Fattie McPorkskins

Do you ever have those days (or weeks, or months…) when you just feel fucking UGLY? Like, Carmindy could do your makeup, Tim Gunn could pick out your outfit, and Ken Paves could do your hair and you’d STILL feel like a troll?

Yeah, I’ve been having that problem lately.

Since I’ve gotten a boyfriend, I’ve gained about 10 or 15 pounds, give or take, because I’ve been eating actual MEALS and not just rice every night…and while I was pretty tiny to begin with and am not overweight by any means now, it’s hard to feel sexy when your clothes don’t fit anymore.

I’m not exactly a rich woman, so many days I’m forced to wear pants that cut off my circulation because I can’t afford new ones. During the summer I got away with wearing dresses most of the time (because my dresses don’t judge me as harshly as my pants do—pants will MOCK THE SHIT OUT OF YOU), but now that the temperature is cooling off I’m forced to wear pants more often. I’m growing tired of my frizzy, curly hair. And when I have a breakout? You STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME.

Last night I literally hid behind my book while in bed with MY BOYFRIEND, the person who thinks I’m beautiful no matter what and constantly tells me so. “Don’t look at me! I’m hideous!” I said. And on top of having a few blemishes, today I woke up with a freaking stye on my eye so it feels like eyelid death all over my right eye.

Sexy.

I also even find myself judging people on television now. This is totally not like me. When I see someone bigger than a size two on TV I think to myself, SHE’S BIGGER THAN ME, RIGHT? RIGHT??!? And I totally shouldn’t be that way. But this weight gain over the past year has really done a number on my confidence. Before, I didn’t care what other people thought because I knew I looked good.

Now, I’m not so sure.

And I’m hungry all the time now. I just want to EAT and EAT and EAT and EAT.

It’s just such a terrible feeling, being me right now.

This hottie and I have been calling ourselves “chunklers” lately and begging each other not to judge the other when we see each other this weekend (!!!) because our arms look like twin hams. At least I will have some girl time this weekend and (hopefully) not worry if I’ve got muffin tops or not, or if my sleeves are too tight on my arms.

I just need to find a way to get back to the confident, comfortable me I once was. If I’ve passed the point of being 105 pounds only to never, ever return, will I ever be happy with my body the way it is? What happens if/when I gain MORE weight? Or, God forbid, I have a child and can’t get rid of the baby weight? I can’t go through life feeling this way about myself.

I AM NOT FAT (and I’m not just saying that because I think you’ll judge me if I am. I’m saying that because it’s sorta ridiculous for me to be pitying myself so much right now and I just DON’T KNOW WHERE IT’S COMING FROM). I’m just not as thin as I once was.

Then why do I feel so badly about myself?

This is not a post about weight (though it may seem like it). It’s a post about confidence. I haz none.

I’ve got to regain my confidence. In order for me to be happy, it’s just gotta happen.

Period.

http://www.amazon.com/Glamorama-Vintage-Contemporaries-Easton-Ellis/dp/0375703845

I never claimed it was a GOOD blog post.

Wait a minute . . .

. . . what’s this?

Is it . . . could it . . . be?

A BLOG?

From LRC?

Yeah, don’t ask me what I just did there with that POKE thing. I don’t know, either. I guess I was trying to like conjure up images of poking something unrecognizable (like a blog post from moi). Because THAT’S the smartest thing to do. Why do we do that? Why do we poke stuff when we don’t know what it is? We (and when I say we I mean people. Sorry if you’re not a person) are fucking strange.

Bee Tee Dubs, while I was Google Image-ing pictures of poking (TWSS), I came across this:

Isn’t that horrifying? And the kid is all nonchalant, like, “Yeah, I just shoved a freshly sharpened pencil like, way far in my ear. What’s the big effing deal? Gimme a 40 and let’s superman some hoes.”

Aaaaanyhearingloss, yes. Your eyes are not deceiving you. I am blogging.

Why, you may ask?

Because LAWYERMAN IS AWAY.

And when Lawyerman is away, LRC PLAYS!

And by “play,” I mean blog, be a douche on twitter, reload tumblr every five minutes, and wait for someone to get online and talk to me while I drink Coors Light out of a can while getonmyhorse plays in the background on loop.

