A Sign for the Puff

I think I had a major sign from the “Stop eating yourself into your fatpants” gods today. No lie. I was at lunch with a friend, and once again, I was chomping on the salty goodness of tortilla chips and salsa, a routine activity for me. I was thinking to myself, “Man, these things are delicious, I can’t wait to have anoth-----------“ OUUUUUUUUUUCHHHHHHHH!Right there, in mid bite, an itty bitty rock of salt leapt off of the chip and into my right eyeball. This….hurt like a bitch. A BITTTTCH! One eye closed Puff.
I quickly grabbed a wet napkin and plunged it into my eyeball trying to melt the meteor of salt that just embedded itself into my contact. It took two napkins, half a glass of water, one contact lense and looking like a crackwhore in the middle of a restaurant for me to say to myself, “PUT THE CHIPS DOWN!” Speaking of crackwhores…I am a chipwhore. Who the hell needs drugs when you can fiend for something much more delicious? ANNND certainly no one’s gonna plot an intervention over your adoration of the tortilla chip? At least crack makes you skinny! Bad joke. But still…Puff.
The older we get the more I realize what bitches age and metabolism are. My roommate and I had an ENORMOUS candy drawer in college that we had to fill weekly because we showed no mercy to a Twix bar. Now, I even think about a Twix bar and my ass not only grows a little bit, but I also get a stomach ache. What happened to just doin whatcha want!? Eating whatcha want? I’ll tell ya…Skinny Bitches took all that glory and soak it up for themselves. Not only that, but for those of us who actually have to work on our aging bods, it gets more and more…oh, and more discouraging trying to attain a great…or even pretty good bod. Puff.
This puff will be short and will end with a rhyme.
How do we lose weight if we don’t have the time
You pick up a chip and almost lose sight
And all you want is another bite
The things that taste good are so bad, but delish
I’d rather eat pizza instead of grilled fish
I’d die for some ice cream
I’d sing for some cheese
But I really want to just fit in my jeans
So with much hesitation, I’ll say with a sigh
I’m gonna lay low on the things that are fried
I may wine a little, I’ll bitch and I’ll huff
But nothin’s as good as a much needed DE-PUFF!

MeatPuffs

The Gym.Is.Hilarious. Nowhere else on earth can you find such an eclectic group of people allll trying to achieve the same goal. Look HOT. In general, I am a people watcher. I’ve always wanted to know everything about everyone and often wonder, “What’s their story?” The gym is a fantastic place to do this. Not only can you be incognito because you’re struttin yourself on the elliptical, but you can also have a soundtrack for this incredible journey all in the form of an ipod.
The gym is A LOT like high school. Puff. You’ve got your meatheads, your fat kids
(I may or may not fit in that category…depends on who’s doing cardio next to me!), your “wanna be” meatheads, your workout barbies and your couples. The best part about the gym is the outfits that these gaggles of gregarious gymgoers sport while lifting, spinning and running.
One corner of my gym is like a mini South Beach with a vast aray of wolverine like men in thee smallest tanktop you’ve ever seen on a man… all held together by miniscule “sleeves.” They’re pecs bulge out from either side and they walk like they’ve just been violated by something in their southern hemisphere. No thanks. Puff.
The other, more ridiculous version of a meathead is straiiiight outta Jersey Shore. They own stock in LA Looks hair gel and probably sleep in a tanning bed at night. These guys wear winter hats with those cute little brims perched to the side with huge sweatpants and a T shirt that they’ve intentionally shrunk 36 times in the dryer to get it just right. They probably played football in high school and think they’re still Captain. Go team! Puff. These guys make me want to vomit into my treadmill cup holder simply just watching them. Sure, they’re in shape and they’re there to work out, but the moves these fellas make is straight outta National Effing Geographic. “Watch carefully as the Lion (Meathead) stalks its prey (Skinny Bitch). He lurks through the grasslands (treadmills) and makes his way slowly towards his next meal (next conquest) and suddenly, BAM, ATTACK, the cheetah lunges (approaches carefully not to mess up his perfectly gelled do) and takes down his prey (idiot girl who thinks he’s cute and has never done this before.) These people need their own gym... and maybe even their own planet. Puff.
Fat Kids. I’m not commenting on the fat kids. They’re at the gym…they’re doing their thing. Good for them.
Wanna Be Meatheads. Ahhh ha! Hilarious. Probably my favorite spectacle at the gym. Often decked out with a bandana (which yes, I am guilty of once sporting the bandana…it was pink and it was cute! Suck it!) hugging their hedgehog like coiffe for dear life and usually some sort of lame tribal tattoo on their arm. They’re skin has never even been even remotely kissed by a ray of sunshine and they usually have some sort of perv patch growing somewhere sporadically on their face. However, these guys walk around like they owwwwn this gym, think that chicks love them and usually come in pairs. Keep an eye out. Puff.
Workout Barbie. I complain enough about Skinny Bitches so I will only say one thing. I seriously saw a skinny bitch with FAKE eyelashes reapplying lipgloss while taking a kickboxing class and flirting with the guy next to her. Nuff said. Puff.

