Call me a chicken shit. Call me a scaredy cat. I don’t care. There are just some things I don’t do, or do well, and other things there is no way in hell I’ll ever do.
Sky Diving
Seriously? If it’s a perfectly good airplane and flying without issue, why on earth would I jump out of it? Also? I know someone who’s parachute collapsed before he landed and he broke both legs and an arm and now has all sorts of steel bits and pieces holding his bones together. That is not normal.
Bungee Jumping
Like sky diving I’m sure there’s a thrill with jumping off a perfectly stable bridge. But the thought of hanging by my feet bouncing around and being whipped all over the place, then depending on the mercy of someone to haul me back up, makes me crazy in the head.
Scuba Diving
I have water issues. I am terrified of swimming in deep water. If I can’t touch the bottom, forget it. Then ask me to breathe out of a tank of air and hope that nothing goes wrong when I’m not near natural air? Please. I have no doubt that the ocean or waterways are stunningly beautiful. And I am sure that there is freedom and tranquility floating around beneath the surface of the water. But I am blissfully happy to sit my ass on my sofa and watch the underwater scenes on Planet Earth on my HDTV.
Newsflash: I’m a Taurus who likes to keep her feet firmly planted on solid ground.
Hold a Snake
Snakes are gross. Slithery, smooth, creepy creatures that freak me right out. In college I lived with some friends who had a giant python. And they’d take her out to clean her cage and lay her on the floor. I would not go in the apartment if she was out. This snake didn’t move fast and it wasn’t going to eat me. But I imagined she would. I also could not be in the apartment when she was being fed. She got fed live rats. Rats that were stunned first when its head was whacked against the wall. But it was still alive and would shriek as it was dropped in the cage. So yeah, I was TOO CHICKEN SHIT to be in the apartment when the snake was fed. And I never touched her and I never held her. If someone forced me to hold a snake I’d probably bawl my eyes out.
Ask My Boss For a Raise
I am STRUGGLING with this one. I am afraid to talk to him about this. I am so severely underpaid it’s ridiculous. Like I’m not even ON the bell curve for my position on any of the job boards. My problem here is not that I don’t value myself or think I’m worth more. I know I am good and I know I deserve more. But I have such anxiety over sitting down and discussing it with my boss. He was a corporate executive for like 30 years before his job now. He’s a master negotiator. He’s one of those people who can think of every rebuttal on the fly and I am the type of person who can sit there and choke on her own drool as I vacantly stare past him in mortification. I’m working on this though. I have my talking points. I have done my research. Now I just have to have confidence in myself that I can hold my own in a debate with him.
Getting Involved In Twitter Fights
This ultimately boils down to “I just want people to like me” and I would hate for people to unfollow me. I hate how shallow this sounds. Trust me when I say I want to get involved sometimes if only to bash some heads together, but I just don’t want to stick my neck out. Get me on an IM though? Shoot… I’ll voice my opinions there.
Writing a Snarky Post On MY Blog Making Fun of Someone Else
I have this post brewing in my head. I am DYING to write it. It’s not like I care if this person likes me or not either. But I haven’t written it yet because, while I am laughing about it, is it really worth it for me to be a total bitch? Ah, I justify my chickenshittedness with integrity. How awesome is that?
So? What are you too chicken shit to do?
p.s. I know my post title is ridiculous too. I’m ok with that.
When I was a young teen, I read Seventeen magazine and Cosmo and marveled at all the tips and tricks they managed to cobble together on a monthly basis. Magical mascara, the perfect foundation, plumping lipstick. Literally hundreds upon hundreds of beauty secrets. Some of them sounded fun, but I couldn’t help thinking that the Perfect Beauty Routine would end up taking all day and about a bazillion dollars.
As an adult, I didn’t end up wearing makeup or having much of a routine. I put on makeup for going out to dinner or to events, but that’s about it. Since it’s so infrequent, it’s actually kind of fun. I enjoy the process and I like buying makeup and playing with it. I’m just lazy as shit and can’t be trusted to brush my teeth twice a day, let alone remember to put moisturizer on.
