Eyebrows: Or Loosing My Temper

I have a bad temper. Over the past few years I have tried to come into adulthood, keep my temper at bay, calm down and count to ten. I call this "loosing my temper" in the same way that people loose weight because I think it makes me sound clever, but in reality I have just gotten better at hiding the fact that I am about to loose my shit. I first realized that I needed to work on controlling my anger when I  moved in with my boo, Charlie. One night I got mad and threw a drinking cup, shattering shards of glass and water all over the kitchen. His reaction to the situation was enough to make me never throw any breakable item again, so now when I get really angry I just go into the bathroom and throw plastic bottles of things at my shower curtain until I feel better. This is a good strategy because you don't have to clean anything up and if by chance a shampoo bottle explodes,  you just turn on the shower and wash it all down the drain. See, it is all about hiding the crazy!

For the most part over time I have grown a longer fuse and certain things don't bother me as much anymore. There are a few exceptions to this rule though. Most of them have to do with certain people, but I wont go there. The other two situations are enough to make me drown forty gallons of Herbal Essence down the drain. The first is people touching my face, especially if they have dirty hands. I cannot stand when people cup my face in their hands and say something sweet, the sentiment is always lost on me because behind the smile I am secretly calculating how to kill them and wondering when I am gonna be home to be able to wash my face. I think I get so irate because I am bat shit insane when it comes to my skin  I am not ashamed to admit this. The women at the Estee Lauder counter love me because they know I am a loyal customer who is willing to break dance on a card board box if that was the only way I would be able to pay for my face care products. I refuse to step foot in a tanning salon or stay out in the sun without sunscreen too long for fear of aging too quickly. Go ahead and judge me, I will just console myself by watching this scene from "Mommy Dearest"  and telling myself I am not this bad. I do however admire her intense commitment and wonder if I will ever get to this point.

The second way to ensure a Hulk like rage is when estheticians wax my eyebrows way too thin. I cannot stand it! My face is fat enough as it is, I don't need thin eyebrows to remind myself of the excess real estate on my face.  I always go in and tell them "I like my eyebrows on the thicker side" and they always smile and say "of course, we will just clean em up" then I walk out looking like an extra from Mi Vida Loca and want to shank someone. Seriously, laugh if you will but tears have been shed over a botched waxing job. The pain is fresh because it just happened this week and I sobbed and cursed out the lady who did them while alone in my car for about a half hour. I should have known she was a stupid bitch when she praised the amazing acting talents of Kristin Stewart, what a dumb cunt.  Maybe someday I will achieve Nirvana and not sweat the small stuff so much, but until then enjoy this little comparison.

Acceptable eyebrows:

  I like these

Unacceptable eyebrows:

 I do not like these, notice the excess face time?

Born This Way or Fathers and Daughters

I have always been a chubby girl, always.There is not one time in my life where I can look back and remember being thin. In fact, I think I have been on one long continuous failing diet since the fourth grade.  My mom and dad love to tell a story about how when I was a baby, I was too chubby to fit into a heart monitor machine for toddlers so the doctor was forced to find another way to see if I had some kind of heart problem. This funny little incident coupled with the fact that my mom refused to wear tank tops because carrying me around gave her huge muscles before mom muscles were cool, branded me with the lifelong loving nickname of Chub.  Yes you read that right, Chub. Some dads call their daughters princess or sweet pea, my dad nicknamed me Chub.

I had the look of discontent from a very early age. Notice my stylish mom and her sleeves.

Many times I can remember being out in public and my hearing my dad calling for me from across a room.This was especially damaging because the volume in which my father speaks is equivalent to that of a banshee.  Strangers have often stopped me with an incredulous look to ask "what is your name?" I just walked away and used the embarrassment to become funny. Both parents have tried to convince me the name grew out of love but I really think it was my dads form of revenge. I say this because the doctors told my mom she was pregnant with a boy, so for nine months my macho man dad sea walked everywhere thinking he had displayed the ultimate form of masculinity by impregnating his lady with a boy. Unfortunately the day before his 24th birthday he was gravely disappointed when I made my screaming entrance into the world complete with ten fingers, ten toes and a vagina. Not only would the poor guy have to share birthday weekends with me for the rest of his life, but all of that Raider shit he bought was useless now. Minutes old, I was already deifying my old man and he had to settle the score. For the last 27 years it has been an ongoing battle, but I pretty much lost because he got his son (also known as the golden child or the miracle baby) four years later.

My pops and I. We both love to pose. 

Chapter 1: Spanx for the Memories

I realize that everybody has a blog now and only like, two people may read the entire entry but this is my attempt to force myself to be more honest about things, and to put myself out there. That being said I am calling this blog "Spanx for the Memories" because I feel as though every special occasion in my life begins with me squeezing myself into a pair of Spanx. No matter how special the occasion is, I can always be comforted by the fact that all of my insecurity and self consciousnesses is tightly secure in the sausage casing that are my Spanx. All fat girls know that Sara Blakely owes us some kind of commission because long before she became the worlds youngest self made female billionaire, we were using bicycle shorts to keep from being chaffed. When I am wiping the sweat off of my forehead after putting on my Spanx, I kick myself for being too stupid to have come up with this idea myself. I could have been the billionaire, but instead I am sitting in a cubicle pretending to work, oh well.