Obviously.

With my weekend to myself, I can’t decide if I’d rather

1. take advantage of the fact that I don’t have to cook a five course meal all weekend and eat like a bird… like I ate when I was 10 pounds lighter, pre-Lawyerman, and not feel like a fucking cow, OR
2. eat as much cheese as possible, just ’cause I fucking CAN. Not that Lawyerman would ever try to prevent me from inhaling a fortnight’s worth of sharp cheddar in two days (I just wanted to say fortnight), but because I equate cheese consumption with rebelliousness. Don’t ever say I didn’t live on the EDGE.

Both options sound lovely, but my guess is that option number two (huh. huh.) will reign supreme because CHEESE NEVER LOSES.

Plus I’ve already eaten like eleven slices of cheese.

So yeah.

I guess option number one is out.

While As Much Nothing As Possible is the only thing I’ll likely cross of my list this weekend, in two weeks I will be skidding into Philly international to visit THIS LADY.

Someone is going to have to invent a new word for epic after all that awesomeness happens.

I made a graphic to commemorate the occasion, but I can’t post it here because of that whole semi-anonymity thing, and it has our beautiful faces on it. But trust me. It’s beautiful. And tie-dyed.

Also, if you haven’t clicked the getonmyhorse link yet, I suggest you do that now.

SHUT UP WOMAN GET ON MY HORSE

So there you have it, I have spoken. To be honest, I mainly blogged because I wanted to post a comment on my future husband Jason Isbell’s blog and in the off chance he were to click forward to my blog, I didn’t want the first post he saw to be a post about my horrible asparagus farts.

TMI Thursday: Things About Flatulence

Happy TMI Thursday, toots and tootettes!

OBLIGATORY ASIDE ABOUT “TOOT”: Next time a conversation gets too serious, clasp your hands together, furrow your brow slightly, and without blinking say the word “toot” with a straight face. That’s a little bonus LRC-adventure for ya. You’re welcome.

For today’s TMI Thursday I will share some Things About Flatulence with you, in bullet form.

• Now that I have an intern in my office (literally, she’s in my office. Like, sits-across-from-me-at-my-desk-and-I-can’t-read-tumblr-when-she’s-here-because-there-are-too-many-nipples-oh-and-by-the-way-have-you-been-reading-my-tumblr?), I, uh… can’t fart like I want to. I was so ready to just let one rip earlier today until I realized, yeah hi, there’s another person—a person I’m supposed to be setting a positive example for—in my office. Oh, but when she leaves? It’s a regular C&C Fart Factory in here.
• This morning, I was lying in bed with my Lawyerman. I was telling him how crappy I felt and that I just wanted to lie in bed with him all day. “You know what always makes me feel better?” he said. “What, baby?” I asked. “BRRRRONK!!!!!!!!!” Yep, he farted. Of course. I forgot about it for a minute because I didn’t smell anything (also, he farts about every thirteen seconds so it’s not like this was a rare occurrence) and we went back to chatting. I reached down and playfully snapped the elastic on his boxers. Guess what happened? Yep. Residual fart went directly in my face. Awesome.
• I was already aware of the fact that asparagus is supposed to make your pee smell funny, but until recently I had no idea it would give you pungent, unceasing gas as well. The other night, Lawyerman and I had dinner at my house, and it was quite a lovely meal indeed. Within the half hour, however, I was producing Old-Man-Post-Baked-Bean-Dinner-quality farts with alarming frequency. I was even able to fart on command, punctuating my sentences with the beautiful music of my anus (Gloria Estefan was right—the rhythm is, indeed, going to get you. Gloria Estefan joke courtesy Chandler Bing). After one particularly fragrant bunghole emission, Lawyerman even had to leave the room. Yep. Lawyerman, a 6′1″, 240-lb. grown-ass man was outdone by a 5′3″ (nice try, I’m not telling you my weight) leetle woman. I’ve never been more proud of my digestive tract.

Dumbledore prefers wands to cauldrons

You thought you were done hearing about New York, weren’t you? Well, you’re not. Hopefully this will be the last post that involves him.

