Monthly Archives: December 2013

Granny Panty Groove

I was at a loss for something to write about and Lorde knows I’m notorious (B.I.G.) for letting that keep my blog stagnant for months at a time. I didn’t want that to happen this month, so I turned to Facebook for suggestions. It was mostly unhelpful, but someone suggested I write about “granny panties”, so here we are. I’m not sure if this person had a specific scenario in mind, so what you’re getting is a strange meandering thought process of mine.

Let’s talk about sex. Baby. But really, there is an overarching assumption that “sexy” is a static entity. That there is one road to hot-town and no fork to be seen. But I love forks. They help me eat food, which is the thing I love most in this world. Aside from the New Kids on the Block, red lipstick and unrealistically high heels. Do I wear granny panties? You bet. I’m wearing a white cotton pair right now. And there’s a rip in the waist-band. But they sit unobtrusively atop my rotund bottom and don’t create any problems for me like other more universally aesthetically pleasing panties might.

With curves (wide turns) like mine, there isn’t room for underclothing that might change the topography of my body. All clothing must lay gently on my skin and let the natural shape show through. If there is a slight squeeze, rolls happen. Rolls that defuse my bombshell and give the impression that parts of my sexual anatomy are puffy. You heard me. Without outside forces to mold my fluffy bits into the rolling face of a bulldog, I’m just a wider version of an hourglass woman. It works in the nude (assuming it’s REALLY cold wherever I’m being nude) and with granny panties providing a neutral barrier between the naturally distributed body fat and the prying eyes of the male (or female) gaze.

Something as overtly sexual as a thong does nothing good for my body. Aside from the oh-so-trashy whale-tail situation, it digs into my hips and dips. It uses my flesh as handles to grip as if its stringy, lycra life depends on enveloping itself in my side-butt. I’ve never seen a thong big enough for a size 16 downstairs, but I have to believe that if it doesn’t grip my handles tightly, it’ll sag in some pretty unflattering places. If you’re not picturing me in nothing but a saggy thong right now, you’re reading this wrong. Take a minute. Yep. Not cute.

As I’ve discussed at great lengths before, I have a big butt. If you like it and you cannot lie, I do like to hear a nice compliment every once in a while. And if you’re dead sexy like my granny panties, maybe we’ll complement each other.

As long as it’s really cold.

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Mean Teens and Presumed Pedophilia

Today is my nephew’s 6th birthday and to celebrate without going too crazy before his party on Saturday, my sister decided to take him to Craig’s Cruisers after school and to invite me along. This decision was fueled by his propensity for pouting, but also apparently by her deep-rooted masochism. Craig’s Cruisers is not fun. I’m sure it is for children, but as an adult I find it to be my own personal hell. I went, of course, because he’s my nephew and I love him. But I didn’t have to like it.

Go Karts stop being fun after you can drive a car.

Go Karts stop being fun after you can drive a car.

I walked in to a near-empty “fun-zone” to meet my sister, her fiance and the birthday boy and expected to see them right away. They were nowhere. I walked around the gaming floor (or whatever the non-casino word is for the place with all the video games) and tried to look like I definitely didn’t want to kidnap a child. Still nowhere. And there is legitimately no way for a childless adult to look innocent while wandering the entirety of Craig’s Cruisers alone. I cut my losses and called my sister. She was just settling in to play laser tag. Great. Now I had alone time to kill and the only places to sit were in direct eyelines of suspicious teen employees. There was nothing I could do. I was resigned to assumed pedophilia as I perched on the strangely molded seat of a squirt-gun game. I had to accept the stares because there is nothing that screams “stranger-danger” more than someone insisting out loud that they’re not interested in children.

I'm cool, I swear.

I’m cool, I swear.

After several long minutes of swiping absentmindedly at my dead phone I was enveloped in the tiny dude arms of my nephew as he screamed, “Auntie!!” and I made eye contact with every teen who had narrowed theirs at me earlier. I wandered off with the birthday boy and my sister and brushed the judgment of the surly teens off my non-creeper shoulders.

We kicked off the gaming with some Dance, Dance Revolution and embarrassed ourselves sufficiently, then moved on to the buffet for some terrible, terrible food-like substances. In the corral that is the buffet area of Craig’s Cruisers, everyone forgets how to walk like a human. Nobody can see beyond their desire for cardboard pizza and questionable “alfredo” sauce and they will walk directly into you repeatedly. All of them. I went right to the salad bar to try and eat something that had as little to do with the esteemed Craig’s Cruisers chefs as possible. My sister, her fiance and the birthday boy had other ideas. They went hard on unidentifiable pizza and even some slimy looking chicken legs. You want meat sauce? They have it. Coagulated meatballs? No problem. Randomly placed green beans? Don’t worry, they’re overcooked and under-seasoned. You’re in luck. I don’t want to overshare, but one or all of them will definitely have diarrhea tonight.

Basically.

Basically.

Before getting too physical on the ropes course, we eased into the after-dinner fun by trying fruitlessly to win big-ticket prizes from impossible games. A pre-teen kid basically shoved us out of the way to try his hand and I ever-so-hilariously told him that if he won the Beats headphones he had to give them to me, and followed it immediately with the words, “just kidding”. He looked at me with an exasperated air and said, “That would be a little ridiculous, wouldn’t it?” Uh…you’re ridiculous, Justin Weiner. Settle down. I wasn’t about to damage my credibility so soon after proving my innocence to the hawkeyed employees so I just walked away with a head shake.

