Pretty much the best spray tan EVER. Like, Ever.

I lived my young adult life in the 1990’s… Hell ya, I know what a fake bake is. I am Czech by blood and African-American (at the very least Mexican American) by color. I’m racially ambiguous. Look it up – it’s a thing.


But what girl doesn’t want that beautiful glow? That beautiful tan that accentuates your curves and makes your cellulite disappear? I wanted it. In fact I needed it. The first time I had my first fake tan I was super dark. I had been to the Frio River, and had a hellacious tan. Problem was — my boobs and bottom were stark white. I mean white. I looked ridiculous. Best thing ever? Darque Tan. I signed up for a free 1-week membership. I slathered on SPF 1Million on my brown body parts, and tanning oil on my white bits. It was magic.

Pretty much each year after that, I’d get a fake tan to either start the summer off right, or complete the domino tan I had started.

Come year 2009, it’s a faux pas to tan like that. Spray tan is all the rage. Apparently sun (and fake tanning) does harm to your skin. Who knew? With knowledge comes responsibility. It was now my duty to become a responsible skin owner. Whatever.

A fantastic friend of mine asked me to join her small wedding party… in Mexico. During Spring Break. After a horrible Texas hurricane season. Thanks. Thanks a lot for the invite.

Ok, I was actually excited. Excited to get away from it all… but not excited about my skin. Mostly because I was winter pale. Boring. I needed a quick fix. What better fix than a spray tan? Better yet — a Mystic Tan! I was being kind to my skin, and kind to the eyes of suiters who would gaze upon this body. So lucky.

I had a vision of what I would look like. That vision would soon be destroyed.


I lived in Pearland Texas at the time and went to a salon that featured the Mystic Tanning experience. I signed up for my $30 no obligation tan at Planet Beach. Nothing like leaving it to the last-minute. I had three days before my tropical vacation, and there was no time to lose. I was in for an experience of a life time.

The attendant walked me back to one of the little closeted  rooms. I was in the special room because I was getting a spray tan. Not one of those silly fake baking tans (that’s so 90’s). I’m not gonna lie. I felt pretty pimpy. I was borderline fantastic and about to leave this silly little lobby with the most amazing glitter spectacular spray tan their eyes have ever seen.

I listen carefully. Apply the barrier cream on all dry skin: Elbows, hands, knees and feet. Keeps you from looking like an oompa loompa.


No offense. 

The cute little stick blonde girl gave me all the instructions she could think of. She was thorough. The tanning machine was the size of a photo booth, and she assured me the recorded lady would tell me everything I needed to do. There were feet painted on the floor and posters of the tanning poses on the wall. I got this.

Stick blonde girl left the room. I got naked, put on my barrier cream as told, put on my shower cap and hit the go button. LETS DO THIS.

I’m standing there – buck naked with my hands in the air. The sprayer says: Position one. Spray Commencing (Think: “this is a stick up! drop all your money” position). Feet apart, eyes shut tight, breath held. The sprayer starts it’s luxurious bronze glow from the floor moving upwards. I’m not gonna lie. I’m excited. I’m about to be sprayed beautiful.

Only problem is the sprayer starts spattering out chunks of bronze – only it’s orange. And it’s only from my feet to my knees. Remember, I’ve never done this before so I don’t know what to expect. The machine sputters and gasps. I’m still standing there holding my breath with my hands in the air. The machine then says, “Machine malfunction. Please call attendant. Repeat: (NO SHIT!) Machine malfunction. Please call attendant.”


Are you kidding me?! I’m naked and half sprayed with orange lather?! I grab the only tiny towels in the room. Washcloths to cover my boobs and my business. I lean out in the hallway. “Miss!? Miss?! Is there a Manger  …HELP?!”

I can hear a guy from the lobby. He sounds like a 60 year old fisherman/oil roughneck/cowboy. “Hey, someone needs you.” WTF?! Where did he come from. Oh my I hope that’s not the manager?!

Stick blonde girl comes scurrying from the back room. “What’s wrong?” she asks.

The machine is going to ruin my vacation that’s whats wrong!

I point her to the machine who is still yelling at me to call the attendant. She see’s my legs and panics. “Did it spray you?”

Ya, Not shit. “Yes it sprayed me, and yes I need help!” I’m pleading. “What do I do?”

