We are the champions. Or something.

My dear friend got me thinking with her post last week. Have you read it yet? Go ahead – I’ll wait. You need the context, trust me.

I’m a champion for respect too – in theory, at least. I do my part, and I hope that you do yours. Where I fall short is the speaking up. When you behave badly, I’m more likely to stew in silence than to verbally call you on it.

I’m not sure why this is. I think it’s more polite to suffer in silence than to speak up and risk offending? I’m afraid of getting shot? (I live in the south, so both are pretty plausible) Whatever the reason, it’s the way I roll. But I really admire people like Darcie, who speak up.

I was channeling her energy last week at one of Annie’s shows. She was in The Wizard of Oz this summer, so I spent a great deal of time in an outdoor amphitheater in the heat and humidity, squeezed in with 1458 of my friends and neighbors, since all but one show were complete sell-outs. I found that it was mostly just neighbors, since the rude factor was so high I couldn’t possibly be friends with those people.

Last Thursday night during the show, I actually texted Darcie to tell her how much I wished she were there. The women behind us were talking and ohmygoodness singing along through the whole show, and I thought I might lose my mind. Had I only known then what I would encounter on Saturday night, I’d have been grateful they were just talking.

Saturday, you see, brought the screaming child, and the baby talking family members. I don’t blame the child. I’m guessing she was about 1, which means she has a perfectly valid reason for her behavior. Her mother, on the other hand…

Parents of the world, here’s a tip for you. Don’t take a baby to a play that ends near midnight. Your child will be exhausted and miserable, and you will miss the whole play because of it.

Or at least you should miss the whole play because of it. If you’re the woman who sat behind me on Saturday, you won’t miss a second, because you’ll keep your butt planted firmly in your seat whilst your child screams bloody murder, ruining the show for everyone else.

You will ignore her kicking the back of my seat. You’ll allow her to pull my hair and pat my back with her sticky red fingers. You’ll share your diet soda with her and try to ply her with popcorn and maybe shake a teddy bear in her face when she cries, begging you to leave. You’ll tell the women you’re with that she’ll eventually scream herself to sleep, and then you’ll allow her to do so for two-and-a-half hours, while you sit 10 feet from the stage. And she never will fall asleep. Shocking, I know.

Because of the situation behind me, I elected to sit on the very edge of my seat, safely out of the child’s reach, and moving my ears ever so slightly farther away from her piercing wail. About twenty minutes before the play’s end, I’d lost my coping abilities. The child’s cry was escalating (as was my headache) and so my mom and I moved a few feet away, to sit on the edge of a rock wall. A few minutes later, for the first and only time of the night, the woman finally decided to take the child out.

Or so we thought. Instead, she left her seat – and came to stand directly beside us instead. For reals.

Naturally we went back to our seats.

When the show ended – the last last of the season – we started on to the stage to shower my girl with hugs and presents. Suddenly I hear Granny behind me, angrily shouting ‘Good riddance!’ in our direction.

Are you *kidding* me?

Apparently even I have my limits. I turned and smiled and shouted back ‘We feel exactly the same way, lady!’

And then I immediately felt like a moron for dignifying her with a response at all.

We talked to Annie for a few minutes, and then we she went to change out of her costume my mom turned around to discover that the women were still standing there, shouting and gesturing in our general direction. Um, crazy much?

I had a lot of things I’d love to have said to them, but restraint is more my thing. So instead, I did what will from here on be referred to as ‘pulling a Darcie’, and I whipped out my camera phone.

Oh yes I did.

I walked several steps closer to them so that I was out of the crowd, and what I was doing what very obvious. I held my bright blue phone up above my head, pointed it directly at them, and I began snapping away.

The jerks? They ran.

No surprise.

In the interest of complete honesty, I will tell you that rather than feeling satisfied after this exchange, I felt petty.

But it was pretty funny.

And I have the [blurry] pictures to prove it.

Thursday Thirteen

This week’s edition – things I am really bad at

things at which I am really bad

Reasons I suck.

