My son, who's room is upstairs, and I communicate like all geek families do: via the internet. Even when in the same house.
Also, his girlfriend's last name is Jusi. So everyone calls her Juicy. Which is only slightly odder than his last girlfriend's name, which was Hershey.
Lisa : I made cookies.
James: is that what i smell
James: i thought it was the awesome smell of my closet
Lisa : haha
James: do they have yogurt or pickles in them?
Lisa : no, but they do have ham and pumpkin sauce.
James: that just wont do.
James: any magical corn?
Lisa : It's supposed to be a surprise, but yes.
James: ok
James: answer this right, and ill come down
James: james and juicy are ___________
Lisa : on the loosey
James: it doesnt rhyme
Lisa : yes it does.
Lisa : see? ^
James: no
James: guess something else
Lisa : gay as fire ants
James: i hate my life
Lisa : LOL
Lisa : why now?
James: because you guessed wrong
James: ill igve you 3 more
James: *give
Lisa : suffering from anal herpes
James: not yet
Lisa : planning to watch whales mate while singing show tunes
James: no
Lisa : a cute couple. *teehee
James: we're a fucking sexy couple we were making out in starbucks.
James: ok
James: coming down now.
Lisa : I ate all the cookies
James: FUCK
James: ok
James: staying up
Lisa :
Lisa : I'll pee some out for you.
James: mother do you want me to come out of the closet?
James: because if theres cookies, i will
James: :]
James: otherwise im closeted.
Lisa : It's nicer out of the closet. There are bears and rainbows.
James: actually, ive came out before, and all i got was embarrassment and humiliation which led me to join a gang.
James: but if theres cookies, ill come out.
James: i dont feel like eating pee-reincarnate
James: -_-
>
>
>
>
>
>
James: holy shit are there cookies or not.
...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Sherri Holmes - where are you?
What ever happened to you, Sherri Holmes?
I haven't seen you since…what…the 7th grade?
I'm sure you remember me, right? I was that one girl who sorta hung around with everyone. I had friends who hung with the stoners and the metal heads and friends that hung with the preps.
And, apparently, you hated me for that.
It always confused me the variety of style in my friends rendered me a possible "narc". For the longest time, I never even knew what that meant.
I dressed in a manner that I thought was pretty cool, though looking back, I can't believe my mother let me leave the house with that bad perm and fishing lure-like earrings.
And that make up…god that make up.
I remember you, though. Tiny, tough and angry as hell, from what I could tell. The layered spiked hair and the smears of blush that looked like racing stripes. You were a hard little person.
But what were you so pissed about, little girl?
To this day I'm still a little confused as to why you were angry at ME - again, the narc thing baffled me.
I mean, really, I don't think about you more than once a year these days, but you really were a big part of my life when I was 13.
You are the reason I hated going to school for the better part of a year.
The 7th grade was a little stressful to me having lost my father a couple years prior and dealing with that, and now knowing that if I walked down the hall during the wrong moment of the day, I would have an angry little pitbull in my face. I did everything I could to avoid you. But you seemed to always be there.
That one time in the soccer field…you remember, that day you, in your little fake black leather jacket and skin tight jeans, got all your scary 8th grade friends to gather around me, in my dorky little painter's cap and sparkly 'Sarah Jeans', so that I couldn't leave the confrontation I so THOROUGHLY wanted to avoid. Remember when you hauled off and punched me square in the face and then wondered why I didn't punch back, chalking it up to the fact that I was too scared of you, laughing as you and your gang of courage walked away?
You were partially right. I was terrified.
And the time you waited for me outside the locker room when it was just you and I in the hall – when your right hook landed squarely on my cheekbone. Why were you so angry with me? And why did you seem to get so pissed off that I wouldn't fight back? That seemed to REALLY flabbergast you, all 5 foot nothing of your slight but wiry frame shaking with fury. I still remember the look in your heavily lined eyes when you yelled, "What is WRONG with you???" just before you spun around and stomped away.