She doesn’t have a clue. She leaves the room. I wait. Mind you — I’m still naked holding nothing but two little tiny washcloths to cover my not so tiny body.

The manager come scurrying around the corner in a panic. I’m terrified as my legs are turing  a strange orange hue. “Wipe down her legs, I’ll get the machine!” The manager is rinsing and hustling to get the machine to shut up and rinsed out. The stick blonde girl is kneeling down and furiously wiping down my legs. I’m horrified. She’s horrified. The machine is horrified.

Manager woman fixes the machine. It’s just clogged! Yeah! Whatever. Stick blonde girl goes running out of the room (I don’t blame her, probably scared for life). Manager tells me everything is ok and I’ll get my next tan free! DOUBLE YEAH!

Manager leaves. Stick girl still running. I finish my spray tan. Why? Why on earth did I try it again? I did though. There I was, arms in the air, spray tan moves just like the poster and it dawns on me: I forgot the barrier cream. You know, the cream that keeps you from looking like sunny delight? The cream that the attendent furiously wiped off? Ya, that cream was all gone. My 2 min tan was almost complete.

Complete with extra orange legs, elbows, hands, knees and feet. Complete with an extra dose of humility.

I didn’t walk out of there with my luxurious bronze. I walked out in a fast pace, sunglasses on and my head held down low.

I went on vacation as planned. Only a tad bit darker (oranger) than expected.


Stuff my mom never bought me

I was listening to my daughters talk about this year’s hottest boot trend, Kate Spade purses, iPhones, and other crap they want and don’t need… and I was thinking how trendy all this stuff is. When I was growing up, I would have never had an iPhone. I’d be the kid taking selfies with a 35mm film camera and using my T9 to enter text messages at 10cents each.

I did save up some Whataburger money once to buy a pair of Marithe Francois Girbaud jeans. They were important because the label was white and plastered across the zipper. Everyone had a pair, and so did I. I wore them at least a couple times a week. I wish I still had them. They were unbelievably expensive… I’m pretty sure they were close to $50! Gasp.

When I look back, there are several things I never had the chance to enjoy. Here’s my list of must haves from the 80’s and 90’s (that I never got), and why they were so amazing.

Glamour Shots

Seriously. I wanted this so bad. The photos were always perfect. Soft glow camera filter, they did you hair and make up. And holy crap — you got to pick from all those amazing outfits!


Kaepas Tennis Shoes

Who doesn’t want beautiful white vinyl tennis shoes that you can accessorize with matching Kaepa Triangles? How do you spell bad ass? K-A-E-P-A-S


Hypercolor Clothing

This magic fabric changed color simply by the touch of your hand. Who doesn’t want to be able to make handprints on your boobs, and moments later see it disappear!? Let’s say you’re having a hot crotch day – Hyper color let’s everyone know! Best thing ever. Seriously, it’s a thing.


Blossom Hat

Blossom was an amazing superstar of our generation. She wore amazing hats with amazing flowers planted on the front. What style, what grace. I so longed for one.


Rabbit Coat

My aunt had a coat like this, and she was very sophisticated. I knew when I grew up and could afford it, I would get a rabbit coat as soon as I could. That’s right, sinched at the waist, soft fur, and a giant collar with a big plastic zipper. It would never go out of style.



I wanted braces so bad during my early teen years. All the cool kids had them, and in the end they were beautiful. I had none.



What better accessorie to your Jane Fonda workout than a pair of shiny tights and matching legwarmers? Pretty much nothing. Nothing is better than leg warmers, and I never had them. Ever.


Rocky Mountain Jeans

Every girl in Craptown had these jeans. I too wanted to give birth to my denims. These high-waisted beauties were every cowgirls dream. Luckily, I was able to borrow some from friends. I never actually owned a pair. Size 5? 8? 12? Doesn’t matter, I made it work.


Do you think this will deter my kids from asking for that Kate Spade purse, or those trendy boots? No, I didn’t think so. It does remind me to dress in black. Everything black. It’s always in style, right?

I pooped my pants on a business trip.

