When you’re scratching your head after working on things since 5:30 am and you feel a giant lump. Is it a tick? is this a tick?! and the more you feel it the bigger it is, and you’re having full on anxiety that you’re going to get lock jaw from Lyme’s Disease and never speak again and you’re having strange macabre fantasies of how this massive tick has spent all day, night, nights?! slowly sucking out your life force and possibly your intelligence, lowering your IQ with its inferior invasion of your skin. But then you realize it is merely your pearl earring ratted up into your messy bun and that you’ve been walking around like David Bowie with one damn earring in and nobody has said a word. It’s fine. It’s just Monday.
Oh hell. Please do not refer to your child as “42 months old”. He’s 3 and a half. Your kid is 3 and a half years old. Jesus christ. I guess I’m 338 months old.
I am really not in the mood to do mental mathematical gymnastics to determine if showing him Pulp Fiction and Wild Things is age appropriate when you leave me in a room alone with him.
What if mothers get tired and they drop the “months” as we’ve come to drop the “years” when we tell people our ages?? 42 months. Are you 3 and a half? Or are we going by dog years? in that case, you’d be 22 and a half. and that means you can watch bad things. What about bourbon? Is 42 months old enough for that? because 42 sounds old. When you invite me to your kid’s birthday party, and I say I’m at a 42nd birthday celebration and my friends want to come crash and bring champagne, what am I going to do with them when they come and destroy the moon bounce instead of destroying moonshine??
Am I up to date as far as developing on a 30 day cycle goes? Am I exactly where I should be? Am I young for my age?
This month, if I pay my credit card bill off completely, I will have paid all bills on time, have had no hangovers, have worked out almost 4 days straight, not used my last 35 dollars on shots and chicken tenders, and not made out with anyone in a shitty bar. Those are some pretty solid milestones for 338 months. Yours truly, your little blooming buttercup, with pollen in ALLL the right areas, is progressing age appropriately! It was touch and go there for a while, I wasn’t hitting any significant progressive markers in my late 20s as my other peers were. But now… now I’ve mastered bill paying, credit restoration, emotional stability (somewhat) and some advances in the career that I literally pulled out of thin air and created myself because I just couldn’t fart out another resume cover letter telling people how fantastic I am and lying about how hard I will work for them.
Oh sorry, I’ve miscalculated in my attempt to segment my life into monthly developmental milestones! I’m actually a young, spry 332 months as opposed to the previously stated 338 months. How will I ever get recognition in this town if I can’t even properly add up my own months! Oh mai! I’m done for at whole foods and soul cycle.
Like seriously your kid is sh*tting in his own hand and constructing grammatically correct sentences on the floor of your pruis with it and stealing organic dog treats from the bulk bins and storing them under your boob after a very public breastfeeding when he wasn’t really hungry, he was just walking up to you for money for candy but you tore your shirt off and shoved his head into your nipple anyway, then glared at everyone, demanding they challenge your right to force feed in a public arena. I don’t think we need to celebrate every damn month at this point.
Your kid is 3 and a half.
But I am still 332 months. CARD THAT AT THE BAR, BETCHES.
I’m so tired of plus size clothing. It’s absolutely ridiculous.
I’m tired of women who are stressed that they are the “biggest size” of regular sizing.
Or the smallest size of plus size.
I’m tired of separate sections in stores called Misses.
I hate the stigma and terrible fashion picks that hang over plus size giant, Lane Bryant. It’s ostracizing and gross and embarrassing.
It’s also absolutely maddening when someone says, “well they wouldn’t be plus size if they worked out.”
well guess what, nipplefart. Plus size women are out there in their husband’s over sized sweat pants, trying to get the motivation to work out, eat right, feel good, starting already in an energy deficit, and on top of that, they don’t even get high quality, high end activewear to even START in to feel good about themselves. They get Old Navy. They get Walmart.
