My First Maternity Pants
I grew up in a time when clothing for fat kids was called “husky” and there were special stores for tubby tykes. My older brother was pleasantly plump until the day he discovered the ladies, and I was my usualy skinny bitch self tagging along for the ride. The particular store that my brother had to shop in was called “Little Folks” and I can remember walking in and looking up to catch a glimpse of a rotund little man with dark hair running around with a big measuring tape around his neck. Being little, I didn’t really understand the difference between husky or skinny, I just remember being pissed off that my brother got to shop at a special store when I was stuck having to shop at Sears. I could guarantee I was going to walk out of Sears everytime looking like some freakish child drowning in a sea of ruffles that was assaulted with a color pallette strait from the Easter Bunny’s basket. Well, my time to shop at a special store has arrived, or at least a special section of the store. Thats right, the maternity section.
Off I went to the maternity section of my local department store and the first cute thing I found was a size 24W – not that there is anything wrong with that, but I was confused. I quickly discovered that maternity clothes were somehow intermixed with clothes from the plus size section. This certainly made the experience more interesting. Instead of seeing something cute and gravitating towards it, I had to search like I was stranded on an island in the Pacific in search of fresh water to survive. Eventually, I had a carriage full of clothes, and when Mr. Blogarella came to check on me, I decided that I hated them all and put them back. So the next day, I tried a different location of the said store, and found it to be much better organized. Yes maternity was “next” to the plus section, but at least I could find things more easily and try them on. First up where the maternity jeans with a big elastic band – something I never imagined myself wearing before age 65. As I got into the dressing room and disrobed I caught a glimpse of my ever expanding waistline, and coaxed myself into trying these on. Taking the pants from the hanger, I held them up to my face, and was mortified at the size of the waist band. Just then, my phone rang and it was my friend who is a model that just returned from a photoshoot in Los Angeles telling me that she was bloated. Our conversation continued as I tried on the jeans, and the level of comfort I felt as they sat upon my hips was almost obscene. I briefly imagined a world of long shirts with elastic wasit pants for all, and then I snapped out of it thanks to my insatiable hunger for Wendy’s. So I departed with my new maternity jeans ready to take on the world, and the drive thru. My evening ended with me sitting alone in the dark corner of the parking lot quietly consuming my sacred delicacies. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I don’t have “another man” in my life, but there is a woman, her name is Wendy, and if my car is ever seen in a strange parking lot with hot steamy windows, you can guarantee that it has nothing to do with erotica, unless of course you think eating a bacon double cheeseburger is sexy.
Food Related Rampage
This is the only opportunity I’m going to have in my lifetime to behave like a diva. I’m not Mariah Carey, but we all deserve to have our moment. But, I always dreamed that when I had a diva moment, it would happen backstage at an awards ceremony. I never thought it would be at a McDonald’s drive thru.
My lunch break is 30 short minutes, and when you have an errand to run, you can figure in about 5 minutes of actual food if you’ve strategically planned ahead. I sat in the bank going over transactions from when my card was hijacked for use at a gas station when I suddenly wanted ice cream. I’m no crazy ice cream lover, I don’t even keep any in the house. However, for some reason, just as a wolf salivates at the sight of a lesser life form, I was overtaken by an unknown will to seek and destroy ice cream for my own personal gain. Now, I don’t think I need to explain to anybody that there is very little to “gain” by eating ice cream, which makes this story even more absurd. My exact time in the bank was 20 minutes. From there, I got in the car, peeled out of the parking lot, and headed to the nearest ice cream, which was McDonald’s, about 5 minutes away. I did 50 MPH through a residental area the whole way, and when I saw the drive thru was clear, it was as if the clouds had parted and the angels started playing their horns to honor me. Sweet! As the woman at the window said “Welcome to McDonald’s may I take your order?” I replied “Yes please, I’d like a McFlurry.” What happend next would be the equivelent of the said wolf having his prey stolen out of its paws by a predator with large talons. She replied “I”m sorry mam, our ice cream machine is down.” Oh no you didn’t!! Sadly, I didn’t take this news well, and in uncharacteristic behavoior, sans the swearing, I said “$hit! I’m pregnant, I NEED ICE CREAM!” At this moment, the woman at the microhpone is thinking to herself “psycho.” Its true. I’m a complete psycho, a psycho with no more ice cream than she had 20 minutes ago. Ashamed, yes. Satisfied, not even close. I think I’ll go cry now.
Just Remember Ladies…
When at a BBQ with dirty old men, it is far better to have them molesting your stomach than other body parts. Especially when one comes back for a third tummy rub and says “I’m enjoying this way more than I should.”
Happy Memorial Day
I love the vets and I love active military men, I will include women in that, though I tend to find men in uniforms way sexier – sorry ladies. Its always sad to hear when somebody is struck down in the line of duty, and this is the time when we remember the sacrifies they made. Granted most people tend to remember by smoking ribs over an open fire or watching the Indy 500. Regardless, its important to take a moment and think about these folks and just say a quick thanks.
I’m off from blogging for the rest of the weekend, unless of course Mr. Blogarella does something stupid, and he’s a man, so I’m not completely ruling it out.
xoxo
And the award for worst yard goes to…
Me!