I didn't see you much after that. From what I understand, even though I was rendered mute by the stress of losing a father, a home life that was 'interesting' to put it mildly, and of being hassled by a little ball of aquanet and skank at every turn when all I wanted in the world was be left alone…apparently, people at the school caught wind of what was going on and, with the accumulation of all the other trouble you had gotten yourself into over the years, your fascination with punching my face landed you in a girl's home for a bit.
I didn't miss you.
I do recall seeing you about four years later when you and some older man walked into the fast food restaurant I worked at afterschool.
I remember that even though I had actually come out of my shell quite a bit by then, I was once again rendered silent and paralyzed just by your presence that day. A friend and coworker of mine, who had also been a friend to me back when you and I spent our quality time together, saw who we were serving and took great pride in 'doctoring your meal'. I'm sure you didn't notice. Anymore than you recognized me when you seemingly stared right through me standing there as someone else took your order.
I remembered you. How could you have not remembered me?
That's when I wondered if I was just one of many weak little girls that you fancied as your punching bag.
If I was just one in a long line of people whose lives you made such a huge impact on.
You realize that, right? You know how important you became to me?
Maybe that was part of your problem. You weren't important to anyone back then.
Maybe you had lost a father. Or had a home life that was 'interesting' to say the least.
And instead of turning inside yourself like I had, your only way to cope was to lash out
Is that what it was, Sherri? You were just as scared and stressed out as me, but we just had different methods of coping? Maybe we were just two sides of the same coin.
Like I said, over the years, you have become less important to me.
But I haven't forgotten you. I'm sure I never will.
I hope you've become important to someone else, but if you haven't, just know that someone's thinking about you, if only on occasion.
I haven't seen you since…what…the 7th grade?
I'm sure you remember me, right? I was that one girl who sorta hung around with everyone. I had friends who hung with the stoners and the metal heads and friends that hung with the preps.
And, apparently, you hated me for that.
It always confused me the variety of style in my friends rendered me a possible "narc". For the longest time, I never even knew what that meant.
I dressed in a manner that I thought was pretty cool, though looking back, I can't believe my mother let me leave the house with that bad perm and fishing lure-like earrings.
And that make up…god that make up.
I remember you, though. Tiny, tough and angry as hell, from what I could tell. The layered spiked hair and the smears of blush that looked like racing stripes. You were a hard little person.
But what were you so pissed about, little girl?
To this day I'm still a little confused as to why you were angry at ME - again, the narc thing baffled me.
I mean, really, I don't think about you more than once a year these days, but you really were a big part of my life when I was 13.
You are the reason I hated going to school for the better part of a year.
The 7th grade was a little stressful to me having lost my father a couple years prior and dealing with that, and now knowing that if I walked down the hall during the wrong moment of the day, I would have an angry little pitbull in my face. I did everything I could to avoid you. But you seemed to always be there.
That one time in the soccer field…you remember, that day you, in your little fake black leather jacket and skin tight jeans, got all your scary 8th grade friends to gather around me, in my dorky little painter's cap and sparkly 'Sarah Jeans', so that I couldn't leave the confrontation I so THOROUGHLY wanted to avoid. Remember when you hauled off and punched me square in the face and then wondered why I didn't punch back, chalking it up to the fact that I was too scared of you, laughing as you and your gang of courage walked away?
You were partially right. I was terrified.
And the time you waited for me outside the locker room when it was just you and I in the hall – when your right hook landed squarely on my cheekbone. Why were you so angry with me? And why did you seem to get so pissed off that I wouldn't fight back? That seemed to REALLY flabbergast you, all 5 foot nothing of your slight but wiry frame shaking with fury. I still remember the look in your heavily lined eyes when you yelled, "What is WRONG with you???" just before you spun around and stomped away.
I didn't see you much after that. From what I understand, even though I was rendered mute by the stress of losing a father, a home life that was 'interesting' to put it mildly, and of being hassled by a little ball of aquanet and skank at every turn when all I wanted in the world was be left alone…apparently, people at the school caught wind of what was going on and, with the accumulation of all the other trouble you had gotten yourself into over the years, your fascination with punching my face landed you in a girl's home for a bit.
I didn't miss you.
I do recall seeing you about four years later when you and some older man walked into the fast food restaurant I worked at afterschool.