You want a woman to have confidence and feel good enough to get out there and do something about herself so she doesn’t have to be so “disgusting” as some put it? Then put her in some Lululemon quality clothes that make her literally get up and prance her happy donkey butt out the door every single day because she’s so excited to sweat in something gorgeous. Oh wait… Lululemon won’t make those sizes.
Where the hell is she supposed to stuff her big ol nanas as shes swangin around the track? How’s she supposed to do squats without cheap cotton pants bustin’ out of the buttcrack?! What do these women even have to work out in, women who make tons of money in great jobs who don’t want to twerk their way through Walmart or Ross? Women who have class and a credit card who just happen to simultaneously do a push up and Bhujangasana, the cobra pose, at the same time?!
Well guess what. We changed the game over here. Luxury fitness is coming to those ham hocks. Get on this, immediately and share. We want as many women who are struggling with this as possible to be the first to try our new luxury, high end exclusive activewear in all sizes, especially in the sizes who need/want it the most.
“FitCandy, an e-commerce site for high-end women’s activewear, bridges the gap between standard and plus size clothing by simultaneously providing precise fit technology and the only high-end, high-quality performance activewear brand to include full figured women.”
http://www.facebook.com/fitcandyshop – if you join you can even get our sweet shhhhh for free, too- find out how on the Facebook page.
10 Burning Fit Candy Questions Answered:
1. Yes, we sell amazing regular sizes starting from the tiniest 00 we can find.
2. Yes, bigger women DO want to work out
3. No, bigger women do not have have any high-end workout clothing options to do so, currently.
4. Yes, we provide the most elite brands in activewear and performance gear sold in the most exclusive boutiques, spas, and department stores from around the WORLD in ALL sizes
5. Yes, we have our own in-house brand being produced which has sizes for full figured women and also rivals the quality and scarcity of Lululemon products. It is an elite brand because as a larger woman, you still get to wear luxury, even if you never want to sweat in it ever and you just want to pretend like the rest of us in LA.
6. Yes, FitCandy has technology to give a precise fit and match to brands, depending on your body measurements.
7. Yes, there is a crisis between truly accepting the body we are in and doing something about it. Love it first so that you respect it enough to do something good about it.
8. Yes, women need to focus on real numbers and realistic fit so they are inspired to change. There is NOTHING wrong with wanting to decrease in weight/inches, but there IS something wrong about panicking because you aren’t a size 2.
9. No, we don’t fat shame, no we don’t thin shame, but yes, we do inspire you to get off your ass and do something that makes you radiate pure sunshine out of your entire being. You know those type of people. Be one of them.
Seriously. If you’re anywhere on the mid to north east coast in this blast out of Hades ass cold weather, be aware of the homeless if you venture outdoors.
Regardless of how liberal or conservative you are and how jaded you are and how much you think that homeless people “refuse to find shelter” and choose to be sleeping on the streets, if you see a shelter impaired human being, please dig out your little iphone 5 out of your pocket and use your special touch screen finger tip gloves to call one of the local numbers that are providing a pick up and shelter for those who have none.
Some of these homeless people are our veterans, some are just batshit crazy, some are, of course, junkies. But, honey, you weren’t so innocent with your legs splayed out in the air in college for half of Sigma Nu and you weren’t so cute wearing those same panties twice in a row last week because you were too lazy to change them when you woke up in the morning, so let’s not play judge about whose life is worth more on days when a pot of your scalding hot ramen water turns into brown fairy fart dust when you throw it into the wind because you ran outside to do it as soon as Linda Shartynipple on Fox 11 news scampered out and did it.
Here is a list of numbers for the Washington DC area and other cities. If this is not where you live, you already know how to stalk an ex like you’re in the NSA, so there should be no trouble looking up what number is provided for your area (or call 211).