1. I am a lousy housekeeper. It’s not that I don’t care – pre-kids my house looked great. But now I find it to be much like Erma Bombeck said – shoveling while it’s still snowing – and I’m worn out.
2. I rarely finish a list. I make to-do lists and check off 90% of the things on there, but I always leave a task or two dangling, taunting me.
3. I can’t let go of things I’ve done wrong in the past.  I’m not petty – I won’t hold any of your past mistakes against you. But myself? I beat me up pretty good.
4. I’m a bad friend. Not because I don’t love you, but because I am lazy. I don’t write or call or send pictures like I should. I’m sorry.
5. I have guilt over things like what a bad friend I am.
6. I say things like “I’ll be back tomorrow with pictures“ and then I’m not.
7. I have Monk-like tendencies about strange things. I’m drawn to odd numbers. I can’t leave light switches willy-nilly – I need them to be aligned. I don’t leave the volume in the car stereo on a half number. Ever.
8. I’m not patient enough. When one of my children is sick, I am kind and loving and attentive for about half the day before the whining starts to wear on me, and by about 6 pm I can’t really talk anymore or else the words coming out of my mouth would be…snappish.  This goes quadruple for my husband, except for the part where I hold back. My defense is that my irritation is increased to match his increased level of whining.
9. I don’t like to exercise. I am completely lacking in that endorphin rush thing that other people have going on. I view exercise as a necessary evil so that I can eat.
10. I am not the mother I want to be. I am not the mother my children deserve. The world I have created for us is not what it should be. And I don’t know how to fix it all. I don’t even think I’m capable. See #5
11. I will never live long enough to do all of the things I want to do. I have a mental list a mile long of things I’d like to try, just for kicks. Real Estate license, culinary school, travel agent, interior decorator, tea room owner.  Learn to juggle, ride a unicycle, play the guitar. Visit Greece. Ski the Alps. It’s never gonna happen. Unless I win the lottery.  Which should also be on my list – buy a lottery ticket.  I’ve never done that, either.
12. I cannot feel at home here. I really love my town, a lot. But even decades removed, Pennsylvania still feels like home. I wonder if that will ever change, or if I will spend a lifetime feeling homesick.
13. I can’t ever come up with a good Thursday Thirteen list. Before I start I’m all “It’s only 13 little things!” and then after I start I’m all “13 is a lot more than I realized, people.“

I didn’t actually intend for this to be such a bummer of a list.  I got the idea over guilt I’ve been having over not blogging regularly enough.  Over all of the things I said I was going to post but didn’t.

I suck like that.

And December? Wow. Overwhelming.

I’d like to tell you I’ll do better, but I don’t know if I will and I’m at the very least going to try not to lie to you.

At least I didn’t end by telling you about the dog I think I’m going to have to put to sleep.  That would really be a low note.

There’s a chance I’m a man

Not physically.  But emotionally?  I might be transgender.

The evidence:

1)  I don’t relate well to most women.  They’re petty and catty and dramatic and exhausting.  Prior to marriage, my closest friends were all male.  Men are just easier.  WYSIWYG.  You can have a major disagreement and put it to rest permanently all in the course of an hour.  Or 10 minutes.  Everything is laid out plainly and there are no guessing games or hidden meanings.  Besides being healthier, this is also a huge time-saver.

2)  As I said before, I’m not much of a crier.  Women seem to love cry-fests.  So not my thing.

3)  Chick flicks? Not so much.  I’d pick Dirty Harry over Bridget Jones any day.  Or better yet, 007.  Or Monty Python.  Or the Stooges.  And when I recently saw Eat, Pray, Love [huge mistake] and found myself surrounded by crying women, I began squirming in my seat and counting the minutes until the movie was over and I could bolt from the spontaneous group-therapy session that had broken out.

4)  I love sports in general, and football in particular.  Football and hockey make my heart very happy, and there are few things that annoy me more than trying to watch the game with some sports-clueless woman hanging around, asking dumb questions or worse yet, talking about the cheerleaders’ uniforms.

