Thanks to Blair, over at The Shameful Sheep, I had to check out the search engine terms that people have used to find my blog. Either they were looking specifically for my blog, or their search for “hairy sex” lead them to my blog. I had no idea that this awesome feature was available to me in the “stats” section of my dashboard. I’m equal parts horrified and amused.
These are some of the search terms:
#teamwearehairy2015
Or, should we extend the club into the new year?
The best part was some of the comments my friends made about these, um, interesting search topics:
After some time thinking about hairy older women and front butts on legs, I got to realizing that I’ve mentioned all of these. All.
I’m assuming, rather than be ashamed, I should be damn proud, as my friend, Jenn says.
Then, I happened upon Suzie’s first post of the new year. In her comments, she suggested reblogging some of your older posts, so newer followers can read your earlier stuff (because even hardcore creepers ain’t got time for that-scrolling months back. Yeah. I’ll just creep your Instagram).
So, what better time to share some links of my earlier blog posts? These posts should prove that I write about some truly random things.
I hope you’ll check these posts out, and you won’t think I’m that hairy or that I’m, like, into hairy older women. Not that that’s bad, or anything…
My Hairy Life
An Ode to the Hairy Women
Porta Poop
Porta Poop #2
Front Butt Thighs
Ugly Sleep
And, a couple just because:
21 Minute Survival Challenge
Get Out the Way, Bitch
Tag: blog
Fatty Fo' Life
Fatty McCupcakes here (well, no shit. Who’d I think you would think it would be? Freaking Richard Simmons? Come to think of it, a guest spot by Richard Simmons would be absolutely fanastic.
source
Well, that was weird.
I guess I’ll get to the point. For the past couple months I’ve been hiding behind the guise of Fatty McCupcakes. I’ve literally been living my tag line-I’ve been busily eating my way through all the baked foods I can find. It’s been delicious, but too much of a good thing gives you cankles.
I can’t do this to my body anymore.
Gone are the days when I could eat half a large pizza, a whole coop full of chicken wings, and steak-cut fries, dripping in ranch , and bounce back after eating a salad for lunch, for a week.
No.
Now, if I overindulge, I feel like a freight train hit me the morning after, and if I could, I’d attach myself to a Pepto IV. And, a continuous stream of calming pink bismuth would only make me feel half human.
I’ve been worried, lately, that if I stopped living the fatty life, Fatty McCupcakes would be gone. There’s no use for that kind of alter ego when your life revolves around kale salad and yoga. How can I be Fatty McCupcakes AND not slowly kill myself one delicious bite of cupcake after another?
In all seriousness, if I don’t emerge from winter break with diabetes, I’ll be damn impressed.
I have problems with food, guys, if you didn’t already guess that. Gee, what gave me away?
I don’t see why I can’t be Fatty McCupcakes AND get healthy, because the real meaning behind Fatty is that I aim to decriminalize the word ‘fat’. Yes, you’re practically a criminal when you’re fat. It’s also a “bad word”. Worse than ‘fuck’.
This fatty be like, “Fuck that.”
No matter how thin, fat, attractive, ugly, or willing to be flexible to the changing whims of society you are, you will never be enough something to someone, somewhere.
And, why is it anyone’s aim to be enough for anyone other than themselves?
I am loving the blog, When I Thought I was Fat, because there’s so much truth contained there. How many times have you looked, fondly, back on a time when you thought you were fat, but you would, maybe, give up bacon to go back to that body? Because you weren’t fat?!
source
So, what is fat? Who defines whether or not you’re fat? Who says the way you are isn’t good enough? No one should have that kind of control over your perception of self, but you.
Back “when I thought I was fat”, I went out, in a rather…creative outfit, to attend a superhero beer crawl. This was probably 40 pounds ago. I felt sexy, powerful, ready to take on the villains in my leather, fish nets, and cape (don’t ask). I felt great until some drunk creep, who was probably just growing pubes, called me, “Super Thighs”. Secretly I was just relieved he didn’t call me, “Super Double Chin” or “Mighty Double Belly”. Still, after that comment, I didn’t feel much like taking on the world that night.
Why did I let someone like that have control over my emotions and perception of myself? Why, after more than 4 years, I remember that comment?
Who cares if I have large thighs? “More strength to crush your head like a pimple, you assknuckle!” is what I should have said to him (thanks, Stephanie).
There’s also this:
Can We Stop Talking About the Thigh Gap Already?