I also have a woman in my spin class who insists on doing ballet mid class. Right.
Couples. There is ZERO need to make out at the gym. Puff.
With that being said, I wear my black pants and black t shirt and black jacket (imposter North Face Jacket) that’s covered in dog hair. My hair is still a little bit wet from the shower I took 10 hours ago and plopped into a messy bun and I think my granny panties may be suffocating. But instead of a bitchfest I write this as a thank you…Thank you to all of you fantastically ridiculous people at the gym for making my workout go by SO much faster, and to my ipod, for putting a soundtrack to it all! De-puff!

Chocolate Cake A la Puff

If I could have a conversation with my 17 year old self the first thing I would say is…For the love of all things standardized, STUDY WAY MORE for your SAT’s, that way maybe when you’re 28 you won’t be stuck in a job you hate! Then I would tell myself NOT to cut my own bangs and to not date any more boys whose names begin with B. I remember my dad telling me to “pay attention to all of the history in England and France because you may never get this opportunity again.” Come again, by history did you mean foreign boys? Because I’m pretty sure that’s the ONLY think I paid attention to. Hindsight is a bitch. Puff.
Regret and hindsight are two different things. I REGRET eating the piece of 3 day old chocolate cake today that was stuffed with so much cherry pie filling goodness that I almost had a mini O. But, in hindsight, would I still eat it? You bet my ever growing ass I would. I REGRET not wearing knee highs with my pumps today because it’s 30 degrees outside. But, in hindsight, my feet look way cuter without them! And then the more serious note…the ever popular and always uncomfortable question…Do I REGRET getting married? And if my answer is yes, then what is my hindsight? And if my answer is No, then why did I get divorced? A lot of people say they don’t live with regrets because the things they have done in their life have made them who they are and have taught them a lesson. ..So what’s my excuse. Puff.
What is my answer to that question? I do regret getting married. I do. How can I possibly wish that I would ever feel that way? How could I not regret feeling ashamed that I made the wrong choice? Puff. Now on to my hindsight. In hindsight, I realized I have figurative balls the size of watermelons and that I am A-Ok livin life all by myself. So many of us wish we could change something in our past. A decision we made, a person we dated, a job we took or something we said. We harp on the what if’s? The truth of the matter is if we focus on the “Look at what happened,” instead of the “what if’s” we may be a little better off.
For instance, what if I didn’t eat that cake? Answer: I’d be sitting at my desk clawing at my mousepad and fiending for anything remotely chocolate. What if I did wear knee highs? I’d probably have had to go to CVS to buy some clear nailpolish to fix the runner I have in my pantyhose! And what if I hadn’t gotten married? Who the heck knows….That’s the best part about the “What if’s”….You never know what would have happened if you didn’t make the choice you did.
As women, we are tough cookies who can be balls of mush. We overanalyze and harp on things we can’t change…I…am the queen of this. Something I have learned is that we can't control the things that end up making us stronger, but we can cerainly learn how to evaluate why things happened and appreciate them for the purpose that they served. Instead of saying , “WHY MEEEEE!” Maybe say, “Ok, My turn…now what!?” and find a solution. We have more strength in us than we even know and if we can all just take a little gander at the inner cookie of toughness, our hindsight can be a great thing!....With that said, still NEVER EVER cut your own bangs.De-puff.