Cheesy 80s movie. It's girlish to like cheesy 80s movies, right?

5)  I’ve always been a tomboy.  I wasn’t into dolls or dress-up as a kid, unless you count G.I. Joes and Superheroes.  I dabbled in cheerleading, but found myself much more at home on the basketball court.  And while the other girls fixed their hair and makeup, I was shooting pool with the guys.

6)  I like to build stuff.  Chairs and desks and cubbies and washer/dryer pedestals.  And right now, I’m working on an apothecary unit and some bookcases.  There is a good-sized section of the garage devoted to tools, and they are mine.  I chose them, I bought them, and I am the only one who knows how to use them.  I am the handy man in this house.

7)  I’m not squeamish.  I don’t freak out over bugs or snakes or mice.  I clean up the dead animals (we’re rural, people – it happens).  I’m not afraid of heights, and I am the one who scales the extension ladder to hang the Christmas lights from the second story.  And I’ve done it while pregnant, too.  I’m pretty fearless.  It’s not unusual to find me leading the charge to bungee jump or cliff dive or go rafting.

8)  I’m drawn to men.  You know how, at social events, the genders tend to separate?  The ladies sit in the kitchen, sipping wine and chatting about schools or shopping or home decor.  The men move outside, swigging beer and playing corn hole and talking about last night’s game.  Guess where I belong?

Except once you get married, it’s no longer acceptable for all of your friends to be men.  People gossip.  And by people, I think we all know that I mean women.  Women gossip.  They ‘talk’ about the girl that’s always hanging out with the guys, and what they are saying isn’t flattering.

I’ve never been one to care what people think – I’m not here to impress.  And so when I first married I continued on, business as usual.  My friends were there long before my husband – why should a ring suddenly wipe them away?

But I found that it must, eventually.

It’s not that I care personally what anyone thinks – quite the contrary.  Any woman who thinks ill of me for talking football with the boys is not one whom I’d ever have common ground with, anyway.   She can just stick it in her ear, as far as I’m concerned.

But kids change everything.

I want to be a mother that my daughters will be happy to have.  I don’t want to embarrass them.  And if the other moms are bad-mouthing the married lady who is always hanging out with not-her-husband men, well, at some point that will be embarrassing.

So these days I sit in the kitchen with all of the other ladies, just as I should.

But don’t be surprised to see me looking out the window, wishing I were still one of the guys.

I miss them.

Self Improvement vs. Carbohydrates

This is a constant struggle in my life.

Would I like to be healthier?  Look better?  Run faster?

Absolutely.

Am I willing to give up bread to make that happen?

Not a chance.

[If I were Catholic, the ultimate Lent sacrifice would be carbs.]

I tried Atkins once, about 10ish years ago.  It lasted about 4 hours.

I made it through breakfast [unhappily].  It came lunch time and I pulled out the lunch I’d carefully packed for myself, and I went out to a picnic table to eat (I was still gainfully employed at this point).  I spread it out in front of myself and gave a resigned sigh, and began to pick up a piece of celery or some other such nonsense…and then a co-worker came out and asked if I’d like to go out to the Spaghetti Factory and I was all ‘Heck-to-the-yeah’ and I pitched that crappy lunch straight into the rubbish bin.

So my wedding dress was a size 6 instead of a size 4, and I looked a bit meatier in my honeymoon bikini than I did in years past.  I was fine with that.  I had bread and pasta to console myself with.

This battle has not changed in years since then.  It just so happens that I love food.  And I especially love the carbohydrate kind of food.  I’m Irish and Italian and this is genetic – I cannot be blamed for it.  If I were ever on death row (probably for killing the man that tried to take carbs away from me) my last meal request would be something like mashed potatoes, scalloped potatoes, potato soup, fettuccine alfredo, angel hair pasta with pesto, and a huge loaf of crusty garlic bread.  And then I would have a little piece of heaven on earth before I got to the real place, because carbs?  Are a very good thing.