So beauty secrets? I don’t think I have any in the Seventeen magazine sense, but I do have a few little tricks up my sleeve.
Mainly, I NEVER WASH MY FACE WITH BAR SOAP. And I rarely wash my face more than three or four times a week. (Please don’t ask me how often I shower.) If I haven’t been wearing makeup, I may just wash my face with water and whatever remnants of shampoo accidentally got on my face.
Now, I still break out and my nose is a wonderland of perpetual blackheads, but I mostly have clear skin. My skin is SUPER sensitive so I think the rarely-washing works best for me. I actually get hives just from being nervous, let alone from the effects of any sort of face scrub or too much washing.
My makeup beauty “secret” is always using a shimmery shadow. I think it makes me look more awake when I feel sleepy/frumpy. A bunch of eyeliner and dark shadow looks edgy on me for about 10 minutes. After that I just look scary and the 80’s come knocking at my door all, “hey your mom called and she wants her eye makeup back.”
So what about you? I want to know some cool stuff, because even if I don’t keep up with Seventeen’s 75 Beauty Secrets for Under $10 I actually love to know what people do and what works for them.
I have to confess something, you guys. When we set up the schedule around these parts, sort of the way we do it involves getting things all set and then each of us picks the topics that, you know, SPEAK TO US or inspire us as writers. It’s definitely super heavy, you know? And I always pick something thinking, “Oh man, that one will be so easy! I will rock that topic!” And then do you know what happens? It ends up being the eve of my hosting, and my brain freaks out and I apparently lose all ability to understand what a topic means. SO I GOOGLE IT. I mean, really? I had to google “pet peeves” in order to tell you what my OWN pet peeves are. (Don’t worry, I didn’t copy off Chick Chat Fridays or anything like that. Much.) But don’t anyone ever accuse me of not fully researching my posts, because, man. I think I have the fear that I will write a whole post about pet peeves, but nothing I actually mention will COUNT as a pet peeve, and then it will be my own version of “Ironic” and before you know it? TEN-THOUSAND SPOONS AND NO KNIVES.
Now that I have essentially made things worse than if I’d not given you that little glimpse into my brain, let’s kick it into the bullets before more damage can be done.
Eating noises. Chewing loudly. Gum smacking. Gulping water. There is something in my head that just … tickles … when I hear these things. My brother is the same way, so you can imagine how enjoyable our tandem cereal-eating was growing up. (He’d yell at me for the spoon tapping against my teeth. Try avoiding that some time.) Oh, and gum POPPING? He had it comin’ indeed.
Yell whispering. You know the ones. Behind you in the movie theater, thinking they’re being so quiet because their vocal cords aren’t vibrating. Two aisles over while you’re studying in the library. Hey, folks? WE CAN STILL HEAR YOU.
Stepping in something wet while wearing socks. Eeeewwww. Ugh.
Outdoor cats. Okay, look. I’m sure YOUR outdoor cats are perfectly well-behaved. I’m sure they don’t spray in other people’s yards and howl outside windows at 3AM and dig up flower beds and leave footprints and scratches on other people’s cars. So we’ll just say I’m talking about OTHER people’s outdoor cats. On a related note,
Referring to your pet as your “fur baby”. I take no issue with someone treating their pet like a child or even referring to a puppy as their “baby”, but the phrase FUR BABY conjures up all sorts of images in my head, and none of them are conducive to a full night’s sleep.
That string thing that holds two shoes together in the store. Yeah, I know, this can be avoided by buying your shoes some place that doesn’t also sell ham, but I’m just not always that fancy. So, after searching high and low for your size, you attempt to try them on, but your feet are bound together by 4 inches of twine, and you can’t walk! So either you do some shimmy shuffle to get an idea for how they fit, or you try on just one, dragging the other behind you like a freakin’ ball and chain.
Toilet seat hoverers. Toilet hovering is the PROBLEM, people. It is not the solution. Just sit on the damn seat and do your business and wash your hands afterward. I’m pretty sure as long as you don’t make a habit of licking the backs of your own thighs, you’ll be fine.