For the first time I’ve let my new coworkers in on my secret blog. Why the secret? Oh, I don’t know… maybe because I’m writing stories about farts, female facial hair, and now “poop”. All of these stories so far have been from my childhood. No worries, we’ll be back there soon. This one is from a working mutha. Actually working in a respectable company, respectable pay, respectable title. Doing disrespect-able things.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never done anything dishonest during my career. Just stupid. In honor of my new co-workers who have travelled away from home, saw new places, venture out on their own, and ate bad Chinese food… This one’s for you.

This was my second travelling job, my first two were with oil companies. I have actually been quite the traveller, pinning places like New Orleans, Odessa Texas, and Oklahoma City. On this particular trip, I was in the amazing wonderment of Dallas Texas. I wasn’t even in Dallas, I was actually in Arlington. I’ve lived in Texas all my life and this was actually the first time I’ve been to Dallas. I flew Southwest and checked in to the suggested hotel. La-freaking-Quinta. It wasn’t horrible, but come on–it’s LaQuinta. They wanted us to stay there because it was like 50cents a night, and close enough to either walk to the office or grab the LaQuinta minivan.

After my first day of work at the Dallas Office, I decide to cut out early. I was tired and just wanted to sit by myself and relax. I hitched a ride back to the hotel and scoped out restaurants on the way that were in walking distance from my room. I saw PeiWei – SCORE.

If’ you’ve ever eaten at PeiWei, you know that everything comes in servings of two, but most of us fat Americans go ahead and eat both servings. I preordered and went to pick up my meal(s) and take them back to my room where I could watch tv and pig out. That I did.

Now that I’ve stuffed myself, it was all of like 6:00. There would be sunlight for a good 3 more hours, so I decided to take a walk. I have no idea what I was thinking. I’m not a walker… and here I am “exploring” freaking an Arlington strip center like it was Fifth Avenue in New York. Texas isn’t made for walking. The intersections are 18Miles wide, cross walks don’t really work, and store parking lots are about 20miles long to get from store to store.

So I’m in and out of dumb retail stores I could care less about, pretending to enjoy myself, but really I just ate too much Chinese food and needed to walk around. My stomach grumbles and immediately turns into 150degrees of sickness. I panic. I need a rest room quick. I am looking all around, no restaurants (restaurants MUST have public bathrooms). I’ve walked in the complete opposite direction of PeiWei and all the other restaurants on the planet. For some reason I walked in the direction of nothingness.

I’m about to die. I’m afraid I won’t make it, I’m doubled over in pain, and soon to be agonizing embarrassment. I’m wearing long, wide-leg jeans and a long sleeve shirt. It’s not cold, but it’s what I had going on. I was already sweating from walking and now from the possibility of shitting my pants. As fast as the wave came over me, it was gone. Whew.

I stand up straight, wipe the sweat from my brow and leave the store unsoiled.

Luckily, there was a Baskin Robins right around the corner, just one more intersection over. Remember, one block over in Texas means a freaking continent. I weigh my options of going directly back to the hotel, and making it *just* to the BaskinRobins. Baskin’s would have a restroom to use, I’d be relieved of all worries, and plus–now I wanted ice cream.

I made it. I opened the ice cream parlor door and the cool air rushes over me, ahhh instant relief. Luckily, the little storefront was semi-busy and no one would notice me going to blow out the bathroom. This is not something I’m proud of mind you. I am not one to talk about poop, or discuss it for any reason. That’s what makes this story so horrifying to me.

I reach for the knob to open the doors to the heavily thrown in which would relieve me of my PeiWei contamination boiling in my stomach. Shit. It won’t open. Guy from behind the counter yells at me of the line of people, ‘Sorry it’s out of order.’ Clearly, a recent PeiWei patron made a visit.

Oh gosh… the thought of walking all the way back to the LaFreakingQuinta was killer. But now, I’m staring at the ice cream, looking outside at the window, thinking of my hot walk back to the hotel. I needed ice cream. I was about to loose 15lbs anyway. The thought of ice cream is actually starting to make my stomach settle. Maybe that’s all it needed?

My stomach and I decided I needed chocolate ice cream in a waffel cone. I expensed my delight and head back for the hotel.

The ice cream was amazing, but I had to eat it much faster than I wanted because it was so hot outside, and was starting to drip all over my hands. I looked like a second grader, I was a mess. The feeling hits again. Stomach on fire. This time, my entire body is sweaty, any crease in my body is covered in salty sweat (except for my hand which was covered in chocolate-and sweat).