But this is an issue when I have my occasional ‘let’s not be such a big fat schlub’ kicks.  Because every regime you look at limits your carbs.  Atkins – 4 hours.  Weight Watchers – better.  I did this after Lilly and dropped the weight in no time.  At which point I resumed carbs as usual, and, um… yeah.

So I tried P90x, but hello? Did you know that they expect you to DIET as well as exercise for 4 hours a day?  What a load of crap.  The whole reason I exercise is so that I don’t have to diet.  If I can’t eat bread that is punishment enough – I’m not going to torture myself with yoga, too.

I know that when people find out I run they are sizing me up and inside they’re all ‘If she really runs that much then why isn’t she skinny?’  I’ll tell you why.

Car-bo-hy-drates.

They are my friends and I will not forsake them.

I don’t run because I like to run.  I haven’t enjoyed this since I was 22 years old.  I do it because I want to eat bagels.

I walk into Panera Bread and I breathe deep, knowing that I have reached the promised land.  I have a soup-and-sandwich combo with bread as a side item, and then there’s a very good chance I’ll have an orange scone for dessert.  And buy some bagels to take home.  And possibly a baguette.

And I am happy.

And yes, sometimes I look down and feel sad about my muffin.  But if I have to live with a muffin in order to eat, then so be it.

I just can’t relate to people with willpower.  People who are willing and able to sacrifice food for vanity.  People who are both spaghetti and muffin-less.

I envy their flat stomachs, for sure.  My pierced navel is no more, because a tummy full of Baked Lays doesn’t look so cute with bling.  But I don’t envy this enough to actually do something about it.

I’m contemplating an attitude shift, though.  Right now it’s in the early, ‘I really should do that’ stages.  It remains to be seen if I will actually act upon this thought.  Frankly, I’m sort of hoping a pile of money will fall into my lap before I have to make the decision.  Then I could afford a surgical solution, re-pierce the navel, and celebrate with a trip to Italy.

For now, it’s back to the treadmill to work off the lasagna I just ate.

Happily.

[The eating was the happy part. Not the treadmill.  The treadmill is a necessary evil.]

Could you hold my hand while I check my email?

So I know that I just told you I’d have lots of food posts, but that won’t be happening today.  And probably not tomorrow, either.

Tomorrow is writing prompt day.  Today was going to be a food post, but then I got sidetracked.

And by sidetracked I mean ‘I had the kind of day that drives a woman to drink.’

[Note to Rachel - just kidding.  No rehab-related confessions will be forthcoming.  No-no-no.]

I’ve noticed that days like this rarely begin with sunrise.  Typically they start around 3 pm, when the girls have been home from school for 15 minutes or so, and they’ve gotten over ‘missing each other all day’ and reverted to ‘annoying each other as usual.’

But yesterday was the exception to this.  Yesterday’s bad day actually started the night before, when I got a very disturbing email.  So disturbing that I didn’t sleep a wink, my skin crawled, and I jumped out of my skin with every little creak and squeak that occurs in the middle of the night.  The quiet noises that one rarely notices seemed to scream directly into my psyche on Monday night and right on through Tuesday morning.

This discomfort was no doubt amplified by the multiple pots of coffee I consumed, and the lack of anyone to talk to about aforementioned email.  It being the middle of the night and all.

I talked to myself about it, though.

I told myself what I knew everyone else would say to me. What I would say to them, if the situation were reversed.

It’s just an email.

Nothing bad is going to happen.

You’re being way too paranoid.

Step away from the Google.

Lay off the coffee.

Didn’t work, though.

I looked for my usually reliable middle of the night friends, but none of them were online.

You people and your precious ‘sleep’.  Pffft.

This may have been the only morning I can ever remember when I had to fight the urge to wake the kids up early, just so I could get some company.

Daylight came eventually, and I admit the hustle and bustle of the day did help.  Even the girls’ typical afternoon fussiness and general chaos was a welcome alternative to the silent stewing I had done the previous night.