Before I go any further, let me just say that yes, Lawyerman and I are doing fine. There is nothing to worry about. We are in love (!!!) and still can’t keep our hands off each other. I just had to share this What the Fuck, New York?™ moment.

NY and I have remained quasi-friends since we stopped doing… whatever it was we were doing. Usually that entails chatting when we see each other and sending the sporadic text message (aka 0.1 KB of PURE EVIL–you know how I feel about texting). Recently, I told him that I started reading the Harry Potter series (late to the game, party of 1), which he has already read in its entirety. So he’s been making it a point to text me “spoilers” (“has Ron killed Hagrid yet?”, etc.) just to mess with me (for all you Harry Potter nerds… I know Ron doesn’t kill Hagrid. OR DOES HE?). Somehow, New York turned our conversation about Harry Potter into something… dirty.

What the Fuck, New York?™

When we were “dating,” he NEVER engaged in dirty texts (I should have known at that point we wouldn’t work, because Geez Louise you’ve GOT to have the dirty texts!), so why did he want to start now, when we haven’t been anywhere remotely intimate since well before the summer solstice?

But more importantly, I think, is the fact that he tried to make a conversation about HARRY POTTER into something SEXUAL. I believe “a wanding” was mentioned and he also alluded to “mystical 3somes.”

UHHHHHH…….

Of course I responded to him that I had vomited on the magazine I was reading.

I wish I could properly convey the craziness of this situation, but alas, I cannot. I just don’t even know. What The Fuck seems to be the only reaction I can come up with.

I sure hope he enjoyed stroking his wand alone that night.

*****NEW TOPIC!*****

So I went to a strip club for the first time ever last weekend because my friend had her bachelorette party. At first I was extremely uncomfortable, but then I started to kinda… uh.. enjoy it? Not because I’m sexually attracted to women, but because seeing gyrating nakedness… reawakened my sexuality? I guess?

I was inspired.

I decided that I needed to try to be a little..sexier for my Lawyerman. He’d mentioned before that he wished I had more g-strings in my underwear collection because he thinks they’re sexy. So I went to a trashy lingerie website and proceeded to buy myself a sexy babydoll lingerie set with a g-string..which leaves very little to the imagination. I was straight up giddy, y’all, when I thought about how his eyes would light up when I answered the door wearing that sexy getup with some 5″ heels. Then, before placing my order, a certain naughty word caught my eye…

Crotchless.

HOOOOOOOOOOOLY SHIT. I’ve never owned a pair of crotchless panties! This is excitin’, y’all! So I purchased a pair of those, too. I told Lawyerman I bought him two surprises on the internet and that he’d get the first one soon after the package arrived, and the second one later.

This is where I need your help.

Do I start off with the answering-the-door-in-my-new-lingerie-set-and-high-heels deal? Or do I walk around the house in a skirt (with the crotchless panties underneath!) and throw my leg up over Lawyerman’s shoulder? DECISIONS, DECISIONS.

In times like these I guess I need to ask myself one question:

What would Jesus do?

Or not. I’d rather know what you would do. Or what you’d want your girlfriend to do for you.

And now I feel that I’ve met my skank quota for the day, so I’m stopping there.

TMI Thursday: The time my boyfriend got intimate with my fecal matter

Watch out, it’s TMI Thursday!

This one should have you sufficiently grossed-out.

On with it . . .

—

Okay, sorry. That title made it sound like my Lawyerman is a fecalphiliac (why is my spell checker not recognizing this word? It is a legitimate word that people use in everyday conversation, spell checker! What is your fucking deal? Oh, and now that I’ve written this complaint, the spell checker is recognizing it as an actual word. WHO’S THE BITCH NOW, SPELL CHECKER? WHAT.) I can assure you that he is not.

That was a bad pun. I apologize.

Back to the story. That I never got to in the first place.

A couple weekends ago Claire, The Lawyer, and I enjoyed a nice day out on the lake. While Lawyerman was docking the boat, my bestie Claire and I went inside his house to use the facilities. Since we have been friends since we were basically both fetuses, we don’t mind peeing in front of each other. It’s what friends do. That, and braid each other’s pubic hair.