I’m going to continue being Fatty McCupcakes, because there’s nothing wrong with being who I am, in all my voluptuous glory, while I work to better myself. Let’s make the word ‘Fatty’ a positive word like, ‘yum’, ‘love’, or ‘cheese’. I mean, it only makes sense.
Here’s to a healthy 2016, filled with fitness, lettuce, and the ocassional cupcake (there’s no way in food hell I’ll completely deprive myself)!
Fatty Fo’ Life
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Vroom Vroom
I’m so very sorry to my readers that I’ve been so quiet lately. This past weekend was a whirlwind of car shopping, Steampunk, stress, excitement, and car buying. Yes, I bought a car! All I want to do is drive. If I could comfortably sleep in my new car, you’d find me curled up in my sleeping bag, happy as a hippo.
She’s beautiful. Basically, I’m driving the Taj Mahal of cars. When your old car’s AC doesn’t kick in until you’re home, and it has holes-plural, anything is an improvement.
I have many plans for future posts: My 8th Grade Perm Debacle and Country Living-A City Girl Does Elko, to name just two.
Please bear with me, as it’s hard to write when you’re driving off into the sunset with your new lover.
Vroom vroom
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At Least I Have Ice Cream
Am I the only one who has those kinds of days where amidst the crap and absolute fuckery, you realize there is a carton of ice cream in the freezer, the same ice cream you bought the other day and actually forgot about, and…
It makes everything OK?
Then, every time the stress starts creeping like the neighborhood weirdo, you remember that frozen goodness and it’s OK again?
You think, “At least I have ice cream.”
Am I the only one who is reassured by the promise of gluttony?
Please tell me I’m not…
Either way, I can’t wait until it’s Ice Cream Time.
The actual ice cream I dreamed about all day.
Yes, that’s a cereal bowl that I plan to eat my ice cream out of. Yes, that’s a piggy spoon. Don’t judge me.
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Took a Fart
It’s time to tell it like it is. If you’re a teacher, or you were once a student (this should include everyone. If not, um…) then you know that expelling gas is a huge part of the learning experience, almost more than actual learning. We all remember that embarrassing time we just couldn’t hold it in anymore and we farted in the middle of silent reading time. Or, the time we let go of a silent, but deadly bastard, and our red face gave us away. We all fart. We also have spent a huge chunk of our lives in a classroom, so it’s only natural that tooting happens at school. It happens a lot.
Today, immediately following a serious chat about why it’s important to pay attention, and why whistling during a lesson doesn’t lead to success, one of my students let out a fart that was likely heard in the next room. They were all on the carpet, sitting tall and proud like 3rd graders who are responsible for their own learning. They all (even the culprit) had expectant, eager-to-please, and innocent expressions painted on their little faces. The fart was a mistake. It was not intended to derail learning. And it was just what my stressed-out, exhausted, and wound-up psyche needed.
Basically, I lost it.
Teaching 101 says you never, never respond or react to a fart. Ever. Two very simple reasons why:
- They (your students) will take your laughter as license to act like wild hyenas, and your lesson is as good as over.
- The poor tooter will feel humiliated, and you try to avoid that as an educator and role model.
So, despite my knowledge of these possible outcomes, I lost all composure, and had a very serious, ugly-laughing fit. I was crying. I couldn’t regain my composure. It was awful. At first, I tried to hide my laughter behind my math teacher manual, but eventually someone said, “Um, teacher, are you OK?” I don’t usually sit with a book directly over my face, in front of my whole class, for an extended period of time. They likely thought I had gone crackers. When it could no longer be kept a secret that I was laughing like a fool, I kept saying, “OK, that’s enough. OK. That’s it.” Except I was the only one laughing.
You know those laughing fits you’ve had with a really good friend? The kind where you start making some ungodly repetitive noise and you almost gag yourself? Yeah.
I could not stop.
Eventually, my kids decided it was safe for them to laugh as well. Amidst the laughing and fake farts, someone accused Fred* of farting, and he proclaimed, quite seriously, “It wasn’t me! I take farts outside!” More laughing. Basically, math was over for the day. Thank God we were at the end of the lesson. Also, the teacher gods were watching over me today, for sure, because how awesome would it have looked had my principal walked in, mid-gagging laughing fit? I can’t even.
Some days I rock the shit out of teaching, and some days I’m the reason a single toot derails learning.