Blogarella is a stone cold city girl who had concrete for a front yard. Mr. Blogarella is stone cold country and grew up playing in acres and probably rolling around in poison ivy . As you can imagine, I could’ve cared less when the grass in the yard got tall, mostly because there are obscene amounts of pine needles in the front yard. If you can’t get rid of “pine straw” then why bother with anything else. So what we are left with, and some would say its a gift…dandelion salad - yum! Mr. Blogarella couldn’t disagree more. He argues that we have the worst yard in the neighborhood and that a lawn mower needs to be a priority. His words exactly where “We have the only white trash yard in the neighborhood.” But what really strikes me about that statement is the fact that he thinks its the tall grass that makes the yard white trash and that it has nothing to do with him sitting in front of the house smoking cigarettes and drinking beer with no shirt on.
A Tale of Hunger
One night in a land far far away, there was a prince and his two knights. On this particular eve, the men would be dining with the prince’s beloved. Unbeknonst to her, on this fateful night was a tournament, The College Basketball Final Four Championship Game. Their journey began in a silver chariot, and they soon arrived at a dining establishment. Sadly the men discovered that the game was not being shown there. Pity! They went back to the chariot and onto the next ye olde dining establishment. The second establishment was also not broadcasting the show of strength. Curses! This particular scenerio repeated itself one more time when our fair maiden finally spoke with great furor, for she had an unquenchable hunger due to the fact that she was carrying the future heir to the throne. “Somebody better get me some food right now, or I’m going to flip out!” said the maiden. “I’m going to scream and yell, and I’m going to cry, and I don’t care who sees me!” At that moment the Prince and his knights rushed her into the establishment as if she were a person who was on the verge of dying from thirst. “Get this women something to eat now, she’s pregnant!” Spoke one. Soon the fair maiden was well fed, the prince and his knights were watching basketball, and all was well within the kingdom.
The End.
When Hormones, Heartburn, and Hunger Unite!
Going out is going to be more of a challenge in a few months, so Mr. Blogarella and I have been making sure we get out of the house and see something that doesn’t involve the almighty Playstation 3. Obviously, its easier for me to part from this mechanical wonder. Since we have begun these excursions, I’ve made a startling discovery – hissy fits. Its a new found phenomenon, and they appear to happen when something doesn’t go my way. Take Saturday night for example. I can’t eat large meals without entering the exillerating new world of acid indegestion, so dinner was pretty much a fistful of vegetables. Around 10:00PM I was HUNGRY! We were at a dining establishment when low and behold, the kitchen was closed. Damn! So we do the logical thing, go to an establishment down the street. This one also cheats me out of food. Double damn! So on our way back to the original establishment, I proceed to loudly and publicly accuse Mr. Blogarella of not caring about the baby or not caring about me because of the lack of effort in acuiring me food. In typical man fashion, the reply was “you should’ve finished your dinner.” Whoa! Them is fightin’ words! I decide its in my best interest if we just go home, but wait, there is a McDonald’s along the way and the night might be saved…after 15 mins. of waiting in the McDonald’s drive thru, I decide to cut my losses and go into an establishment that is completely foreign to me. Mr. Blogarella tried to explain that it was probably not what I was looking for, but that is where he was mistaken. I discovered something grander than a free all-you-can-eat buffet at happy hour. A sign was hanging up on the wall annoucing the The Weekly Thursday Night Booty Shaking Contest with a cash prize of $200! Sadly, it wasn’t Thursday, even sadder, Mr. Blogarella was did not share my enthusiasm. But then again, a pregnant woman probably shouldn’t be shaking her booty for cash prizes, especially in an establishment where women were sipping their beer through straws by the dozen. But, its nice to dream.
I assure you that nobody in the establishment remotely looked like this 
My So-Called Mother’s Day
I’m not yet a mother…well, some might say I’m a “mutha” but I don’t think we need to complete the phrase. We visited Mr. Blogarella’s mom for Mother’s Day, and without any warning, she went right for the belly. Not since I was a little kid getting pinned down and exposed to excessive amounts of tickling has my belly been exposed to so much groping. I don’t mind, except that being the skinny bitch that I am, instead of buying maternity pants like I should, I’ve been different. See, I know that my abdominal muscles are taking a sabatical, but to me, it feels as weird as if Mr. Blogarella turned to me and said something like “Well, I’m off to Florida for the winter. Try not to burn down the house while I’m gone.” Yes, he’d come back, but will things between us ever be the same? So instead of saying “see you in the spring” to my abdominal muscles, I’ve been fighting and fighting and to me maternity pants basically means the abdominal muscles and I are going through a trial seperation. Whats a skinny bitch to do? Proclaim to the world that she’s still wearing her regular pants, but not share that she’s doing things like holding them up with hair elastics or not buttoning or zipping them opting instead for longer shirts. So for that reason, attacking my belly means you might also be attacking my panties, because if I’m unzipped, they are pretty much on display and I’m not sure how many people I want to know that I favor cartoon undies. Well, its still better than being the dude that is known for wearing the nut huggers.
Here is an updated pic of me and my Buddha – notice the hand placement, I totally don’t want the man hands photographed, but its a lot better than having pictures of me in my panties all over the internet. If that ever happens, it better be for a good reason, like a modeling contract with Victoria’s Secret.
Hey Big Daddy!!!
Lets look at why Mr. Blogarella doesn’t like being called “Big Daddy: in public. Is it because we have nearly a 10 year age gap and I look younger than my age? That would make him look like a dirty old man, but he’s my dirty old man, and I think he’s the most desirable thing since luxury box seats in the all you can eat section during game 7 of the World Series. Mr. Blogarella is a sexy sexy sexy man, and he’s all mine. Even on those days when I am so mad at him that I want to call his mother and say “He’s all yours!” I still look at him like a male underware model. If he reads this, he’s going to kick my ass…and look sexy doing it. Roar!