I’m two intersections away from LaQuinta potty. It’s almost exciting. But now, it’s getting worse. I might die, literally. I’m shuffling as fast as I can. I’m still eating that damn ice cream. I could have thrown it on the ground. I have no idea why I didn’t. My legs can’t move in great strides, I’m afraid I’ll loose the precious gluteus-maximus-vault-like muscle tention I had built up during this ordeal. Ice cream in one hand, wiping sweat off my face with the other, my wide leg pants are now about three sizes larger than they were, I’m having to hold one of the pant legs up like a skirt. The LaQuinta is in site! It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

On my journey back, I’ve already decided I can quickly go in the side door facing the parking lot and not have to go all the way around the front. My room would be on that side of the building. Success! I swiped my key card to enter the door, ahhhh that cold air conditioning rushes over me again. It didn’t provide the same relief as last time, but I was hot sweaty, and this was certainly welcome.

The feeling is worse, I’m about to explode. I decide it’s a good idea now to break into stride. I need to run up those stairs and dash into my room, FAST. The stairs were a little wider and a little less steep than normal stairs, I think LaQuinta was trying to be fancy. Who cares. I was on the second floor and I needed to get their in a hurry.

Mid way through the flight of stairs my life pauses and begins turing in slow motion.

I trip over my now sweat soaked wide leg pants, I trip. My arms are flung in the air, my chocolate ice cream and waffel cone slams and splatters on the stair way. I reach out my other hand to try and catch myself, I lost all balance, all sense of self respect and had lost any control over my bowels. Yes, I shit my pants.

This all happened in slow motion mind you…To me, it feels like it took about four minutes to complete that choreographed fall. Horrified.

I jump up, leave the crime scene and run to my room where I have to strip off heavy blue jeans, and shower. Hot steam shower. I would have used bleach if I had any. If you crap your pants, just know it’s not easy to remove your pants without the bathroom looking like a mental ward of some sort.

What I’m really afraid of, is that that stairway was on video, and I’ll end up on YouTube and then on Tosh.0 or somewhere horrible. “Fat girl falls on stairway, loses chocolate ice cream waffel cone and craps her pants”. haha. Wouldn’t that be funny? No. No it would not. That poor girl was horrified, left the giant poop-colored-chocolate mess, and never returned to that hotel again.

Happy Thanksgiving: Choose Your Weapon

My John brother is kind of an asshole. When we were little, he was a *major* asshole. I’ve got four brothers, John is the brother closest to my age (and totally my favorite!)–which likely gives him the right to torture me the most. Jason, James, John, and Jacob. Jesus. That’s a lot of Js. John, Jacob, and I were often left at home to fend for ourselves. John mostly ran around with his friends and said if I didn’t do all our assigned chores, he’d beat me up. He would–and DID on several occasions. Jacob was a punk, four years younger then I am. It was basically my job to make sure the house was clean before mom got home. (I did a terrible job.)

Mom worked at the shop just one street away. If things got really scary, one of use would run to the shop and tattle. Most of the time we didn’t, instead screamed and yelled at each other until one of the kids left or gave in. Mom didn’t come home until after 6, we got off the bus around 4:00pm, so that’s two full hours of pure  hell. On Saturdays, we were told to “fend for yourselves” from 9am until 3pm. Fend for yourself meant: eat whatever is in the fridge (my mom still calls it the icebox), don’t call her at work, and don’t kill each other. Most of the time we managed.

I’m going to say it was on a Saturday. If things were going to get really heated in our green, craptastic two story house, it was going to be on that Saturday where we had a full six hours to be especially nasty to each other. No one would ever spend the night at my house because a Saturday afternoon of unsupervised destruction proved to be too much for most 10 year olds. If I was to spend the night at anyone else’s house, I had to be home by 9am. That was the rule.

On this particular Saturday, I think John was actually trying to get me to play with him and have some fun, but he was really pissing me off. Honestly, this was nearly 30 years ago, and I remember it like it was yesterday.