At least we had a nice chat about how everyone makes mistakes, farting is only natural, and we weren’t laughing at anyone, but with them.
In honor of my idiotic lack of self-composure and well, because farts, here is a list of truths about gas in the classroom:
- It doesn’t matter the kid, the age, the time of day, or whether it’s before or after lunch, ALL kid farts smell.the.same.
- We (teachers) have announced, at least once in our careers, after a barrage of fart smells, “I think someone maybe needs to go to the bathroom!”
- Students whose first language is Spanish say, “Took a fart”, because that’s the literal translation for ‘farting’.
- The phrase, “Took a fart” never gets old. Ever.
- Every teacher, in the history of teaching, has been guilty of intentional crop dusting, at least once. It’s only fair.
- Physical Education has a higher incidence of farting when compared to other classes, double the rate of incidences after lunch.
***Side note: My own boyfriend once earned an award for maintaining correct sit up form, even whilst farting. Fart pro.
And that’s all I have to say about farting (in a Forrest Gump voice).
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Linda
She ordered a plain hamburger, no bun, no cheese, with a pickle on the side. I glanced at the greasy chicken strips and fries, steaming in front of me, and felt instantly self-conscious. She smiled at me politely, but her arms, at her sides, were rigid, telling. Her watery blue eyes were judging when they scanned over my lip ring and tattooed skin. The mint-colored cashmere sweater hung on her tiny, strong body like a throw-lazily flung over the side of a worn chair. Expensive, but without much thought. Her dry hands shook slightly, and I instantly softened. She was nervous. She was more scared of me than I was of her. I knew then that she was fiercely devoted to her son, and didn’t want to let him go to just anyone. I would have to prove I wasn’t just anyone.
I look back on that first meeting with my ex’s mom with fondness…and regret, because that tiny woman, sitting so resolutely, in a sticky vinyl booth, in Chili’s, would be a woman I’d love intensely and detest vehemently, I just didn’t know it yet. At that time, I merely regarded her as a necessary evil. Someone I’d have to be polite to at holiday gatherings and during awkward phone conversations.
She stayed up far past her bedtime to greet us. Her hair was matted to one side of her head, but her eyes were awake, alert. She had a skip in her step as she brought plate and bowl after plate and bowl of delicious dips, cookies, chips, and huge, plump grapes, and meats and cheeses to the table. She wanted to know everything. How was our trip over? How was school going? Along with the many questions asked and answered, were the ones unspoken: Who are you? Are you the right one for my only child?
In no time at all, visiting Elko and her, grew to be my most cherished moments. Over time, we grew to be friends, comrades, having one very important thing in common: loving the same man. The way she treated me, you would think I were the Queen of England. She regarded me as her only child’s true love and she saw me as beautiful, strong, intelligent, someone with so much potential. Her faith in me is the one driving force that contributed to my present success. Had she not been there, rooting for me, I don’t know where I’d be.
Tears filled my eyes as I drove the dusty highway further and further from my family, my friends, my life. As the miles grew longer from all that I had left, the only thing that kept my foot on the gas was her. Her warm, comfortable, shabby love. It would be okay when I saw her.
Sure enough, she was there, bouncing out to greet us, arms open, eyes smiling. Her boy was home. Her favorite girl was with him. It was the happiest of days. Only briefly did she question her decision to welcome her son and his girlfriend into her home. Of course, that was when her son hauled a refrigerator-sized box filled with shoes into her humble abode.
The almost four years that I lived in Elko were some of the most life-altering, ugly, inspiring, beautiful, and memorable years I’ll ever have. Some days I wanted to drive off, in my beat-up Saturn, back home. Some days, ‘home’ was where she made fried chicken and biscuits, and always had a bowl of fresh fruit waiting.
Every first day, every accomplishment, and many times “just because”, she had flowers waiting. Cards praising my hard work, with gift cards for dinner or new clothes were a common show of love and pride. She kept me going. She was my biggest fan, always cheering me on. Always.
We laughed. We had engaging debates long into the night. We enjoyed discussing her son, my hopes and dreams, and the future. But…we also didn’t care much for each other some days. I think she had no clue what to do with a girly-girl, and I didn’t know how to relate to someone who wore tennis shoes with a skirt. We were polar opposites in so many ways.