Until they spilled water on the hardwood floor and didn’t clean it up and then I didn’t see it so I went sliding across the floor, involuntarily pulled into a split deeper than I’ve done in 20+ years, thereby causing me to spit forth incoherent ramblings like ‘mmmffarblistablatgumph’ and likely pull a groin muscle in such a way that will leave me walking funny for days, an incident immediately followed by Catie stepping over me to jerk open the front door and ram it into my foot, ripping off half of my right baby toenail.  That part was less than welcome.

But as I write this, the violent freaks precious angels are tucked snugly in their beds, dreaming away.  The house is quiet again, and I am left alone with my too-numerous thoughts.

It’s feeling like another sleepless night, and I am accepting applications for 3rd shift friends.

Or bodyguards. Bodyguards are welcome, too.

For now, I think I’ll just drink up.

Makeover Monday: The long-lost Kardashian sister

In looking for embarrassing pictures of myself (which unfortunately, are not hard to find. At all.) I came across several that clearly illustrated what a trendsetter I was.

I rocked several looks a good decade + before the Kardashians did.  Sadly I didn’t look nearly as good in doing so, and I got paid nothing for it, and I’m not close to my sisters like they are…but I had the [inferior] look, and that’s really what’s important here.

Since the money isn’t forthcoming.

Anyway.

The way-too-harsh up-do:

The One Who No Longer Exists

Edited so no one [me] vomits.

Hey check it – she’s got my earrings, too!

The one-shoulder black dress:

No. Eyes.

[Which incidentally, I, too, retired - after seeing this picture.  One-shoulder dresses are not the friend of a busty girl. I look like I weigh at least half a ton here.]

And of course, the super-long hair overkill:

(mine’s all real, thanks)

And this isn’t a beauty pageant, for the record – I’m not that kinda girl.

I think I’d go by Kassie.

And I’d have to introduce them to church.

But otherwise, clearly, I’d fit right in.

I wonder how I’d look with black hair?

Bad Poetry

Wrapping up ‘Man, I am was such a huge dorkus’ week, I bring you perhaps the most embarrassing of all.

The phase when I fancied myself a poet.

It lasted less than a year, I think, but looking back I’m sure it was a very long year.  How incredibly tedious.

Of course, not everyone agrees, because I’ll have you know that I was published in a very prestigious book of poetry that anyone who buys their way in to the $60 book few people have on their resume.

Yey me.

The worst of the worst cream of the crop?

The Desire of Him

She sees what she is out to find

And yet her heart does not accept

Does not truly believe

That what she looks at with such admiration

Has seen her

She drinks every detail

With a passionate, driving thrist

But like a river, the end is never reached

And like the warm rays of sun

She gazes upon his intensity

But cannot look directly.

It is not known to her

Whether this feeling is returned

But neither does she know if she

Can hope to achieve

All that her heart wishes to give.

Suddenly, without her motion or movement

Without encouragement or expectation

And overcoming the fear for what was never said

And now might never be said

He notices.

Best line? Without a doubt,

Like the warm rays of sun, she gazes upon his intensity, but cannot look directly.

So deep.

So much depth it’s amazing I didn’t drown in the very deep pool of drama that I was obviously wallowing in.

And I walked around looking like this, which really helped the ‘I’m such a misunderstood artist’ vibe I was throwing out there

Oh.My.Goodness.

Let me just tell you, crap like this is something I do not look forward to when I one day have three {three!} teenage daughters.

But obviously I will deserve it, since my poor parents had to put up with me.

Yoi.

Note to Jen:  I think I went above and beyond here this week, and the balance of power has clearly shifted. {insert evil laugh here}

Humiliation week – over and out!

Back in Black

For at least a good year, there exist no pictures of me wearing an actual color.  I lived entirely in black.

I wasn’t one of those goth people.  I didn’t wear black lipstick or white face paint.

I was just in black – always.