Women’s pants sizes. Can we just cut the crap already and size our pants by waist and inseam? Because I’m totally over wearing a 10 at one store and an 8 at another. Needing the petite length here, but regular length there. My husband can ORDER HIS PANTS ONLINE, and that blows my mind. (Along the same vein, I can’t stand when the short length is too short and the regular length is too long. When did we decide women only come in three heights?)
Cryptic tweeting. Oh, you know who you are. You have exciting news! But you can’t talk about it! But you can tell everyone that you have exciting news! I’m not saying people need to stop doing this, but once I know there is a piece of information out there that I don’t know, I become obsessed with knowing it. It’s my quest for knowledge. For science, even. Definitely not nosiness.
Trying to start a new roll of toilet paper. Must we use industrial strength glue in this situation? I just want to wipe myself! So I tear and rip and claw at it, and I’m in a hurry, because goodness knows what the baby has dismantled in my 12 seconds of solitude, and the first three layers are completely mangled, but that’s okay because I absolutely can’t use that beginning piece anyway, because there’s SPACKLE or something on it, and I’m not getting that near my ladyparts.
Whew.
Honorable mentions go to: reading over my shoulder, repeatedly sniffing through your nose instead of just blowing it, attention whoring, using made up words when perfectly good real ones exist (QUADRILOGY? OMG), people who always show as active online but are never actually there (GUILTY), blog posts that go on and on and on with no signs of stopping …
Wait.
Your turn now. What does the world do to mess up your existence?
Hey girls. I’m Kristen, also known as The Mominatrix and Maria kindly allowed me to guest post for today’s Girl Talk Thursday topic, which I have to admit is a pretty tough one. I mean, I have favorite body parts on other people.
Like ALL of Ryan Reynolds.
Yum.
But on me? Well, that’s a tougher task.
Now, if you had asked me my favorite body part about six years ago, I’d have rattled off a list – my tight little ass and stomach, a perky set of tits, and cellulite?
What the hell is cellulite?
But after three kids, it’s a little harder to name anything off. After working my ass off for the last year, it’s now fairly little, as is the stomach, but that’s after you can get past the loose skin.
And tits?
Try one tit, one deflated balloon. Quite a combination – for the circus.
But I’ve realized that just because parts change and in some cases only look only vaguely similar to what they were, doesn’t mean they’re not sexy. Sure, they might be what’s come to be the “standard” for sexy. But cripes. Only a small percentage of the population can live up to that standard. And that’s only after they’ve been photoshopped.
So as part of Girl Talk Thursday, as well as Challenge #15 of my Sexual Resolution (Accentuate Your Assets), today I’m going to appreciate my 35 inch inseam legs. I might even show them off in a short skirt and a pair of heels. I’ll admire my ankles that might be the only part of my body not somehow affected by having a baby. And I’ll remind myself that sometimes it’s really really good to play favorites.
Go get feisty this month with The Mominatrix’s Sexual Resolutions! This week, all participants will be entered for the chance to win a copy of The Mominatrix’s Guide to Sex. Don’t forget to join the Mr. Linky below if you’re playing along. We’ll announce the winner next week.
Ever hear someone talking about one actor or singer or another and how smokin’ hawt that individual is, and then you think about it, or look them up, and Google Image that shit, and you realize HOLY CRAP they are not at all hot, what were they talking about, please hand me the bleach?
That’s what this week’s Girl Talk Thursday is about.
uThink Hot, iThink Not:
Johnny Depp in anything except Pirates of the Caribbean: I don’t understand your fascination with the ole’ JD unless he’s dressed as a pirate. Seriously. He is not that attractive. Stop ogling. Now. Stop it.
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Owen Wilson. I can’t get past the big nose. And the weird floppy hair. He reminds me of a dog. And something about his voice sort of grates on me after too long. He’s fine in comedy I guess, but in something romantic? No. No thank you.
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Paris Hilton. Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t see past the SKANK DRAMA QUEEN stamp on her forehead. Ruins the whole look.