Many of the days I endured living in her home were spent positively hating her. She wouldn’t buy a swamp cooler, so I was hot all summer. She was cheap, so I spent the winters freezing, wearing a ski mask inside, so my nose wouldn’t snap right off. She didn’t understand why it was necessary to take 20 minute showers or why I had so many clothes to wash. She didn’t use her dishwasher, so my hands got pruney. She was a pain in the ass. I was a pain in the ass. I was the biggest ass. I hang my head in shame over my ungratefulness, still.
Only when I thought I would lose her, did I realize the error of my ways. There are not enough days left in her life, nor mine to pay her back. To thank her. To have her.
When I drove that dusty highway away from Elko, this time, tears streamed down my face. I was leaving home. I never said ‘goodbye’ to her, too scared that she took his side, that she would reject me. I was also embarrassed, terrified I would cry, or look weak in front of her. So, I just left.
Relationship heartbreak is one thing, but nothing prepares you for the loss of family you grew to love. Nothing.
About a month after leaving Elko, a 7 year relationship, and my second mother, I received a package in the mail from her. It answered all of the questions I still had. Did she remember me? Did she still love me? Had I lost her too?
No. She was still there. She still loved me. I left, but she never did.
We never spoke of what happened, only of the future. Whenever I was at my wits end, frustrated with the teaching job search, she was there to vent to. Her belief in me was unwavering. She didn’t think I would succeed, she knew. She knows.
Anyone who has ever loved a significant other, knows it comes and it goes. Stronger and more meaningful are the relationships you build, unknowingly, while you think nothing is more sacred than the love you feel for your partner. Who is there forever are the people who loved you, quietly, in the background.
Two years after leaving Elko, we finally met while she was on a school trip in Reno.
Her thin gray curls shone like a beacon in the sun. I knew it was her. The familiar gait, the pantyhose and tennis shoes, the open smile, the light in her eyes.
She was there. She will always be there. So will I, repaying her with my love. How else can I show her how much she means to me?
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Ranch Day- A Repost
I’ve been thinking about good ol’ Elko a lot recently. The memories I have of my years spent in BFE are of a simpler, back-to-basics time. I’m surprised no one ever caught me churning butter and/or mending socks. Whenever I feel exhausted and overwhelmed from running the rat race that is life, I think back to when I fell into a cattle guard, or the time jack rabbits chewed through important wires in my engine, and then sat atop my poor vehicle in triumph (those bastards knew exactly what they were doing). I am simultaneously homesick and relieved by my memories of E-Town.
As a city girl trying to make it in a cow town, I obviously had to make massive adjustments to my lifestyle. I also had some pretty good-make that hilarious-country experiences. One of my favorite stories of my ineptness, when it came to anything outside, involved a cow giving birth. To those of you who grew up on farms or ranches (or just anyone with a general knowledge of the world), you likely know what that’s like. I had no clue, and feeling shocked is putting it mildly.
Without further ado, Ranch Day…
Good Lord. Why did no one feel the need to tell me that a calf comes out of its mother’s bottom, in a disgusting bloody bubble? Oh, maybe because who talks about cows giving birth? Who has actually seen a cow give birth? Well, apparently everyone in Elko; with the exception of me.
I recently went to a local ranch as part of Agriculture in the Classroom. I bundled myself up nice and good-looking very much like Paul Bunyan’s sister, and boarded the school bus, eager to see my first ranch. The hat I wore was…well, I looked ranch chic, let’s just put it that way. Of course, the day our outdoor field trip was scheduled for was bloody cold, wet, and horribly muddy. FYI: not.fond.of.mud.
We were welcomed by the nicest, coolest, toughest broads I have ever met in my life. These women can wrangle an ornery bull to the ground, to castrate it, and then cook their men a full course meal. They welcomed us, a group of strangers, into their home. I was blown away by their kindness, toughness, and spunk. They were a real class act.
To get back to the beginning here…we were all sitting, eating, and from outside we hear a horrible wail. The Ranch Women excitedly tell us that one of the cows is about to give birth. They point out the window, and sure enough, there, not 20 yards away, is a really pissed-off looking cow. She was going around in circles, backwards and frontwards. She would awkwardly sit and then stand and then sit again. THEN…out of nowhere, literally, like WHOA, a bloody bubble starts coming out of her ass. I was shocked and appalled! I said out loud, “Wait, what, WHOA!” Everyone laughed and one woman stroked my arm lovingly and said, “We have a newbie here!” I could barely get my bearings. Now, I do not profess to be an anatomy whiz, but I have always been confident that mammals have things called uteruses. From these, babies are born. Why then, was this cow pushing her newborn out of her backdoor? I asked this aloud of course, because I am missing a filter, and I because I was truly mystified (horrified?). One of the women in our group looked at me and said, “Honey, she is not giving birth out of her asshole; that is where her vajayjay is!” Doh! I darn sure will never make THAT mistake again.