Yes.No.Maybe

Yes.Maybe.No.
Three itsy bitsy words that have been embedded in our heads as girls from the first time we liked a boy. When we’re younger it’s pretty easy to tell if you’re official or not…If his notebook says I ♥ so and so on it, you’re in like Flint (I always thought it was FLynn, apparently it's FLINT! WHO knew!?). If he lets you borrow his hoodie or a movie…GOLDEN. If you’re still confused, you pass him some origami shaped note with the simple phrase: Do you Like ME? Yes. No. Maybe. Circle One. And as untrained, naïve boys they usually answered us honestly. The older we get, the harder it is to tell if we’re their girlfriend…they’re girl…friend orrrr simply just their “I’m gonna call her the instant I’m a hornball” friend. We can’t pass them a note anymore and if we dare ask if we are “official,” we look like marriage hungry losers. Puff.
And it’s not like we’re asking after 5 minutes of dating, or whatever it is we’re doing. Typically, you’ve already done the deed, met some friends, maybe even the parents…but the second you throw out the word GIRLFRIEND they act like little lab rats shuttering from the sight of a lab coat. Talk about awkward! Very rarely does a guy say, “Hey, I really enjoy spending time with you and I don’t want to date, rail or spend most of my time with anyone else.” Because if they say that they might as well say, “I’m agreeing to sleep with you, and only you until we break up.” The thought of commitment typically scares boys right out of their damn britches. It’s like love is a little war to them and the second the girlfriend bomb is dropped, they think RETREAT, RE-EFFING-TREAT! Puff.
UNFORTUNATELY, once again, Facebook has created a status monster. If his status says “single,” when in fact, he’s dating YOU…it might as well say, “Chick I’m sleeping with and seeing everyday just isn’t quite awesome enough to announce to my 535 FB friends that I’m dating her yet.” Hmph and Puff! I wish our status could say, “He kinda has a small weeny, is scared of commitment and LIKES greys anatomy, but I like him anyway!” That would be faneffingtastic. Puff.
So, this begs the question…How in the world are we supposed to know without asking!? Do we wait for them to introduce us as their “girl,” and does “my girl” mean girlfriend!? How long do we effing wait for them to invite us to be in an effing relationship on Facebook(and p.s.- Have I mentioned that FB is a spawn for all things jealousy and neuroticism!?) Moving on… Why in the world can’t we ask!? I mean, sheesh, it’s not like we’re getting any younger! To make matters more confusing, unlike when we had their hoodie in high school, if we end up with a pair of their pajama bottoms, or even meet their mom, who by the way loves us, this STILL doesn’t mean you’re OFFICIAL. PUFF.
While there’s no official answer to the official question, I say go ahead and ask em and if he acts like a punk, then at least you didn’t waste your damn time! Yes. No. Maybe. We may not be passing notes, we may not be claiming hoodies, but these boys should be writing our names allllll ovvah their proverbial notebooks, and if they aren’t then move.the heck.on! De-puff!

Punky Puffer!

"I still wanna be friends though..." Ahh, the infamous words from the guy who wants to let us down gently. In my life I've been the dumper and the dumpee in relationships. I've let em down gently and I've also been known to pull the ole cold shoulder trick. I've written more "i wanna break up with you" letters than I care to admit...but never have I ever said, "I still want to be friends!" Never. In guy code, generally, "You're a great friend," really means, "We had great sex and while I have zero emotional commitment to you, I'd still like to rail you as often as possible." I don't exactly think this sentiment comes with matching best friend braclets. Is it possible to be friends with an ex? Sure. Once you're both over eachother and have moved on, and can confidently and non-ackwardly discuss your new lovahs! However, I've noticed that guys, those sneaky bastards, like to swoop on in with the "friend" move almost as soon as they dump your ass. While you're still listening to Pink's "I'm still a Rockstar" on repeat and have barely dried your tears, homeboy sends you a text that reads, "I need your opinion on something."Puff.
Well since we ARE friends, sure, I'll give you my opinion on something...what is it, clothes, food, new job? And here it comes, said dbag says, "So I've been talking this girl and-----" Before you can even fight through comprehending the rest of that sentence, you are instantly brought down to Punky Brewster level. You're like "kid sister," except you just saw this dude naked 2 weeks ago. Vomit. Puff. He wants to know YOUR opinion on why his new skinny bitch of the month doesn't respond to all of his texts, or doesn't want to meet his family, whatever it is.... And this, ladies, this is when it's decision time. To have any kind of relationship, you should have been friends first? Right!? So, as his friend, you could suck it up and give him your opinion. Well, Punky Effing Brewster, SCUHHRREEEWWW that! Lemme break it down for ya:
Boy breaks up with you.
"Let's be friends"
Boy meets new girl..aka...skinny bitch (they're all skinny bitches)
New girl doens't like boy so much
Boy comes to you for advice
You politely give him advice
New girl breaks up with boy anyway because he's a dbag
Boy runs back to you, sad, needing affection
AND BAM...you wake up naked, knowing your BFF just used you for rebound sex!
See how that works. PUFF.
So, before we go being accessible sex to ur ex boyfriends, let's think twice about what it really means...and let's hold off on matching BFF Bracelets. De-puff.

Fancy...Pants...

