Anne Nahm

Earlier last week, I had some free time, and I found myself staring at curtains blowing in the breeze. For like 20 minutes.  Some small part of my brain was all, “Dude, this is a complete waste of time.”

But most of my brain was whispering, very quietly, “wheeeeeeeeeee!”

Twenty. Minutes.

Also:

Waste of a Fight
Last night my husband and I got in a fight because I thought he said, “OBEY ME”.  But after much ruckus, it turned out he said “eBay Me!”  Which, somehow, also made perfect sense within the context of the conversation.

Also: You guys have the funniest assed smackdown anywhere.  Have been whispering to myself all morning:  I AM VOLDERMORT!  and giggling.

Went to the fair this weekend.  In the huge catacomb of the bathroom area, my kid saw another kid she knew.  Natch, they started laughing and hugging and squealing and doing O-M-G-I’m-at-the-fair-dance.  The other kid waved her hand under the stall door to say hi to me.  Sweet child.

I trudged out the stall with little enthusiasm, because.. well, not that this kid’s mom is a total yotch or anything, but I’m not sure how to otherwise finish that sentence.  She’s the kind of person who makes a point of saying hello to everyone in the group by name except me.  Even though we are all having a discussion right there in a circle before she showed up.   Hi Jane, hello June, hello Sarah.  Until I am the unnamed person left.  Then she smiles and looks everywhere but where I’m standing and clears her throat and shit, and there is this uncomfortable silence among everyone in the group and finally I say, “Uhm…. HI?  NAME OF PERSON.”  Because omigod, isn’t that what civilized people do?

And every. single. time.  she says, “yeahhhhh. Um.  Hi.” rolls her eyes, and smirks.  This is inevitably followed by her saying, “Annnyyyyyyway….” and turning to talk to some person in the group.   What the eff type asshole does this?  I don’t even know why it drives me so insane, but it is only my Jane Austin like sensibilities keeping me from breaking my foot off in her lower colon by way of response.

So naturally, I know by the time I’m walking out the bathroom stall that Fate will converge upon us and I will end up having one of those interactions that leaves me seething with awesome comebacks approximately 14 hours after the whole of the conversation has taken place.  But I walk over like some weary dodgeball player, trying valiantly to avoid each blob of 7th grade assholery this person can throw at me.

As such, right away, I’m all, “HELLO NAME OF PERSON,” in my loud, I’m Educating You in Social Propriety, JackHole, voice and go to wash my hands so she can get through her whole stupid yeahhhhh…um….hi thing.

And as I’m washing my hands, a guy in a bright yellow shirt that has SECURITY emblazoned on it comes in through the EXIT ONLY door of the bathrooms.  And he says, “Is it OK?”

I look around.  Everything seems OK.  No one getting mugged or puking.  The guy looks really nervous.  You don’t want to see a security guy looking nervous.  I look at my nemesis, who shrugs and appears to ask the ceiling tiles if it is OK up there.  This all happens in about 5 seconds.  Our kids are squealing their happy-happy-fair squeals.  Security guy looks to us for assurance and says again:  “Is it OK?”

So I give him a thumbs up.  “I think it’s OK,” I say.

Then he walks into the bathroom stall, closes the door behind him, and uses the facilities.  In the women’s bathroom.

And like a FOOL, I say out loud, “Did I just give the OK to that guy to pee in here?”

And giving me some 1990′s RuPaul style face-neck- *snap!* combo, my nemesis snarls at me and says, “Yeah.  You did,” and tromps out of the bathroom.

Oh ZING.  Damnit.

Am mortified.  And kicky.  Very kicky.

I just lost the eternal battle between Do Not Pick That Zit! And That Effer Has Got To Go.

I knew I was in trouble when I was squeezing on that scale where (1) is Slight Pinching Feeling and I was more over at (10): Pulling Nose Hairs, and I kept expecting something to give under the pressure (and I’m pretty sure it would have looked a lot like this photo of some guy, who is allegedly hot, and also: NSFW unless your boss is cool with dudes shaking champagne bottles to the point of explosion and are otherwise naked. Not hot, but rather exactly like what I was hoping this blemish would do, and oh, how then I would both laugh and dance around naked, much like this guy.  Because: HAHAHAHA victory!*), but instead, my poor bumped and red skin started weeping clear fluid.  And then, so did I.