- Atlanta: 404-447-3678 for the Metro Atlanta Task Force for the Homeless
- Baltimore: 311
- Birmingham, Ala.: 205-252-9571 for the Firehouse Shelter
- Boston: 617-534-2526 for Friends of Boston’s Homeless or dial 311
- Chicago: 311
- Denver: 720-944-1007 for Denver’s Road Home (during business hours)
- Detroit: 1-800-274-3583 and 1-800-343-4427
- Fort Collins, Colo.: 719-632-1822 for Springs Rescue Mission and 970-484-5010 for Catholic Charities-Larimer County
- Kansas City, Mo.: 816-474-4599
- Las Vegas: 702-369-4357 for HELP of Southern Nevada (from 7 a.m. to 4 p.m., Monday through Thursday)
- Minneapolis: 612-879-7624 for St. Stephen’s street outreach team
- New York City: 311
- Philadelphia: 215-232-1984 for the Project HOME Homeless Outreach Hotline
- San Francisco: 311
- St. Louis: 314-802-5444 for the Housing Resource Center hotline (between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m., Mon-Friday)
- Thunder Bay, Ontario: 807-620-7678 for the SOS team (operates between 2 p.m. and 2 a.m.)
- Toronto: 311
- Washington, D.C.: 1-800-535-7252 for the Hypothermia Hotline
So this is real life.
My dad, Smokey, cut my hair himself until I was twelve. He would have cut my hair until menopause if he had the chance.
Nobody else was allowed to touch my mane of knotted glory, not even my older siblings’ mother, who owned a hair salon. She was only given the privilege of washing my hair, combing it out, and blow drying it, but only for a minute because Smokey didn’t want my delicate strands of hair to be incinerated into wisps of burnt DNA flailing in the cross breeze by this new fangled hot air blowing robot some folks had nicknamed “hair dryer”.
This is where I started learning the etiquette of tipping, as Smokey would hand me a couple dollars, when we were finished, and make me go to the back where Norma, the shampoo woman, had shampooed me. He’d push me forward and remind me to thank her in spanish.
Smokey taught me from a very young age the importance of tipping and acknowledging people for the services they provide, but I was always embarrassed to do it because I constantly fought the urge to just let Norma know that next time I wanted 5 extra minutes of hair washing because when she massaged my scalp I wanted to pee my pants and melt out of my chair like a limp noodle all at the same time because it felt so good so if she could please NOT STOP next time, that would be great.
My dad’s haircuts were pretty good sometimes. But, as with all people starting out, there were the early years where he had not quite perfected his craft.
Smokey Scissorhands must have had some rusty shears back in the day or maybe he was feeling really creative. Who knows. Maybe he just really really liked Jim Carey.
This is what happens when your dad is a hair cutting control freak.
That’s me on the right and my cousin Ashley on the left.
Do you know how traumatic it was to discover my dad may be Lloyd Christmas?
DOWN TO THE GAP IN THE TEETH. SERIOUSLY.
I never questioned the paternity of crazy ass Smokey but I can’t let my spidey senses forget my uncanny resemblance to Lloyd Christmas from Dumb and Dumber. And Ashley’s shaping up to be the spawn of Harry, so I don’t even know what is going on here.
With the sequel, Dumb and Dumber To coming out, I think my cousin and I deserve a role in the film as the illegitimate daughters of Harry and Lloyd. If this were to be true, it would explain a lot. A LOT of coincidences.
Like why I had a pet parakeet named Harry, who just straight up flew out of the door one day straight into the blizzard of ’96.
Or why I foolishly popped some random meds in my mom’s mouth while she was sleeping after she said she had a bad headache, which too closely mirrors the scene in Dumb & Dumber when Lloyd and Harry get the hitman to take rat poison instead of his heartburn pills by accident. And I got yelled at too, once she woke up spitting out half melted children’s Tylenol or was it Fen-Phen? Can’t quite recall. Trauma of getting yelled at blocks the memory of which drug I tried to force feed her while she was unconscious.
After this hair cut, Smokey improved quite a bit. I’m sure there were a few other life-altering cuts he gave me, but I haven’t dug up any evidence yet.
When I was 12, he stopped cutting my hair because we got in a fight, didn’t talk for half of a year and I rebelled by getting my hair chopped off to my chin at Hair Cuttery. My new goal was to no longer channel Llyod Christmas, but to embody Zac Hanson.