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Ashley Olsen. Most of the time she looks like she’s strung out on crack cocaine and shooting in between her toes because she’s run out of veins. Not to mention her fashion sense Completely. Baffles. Me.
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Colin Farrell. His hair is always doing something weird. Word is he’s just a complete jerk. I hate stubble. That is all.
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Your turn! Which actors/actresses, singers, or drama-celebs do you find utterly unattractive? Spill it in the comments or, even better, throw up your own post sometime before next Thursday and link it up!
We’ve all had a few – from minor slips of the tongue to major red-faced debacles, everyone has had an embarrassing moments. And while you may want to hide your face and cry while it’s happening, the one redeeming quality of an embarrassing moment is the re-telling. In that moment, telling your story, you are the star of the show, bonding with your fellow humans around an emotion we can all understand.
I have two short moments I’d like to share, both equally embarrassing to me at the time, though now they seem rather foolish. I do like to tell these stories, though, and they make for great ice breakers. Try it sometime!
The Famous “You Too!” Slip Up
I think everyone has done this at one point or another, right? (Say yes, for the sake of my pride). You’re chatting away with someone and as you depart, they call out something, be it “Have a nice day!” or “Drive carefully!” Usually, a cheerful “You too!” is appropriate. How sweet of us! We reciprocate your good will! Right back atcha!
In high school, my senior year, we took the yearbook photos close to the beginning of the year. The school used a local studio, and while I didn’t know the photographer personally, it’s a small town, and chances are I will (or have) see him again. The session went well – my pictures weren’t horrible, I didn’t have anything stuck in my teeth and my hair sort of cooperated. As I left, a jaunty bounce to my step, bidding goodbye and thank you to the photographer, he called out behind me, “Have a great senior year!”
You can see where this is going, can’t you? Anyone can. It’s so clear from a mile away.
I turned and without thinking, said, “You too!” It wouldn’t have been a big deal if I had just walked away as if nothing had happened, but I realized my mistake. I tried to correct it. “I mean, you too, have a great senior year! Except you aren’t a senior, you know, but it’s MY senior year, and I hope you have a good year too! Right. Have a good year! Ok. Bye! Thank you!”
Face Red? Check. Tears pricking at my eyes? Check. Burned my face into his memory indelibly as the crazy senior girl? Check.
It doesn’t seem like a big deal now, but I wanted to die! Now, I still regularly call out “You too!” inappropriately, but I’ve learned my lesson. I just walk away and hope they didn’t notice.
You Make a Better Window Than a Door
I think I was about 12 years old when my mother took my brother, my sister and I into a Finagle a Bagel near our house. We had already ordered and eaten our bagels, and I was anxious to get to our next destination (no idea where we were going, but I was certainly in a rush). I walked out ahead of our little group and headed for the door. I could see our car through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that lined the front of the building, and headed straight for it.
Unfortunately, I mistook the glass window for the glass door right next to it, and walked directly into the window. Hard. So hard that I was knocked backwards about two feet on my ass, skidding to a stop at my family’s feet, my forehead aching. I could feel the goose-egg forming already. The worst, though – worse than my brother and sister laughing hysterically, or my mother stifling her giggles and attempting to look concerned, were the looks on the faces of all the customers. It was a busy weekend morning, and the place was packed. No one laughed at me outright, but I saw more than a few smiles. I managed to get to my feet, exclaiming about how the door looks exactly like the window because they’re all CLEAR! What gives?! and ran out of there as quickly – and carefully – as I could.
To this day those commercials for Windex, where the birds fly into the window because they can’t see it? Those make me squirm just a little bit.
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Your turn! Tell us about your embarrassing moment so that we can bond with you. And don’t forget to visit everyone else! Nothing soothes your pride like hearing about the time that someone laid the worst silent-but-deadly they’ve ever experienced during their drivers test, or that time you answered the door wearing poop.
Admit it: you’ve totally got crushes on other bloggers. That’s kind of a part of the magic of the blogosphere. You discover a lot of kindred spirits out there, and even the ones who might not be “kindred” to you at least understand your obsession with blogging.