"You look like a Million Bucks"...This phrase has an entirely new meaning to me as of this past weekend. A few weeks ago I bought a pair of designer jeans at a SUPER discount, and every time I wear them I feel like I need to yank my shirt up just a smidge so that the gold tag embellished pocket can glisten for all to see. Of course I wear these designer duds with my $6 Old Navy Shoes and plain white long sleeved shirt I got on clearance at kohls for $2.90. Sidenote...Kohls has AMAZING sales...and their candles! Yum! I digress. I found myself on Sunday walking around a swanky mall feelin good cause I had my fancy pants on. I even had the balls to walk into Nordstrom like I owned the joint...and there it was...Puff.
A gaggle of pre pubescent, soccer playing, brace faced thirteen year olds covered in so much name brand gorgeousness I had to take a picture. There was Michael Kors, Coach, The North Face, Rockin Republic AND I think in the midst of all that couture I even saw a Prada...a real one. I felt an instant high off of seeing such gorgeousness, such lavishness...such, wait... when I was 13 my mom took me to Bradlees and I was lucky if I even got Hanes undies and these little brats and their rubber band mouths get MY (as in the one I've been socking away $25 a month for!) Michael Kors bag! PUUUUFFFFF!
I...was...jealous of these little twits (hence my bitterness and juvenile remarks about said 13 year olds!)who didn't work a damn day in their life to earn such perfection hanging from their still growing arms! Do they even realize how lucky they are to have such greatness!? Surely not. And then I started thinking about the kids in their school...who can barely afford the Faded Glory brand from Wal Mart and have no idea who Michael Kors is. I remember the first time I saw a GAP bag...I was in eighth grade and saw the navy blue bag with those fantastic white letters. I said "What is G-A-P?" to the popluar bitch holding the bag. "Hahahahah you guys, you guys, she doesn't know what the GAP is! Don't you ever like shop at the mall!?" No, you stupid horse faced slut (she wasn't then, but sistah friend had about 3 kids by the age of 18...suck it!)...I don't shop at the mall, we umm, can't afford it. I had never felt so embarassed or worthless. Contemplative Puff...
Seeing these little pre-madonnas at Nordstrom brought me right back to eighth grade and I instantly wanted to wrap my whole body in my plain white Tee...with no visibility of the "coolness" on my back pocket. I realized that status is like a blind taste test. Dr. Thunder vs. Dr. Pepper...Dr. Thunder may in fact taste better, but Docttttahhh Pepppah's got the name and it's $1.25 for a can, not 25 cents. Wow."Wow, I love those jeans, what are they!?" Common, common question in a group of women. You better hope you're wearing something noteworthy orrrrr you simply say, "I can't remmmember what kind these are..but I got them at Nordy's!" When you know full well...you got em on super clearance at Target. God Bless TJ MAXX...at least they make it possible to own at least one pair of fancy pants and not promise your first born to the sales clerk! Apprently expensive dictates cool, but um, have ya seen a runway show...That shit is UG-UH-LEEEE and I wouldn't be caught dead in half of it! Vomit and Puff!
Are we happier when we have money to buy whatever we want and not have to worry about bills? You bet your ass. Would it have been nice to be born into the Lucky Sperm Club where everything is simply handed to us? I used to think so. But then I met said members of this elite "club" and realized not only do they have any regard for society or the less fortunate, but most of the luckey speremers I know...druggies and sluts. Excellent. No thanks. I have zero respect for people who don't earn what they have and don't appreciate the things they are GIVEN. Whoever thinks money makes you a good person...no dice my friend, no dice. Do the C's on your coach bag make you a better person...Hell to the No. Are my no name flats the most comforable shoes I've ever worn? Yes...sweet Jesus I love them! When you're down in the dumps and need a shoulder to cry on, do you care if that shoulder is decorated in Hanes or Ann Taylor? Nope! I walked away from Nordstrom hoping with all my heart that that gaggle of tweens fully appreciates what they're flaunting allll over their eighth grade classrooms...because somewhere in that class there's a little girl wearing no name jeans and has no idea what The Gap is...and that, pre-madonnas, is A-Ok.De...puff.

Cream Puff

In the movie version on my life I walk around my house in Christian Louboutin heels and a Juicy Couture bikini and there is not one ounce of imperfection on my ass...or thighs...or stomach. I can wear ANY jeans I want and if I'm feelin sassy, I'll even slip my skinny ass into a pair of Juniors. That's right "Angels" and "Mudd," I'm comin for you bitches! Puff.
Weight. You bitch.The way you effect a woman's sense of worth is impecable. And why..please for the love of all that is remotely fair, tell me whhhhy do we always lose weight when we're upset...when we're wallowing in our sorrows? I walked 8 miles a day...every day...when I was deciding to leave my husband. Those 8 miles a day were thee most therapeutic steps of my life...and I lost a good 30 pounds....Then, I got over it. Puff.
Food. Glorious, amazing food is both my best friend the kind of enemy I want to spit on and even kick a little. I cannot walk down the cookie aisle without imagining the sweet taste of a double stuffed oreo...those things are like little pillows of perfection placed between two chocolate slices of heaven. And cheese....cheese is the most amazing food on the planet. Anything you can add to grits, eat plain or on a burger is an incredible, incredible food. And who the hell can pass up a brownie...a warm, fudgey corner piece of a brownie is like the best sex you've ever had...except you don't have to see yourself naked. Score! But then...then I think of my ass, and how it resembles a shelf. My ass literally starts in the middle of my back and takes it sweet time coming to an end. It has a mind of it's own when I dance, run or even walk. Some guys love big bums, ummm have they seen this thing!? Puff.
And let's discuss the "muffin top." I will never forget the first time I saw a picture of myself, trying to breathe in a pair of size 4 jeans...and there it was...the top that was muffin. That couldn't be me!? No way. But I remember thinking the jeans just sat a little funny...no my little puffer self...you ate yourself into needing a much bigger pair of pants! Even if you cut any remnant that there was even a size ever noted on what you're wearing...you know...you know that those size 4's, or 8's or whatever you once were that made you happy...those are but a distant memory...and now, now you are in you effing "fat pants." Screw you fat pants. Puff.
Weight watchers told me that for my "petite" size of 5'1" I should weigh 109 pounds. Hi, weight watchers, my right thigh weighs 109 pounds! I almost spit out my 2 point itty bitty snack bar when they told me that...and by the way...if you eat the whole box of snack bars...that's only 8 points, so that's ok, right?! Puff.
I have discovered in recent months that despite the skinny bitches at the gym who make me want to rip every ounce of fat off my body, and the way my ass looks in the mirror in spin class...that I actually semi-enjoy working out. I can relieve some stress, have a little dance party on the eliptical listening to my ipod, and I can think about allll those people who have described me as "cute," or "chubby!" Everyday... I decide to go to the gym so that the ENORMOUS pile of "Pants with Potential" can kiss my shrinking ass, cause I'm comin for ya. De-puff.

