonely woman. But what you don't know is that I only picked up these meals on a whim. They are on sale at more than a 60% savings. I don't eat them for dinner, as their title suggests. I take them to lunch. At my job. That requires a college degree. Something you obviously know nothing about.

And the cat food is a merely a favor I am doing for my boyfriend. You see, I don't even own a cat. In fact, I plan to use these chocolate chips to make muffins for the aforementioned boyfriend tomorrow morning, after we spend a very sensuous and romantic night together.

So there. My life isn't as sad and depressive as you believe. Some people. They have such bizarre imaginations. They just make these crazy stories up in their heads about people that aren't even true! They just assume things about people without even talking to them. God. I can't believe some people, like you, Little Miss High-and-Mighty Check Out Girl.

Let's Be a Little More Sensitive, Please?

Kids are so insensitive! They are always calling each other faggots and saying how things are gay. It's so cruel. I can't stand it. Don't they know it's wrong? When they say that it makes me want to walk up to them and scream in their stupid faces "Stop calling each other faggots, you idiots!"

I mean, don't they know how inappropriate it is to say that something they don't like is gay? They are so retarded for doing that. I can't believe that they don't realize that they are degrading homosexual individuals every time they say that. I can't believe kids can be such retards.

And I hate how boys and girls alike call each other fag, faggots, queer, joto and lesbo all the time. I'm like, hey Charlie Gordon, what are you, special? Don't you know you can't use words that describe members of the homosexual community as slurs? Even a sped kid would know that. Seriously, remember that "Tell me about the rabbits again George" guy from the Steinbeck novel? Yeah, even that guy would know it's not OK.

I'm just saying, apparently these kids missed the day at Special Olympics Summer Camp where they discussed that gay and lesbian themed insults just aren't acceptable in today's culture. I wish someone would help me get it though their giant foreheads.

So It's True What They Say, About First Impressions

Lately I've been trying to subtly convince my boyfriend that I would make a good wife and mother. I think this would be a lot less difficult if our "How We Met" story was a little different.

The night I first set eyes on my boyfriend, he had already set eyes on me from across the dance floor. My heavy eye make-up, high heeled dancing shoes and tight jeans were a beacon of hope for any single man wanting to get all up on a tall, leggy, childless woman. I didn't leave my apartment that night with the intention to make out with the first automobile mechanic that bought me a vodka tonic. Alas, there I was, licking the inside of the mouth of this man who paid for my drink and told me that he "worked on cars." Much to the enjoyment/embarrassment of the other club patrons, we worked the dance floor in the most erotic way two white people can. As a matter of fact, The only reason I didn't follow this mechanic home that very night was because I had carpooled with my roommate.

It only took a couple more awkward movie and or bowling dates for me to prove just what type of girl I was. The exact opposite type of girl you'd like to marry and make the mother of your children. Let's face it. This early on, men want an enthusiastic gymnast, not Betty Crocker.

That was more than a year ago and I'm beginning to worry that I may have not behaved in the most appropriate way possible. In an effort to adjust the dynamic of our situation, I just bought a recipe book so I could figure out how to make muffins. I hope my efforts aren't totally obvious or pathetic. Hey... Maybe I'll just bake the muffins with nothing but a g-string and my new oven mitts. Who wouldn't want to marry that?

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."