I’m walking around the house, John won’t leave me alone, keeps following me. I picture myself with my golden hair falling just past my shoulders with a seriously cute outfit on, cleaning for my mother and taking care of my little 6 year old brother. –Making breakfast for them, and then cleaning the house before mom gets home. It’s more likely that I was crying about not enough food in the house, my hair was a filthy mess, I’m wearing some sort of hand-me-down shirt that had a sparkly iron-on or fuzzy letters, shorts that were too short, and no shoes. Jacob was probably whining, begging for food. I wasn’t the best caretaker. Sorry Jacob.

I remember walking towards my mothers room – probably going to snoop in her drawers, or look through her closet. (I did this often. Google cures my adult urge for snooping these days. Thanks online records!) John was following me and getting in my face. I have no idea what he was saying, I can’t remember. Likely, I wasn’t listening anyway. I remember shoving him, screaming at him (I was defiantly a screamer-I’m sure that was annoying.) He wanted to have a knife fight. Seriously.

Maybe we just watched West Side Story (John, Jacob, and I always watched old musicals and even listened to the record soundtracks and secretly LOVED them). I have no idea what his problem was. He wanted to fight, maybe fake fight, I don’t know. He kept on and on! I’m walking down the little foyer to my mother’s room to engage in my guilty pleasure. I turn around, and John is in my face. He’s holding two giant butcher knives. There was one knife in each hand, the handles were facing me.

“CHOOSE YOUR WEAPON!” I can STILL remember his face. He’s yelling and spitting at the same time. I was enraged. He wasn’t about to leave me alone. I screamed—“AHHHHHH!!!!”

…and I grabbed both knife handles, and forced down the dull (likely dirty) blades into the palms of his hands. He was horrified. He screams back, pure terror in his wide-eyed-face. “AHHHHHH!!!!”

I’m there holding these freaking knives that HE brought to me. John is dripping blood all over our carpenter-grade-green carpet in the little foyer going to my mother’s room. He runs to the bathroom and starts running water over his freshly cut hands, sobbing like a baby.

The little foyer also had framed pictures of each of us kids. I remember standing there, still holding both knives. I’m looking at the stupid frames with all our school pictures. 12 holes in each frame from for each year of school. All my brother’s pictures were staring at me, mocking me. They didn’t love anything more than getting their sister in trouble. They loved it….

We’re all laughing at the Thanksgiving dinner table, telling tale after horrible tale. John isn’t there to defend the story. This is the way I remember it, likely a little askew. I don’t remember what happened next. I don’t remember ever getting in trouble for the knife fight. I don’t remember John ever acting in retaliation. I DO remember finding some awesome stuff in my mother’s closet.

I’ve had my eye on you

I’ve always had a vivid imagination. I was the only girl out of four boys so I had to learn how to entertain myself. I had friends, usually a best friend that I would spend all my time with, get sick of, find a replacement for, then repeat. This cycle typically rotated between just a few girls.

My bestfriend for this story was Deborah, she went by Debbie. (I’m guessing after the Debbie Gibson era, she has gone back to Deborah). She was also from a Czech family. Her mom was an angry woman, with short gray tight curly hair and a permanent scowl. Debbie’s father, Clem was super nice. Looking back I think he was so nice and laid back because he was typically drinking. Either way, very nice. She had one older sister that wasn’t around much. I remember thinking she was so cool because she had “rock band” posters all over her room. That “rock band” was Prince. In fact, she looked like she could have been in the band. She had mullet like permed hair and wore shiney clothes. I wished I could be just like her.

In fact, I was borderline obsessed with these older women (older=teenager). My oldest brother Jason had started bringing his girlfriend around. She was in this “older women” genre. I remember Mindy, short for Melinda, to always wear black, her bangs in her face, and always had a look of “whatever” on her face. I know this look now, she was a stoner. But at the time, I really thought she was just the coolest person I had ever met. I even tried to mimic her. I started using hair spray, had the most awesome waterfall hair, and wore my only black T-shirt over and over again. I even tried to have my own nick name by using my middle name Leigh, and insisting everyone call me by that (never stuck.)

She never actually talked to me,  but in a life surrounded by spitting, farting and cursing, Mindy was a welcome site. Jason would bring Mindy over to our house and hide in his bedroom for hours. I remember my mother sending each brother to “check on them” one at a time. As part of my obsession, I listened to what they talked about. I would lean up against Jason’s bumper-sticker covered bedroom door and try to hear what they were saying. They were usually fighting or talking about stupid stuff way over my head. Then I heard it. The most amazing thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

Mindy had a glass eye.