Worth the Fight?

I've been pondering whether I'm bitter or not? If me, writing about ex boyfriends, ex husbands and genuine dirt bags around the globe is because I'm insecure and bitter...Heck yes I'm bitter...But I am NOT insecure. Guys have this incredible way of making us feel like we have no backbone and no gusto sometimes! Sometimes they can make us feel so incredible, but when it comes down to an argument, somehow WE always end up feeling bad, even if they...in fact...are the douche bag in the scenario! How does this happen? And why do we go back once they've made us feel like poo? Watching a good friend cry is never an easy thing to witness, and typically I become like a mama lion protecting her young. I'll go straight for the jugular of any guy that belittles, cheats on, hits or generally hurts any one of this puffer's friends. Puff.
The comradery of girlfriends is unbelievable. Once I sat in my living room and cried on the phone to one a friend that "No one would ever fight for me. I wasn't worth fighting for." And within 30 minutes I had a D'Giorno pizza, chips, wine and "Sex and the city" at my doorstep in the form of one amazing friend. Love can make us take down our walls, can make us forget that at one point in our life we swore off men , and give us new found confidence. But the second we are hurt, we are sent into a disastrous tailspin filled with ben & jerry's, slutty decisions and lots and lots of wine. I've never hated and loved and emotion so much in my entire life.Puff.
The good news is that when we're on the couch in our pj's that we've worn for 3 days straight...with mascara stained cheeks, sitting in the dark...we can look to our right, and sometimes our left if we're extra lucky, and see the silver lining that is our friends...and for that, I may just give this love thing another shot. Depuff.

Waffles...

Spaghetti and Waffles. A friend of mine told me about a book called "Men Are Like Waffles, Women are Like Spaghetti..." So, what does that mean? It means...MOST men can compartmentalize things, whereas women smoosh everything together into one, messy, entangled blob of emotion. However, in the past two weeks I've had two girlfriends tell me about the guys they've been dating. These "prince charmings" not only have spaghetti for brains but are so removed from the idea of a waffle, that one would almost think these guys came fully equipped with a vag! On another note, I've also been introduced to this guy, who said to a friend, "I don't have to chase you anymore. I have whatever I want with you. And on a Guy and a Girl level, that is not good for me at all. Once the girl is trying, I get turned off real quick." This, my friends, is an actual quote and I've never been so appalled at the reality of this quote in my life. The Chase. The damned Chase. We aren't effing gazelles fellas. We are women and if you'de just give a sistah a chance, you may see that your idealistic notions of the eternal chase is a bunch of bullshit. Puff.
Guys. Waffle headed guys have this AMAZING way of being able to separate love, sex, money, work, ex-girlfriends, friends and family. Whereas, we, the spaghettis, can ALWAYS find some way to intermingle all of these categories into one overanalyzed ball of mush...which usually ends in tears, at least for me. For instance, girl finds a letter from ex girlfriend from 3 years ago...girl automatically assumes boy has feelings for ex. Is he still talking to her? Why did he keep it? Does he love her? Oh God, is he sleeping with someone else? He's sleeping with someone else. In most cases, this usually leads to a "talk" where said girl usually ends up looking like a pathetic, insecure, irrational ball of firey jealousy. Whoa. Once again, Satan...rational mind back...please!? Thanks.Puff.
Guys, however, unless it's staring them in the face, there is zero overanalyzing involved. Zero. Boy finds letter. Boy puts letter back. That's it. Puff.
We are not insecure. We are spaghetti and we mush...we mush everything together and that's ok. Am I emotional? Sure. Are most women I know emotional? Yep. But this, this is what makes us the best friends and greatest moms. This is what makes us who we are. I also think that the mush factor also means we have an incredible intuition that let's us know when something is wrong with our children when we're miles away from them...It gives us the strength to get through love, marriage, divorce,births, deaths and tragedy. And for that, I'll take my spaghetti brain any day. De-Puff.