I remember that even though I had actually come out of my shell quite a bit by then, I was once again rendered silent and paralyzed just by your presence that day. A friend and coworker of mine, who had also been a friend to me back when you and I spent our quality time together, saw who we were serving and took great pride in 'doctoring your meal'. I'm sure you didn't notice. Anymore than you recognized me when you seemingly stared right through me standing there as someone else took your order.
I remembered you. How could you have not remembered me?
That's when I wondered if I was just one of many weak little girls that you fancied as your punching bag.
If I was just one in a long line of people whose lives you made such a huge impact on.
You realize that, right? You know how important you became to me?
Maybe that was part of your problem. You weren't important to anyone back then.
Maybe you had lost a father. Or had a home life that was 'interesting' to say the least.
And instead of turning inside yourself like I had, your only way to cope was to lash out
Is that what it was, Sherri? You were just as scared and stressed out as me, but we just had different methods of coping? Maybe we were just two sides of the same coin.
Like I said, over the years, you have become less important to me.
But I haven't forgotten you. I'm sure I never will.
I hope you've become important to someone else, but if you haven't, just know that someone's thinking about you, if only on occasion.
Monday, June 16, 2008
BBWhat?
BBW.
One night, I went, on a whim, to some dance with the name "Big Boogie Nights". It was for big girls and people who loved them.
Whatthefuckever.
That is a term that confuses me.
I mean for one, it reminds me of BBQ, but I'm hungry.
But I think it confuses a lot of people.
BBW stands for Big Beautiful Woman for those of you who have been under a big fat rock.
I see this term applied to women who are neither all that big, and to be honest, not always that beautiful.
Alright, that's all subjective I know, but all I'm saying is that the term seems pretty broad. No pun intended.
Ok it was intended.
I'm a thick girl. Fat to some people, just right to others. I'm a size 14 (I like to cling to the fact that Marilyn Monroe was also a 14…haha) on the downswing of my rollercoaster, and a 16 on the upswing.
I yo-yo so much, I put Oprah to shame.
I got up to an 18 (or, let's be honest, maybe 20) a couple years ago, but that was completely out of hand for me. I was not comfortable nor was I feeling all that beautiful. Just big and womanish.
What I'm wondering, though, is this:
Is there a size range for BBWs? Is it 14 and up?
Is it 16 and up?
Is it 20 and up?
The reason I ask is I KNOW I'm a chubby broad. I can shop at Lane Bryant and, while I wear the smallest size in the 'fat girl store', I can also still shop in the Misses section at Macey's.
Barely.
An XL top will fit me in some brands, be too baggy in others (like Old Navy) and be way too fucking tight in the rest. Now, to be fair, I have huge boobs. But I'm also talking about the shoulders and the arms (I have fat arms).
I was pretty stoked when I found a shirt at Forever 21 (god I hate that name) when I was on a shopping spree with some girlyfaces I know and love.
I seem to be stuck in this limbo between acceptably fat and unacceptably fat, and I go back and forth between being content (not happy, but content…or is it resigned?) with my weight (except for my arms, I always hate those) and fighting the good fight with Weight Watchers.
Truth be told, these days the weight loss battle is more for health reasons than anything, followed by overall comfort (it sucks to be fat during during hot weather).
One night, I went, on a whim, to some dance with the name "Big Boogie Nights". It was for big girls and people who loved them.
I had no less than 5 women that I chatted with over the evening tell me, "Um, hate to say this, but you're not a BBW. You're not even fat."
Like hell you say.
I actually got accused of going to the dance to try to lure the men away from the "real" BBWs.
Fuckin A, I just wanted to drink and peoplewatch! Haha.
Whatthefuckever.
So where's my 'place'??
Well, I dunno.
I mean hell, I'd be honored to win a BBW award – any kind of award is appreciated!! Haha. PRIZES, FABULOUS PRIZES!!
I'm not worried about being too fat to be fuckable. I know there are a few white guys, as well as thousands of black guys and Mexicans that will always see me as just perfect. And boys, I love ya for it.
I'm going to go pick up 2 double cheeseburgers, a 22 oz beer, and an ice cream sammich and try to figure this all out.
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