I honestly can’t even remember what they were talking about or why it came up. I just remember that I couldn’t wait to check it out. I burst in the room.

“Mom wanted me to check on you,” I said all excitedly. I was staring directly at Mindy waiting to see some sort of clue that she did, in fact, have a glass eye.

As Jason kicked me, and began shoving me out of the door, Mindy started laughing. Maybe because she wasn’t concentrating, her left eye began rolling around as the right eye was completely out of sync. This was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I had to have one.

I practiced my glass eye routine for hours in front of the mirror. To this day I can still look at you with one eye and make the other roll around. I needed to show someone my new found skill. Now.

My mom took me to Debbie’s house. I set down my cabbage patch cornsilk doll, and looked really, really, sad. Debbie was only slightly concerned (I was always having some sort of drama, made-up or real).

“I have something to tell you,” I said to Debbie. “You have to promise to keep it a secret.” This meant in Rachel terms, be sure to tell ever one you know so I look really cool and become the most popular kid in the fourth grade.

“I’ve tried to keep it a secret as long as I could. I have a glass eye.” Honestly, I would have cried, but I wasn’t sure if a glass eye could produce tears or not, I figure I should stick to the helpless puppy dog look.

Debbie was amazed. Just as I thought, she thought this was perhaps the coolest thing ever. She tried to share some sort of heart murmur story with me but I wasn’t having it. This was my day to shine. I was the one with the real handicap here.

All day long, I remember talking to her and doing my new eye-wondering trick. I told her how nice it was to not have to try and fake it in front of my best friend, and it was nice to just let my eye go wherever it wanted. She was in awe. I know she was.

She tried to get me to take it out, but I told her my mother would be mad at me and I wasn’t allowed to. I wasn’t a rule breaker after all. What kind of girl did she think I was?

I had to go home early that day. My glass eye was giving me an incredible headache.

Mullet Plucker

I dated in high school. A lot. Ok, not a lot but I went on dates with the same person several times. I was kind of a chunky kid my freshman year (albeit smaller than I am now *she shakes fist*) and wasn’t a good dating weight until my sophomore year. To become acclimated to the craptastic dating scene in my home town I first attended a few make out sessions in the back of my friend’s mom’s giant yellow caddy. My chunky freshman self landed a boyfriend (yes, same as the prom date) and we dated for over a year. As soon as I was gainfully employed by Whataburger in the summer of 1992, the weight magically dropped off. It’s amazing what you won’t eat when you smell like a grease pit. This magic weight loss, paired with my drivers license and the ability to fit in a size 5 pair of Rocky Mountain crotch hugging jeans made for the perfect break up and freak out environment.

I broke up with fart boy and commenced operation FLIRT. Honestly, I didn’t know how to flirt. This consisted of hanging around the certain tables in the commons before school, pretending to laugh and flip my sunin damaged hair, or raising one of my giant unplucked eyebrows in a sophisticated “you want me” stare. None of this really worked. I did have my eye on one boy in paticular. He had a mullet.

At the time, mind you, we didn’t call it a mullet. It was just considered “long hair”. He was a kicker. He wore boots and brushpoppers, and ran in the same circles as fart boy. I didn’t know any better. He had cast a glance my way once or twice, and in my terms that meant he was madly in love with me. This boy, we’ll call Mullet. Mullet was semi popular. Not incredibly good looking, but he had been in the dating scene and had been in the accompany of other girlfriends. This meant Mullet was a catch. I flirted and raised my caterpillars at him just enough to get an invite to his place after school.

What happens to one when one accepts an invitation to one’s house after school? Make out. Well, that was what was on my mind at the time. I got to Mullet’s house. It was a small rented house in the old part of town. I pulled up in my awesome Honda Civic. He ever so slyly leaned his head in my rolled-down window to say hi. I really thought he was going to kiss me. Instead he just sat there with his cheshire cat grin.

“Alright!” he said in his kicker mullet voice. ” you can drive a stick?”

“Um, no,” I said sarcastically, thinking he was a dumbass. “It’s automatic. The shifter is just on the console.” What an idiot. It’s amazing the conversations you remember.