School, clubs, dances, church, my sister’s wedding shower and rehearsal dinner – all black.

And all with combat boots.

Again, let me repeat that I wasn’t a goth.

I’m not sure what inspired this.

My love of weird music?  A Sweet Valley High book?

Whatever it was, I was all ‘Hey let’s listen to Jane’s Addiction and dress like we’re funeral bound!’ for way too long.

As you can see, it’s a very flattering color for a girl with my skin tone:

And I look nothing like a mime here:

Oh good – here’s a glimpse of the boots:

That was apparently my favorite dress, because I’m not sure I ever took it off for at least a 6-month span.  I’ve been photographed in it all over the country, from my sister’s wedding rehearsal (where she was none too pleased that my boots made an appearance) to church to dances… it was my little black dress that wasn’t so little.

{You might recognize some of these people. They’re famous now.}

Can barely see eyes…

Even more pathetic unusual is that I appear to be wearing the same necklace with the same dress in all of these pictures.  Not too creative, apparently.

You know, when you find what works and all.  Don’t mess with perfection.

Yeah, black is definitely the way for a milky white girl to go.  A walking study in contrasts.

Especially with an overdose of hair.

You cannot even see detail on my face because I am so pale.  I actually reflect light.

What would really finish this off beautifully would be if I had pictures of some of my other go-to looks.  Like cutoff Daisy Dukes, worn with black fishnets and combat boots (natch).  Or when I dyed green streaks in my hair.  Or the purple, red, and blue ones.  Or when I pulled it all up into a ponytail, and shaved off the lower part.

You know, like this

I was a weird girl.

But not as weird as the guy I dated once, who sported a mohawk like this

And I mean literally once, because when my dad met him.  Well.  That was the end of that.

I believe a direct quote would involve something about ‘ripping that earring right out of your ear, son’ and possibly a shotgun.

Come to think of it, that guy could have gone in my Bad Judgment post too.

I’d like to say that I’m older and wiser now…but somehow I’m afraid I’m just older.

And PS) I still love black. Some things never change.

Edit – last minute addition – I almost forgot about these.  A chorale concert, I think, and my mom tried so hard to get a decent picture of me.

It wasn’t working though – you can barely see a glimpse of my face at the corner of the music stand.

A little closer, but nope, still covered.

But at least she can snap one of me when I walk down the aisle!

Sadly, no – I looked the other way, and I stuck out my tongue.

‘You with the tongue Heather.  Why is your tongue always hanging out?‘

Sorry Mom.  I blame MJ.

And since I know you are wondering, yes, actually I was wearing the black dress [and combat boots] under the black robe. Why wouldn’t I be?

Formals gone wrong

One big area where I’ve consistently embarrassed myself is formal wear.  Part of it was the times, for sure.

{Quick, name me something you wore in 1989 that wasn’t hideous!}

But also, I always made my own dresses.  At least twice a year I set my creativity loose and designed and made my own formal wear.  And let’s just say how very ironic these pictures are, considering I now design children’s clothing.  Clearly, my artistic vision has changed over the years.

Take this monstrosity, for example

Hello, everything red ever made!

I had no ability to edit.  I loved red and I was ready to show the world.

It’s a darn shame this picture doesn’t capture my red earrings, red shoes, and red purse.  I can’t say for sure now because my brain is very old and tired, but something tells me my underwear wasn’t white.

And my date for said prom (who is probably reading this and laughing at me right now…or possibly feeling relieved that his picture isn’t here, forever attaching him to crazy red blob girl) was told specifically to bring all red flowers.  I feel strongly that he also should have sung ‘Lady in Red’ without prompting, but that didn’t happen.

With or without the prompting.

Seriously dude, could I have dropped any more hints?

And what do you think that look on my face is about?  Is it, ‘Mo-om, stop taking pictures of me!  I’m super cool and you’re making me look like a dork here!’