She's a Bitch...

Some days it just hits me. Women...are bitches. Living in the uber religious state that is Virginia, I've learned that bitches can really be classified in different categories. We've already covered the "Skinny Bitches" so we won't revisit that one, but the vast aray of mean and vindictive women on this planet is nothing short of amazing.
Let's discuss the religious hypocritical bitch...she'll tell you that she prayed for you last night because she heard you curse, but you better believe she'll judge ya and practically burn holes in your skin with the way she looks at you! She'll demand a corner office, thinks gays are an "abomination" and will be the first one to take 97 "Free samples," but it's ok, because shes " a christian." Puff.
On to the next one. The Fake Bitch. For the record, don't invite people who you don't like or vice versa to any sort of event...wedding, baby shower, bat mitsfah...whatever...just don't do it. Fake Bitches will do this JUST so they a)look like they aren't bitches 2)know there's a chance to humiliate you and c)When you leave crying the fake bitch can say,"I was making an effort by inviting her!" The "fake" in fake bitch may as well say "vindictive, selfish condescending whoreface." These are my least favorite. These bitches kill you with kindness and tell you they like your shirt, and then go to their gaggle of other bitches and say "Eww, do you see her shirt!? Sooo ugly!" These girls will swoop up your boyfriend...and your best friends allll while playing buddy, buddy with you, and before you know it, you've been blindsided. This happens all too often and these bitches deserve a warning sign on their foreheads.
The Driving Bitch. These ladies have serious road balls. Not only will they flash a middle acrylic fingernail at you in a heartbeat, but they'll do it alll while going 38 in a 65. These ladies don't dare roll down their window, and the second you're at a stop light next to her, she "has a phone call!" Ha! Puff.
Are we all guilty of being a little bitchy sometimes? Sure thing! You betcha! Case and point...this blog. Someone I know once said to me about a bitch encounter, " She knows what she's doing, and he (as in The head honcho upstairs) knows what she's doing. When you do good...you feel good. When you do bad, you feel bad." And that, my friends, is all that really matters. But I say it feels a little bit better to be nice...genuinely nice...no fakeness or middle acrylic fingernails necessary. Depuff.

Dear Rom-Coms...

I've come to the conclusion that "Sleepless in Seattle" created the monster that is me. I became a hopeless romantic the instant I saw Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan at the top of that stupid empire state building. I think I was maybe in 5th grade when that movie came out and ever since then, I've wanted all relationships to be synonymous with the rom-coms of my generation. Puff. Let's be honest, I'm no Meg Ryan, Kate Hudson or Julia Roberts...Just plain ole me. And hello, plain ole me...this is your subconscious speaking...those bitches aren't real! Kate Hudson, in real life, divorced that dude from the black crowes...and Julia Roberts...was married to Lyle Lovett! Guhhhrrrooosss! But somehow we forget all of that the instant these ladies are swept of their Louboutins by the gorgeous creatures that are Matthew McConaughey and George Clooney. Puff.
In essence, our boyfriends don't stand an effing chance. These poor boys, who have probably not even seen said chick flicks are competing not only against someone who doesn't really exist, but against something they typically know nothing about...and was written by a woman, or a gay man (God bless em!) Granted, real guys have their moments of sweetness, which in my case, are unequivocally appreciated, but the stupid tom hanks factor always come into play in my mind. Puff.
Let's discuss this. What if we stop comparing and appreciate the things they do that make us smile? Stop hoping for our fellas to show up in the middle of a gala in his jeans and flops to proclaim his love for us for all to see. Ain't happening. What if we get back to basics and just appreciate a funny joke or when they pay for our dinner. And what kills me is that the hopeless romantic in us won't let these crazy notions go, which is ultimately unfair to whatever poor chap decides to date us.
So to Tom Hanks and all rom-coms ever created...I love you. You have shown me what being a romantic is all about...but for the love of all that is real and genuine on this effing earth, give the real guy a chance! De-puff.