I parked my car, he walked up to his front door and I followed. We went to straight to his room. I really don’t remember what we talked about. We weren’t making out like I had planned. I remember he had a twin bed on the floor, a small chest of drawers, and his house was kind of dumpy. I thought he must have been poor. I didn’t care, I was poor. I was on a mission and we were gonna make out. We were well on our way. I brushed my teeth and everything.

I was talking to him all coy-like. Being ever so charismatic as I am… I leaned up against his bedroom wall, with my hands behind my back. This put me in the defenseless position that gave him all-signs-go. He leaned over to me. He was close. He leaned near me with his hand about a foot above my head, against the wall. We were close talking. In my book, this was first base.

He moved my hair back, moved my fuzzy bangs out of my eyes, started talking slow. My mouth started getting dry. I knew he was coming in for the kill. He started checking me out, looking me out up and down. He touched my shirt.

“Oh, you have a hair,” Mullet says. He motions to sweep the hair off my shirt. I thought he was going to touch my boob, but I’m too busy looking into his mullet eyes with my giant eyebrows begging to be kissed.

The hair didn’t move. He picked up the hair with his forefinger and thumb. Instead of tossing it into the air, and making a wish… It plucked. The plucking hair plucked. A piece of my neck skin jerked forward about 3 inches as Mullet tugged at it. I grabbed my neck out of instinct and turned bright red out of horror. I wanted to punch him in the face.

“Oh my God! That was attached to your NECK!” shreeked Mullet. Mind you, this hair was a good 5-6 inches long as I can (to this day) remember where the growth spot started and the hair landed on my shirt.

“Whatever,” I said. I tried to pull it off as if I had no idea what he was talking about. I started to sweat. I had to get out of there fast.

I completely blocked out what happened after that. I remember his mom came home, and we went out side. We never made out. Who the hell is going to make out with neckhair girl anyway. I wouldn’t be able to respect him. I left. I was never invited to his house again.

Years later, I was talking to one of my co-workers, telling her this story. She was dying laughing. We both thought it was hilarious. She asked where the neck hair was, I showed her. I told her it was so weird because it was like a hair on your head, not a whisker or anything. As we were laughing, she leaned in close. She plucked me.

I had another freaking neck hair about the length of a football field. I have to keep this sucker in check. If you ever meet me, please –don’t pluck with me. It’s not funny.

I farted in the car at prom.

This isn't the exact dress, but pretty damn close.

If you know me, you know I don’t fart. People who don’t know me, may think my outgoing personality and say-it-like-it-is attitude is open to such things as flatulence or belching. That is far from the truth. I don’t even allow my children to say the word fart. It’s honestly disgusting. That said, sometimes you have no control over your moral wishes. Your body says otherwise.

Its prom season around these parts. For high school girls, March is for finding a date, saving money, and dress shopping. I recently went shopping for a dress with my daughter who was really set on getting the $400 dress I let her try on. And no matter how much I tell her that she has no idea how good she has it, she really is clueless and spoiled.

This got me thinking back to my prom. I didn’t actually go to my senior prom. I went in a pair of jeans and took photos of my friends in their beautiful gowns while my husband stayed at home with the baby.  But I did go to A prom. It was my Freshman year, he was a Junior. We had dated most of that year, so prom was inevitable. My mom took me dress shopping, let me look at all the beautiful gowns and even let me try on a bunch of them. I think she was just being nice and let me feel like pretty woman, but in the end, she told me there was no way I was getting any type of dress and she assured me the bridesmaid dress that I wore for my brothers wedding would do just fine.

I’d post a picture from prom, but I can’t find them. My date’s mom bought the photos, she paid for everything because she loved me. Him, I don’t think so, but mom sure did! Anyway, if I wanted to go, I had to wear the dress. I didn’t know anyone to borrow from (I’d only lived in Craptown USA for a year).

The dress was royal blue. Home made from a pattern. Blue lace bodice over the blue satin. Long to the ground, (that year short was in style), blue sequined belt that hit just below my boobs, gigantic blue puffy sleeves. I hated it, but if I were going to prom that’s what I was wearing. So off we go.

