The office building I work in houses 3 or 4 different companies. I see most of the people that work in this building daily. On elevators, in the parking lot, and when I used to smoke; in the smoking area. For 1.5 years, I would go out to the smoking area and burn one, seeing and chatting with the same women every single day, bitching about our office job woes. Every. Single. Day.
About two months ago, one month after quitting the bad habit, one of the ladies I would see and talk to, again, every day, began to compliment my physique. “Wow! You look SO GREAT!” and “I can’t believe how much weight you’ve lost, you look amazing!”
Thank you lady, but I’ve been 135 pounds, give or take, for the last 3 years. I never told her that, though. I took the compliments, because they did make me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. Then one day, after chatting with her for a minute, I realized why she had been complimenting me so much.
Lady: “I still cannot believe that just two months ago you had twins.”
Me: *Blink blink*
Lady: “Usually it is so hard to lose baby weight that quickly, not to mention after having multiples!”
And for whatever reason, I thanked her and went back to my office.
Fast forward two months to now. She still asks me about the twins. And I still respond like I have twins. But I just don’t understand. I saw this woman two or three times a day in the smoking area for 1.5 years. We talked about the weather and office crap while we puffed away on our cigarettes. At no point, since I began working here, was I pregnant. Not with twins, not with a single baby, not with nothin’.
But I’ve went too far now. I can’t go back and say “Listen lady, I don’t have twins. I spent a year and a half smoking cigarettes with you, not pregnant.” She will wonder why I never corrected her. I don’t even know why I didn’t correct her. I’m going to have to find a picture of twin babies. And come up with names. And build an entire fake life around these twins. That don’t exist. That I had in November.
So I’m the girl that works on the 3rd floor who recently quit smoking, and two months ago, had twins. Congratulations, me!
The party was a hit. Can’t top a James Bond themed party with a live band and endless champagne. Plus the drummer is my boyfriend, so I got to spend all night making sexy eyes at him while I danced with old men. That night had definitely made me realize that I am not a champagne girl. 4 glasses in and I was lit and ready to dance on the tables. I prefer whiskey, or even beer.
Id post a picture of my ensemble, but really I looked like a hooker from the 60’s, and I wasn’t a fan of how my makeup turned out. I spent 90 dollars getting my hair and makeup done professionally, and it was just a huge disappointment. Also, it took 3 washes to get all the hairspray out of my hair. Waking up the following morning, I looked like a dead 60’s hooker.
As always, I was the first on the dance floor. I am always the first, encouraging others to pound their drinks and get on the floor with me. Finally, 4 songs in to the night, I got a few people to join me. But by then I was winded and was 90% sure my feet were bleeding from my God awful shoes. I’m certain it took that long because no one wanted to be the person to go dance with the half lit hooker.
The next morning, my boyfriend and I recapped the night by making fun of how other people were dancing. He never mentioned how stupid I looked. Because he loves me. And because I’d knock his block off. I’m not one to poke fun at people dancing because at least they’re letting loose and having fun; but if you look like you’re trying not to shit on yourself, I’m gonna mention it. Behind your back.
ANYWAY, who is ready for Super Bowl 46?! Giants? Pats? Who will it be?
P.S. – Tom Brady sits when he pees.
This morning I had a momentary lapse in brain activity and tried applying deoderant to my toothbrush instead of toothpaste.
And that is the kind of day that I’ve been having.
What ever happened to pubic hair?
I typed out that question because I thought maybe if I got it out of my head, a clear answer would appear before me. I guess, like blue eye shadow or frosted tips on men, it’s just not cool anymore to have pubes.
One time I googled “Why do we have pubes?” and through in-depth research I discovered that pubic hair on women capture the musky vagina smell in which cave men used to sniff out the woman they were going to drag behind a rock after knocking her out cold.
Like my mom used to always say- “So if Amanda shaved all of her pubes off, I guess you would too? Hmm?” Yeah, ma. Pretty much. Don’t want to be the only girl ever in the world to have pubic hair.
Also, I get terrible razor burn and I’ve tried everything under the sun to minimize the excruciating pain that I put myself through twice a week to have an in-style vagina. One time I got it waxed which was actually not too bad. I wanted to rip my eyes out, but it was smooth and I didn’t even have to think about my pubes for four whole weeks. But I am too poor to even consider making that a monthly routine. Hairless vag or electricity? I can just light some candles and wear extra layers of clothing, right? Whatever.
I have a birthday party to attend this weekend at a fancy yacht club. It is a James Bond themed party, so I have to wear a dress and bring a gun. It probably can’t be a real gun, but thats a challenge I am willing to accept. Plus, I won’t have any pubic hair so if anyone questions my weapon, I’ll just tell them that it’s cool, I have no pubes.
I’m not entirely sure where I meant to go with any of that, but I’m on my lunch break at work, and work always gets me thinking about pubic hair.
So I’ve decided to start blogging. That is how incredibly bored I am here at work. Nothing to do but to write about myself like anyone actually really gives a damn.
I’m Betty, I’m 23, and although I prefer whiskey, I love pineapple upside down cake shots. They’re absolutely delicious. I enjoy reading, and making up stories to tell my 4 year old, running, cooking, googling dirty jokes, and driving. I have an extreme obsession with football. Good ole American football. Tossin’ around the pig skin. Tailgates, wings, beer, curse words, game winning field goals as time expires. It’s my favorite. Who doesn’t like football? A lot of people, I know. But they suck.
I have a boyfriend. I hate that term, by the way. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. I have a dude that comes around a few times a week who gives me stuff and says nice things and we have a lot of sex. Much better. There is quite an age difference between us. He’s 39. 16 years difference. People assume that for him, it’s all about having a young hot broad. Maybe so. But he says nice things to me and treats me with a lot of respect and I am head over heels in love with the man. So whatever. He is a huge part of my life and an inspiration to me. If the relationship were to end tomorrow, heart ache aside, Id take away everything I’ve learned with much appreciation. He is a wonderful man, and makes delicious red beans.
My 4 year old son is also an inspiration to me, but that goes without saying. He is funny, and smart, and by God he’s handsome. He will eat an entire bag of grapes in one sitting and then act like that’s normal for a 4 year old. His dad and I divorced 3 years ago and in a huge sacrificial effort to keep my son’s life as normal as possible, I stayed in the south near his dad rather than move back home to New York.
I guess now that I am going to chronicle my life I’d better save some of the juicy details of my incredibly interesting day-to-day routine for later posts.