So this week’s Girl Talk Thursday, we’re talking about which bloggers would be your “Ring, Fling, Swing” trio. Who do you like so much you’d put a ring on em? Who would be your choice for a passionate fling? And if you wanted to get one blogger out of the picture and steal their life, who would you swing with?
I’ve thought about this one a lot. I mean, there’s one blogger out there (*coughMariacough*) who could fill all three of those positions, but that would be too easy (also: kinda lame. also: kinda creepy.)
So without further ado, here are my choices.
RING
Messponential herself, Colleen. She just seems like she’d be the bomb diggity to have as a wife. Empathic, loving, open-minded and with a beautiful soul, she’s totally the ying to my yang. The number of times this lady has calmed me down when I’ve been upset or listened (virtually) to me crying about one drama or another cannot even be numbered. We would probably have one of those marriages where people look at us, shake their heads, and whisper to one another wondering why Colleen would ever saddle herself with someone like me, but we would totally make it work.
FLING
Cristin of Tiptoeing through the Tulips. She is HILARIOUS, foul-mouthed, and yet despite that all, surprisingly touching at times. She regularly deals with dead and dying people, then comes home to her two adorable children (and husband, whatever though!) who sound like they maybe kinda raise some hell sometimes, and pours some wine. She has this awesome hippy past that she sometimes writes really moving pieces about, and mostly, I’m just pretty positive we would have a wonderful quickie fling together. Also, she used to live in Canada, so when I make light fun of all their quirks up here, she’d totally get it.
SWING
Maria of Mommy Melee. One: I want to eat her kids. Two: I think I might want to eat her husband. However, if her husband had a blog and I knew about it, I’d probably swing with him so I could just have Maria and her kids. Then we’d live happily ever in Florida (I know what side my bread is buttered on!) with our dark-haired, dark-eyed brood of children. Maria and I would be work-at-home moms doing all sorts of sweet ass, top dollar freelance writing (not the crappy website copy for pennies that everyone in the world wants these days) by day, working on our novels by night.
But I mean, if I HAD to deal with living with @zennmora instead, well… I guess I could do that (hello, bestill my beating heart).
So now that I’m done revealing my internet crushes… how about you?
As you might have seen over on our topic schedule page, we’re running short on ideas. We’re looking for your suggestions for future Girl Talk Thursdays. Feel free to leave your ideas in the comments!
For as long as I can remember people have been telling me not to wear my heart on my sleeve, don’t be so sensitive, etc. My heart got broken so easily. I wish I could say that as an adult I was all wise and knowing, and in some respects, I am. But dealing with a broken heart? Not-so-much.
There has only been one man truly broke my heart before I met and married my awesome husband. He was an ass and made me feel like I wasn’t worth anything. The funny thing about this situation is my heart was more broken in the relationship than out of it. Once I realized I needed to be done with the cycle of emotional abuse, well, it hurt to be alone but not nearly as much as it hurt to be in it. I’ve never looked back.
What I struggle with is when my heart is broken over the loss of friendships. I’m not good at dealing with betrayal or disappointment, nor am I good at letting toxic friendships go easily. When I commit to a friendship, I commit. My biggest problem is realizing when I am the only one really being a friend and not getting anything back from the other side. The result? I am a lot more cynical and cautious then I used to be.
A couple examples of my broken heart over friendships…
In elementary school I befriend a girl named Joy when we both participated in a musical our local High School was putting on, The King & I. She and I were two of the King’s children. She was a year older and beautiful, bubbly, and charismatic. She and I were so close during that entire production. We went to different schools but I couldn’t wait to get to middle school when she and I would be reunited again. And we were. We were still in different grades but theater reunited us again and at first, it was great. But you know how middle school girls go. One of her friends wanted to know why she was friends with a lower-grade girl and that was it. She wrote me a note, passed it to me in the hallway and it said “We’re not good friends like you think we are. Stop talking to me.” I was crushed. And it took me a long time to find some confidence again. And by long time, read all of middle school. See everyone found out what she had written in that note and I was mocked mercilessly. And it all sort of snowballed. I have no really good memories of middle school with the exception of my algebra teacher’s awesome way of getting us to remember everything. I digress. I realize now that this was nothing in the grande scheme of things in my life. But at the time it was larger than life, as all middle school emotions are at the time.