What, you don’t do that? Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything . . .

Anyhoodle, while Claire was getting her tink on, I reached into the medicine cabinet for some deodorant because I was feeling a bit rancid after a day of sweating and swimming in dirty river water. As I reached for the stink stick, I accidentally jostled a bottle of Aspirin (I had no idea people still kept aspirin in their houses. WTF, Lawyerman? This is not 1947). This started a chain reaction of events.

As Claire was flushing the toilet, the Aspirin fell out of the cabinet.

Into the sink.

Bounced out of the sink.

Into the now-flushing toilet.

Down the drain.

Oopsie.

Claire, being the awesome human being that she is, reached down into the toilet to feel for the Aspirin bottle (I suppose she’s touched worse. She is an LPN in a nursing home and changing old people diapers is sorta the norm there . . .), then said, “It’s gone.”

I told Lawyerman about our little mishap, and he said it was fine as long as the toilet still flushed. We flushed it a few times to be safe, and everything seemed to be in working order on his porcelain throne.

So, naturally, later that night, I had to take a poop.

I’m sure you can see where this is going.

It wasn’t a BIG poop, mind you. It was kinda like Mooooog’s daughter’s pellet poop (featured in his header). Like this:

Check out that detail!

I mean, there were like, three pellets. TOPS. Not exactly a huge load. Surely not enough to clog a toilet.

Oh yeah.

Three poop pellets was enough to clog the toilet.

It. Sure. Fucking. Was.

Oopsie again.

So my Lawyerman, bless his heart, tried to snake the drain, to no avail.

So he had to remove the toilet, fish out the blockage (read: Aspirin bottle covered in LRC poo), and replace the toilet.

And take a long, hot shower after getting up close and personal with my latest bowel movement.

That’s love right there.

My embarrassing internet presence, pre-LRC

What the shitting hell is wrong with me? THREE blog posts this week? And I’ve already written and scheduled my TMI post for next week?

What can I say, I’m feeling prolific. And awesome.

I’ve been feeling nostalgic lately, so I’ve been trying to remember the various personal webpages I’ve had since my parents first got dialup on a 14.4k modem 13 years ago.

The first one was on GeoCities, wayyyy before banner ads. I even remember the address! I was 13 (wow, that was half my life ago) and I learned HTML from a friend I met on the interwebs (I TALKED TO PEOPLE ON THE INTERNET AND ACTUALLY DIDN’T GET RAPED OR KILLED—WHO KNEW?). I actually wrote out that shit by hand, yo. I still remember a decent amount of it, which is a pretty good skill to have, I think.

Anyhoodle, I remember my first website looking something like this:

~*~*~*[Long Red Cape]’s Page*~*~*~ Hi! My name is [LRC] and this is my webpage! LOL! My favorite band is BUSH —OMG Gavin Rossdale is SO HOTTTTTTT(insert midi music clip here) Sign my Guestbook • View my Guestbook

Plus probably some animated .gifs and pictures of the band Bush. My friend Claire and I were obsessed. I’m even following Gavin Rossdale on Twitter now, this is how deep it goes.

Also, remember guestbooks? I made the mistake of telling one of my (evil) friends about my site. She shared the address with a guy I liked and his friend and they went on my guestbook and made fun of some of the things I said. They signed their names as “Suddenly Susan Farted.” I’m pretty sure I cried and didn’t talk to anyone for a week.

Ah, junior high.

REMEMBER MIDI FILES? They were like the redheaded stepchild of music files. They were lame reproductions of regular songs (think “ringtones” before they were actual songs) that sounded like BEEP, BEEP, BOOP, BOOP, BEEEEEEEP! and everyone who was anyone OMG had a midi song that automatically played on their page! DUH! This was before MySpace, folks. This shit was way ahead of its time.

OMG Y’ALL, REMEMBER WEBRINGS?

OK, I’ll stop. Sorry. Getting a little carried away here.

I also remember having an Angelfire page. The address was http://www.angelfire.com/hi/ihaveagaydog. Yes, I exploited my dog Sam’s latent homosexuality by naming my webpage “I Have a Gay Dog.” Holy shitballs I was a messed up adolescent.