Rough Drafts

The older we get the more ex boyfriends we have and the more new girlfriends they get. Let's face it...they're your ex for a reason...but I'll be damned if the next girl is prettier, more successfull or god forbid skinnier than me! My ex-husband and I had created a list of places we wanted to go together and thanks to his "I'm going to put you dead last on my list of important things in life" mentality...we never went...to any of them. I wasn't asking to go to Fiji...just New York effing city...and as luck would have it, the first time I have to send him an e-mail through facebook (which in itself is a disastrous pit of jealousy and misconception!)right there...in big cheesey smile photos...my ex and his new, skinny girlfriend..at the Empire State Building. Thanks for that. Ass. PUFF.
The point is, why is it that we feel like it's a personal vendetta against us when they move on...even if we're the one that ended it?! Here's my theory. It's like we're the rough draft. Guys can push our buttons,test our boundaries and see how many times they can completely forget something important we've said until we finally toss in the towel, or vice versa. And this is when the real frustration begins.PUFF.
In essence you've molded them into what a perfect (or not so unbearable) guy should be...but not only is it too late for you to reap the benefits, but some other chick gets to benefit, allllll while thinking, "His ex-girlfriend must have been crazy to let him go!" Double Effing Puff.
The worst of all scenarios is when you actually know the new girlfriend/wife/baby mama...whatever she is. You know her...maybe you've even hung out alll together. You.Your ex. Her. Her ex. Did they have chemistry then? What am I, an oblivious blob of chopped liver! This kills me! Out of the bajillion people on this earth...you pick her. Again, thanks for that. Asses.
Then there's the ex who was SO against marriage that he proclaimed in front of you and alllll of your friends,"Marriage is not for me..." thus making you feel like the biggest piece of dog poo on the planet! But you...you have to laugh it off, like "Ohhh you're so funny! He's kidding..he's uhh kidding.." And then not one little year after you break up he's engaged to some patchouli wearing, lesbaru driving art teacher who hardly knows or appreciates the effort you put into creating the guy he is to her. Puff. Puff. Puff.
Unfortunately in my vast aray of friends from state to state...this is a common misfortune. So I say to myself, and to you, you fantastic girlfriends of mine. Screw being a rough draft. De-puff.

Puffer gets a "God" Wink

David Lichtenfeld strikes again. This is neither my nor David's idea, but it sure did play a MAJOR role in my life, right when I needed it. As I said before, pay attention. Pay attention to the signs in your life. Calm down, I'm not a damn gypsy and I'm not a preacher either. I'm just a girl, who had some amazing people come into her life right when I needed them...almost like they were placed in that very spot just for me. Like David. The instant I sat down on that plane, he looked at me and said "My darling, I can see in your eyes that you're heartbroken." How in the!? What the!? I had never met, or seen this man in my life and he knew. Of course, I then told him my life story and he told me about "God" winks... and a book with that very title..."When God Winks." Living in the Bible belt the second I hear God I'm ready to run for the hills because I'm afraid somebody around me is going to throw their hands up and praise all that is holy...or whatever.Welcome to the south. Though I'm not a religious person, I am incredibly spiritual and when my buddy David tells me there are no coincidences and to pay attention I listened. I bought the book and gave it to the people who came into my life as a "godwink." The book also godwinked a little quote into my heart that I will never forget. "You cannot sit on your baggage, beside the road, waiting for your destiny to come to you. You must get up, get going, and leave your baggage behind. Go for what you believe to be your destiny, and look for all the signposts along the way -- the godwinks -- that are the messages of reassurance that you're on the right path." At that very moment, this puffer who had puffed for the past year about what to do about her crappo marriage...de-puffed...and moved on. Thank you GodWinks ;)

A Puff on "Potential"

How can you possibly convince someone to stop loving? My entire life I have not only worn my heart on my sleeve, but I am also notorious for being incredibly protective of anyone who I care about. Unfortunately, as women, we are balls of mush. Not only are we balls of mush, but we overanalyze everything and everyone...I do this to a fault. "He's such an ass...but I love him." This eensy weensy phrase makes ZERO sense, but I have said it and so have the majority of my friends. PUFF. "I know he's a good person...he has the potential to be so great." Vomit.When I was married I remember thinking to myself many times, "This is it? This is what love and marriage is supposed to feel like?" Not so much. I nestled myself into the comfort that was my life and settled for a mediocre existance. There's always that one thing that gets us...the way they kiss, the jokes they tell, typically they get you when it's time to go to sleep and they are the sweetest, gentlest, most romantic creature you've ever seen...and we forget that just four hours before this same gentle lovemuffin was telling his buddies, "I am NEVER getting married," "Damn, if I didn't have a girl, I'd be all over that." Scuuuhrrrreeeew that! PUFF. Why do we continue to settle for less than we deserve and put ourselves in situations where we know there is great potential for hurt, yet keep going back? Why do we settle for the potential someone has instead of the greatness someone has already achieved?