We double dated. It was my first fancy date. He was in a tux jacket and shirt and wore a cowboy hat, fancy new black wranglers and of course boots. This was pretty much the uniform for the town prom-goers.  His friend was a Senior that year dating some girl who eventually egged his house and made him miserable. His bud’s mom rented a Cadillac, we sat in the back. It was probably the nicest car I’d ever been in at that point. It had a gigantic back seat with leather interior. Damn that leather.

We ate at the local country club (which wasn’t local and was about 20 miles away). I think this must have been one of the parents ideas because we were the ONLY people in the entire restaurant. I was nervous and felt weird. I felt like we were all playing dress up and we looked stupid. I honestly don’t remember what we talked about or what I ate. Probably because it sucked. This wasn’t what the movie proms were like.

After dinner we slid back into the car and we set off to the long drive to the high school. On those damn leather seats, in that stupid car.

As the radio got louder and we set out on our 30 min drive back though town, I decided to be sweet and tell my date I loved him. This was the first person I had ever said this to. I think we were just trying it out, didn’t really mean it… but it felt cool to say it.

I slid next to him, me now sitting in the middle of the backseat in this gigantic Cadillac, I put my am through his squeeze tight, look him in the eye, tell him, “I love you.” I smile sweetly, and then fart.

His head quickly turned toward the window. I began to sweat. There was no mistake at what had just happened. Those freaking stupid leather seats and my ugly satin dress provided the perfect acoustics for such horror. My arm was still interlocked in his, and I can feel him shaking. He’s laughing. I’m horrified. If I was an open farter, I might help him laugh it off and tell everyone, “roll down all the windows! Man, my stomach hurts!”

But no. I just can’t do it. I’m horrified, embarrassed and I want to go home. Then, the idiot rolls down his window and says he’s hot. The stupid soon-to-be ex girlfriend stick-girl in the front begs him to roll it back up because she’s freezing and now they’re fighting it out, and I want to die.

Complete silence in the car for the rest of the ride.

When we got to the high school, girls went to the girls room, boys waited for us. This provided those jerks the perfect opportunity to talk about my fart. To talk about how disgusting I was and how my fart stinks (and it did).

I can remember every second of that part of prom, but I don’t remember ever dancing with him. I don’t remember even taking our photos. I don’t remember the ride home. All I can remember is the stupid ugly ass blue dress and those stupid leather seats.

And if you’re wondering my daughter DID get that $400 dress. And she’s going stag. And she loves to fart.

Hello world!

I’ll leave this lame post title because I suppose it’s correct. If you’re following me from the beginning, its because you know my story and you know there is sure to be some good reading here… or you’re scared to death I’m actually going to write about you. I thank you just the same.

I’ve been on a reading kick lately and thought, Shit. My story kicks their story’s asses. True, if I had a drug habbit, my story might be a little more interesting.

I told my mom a while back I was going to write my story. She laughed. I think it was more of a “oh, shit” giggle than a “oh that will be wonderful!” giggle.

Why would I write my story, and why is my story any more interesting than yours? It’s probably not. But hey, its my story, and in my story I decide that everyone thinks I’m interesting and funny and wants to hear all about the twists and turns that got me where I am.

I’ll try to post in order. Although, I’ve already written a few chapters that are the most interesting, or are the ones I find myself telling over and over because they get the best reaction. Those are the chapters that are kind of like a train wreck. You shouldn’t want to keep listening, but you can’t help but want to hear all about.

In a nutshell:

  • Girl has too many siblings brothers.
  • Girl moves to Craptown USA.
  • Girl has entirely new life.
  • Girl finds boyfriends.
  • Girl realizes she is awesome at journalism class boyfriends.
  • Girl decides to be a journalism teacher have baby.
  • Girl gets married to baby’s daddy a boyfriend.
  • Girl has another baby.
  • Girl parties with babies.
  • Girl doesn’t like lame husband.
  • Girl loves being alone.
  • Girl changes entire life.
  • Girl writes a new chapter.
  • Girl finds cooler husband Schmoopie.
  • Girl realizes she raised awesome daughters.
  • Girl writes about true stories because blogging is fun.

While this seems simple, I could honestly write an entire book on the first bullet point. This outline could will change. Good luck on keeping up with me. Thanks for the follow.

And don’t worry, I’ll change all the names of the innocent. (Assuming any of you are innocent).