After I outgrew centered text and putting ~*~*~*~*~ before and after everything, I graduated to a Tripod page and started using frames and pictures of Courtney Love and/or other pictures of women in screaming girl bands tinted blue in Photoshop. I was dark, y’all. I even think I wrote, like, poetry and shit then. I’m sure I wrote about important things such as going all the way with my high school boyfriend on his porch and urging him to “get it over with already” because I was tired of him asking me if he could just “put it in one time,” or about how cute my Purrr-fect shirt was that I’d just bought from 5•7•9, or about how I was going to threaten to cut myself if I had to do one more goddamn Georgia History project.

See how far I’ve come since those days? I write about important shit now! Like, um . . .

Hmm.

Yeah…

Gimme a minute.

I’ll get back to you on that . . .

TMI Thursday: My dog isn’t really a picky eater.

Watch out, it’s TMI Thursday!

Don’t blink, or you’ll miss this one, folks.

Here we go . . .

—–

A few weeks ago, I picked a nickel-sized piece of dead skin from the heel of my foot. I then fed it to my dog, Noodle.

Feel free to judge me now. It’s okay, I would, too.

You don’t want to go out for sushi with me . . . you might get smacked.

“You know why I like hanging out with your friend Claire more than any of your other friends?” said my Lawyerman as he scrubbed a plastic bowl over the sink.

“Why is that?”

“Because when she wants to hang out with us, it’s because she wants to have fun. It’s not, like, couples therapy.”

As I methodically chopped the potatoes into squares, I responded, “I completely agree.”

Allow me to elaborate . . .

Three of my girlfriends are having marital problems, and every time I hang out with them? I have to listen to them bitch about their husbands.

One of them, Sandra, got married because she already had a child with another man, and she thought the best thing to do would be to marry the first guy who came along after she broke up with the baby’s father. However, Sandra is a very independent person and does not like living with other people. The poor kid, her husband, was doomed from the start. Sandra now regularly requires random nights out with which she complains about being married the entire time. An alternate version of this scenario involves her actually bringing her hubby along and bitching AT him the whole time. Fun for me.

Another girlfriend, let’s call her Katie, is married to Rich, who is pretty much obsessed with her. He grates her nerves constantly, and she misses being single. He is currently living in an apartment, separate from her, as they go through marriage counseling. They still do things together, and a lot of times they want to double date with me and The Lawyer. Katie’s husband, Rich, thinks The Lawyer is the bee’s knees (well, in Rich’s defense, he totally is) but Rich is quite irritating and The Lawyer is not too fond of him. Also, Katie and Rich argue constantly, which is Awkward with a capital Cringe. More often than not I wonder how my spicy tuna roll would look attached to Katie’s forehead after I throw it at her for bitching at Rich for something asinine.

The third friend, Grace, is married to my cousin. For a while, he got really into World of Warcraft, which is supposedly crack for mega-nerds, and she didn’t like feeling neglected by him. So, she went and had herself an affair. Way to solve THAT problem! A few weeks later my cousin called me to tell me he was filing for divorce, but he never did. They claim they’ve sorted their problems out and are happier than ever, but their close friends suggest the situation is quite the opposite.

All three of these couples have been married for less than five years.

Pretty depressing, eh?

As these couples have fallen into troubled times, it seems that they have reached out to anyone and everyone  who can create a distraction from the shambles their respective marriages have become. This is probably a grim assessment, admittedly, but The Lawyer and I have grown so tired of hanging out with these miserable people that we’ve begun to dread the “ding” of a text message on our cell phones. These couples have become buzzkills, and we’d rather spend our nights alone playing Scene It? or Mario Kart. Or, you know, fucking.

If The Lawyer and I get smoochy when Sandra is around, she’s ready to jump right in with, “Oh, just wait until you get married! That shit is gonna come to an end quick!”

It takes every fiber of my being not to say, “Just because you’re in an unhappy marriage, don’t take it out on me. I still enjoy peen on the reg, so SHUT THE EFF UP and go join Katie and Grace in the Miserable Marriage section.”

It sucks that I feel this way about people I consider to be good friends of mine, but they’re not exactly selling me on the marriage thing right now. I’ll take a board game, hot sex, and separate housing any day of the week.