The Puffer Fish...and the Skinny Bitch

"Eat a cheeseburger." My favorite line to the quintessential skinny bitch. Catty? You betcha! I mean, in essence they can't help it...they were born skinny...but they were not born skinny bitches. What is a skinny bitch? Chances are you encounter one everyday....they are hardly an endangered species. These are the girls who can wear boy shorts and not have to worry about one dimple, one imperfection...and then, these skinny bitches go out to McDonalds and get a #1...supersized and laugh at the fat chick behind the counter. They are girls who wear side pony tails and makeup to the gym...and occassionally even fake eyelashes. PUFF. They can still shop at Limited Too, and bikini shopping is fun for them. These are the girls that while you're shopping for a size ten, she is asking the clerk " Umm, I don't see any
0's!?" Puff. Now granted, not all skinny girls are skinny bitches. My best friend is skinny..but not a skinny bitch.
The worst is when a skinny bitch looks at you in your size tens that are practically clinging onto your "love handles" for dear life and with her skinny bitch eyes says, "Are you really gonna eat that?" or "I wouldn't leave the house if I weighed what you weigh." It's all in the eyes.
I purposely sit with my back against the wall in spin class so that the skinny bitches who are just going to "get tone" don't have the chance to snicker at my voluptuousness. PUFF.
But the best is when you see a skinny bitch at a bar or a club...after one malibu and coke, that skinny bitch is on the floor, probably puking, because she doesn't have a damn thing to sponge up the alcohol. So, skinny bitch...while you're singing "Pocket full of Sunshine" one minute and then barfing the next, I'll be on the dance floor, shaking my badonkadonk and drinking a cornona. De-Puff.

I'm no Carrie Bradshaw...

But I do have a lot to say about things I have learned about life, love and the importance of friends...and a good glass of wine. Something I have yet to write about...being a divorcee. What a crappy, crappy word. Damaged goods. Failure. This is what I thought. No one ever tells you that your life won't be what you want it to be. Parents and teachers say "Believe in what you want and go get it!" Ok, well...I had a house, a husband, two dogs, a cat and a flat range stove top...which is what I always wanted. I never got a chance to cook on that flat stove top. I chose me. I chose to not pretend like life was perfect and to actually see what would actually happen if I followed my crazy intuition...and more importantly, my heart. This puffer started puffing when I realized that I was losing who I was. I would sing in the shower, only when he wasn't home, and I completely stopped writing. I was forced to listen to punk rock music, rather than the greatness that is hip hop and r&b. Let the puffing begin. It took six years, lots of tears, one wedding, one lawyer, one unlived in house to finally believe in me....and in love. We think about soul mates...we think that there is one person who is put on this planet just for us. But what if we change? What if your soul mate doesn't change with you? Does this mean they aren't your soul mate? And really,if you're in IA and your soul mate is in CA....how in the world are you supposed to meet? Divine Intervention? I believe in tunnells. What is a tunnell? I met a very wise man the day I flew home to be with my parents and get my head clear the day I decided to leave my husband. He possessed 76 years of wisdom and grace and in one hour made me believe in love, and fate. He explained that "a tunnell" is someone who helps you see that there is hope at the end of your journey. The tunnell is not your soul mate...they are simply put in your life to hold your hand and guide you. I had a tunnell. I know many people who have tunnells. My 76 year old guide also taught me to pay attention...pay attention to the way you feel, the people who cross your path and the signs that you're doing the right thing. He took my journal from me, which I had yet to write in, since it had been so long....and he wrote this:

"I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good thing, therefore, that I can do or any kindness I can show to any fellow human being let me do it now. Let me not defer nor neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again."


....Annnnd de-puff

The Puffer....at Work

One. There's always one. One person, or in my case,one politically confused, ocassionally anorexic but would die for an m&m, judgemental, alcoholic woman by the name of....Are you kidding!? I can't name her, I would be fired and banished to cattiness hell for the things I say and think about this woman (aka- spawn of all things elitist and snobby), whose eyes are severely bloodshot at least two times a week from the amount of wine she consumes. Whew...this already feels better. My puffer syndrome begins as soon as I walk in at 8am and she is the only one in the office...we don't even say hello. Once she commented on my "fashion sense" by saying to a fellow co-worker,

Spawn: "Oh,you went shopping and got a new dress, what's it like?"
Co-worker- "It actually reminded me of a Jenny dress..."
Spawn: "Oh, you mean it's really low cut?"

Classic...My co-worker was referring to the sleeve style of the dress, but elitist, alcoholic spawn wanted to get her dig in. I'm sorry Spawn, that you have a chest that is no more developed than a pre-pubescent boy...Sorry for your luck. Anyhow, I digress and I am becoming entirely too catty. As you can imagine, this comment sent my puffer fish syndrome over the edge. Is it jealousy because I'm younger? Does she not like me because I'm too bubbly? I don't get it and it drives me CRAZY when I can't figure out WHY someone doesn't like me. I'm a fixer...I like to figure out what's wrong and FIX it!