Lesson learned here is: not all mammals give birth like sweating, grunting, swearing women on their backside, with legs in air. Some birth standing, out in the freezing cold mud, and from their asshole (“woman parts”). I think all women should count themselves lucky they are not cows. You should also count yourself lucky if you have never seen a cow give birth. I need to go hose myself off, shower twice and bleach my eyes…
Additional lesson learned: Basic biology is obviously not my strong suit. Upon asking non-ranch friends, I’ve discovered that I’m literally the only person who didn’t know that cows give birth from what appears to be their bum. That, or people are just messing with me. In that case, eff all of you.
Kidding aside, what a learning experience! “Ranch Day” is a day that I will never forget as long as I decide to recall one of the most horrifying events ever witnessed.
*”Ranch Day” has been reposted from my retired blog, www.bigcitybetty.wordpress.com. All work is mine. I did revise and update the original posted piece.
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Teacher Breath
Today I was reminded why I never wanted to be that teacher who nurses their coffee all day. COFFEE BREATH STANKS.
I distinctly remember every single teacher who would lean over me, praising my hard work, with their breath from burning garbage hell. I always wondered how they couldn’t tell their breath was peeling varnish off the desk tops, but I could? If I can smell your breath from a foot away, how can you not smell that God-awful air coming out directly under your nose? How??
Stank Breath Unawareness (SBU) is a very real phenomenon, and 99% of the cases involve teachers. It’s true.
Today, I was pulling students to the kidney table to assess their phonics knowledge. Every time they got a letter sound or vowel pattern wrong, I would say it correctly for them and then ask them to say the sound with me.
After overly emphasizing the ‘aw’ vowel pattern for *Sally, she had a very pained look on her face. My first thought when this look appears on my students’ faces is always, “Oh no! He/she is gonna blow chunks!”. Then my knee-jerk reaction is to recoil quickly while trying to play it cool, like, “I’m good-you’re good-it’s-all-good-I’m-not-at-all-terrified-of-bodily-fluids-not-at-all-I’m-just-gonna-stand-over-here”.
As I’m assessing the situation, I become distinctly aware that Sally is basically mirroring me. Exactly. She’s doing the exact same thing as me. She has a pained, grossed-out look on her face that’s she’s trying to disguise with a super-fake-it’s-all-good smile. What? Is it me??? What the hell…
Yeah. I have teacher breath.
Getting keys to your classroom, or welcoming your students on the first day of school is not when you first become a teacher. You become a teacher the day you disgust a student with your coffee breath. It’s only true.
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Back to School
I spent a good portion of my Sunday fine-tuning lessons, nitpicking over the placement of basically everything in my room, and making sure I’m ready for another year of madness, AKA: teaching. I thought I would post the pictures of my room on my blog, to showcase the reason I may be not as present here, in the blogosphere. So, this is why:
All this room needs: students!
My little corner.
The kids need to know.
Teaching kids how to be accountable via their classroom conversations. Win!
The math corner.
Where the reading magic happens!
A new addiction: my students will be learning how to self-assess this year!
Writing and phonics AND I need an apostrophe!! *adding to to-do list*
I hung up headphones that don’t connect to the CD player I have! Fail!
“Make Good Decisions Corner”! Most important corner in all the land!
Writing with chalk is hard!!!!
Whole class journals! I’m excited to try these this year!
Maybe we won’t go through 4,562 boxes this year?
I can’t wait to get this up and running! I’ll take pics of my students looking like they are pondering the meaning of the world, and then they can add things they are wondering about new units, or just in general!
The Readbox, plus an addition: “Reading Takes Us Places!” I still need to add a black plane and some dots depicting it’s trail. Whenever we read ANYTHING, we will pinpoint where in the world the setting took place! Fun!
Classroom library!
School starts tomorrow and I’m more prepared than I’ve ever been. It’s time, let’s get this show on the road!
I truly hope I can balance my career and my desire to write. I don’t want my blog to be forgotten, but as you can see, I have some educating to do!