I should have stopped there, because past experience tells me that once your skin is weeping,  you are not going to get satisfaction, no matter how bumped up your skin is, with clearly some kind of squogable ick underneath.  But I pressed on.  Because how could there not be something that would come out?!?!? Also, because I was way passed (10) and into what I once heard someone refer to as the Pain of Plucking Inner Sanctum Pubes.  Which should totally be nature’s way of telling me to STOP THAT, but somehow it backfired, because the pain made me all the more sure that I once I had gone that far, I would be a fool to give up.

And now I look like I got drunk and tried to smoke the wrong end of the cigarette.  Or what Marilyn Monroe would look like if she had some sort of hideous red cold sore instead of a birthmark.  Except, unlike Marilyn, I don’t look like I’ve been dead 30 years.  Maybe just a few months.  I should have a t-shirt that says ZOMBIE PIMPLESORE ANNE, HEADED YOUR WAY! so I can wear it around town this afternoon.  And OMIGOD it is still so painful, and under the semi-clear scabby window, I think I see a dot of white.  Do I dare?  DO I????

*Came from this heavy with NSFW pics from ONTD.  If you go over there, please come back and discuss with me in comments Stephen Baldwin and why I can’t stop laughing.

It has been raining like piss on a flat rock.  And blowing like gas out a cow’s ass.  And any other disgusting visual you care to throw in there to illustrate that it has been storming like a mutha. fucka.  the past few days.

The last two mornings, my 4-year-old has totally panicked that the trees were going to fall over.  I got where she was coming from, as the trees were whipping this way and that, all frenetic.  And you know – four.  That time when you are not quite sure about monsters in closets, or if that mountain over there is really a volcano about to go off, or if those trees are really stuck into the ground so great.

In the past 48 hours, my daughter and I have had two long, comforting talks, one time involving hot cocoa, about how trees are made to bend so they don’t break.  See how they flop this way and that?  Sure, it looks scary, but that is bending, which is actually to keep them from breaking.  And since it doesn’t really rain that much in these parts, those trees are getting a good bath, and the wind is kind of scrubbing all the old leaves and dirt off them, and those trees probably love that rain and that wind.  In fact, if trees could talk, those guys would probably say, ‘holy cow, I’m finally clean!’

And my red nosed, tearful kid kind of giggled and then I sent her off to preschool.

So cue two hours later, when my oldest kid (who is home today.  Puking.  Because when it started to rain like a mutha. fucka, I looked to the heavens and laughed and said, “is that all you’ve got for me?  LOL, big guy!  You are losing your touch” and then God laughed, too.  And then my oldest kid went to school and accidentally ate the lunch she left at school over the three day weekend instead of the lunch her dad packed for her that morning.  Then she came home and said, “that cheese was really funky” and her dad said, “cheese?  There was no cheese in your lunch” and then God said, “tag, you’re it.”)

Anyway, my puky kid looked out the window this morning and said, “guess what I see mom?”

Go ahead.  Guess what she saw.  Guuuuueeeeeeeeessssssssssssssssssssss!

Yeah, you’re right.

(That’s a tree that fell over in our back yard.)

So.  What the hell am I supposed to say to the four-year-old  now?

Also, the roof is leaking.  Also, there are several other huge effing trees in the back yard.  Also, the storms continue all this week.

Here I was in those size 30s two months ago.

And here I am this morning in the same pair.

Of course, after I took that picture, I started breathing again, ate breakfast, and promptly tripped on the spare tire that regrew over my belt loops.

It has been an interesting weight loss journey – this weekend I attended a party, during which this skinny mom sidled up next to me and whispered something about fat people, with this secret-handshake look in her eye, like I’d totally know what a pain in the ass fat people related paraphernalia is for skinny chicks.

I know she was saying it because something else had just happened that probably made her feel real insecure, but all I could do was look at her like she must have had a stroke or something because: hey beanpole, I’m one of those fat people and so I don’t know what it is like to swim in a pool of denim every time I try on a pair of pants.  In fact, I’m making this weird face at you from behind three chins even now.

Anyway.  Apparently I have passed the secret BMI borderline into the land of normal sized chicks.   You’d think I’d be giggling and rolling around on the floor or something.  Frankly, I’m a little surprised at my reaction as well.  Must be flu remnants sucking all the joy out of everything.  Or maybe realizing there was always some secret-handshake eyeball going around, except before I was on the other end.  Which makes me want to go back in time and yell, “I am not on your team, bitch!  I just happen to have lost some junk out my trunk.”

Which, I should totally remind myself that I react this way the next time I get mopey about not having any mom friends.