I like to call that hair cut MMMchop.
Come glittereffing struggle with me over on Facebook. www.facebook.com/ifyourewearingpearls
All Santa gave me for Christmas is an upper respiratory infection and asthma-like symptoms. Bedridden, but I’m going to OD on packets of vitamin C today and drag myself across the street to the movies in a vitamin induced euphoric state. SANTA YOU LITTLE SHIT.
This is me, not even 3 or 4 days ago. Raging at Venice Beach’s Nikkis with an old friend from college. Healthy and unassuming.
I was told I “look latin” in this pic.
As much as I’d like to take credit for channeling Sofia Vergara (iloveyou), it’s called having a perfect internet tan, compliments of instagram’s filters which make me look like I bake naked off the coast of Brazil.
I thought I did good for all human kind yesterday. I donated platelets at Cedars Sinai as I always do every few weeks and I went to Mass at Good Shepherd Church and I scheduled my volunteer work down on Skid Row for Christmas Day.
Santa did not give two glitterf*cks about all of that. He gave not even one. I cannot fathom the immensity of the f*ck Santa did not give about my do-gooding.
This is me today. Hacking up a lung. Letting last night’s church make up run down my face as I sob at heart warming videos on youtube about Beyonce fulfilling this little girl’s dying wish, which made me totally greatful to have just an upper respiratory infection.
I’m a lonely tinsel-toed, pajama wearing, cookie eating, bacon burning, sick, delirious Christmas effing miracle right now, but I’m happy.
Luckily, Ellen’s a nurse. The best thing about having nurses as best friends is that you get advice that wavers somewhere between holistic and “anything that gets the job done”.
So, after finding a baby diaper large enough to take the hit that Ellen suggests is coming from this onslaught of Vitamin C packets, I am going to drag myself over to the Century City movie theatre across the street and I think I’m just going to sit there all day and try to go to Anchorman 2, Wolf of Wallstreet, The Hobbit 2, American Hustle and Hunger Games 2 and occasionally come out to pour artificial butter oil all over my waning bag of popcorn and to get napkins to wipe off the purple stain arcing over my upper lip from Trader Joe’s Cocoban wine I snuck in in my giant white Louis Vuitton which has seen better days and I’m not sure if it is even real because a client gave it to me as a gift and she didn’t seem too concerned about it.
By the way, if you want a FANTASTIC red wine, grab the Cocoban wine from Trader Joe’s immediately. It’s 6.99 and phenomenal for that price range and even makes a lot of those more expensive wines seem like the Housewives of Beverly Hills; expensive yet cheap quality.
These movies better be good. Because I can’t handle terrible today. I can’t. I just can’t. The level of can’t I’m on is up here. Hashtag Can’t.
I wish so many guys would stop posting pictures holding children. you know that’s like instant porn for us? Especially when they are not your kids and you’re just showing your “potential father” side? STOP. You were an LA 4 yesterday and now two bellinis, a collared shirt for “special occasions” and a hug from a toddler later, you’re suddenly a 7.5. This is not ok. it is downright trickery and I will not have it. I will not.
It’s like men cant wait for holidays, not because they want to see family, but because the only baby within a 400 mile radius that they wont get locked up for randomly picking up and snapping a pic with, will be around for exploitation. “Oh Hey!!! Karen! I can’t WAIT TO SEEE YOUUU at Christmas and have your special mashed yam noodle eggplant puree tater tots! Oh, speaking of tots, are you bringing little Allen?? Oh, I know he’s been teething and bit your nipple off last week, but please bring the little tyke! I NEEED TO SEND PICS OF US TO THIS LITTLE TINDERONI I RIGHT SWIPED ON TINDER LAST WEEK”.
THE MANIPULATION MUST END
because it is working. it. is.working.
And those desperate enough who can’t get home to family, are the ones who are taking on the side gig dressed as Santa just so they can grab a pic with random babies across all Westfield shopping centers.