Since you OBVIOUSLY need more of me

I have a tumblr, here.

I deleted my old twitter, and my new (un-anonymous, OOOH!!!) twitter is here.

Don’t stop ’til you get enough!

Baby, I love you. But if you do that one more goddamn time, I’m going to scratch you with my toenails.

The other day, The Lawyer and I were watching Jersey Girl.

(What? Jersey Girl was a GOOD MOVIE. Why did everyone hate on that movie so hard? On that note, why does everyone hate on Ben Affleck so hard? HE CO-WROTE GOOD WILL HUNTING, DAMN IT. AND KEVIN SMITH LIKES HIM, SO YOU SHOULD, TOO.)

Sorry, I’ll stop yelling now.

Anyhooter, we were watching the part where B. Aff’s character, Ollie, and his fatass pregnant wife Gertrude (played by J.Lo) are getting ready for an important something-or-other for Ollie’s job. Ollie is trying to get the two of them out the door in a timely manner and Gertie is just not having that shit. No ma’am. She’s pregnant. She’s enormous. She can’t poop. She has a motherfucking PERSON practicing kickboxing in her uterus. She wants. To. Cry. And do anything but leave the house, but she has to support her husband.

Ollie consoles her, while gently reminding her that they need to go. Like, now. Gertie, through tears, complies and says, “Just one more minute,” and runs to the bathroom to fix her makeup.

It’s at this moment that Ollie does that thing that, apparently, all men do behind their girlfriends’/wives’/hos’/boyfriends’/trannys’ backs: the “boyfriend cringe,” as Lawyerman called it. They do some kind of thing with their clenched fists in the air while looking extraordinarily annoyed. The kind of thing one reserves for times of great disdain. Sadly, I can’t illustrate this because, apparently, Googling “Jersey Girl movie boyfriend cringe gif” does not yield desirable results for this blog post.

Who knew?

But you know what I’m talking about, anyway.

Since The Lawyer mentioned it, I asked.

“Do you do that behind my back often?”

“Define . . . often . . .”

I thought about all the times in which I could have annoyed The Lawyer to the point of gesturing violently and wanting to silently throttle me as I slept.

“Once a week?”

“Well, if once a week is often, then yeah. Pretty often.”

-Record scratch-

“Wait, WHAT?”

I couldn’t imagine that I could ever be that annoying. Surely, I’m not! I thought. He annoys me way, way more than I annoy him! He’s perpetually annoying!!! HOW DARE HE!!!!

“What do I do that’s so annoying?” I implored.

“Well, I can’t really think of anything in particular right now.”

WRONG ANSWER.

Dudes. Don’t tell us we annoy you often and then not be able to back it up with examples. That’s just bad form.

Finally, after much prodding from yours truly, he came up with ONE thing he could think of that annoyed him on the reg.

You know those salt and pepper grinders you buy from the grocery sto’ . . . the ones that have lids on them . . . kinda like this?

The Lawyer and I use these to season our food. When we cook dinner at home, I usually serve myself first because 1) WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST, BITCHES, AND I’M BOTH and 2) I’m always hawngriest because I heart food and NOMNOMNOM and 3) he is extremely slow in putting his food on the damned plate already.

So what annoys Lawyerman about LRC?

It annoys him that I leave the lids off the salt and pepper grinders.

I LEAVE.

THE LIDS OFF.

FOR HIM.

SO HE CAN USE THEM.

ON HIS FOOD.

WITHOUT BEING BOTHERED TO TAKE THE CAP OFF AGAIN.

I can’t think of a more ridiculous thing to be annoyed by.

And now, you ask, what annoys ME about The Lawyer?

He corrects me. On everything. Even when he’s wrong.

Except I do the cringe/arms flailing/IMMA MURDER YO ASS face right in front of him, instead of behind his back.

Because I want him to be prepared for the middle-of-the-night throttling.

So tell me, bloglings (no, really, tell me. I’m curious). What is it that your current or former significant other does/did that makes/made you go ABSOLUTELY INSANE?

What do/did you do to a current/former significant other that causes/caused grave annoyance?