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Frank
It’s funny how the littlest thing can trigger vivid, and super random memories. Obviously, this leads to the desire to write, because all writers must take advantage of inspiration wherever they can find it. We are resourceful like that.
Socks. Socks are what made me remember a really ridiculous incident in my past, involving my first boyfriend’s dad, a pair of knee high socks, and Frank.
We were sitting in a meeting, in a fellow teacher’s room, and I noticed she had old men’s socks on all the desks. What a super ingenious idea for white board erasers! I just hope they didn’t happen to be my dad’s old socks that found their way to the thrift stores. Now that he’s older, his feet have a certain funk about them. Subjecting children to his old socks would, quite possibly, be considered child abuse *shudders*.
I digress. Let me get back to my random story about socks, my ex’s dad, and Frank.
So, before I can even get into the interesting part, I have to let you know that my brother would steal all of our dad’s socks, because taking from Dad’s neat and tidy drawer was a lot easier than searching through the abyss that was my brother’s disgusting pit of a room.
Obviously, my dad grew very tired of never having socks to wear because his teenage son had decided that he’d help himself. So, my mom bought two big bags of socks, one for my dad and one for my brother. To eliminate the possibility of my brother stealing Dad’s socks, my mom wrote his name on them. All of them. In big, bold, capital letters. She got bored during the branding of my father’s socks, because she started writing random names, like, “Bob”, “Herb”, or…”Frank”.
She thought she was a genius, and quite hilarious too. My brother wouldn’t be caught dead at school with named socks, so all was calm in the world of Hanes for awhile (I’m not sure how my dad felt about wearing socks that said, “Herbert” on them, but it had to be better than having none at all!)
But, what they didn’t know, was that there was another sock thief in the house. I loved my dad’s socks, because it was all the rage to wear long white socks up to your knees. God knows why this was considered fashionable. At one time mullets had their day in the sun, so weird things do occur in the world of fashion.
The best part about this whole sock fiasco was that no one suspected me. No one. That was until I almost, single-handedly, caused the divorce of my boyfriend’s parents. Oops.
I spent a lot of time at my boyfriend’s house. His parents had a surprise, later in life, in the form of a bright-eyed baby girl, named Emma*. I loved her so much. I loved to feed her. Dress her. Smell her sweet curls. She was like the baby sister I never got. I’m fairly certain I didn’t date Joe Blow** for him, but so I could see his sister. I’m totally not sorry.
Well, because I practically lived at his house, I would frequently leave items or articles of clothing at his house. No, I wasn’t some ho bag, his sister loved to spit up on me. We were basically teen parents.
One afternoon, after hanging out in my boyfriend’s room, watching TV (really, we were), I decided to get some Pepsi. I bee bopped into the living room, and there was his big, scary dad sitting on the couch. I often did everything in my power to avoid this man. He looked almost exactly like Fred Flinstone, only he had the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger, in his heyday. He was scary.
As I passed him, with my head down, eyes averted, I happened to notice, from the corner of my eye, his socks. They were long, white, and almost went over his knees. They also said, “Frank”.
OMFG. He was wearing my socks. I was in full-on panic mode. He obviously didn’t notice he was wearing socks that named another man. Well, not yet.
As I passed him again, to get back to the room, I did everything in my power to not look at the socks. But, like a trainwreck, I couldn’t not look. I was gawking, staring, mouth gaped, as I walked by. He took notice of me, looked at me like I was mentally challenged, and then turned back to the TV.
Once safely back in the bedroom, my heart was pounding, but something was rising from deep inside. The sight of that bull-moose-of-a-man wearing my dad’s socks, named, “Frank” was too much. Also, my immature sense of humor starting getting the best of me. He doesn’t know. He’s sitting there, like a tool, with “Frank” on his foot. What a noob.
I lost it. I could not stop laughing. Obviously, he heard me, and put together my gawking, like 2 + 2, and all I hear is, “Wilma!!!!!!”
How does one explain to an incredibly irate man how his socks came to have another man’s name on them? Obviously, I had to jump in and explain the whole ridiculous story. I think, after that, he considered me mentally deranged, and that’s why he never uttered another syllable to me, unless forced.
At least he wasn’t into wearing women’s underwear. It could always be worse. That would have been so much worse.
*Not really her name
**Obviously, not his name
15 year-old glamour model. These are the actual socks from the story. Well, maybe they are. They could be, and that’s what makes this picture so amazing. That, and my eyebrows on fleek #didntowntweezers