Or was it ‘I know that my former BFF is behind me and she looks sooooo much better in her ruffled cupcake dress than I do in my big red blob. Plus her hair is bigger than mine! Dangit!’

[I'm struck by irony because as I write this, the last song we ever danced to came on Gen X radio.]

The next year I’d like to say I learned something, but, um, not really.

Enter ‘faux sequins’

Oh, and also the first time my hair went brown, though this time it was accidental.  I have to accept responsibility for all future misadventures with a bottle.

Note to self: If you don’t have the patience to hand sew thousands of individual sequins, then pick another style. ‘Sequin-like fabric’ is in fact nothing at all like actual sequins, and very, very tacky.

Lesson learned.

Prom that year went better.  I lightened up on both the color and the bling.  Unfortunately, I lightened up all the way to white, which makes it look like I was a teenage bride.  And judging by my date’s ball cap, I’m thinking this wasn’t the wedding of the century.

White – not a good color for a pale, sickly girl.

Try again – Cinderella Ball, the following year.

Ok, so the color is better.  But the hair?  The hair is not good.  And also, looking back at this and knowing how old I was in this picture, I cannot believe that I wore/my parents let me wear a dress that low cut.  It looks like the see-through fabric stops just shy of my navel.  Klassy.

[And lest you think less of me, the date was just a friend.]

I reverted to my old ways for the next prom, too.  Wedding #2

Two minor changes this time.

1) I wore Ivory instead of white.

2) I knew I’d be shaking my booty all night and had the good sense to wear sneaks.

My only regret here is that they weren’t Chucks.  Or combat boots.  Either would have made for better pictures.

Have I ever told you that I wore tennis shoes under my wedding dress, too?

In college I seemed to learn my lesson.  I looked much better…but had dates that I couldn’t stand to see again, so you won’t be getting pictures there.

{Besides Jen, this is really all for you, and you’ve already seen the worst of that.}

Bad Judgment

In oh-so-many ways.

It started young, when I was sporting a polyester leisure suit at my birthday party

Now this doesn't date me at all...

And it just grew from there.

For example, the date that felt chinos and no socks would be appropriate for a semi-formal.

No socks.

Who does that? Blech.

But hey, remember when boxer shorts as attire was popular?

No eyes when I smile. Seriously.

Yeah – me either.  But it certainly helps to make them look cool, the way I have them hiked up to my armpits.

Dear Heather,

Circa-nineteen-whenever-overalls-were-popular

Overalls – not good.

Moving on…

Where to even begin with this one?

Pretzel legs

Oh, I know – how about we start with the pictures of the creep plastered all over the wall behind you? Bad. Judgment.

Also, you are still wearing boxers, and you still have no eyes when you smile.

Oh, and this?

Driving Miss Daisy

You are at least 20 years too young to wear a dress with a matching shirt.  A dress that stops mid-calf, AKA the least flattering length known to man.

And it’s amazing this one didn’t get me arrested

Sullying the good name of Nemo

since quite obviously, I appear to be pants-less in Disney World.

I’m not, for the record.

A – Not fat, just pregnant. I know I say that a lot, but it’s true.

B – Wearing short shorts

C – Wearing my husband’s pullover which is way too big for me

D – Too stupid to look in a mirror

I had that ‘too stupid’ problem here, too.  This is the day I learned that when taking pictures, your neck should be pushed out, not pulled in.

Hello, double chin!

Dear Heather,

Shield your eyes from the glow

Don’t take pictures in the pool unless you’ve discovered the sun.  Or at least a decent self-tanner.

I’ve had several [failed] attempts at hat-wearing

But at least I don't have poodle hair!

Am I playing dress-up here? Why are the clothes hanging off of me?  Gross! Eat a burger, pronto!

Let’s try again

The furry scarf really sets it off, don't you think?

Ok there, fatso. Back off the burgers now.

Maybe feathers would be better?

Practicing my routine for Vegas

As it turns out, no. And where are my darn eyes?

The mortification fun ends here today.  More kicks to the gut laughs tomorrow!