In recent years I lost an entire circle of friends over one woman lying about a conversation she and I had in private, at her bequest. There was a lot of controversy going on in the organization, and she sought me out for suggestions on how to improve the situation. And I gave them. (And I OWNED what *I* said later.) But well, someone had to take the fall in order for an equilibrium to materialize and she took her feelings and projected them as things I said and did. NOT TRUE. This betrayal shattered me, rocked me to my core. These people, they knew me; knew me for 12 years at the time. They had seen me grow from an 18 year old freshman in college to a business professional, a wife, a mother. They came to my wedding. We exchanged Christmas cards (you (if you are reading this) want proof? I SAVE holiday cards people. I. SAVE. THEM.) These were people I looked up to as mentors, older siblings, friends, no… family of my heart. And they chose to believe a lie. Looking back without rose-colored glasses, well, I can’t say I blame some of them for believing the lie. It was told to them by a master social ladder climbing manipulator. But it still doesn’t make my heart hurt any less to rationalize a betrayal of my loyalty. I trusted these people. I defended these people. I gave so much to these people. Others in the organization have told me to get over it and go back. Today I tell you I can’t. I won’t. The distance is no longer my path to travel. And clearly if those in charge cared to see me back, they would have called.
So I didn’t deal well with this last heart break. I defined a very large portion of myself by my involvement with this group of people. And when most of them were gone and I was pregnant, then home with a second baby who was so completely different than the first and didn’t sleep for 13 months, and then I lost my job (in another messy firestorm of chaos), to say I fell apart would be an understatement. Save a few wonderful, patient girlfriends who believed me and loved me, and my husband, I had little support system. I distinctly remember one evening early this year after a long argument with my husband, mostly over my depression and lack of communication skills, collapsing on the kitchen floor, putting my forehead on the cold tile and saying over and over that I hated myself. I hated who I had become. I was all over the place emotionally. I didn’t know who I was, I didn’t think I had any identity other than my children, and I was (still am) overweight (because when I’m depressed, I eat). I knew that part of the real me was still alive, just so utterly lost. About a month later I got a job working from home full time, doing something I truly enjoy, and I had something that was just mine, not anyone else’s. I remembered I had a brain, that I was talented and smart and could produce something other than pureed peas or mismatched socks in the clean laundry basket. A week or so after I got my job I started my blog and found a place to hear my voice again. Feeling inspired and moderately mentally healthy, I chanced reaching out to some people in that group again thinking that surely time would lessened the heat of the confrontation. It had not, and it was kind of two steps forward, one step back for me emotionally. But, in a lot of ways it was what I needed. It brought a lot of closure I needed and since then I’ve been in such a better place.
One thing I can say though now is that despite the emotional pain, I really am honestly thankful for the lessons I learned when my heart was bleeding out and I was forced figure out who I was, how I got there, and had to decide who I *wanted* to be and how I needed to get there. I refuse to lay down and let others define me. I define me. And sometimes I get off track, but know that my heart, my integrity, my sense, my core, they hold me relatively steady. And so far, I’ve always landed back on my feet, with my head on straight, my eyes forward and my heart opened back up to the possibilities of greatness I know is out there.
Ever had a broken heart? Why? Was it a guy? Was it a girl? Was it a friend or more than a friend? Was is over love or loss of life? What happened? Why did it break your heart? Tomorrow we talking heartbreaks. Did you have them? Are you over them? How’d you deal with them? Soothe your soul and get it out of your brain – write it up and share with us tomorrow! Oh yeah, and bring the vat of ice cream.
Paris Hilton. Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t see past the SKANK DRAMA QUEEN stamp on her forehead. Ruins the whole look.
Colin Farrell. His hair is always doing something weird. Word is he’s just a complete jerk. I hate stubble. That is all.
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