The flat joke wasn’t an isolated incident. My sister and nephew tried their hand at the ropes course and when the fresh-faced youngster working the station asked my sister to pull the two straps between her legs and hand them to him she asked him if he’d rather do it, with a quick laugh. He shot back that he was not allowed to do that and didn’t even crack a smile for my cute sister’s sexual harassment. What has happened to the youth of America?!

I spent a total of $13.99 on the buffet and various games that assured me I was receiving tickets in return for the approximately five seconds of play time, but between the man with an ass that would put Kim K. to shame and the teamwork it took for my sister and I to retrieve her phone from inside the fenced-in go-kart track, I’d say I got my money’s worth.

Everyone at Craig’s Cruisers hates fun. It’s a giant abyss of funlessness but I’m not sure if the people go in already hating good times or if the place itself sucks it out of them. In the end, I guess it’s a chicken/egg situation and as it turns out, I don’t care at all.

A Very Kardashian Christmas

At first mention of the idea of jazzing up our lofty home for the holidays, Ariel’s eyes lit up and she started forming hours of sweater-clad roommate togetherness in her mind. Jasmine and I were not strictly opposed to some short bursts of togetherness, but I doubt I’ve ever been as excited about anything (ever) as Ariel was about the prospect of the three of us going to pick out a Christmas tree together. I’ve only ever gone to get a tree with my mom, and that always consisted of a parking lot, a surly dude and a donation can.

Not in Ariel’s magic Christmastime world. She wanted us to go out and cut down our own tree. Out. Cut. Tree. These are words I would only use together to describe a wild night at the bar and possibly to explain a resulting mug shot. I don’t even own the appropriate “garb” for trekking in the snow to saw at a tree trunk. I have hideous boots that are made of what appears to be thick paper, two coats that are just for show and a series of hats that I guess are too small for my head. I did manage to dig up a pair of gloves I bought last winter and wore only once to gallivant around Detroit on a random February adventure in Motown.

I'm obviously Khloe.

I’m obviously Khloe.

Of course, I wasn’t concerned about braving the elements. I was more concerned with having an appropriately cute “wintery” outfit to display next to my gorgeous roommates and their perfectly on-theme looks. We Kardashianed the outing from the beginning when we knocked on our neighbor’s door and asked them to interrupt their Sunday afternoon to take a photo of us in our wintery looks on the front porch. With the first photo out of the way, we jumped in Jasmine’s SUV to grab some coffee and head out to the Christmas Tree Farm that I was sure would be our undoing. There’s something about the impending reality of the slick hilly terrain of the outdoors, boots with no tread and one of us wielding a saw that was unsettling. There we were, three brunette women, all in full makeup and adorably ineffective cold-weather outfits, traipsing across the parking lot to grab a hand-saw and pick out the perfect tree.

Perhaps in an effort to avoid walking very far, or perhaps by a fortuitous beam of fate, we stumbled across the perfect pine tree almost immediately. It was delightfully robust and just tall enough to still be under $40. In case you haven’t guessed, I have no idea how to go about cutting down a tree. Even from my starting point of zero knowledge, I never would have guessed it would involve laying down on the ground and attempting to maintain rhythm and force with absolutely no way to brace yourself. Jasmine and I each took a short turn with the saw to make sure there was photo-evidence of us cutting down the tree, but we left the heavy lifting to Ariel, the lumberjack. She amazed me with her sawing skills and willingness to flop down onto the frozen ground in her leggings and had the tree down in no time.

I totally helped.

I totally helped.

We hefted it (and by we, I mean Jasmine and Ariel) up and started walking back toward the homestead, but had to stop for Ariel to give the tree a quick, Christmassy HJ before it was bundled up conveniently for us to take home. Have you ever seen a tree-shaker in action? You have to hold on to the tree so it stays upright as it shakes, and it’s terribly obscene. And so am I so the shaker plus several children around made for a completely inappropriate few minutes.

How many Kardashians does it take to cut down a tree?

How many Kardashians does it take to cut down a tree?

After spending way too long at Target to pick out decorations we finally made it home and got the tree in the door. Ariel and I hunkered down around the pine needles to try our hand at sawing off some of the lower branches so it would fit in the stand. Only…we’re three women who wore full makeup to go cut down a tree. We don’t have a saw. What we did have were two serrated steak knives that didn’t work at all, until they finally did. The tree is up, it’s sparsely decorated and illuminating our house with Christmassy cheer.

Christmas Selfie

Christmas Selfie

And I still have sap on my hands.

Manicures and Fear-Based Regression

I have a friend who works in the same neck of the woods as I do, and occasionally we like to girl it up at the nail salon for some simple manicures and the stress-relieving hand massages that come alongside them. The suggestion to go today after work couldn’t have come at a better time. I had broken two nails in under an hour and the polish was starting to make me look like I had switched personalities with a teenage Lindsay Lohan. When I met her at the salon, I entered nervously. It had been months since my last manicure and my hands were a mess. I had been told before that I don’t have good “drying habits” and the dampness I leave behind after washing my hands is apparently a luscious environment for cuticle growth. The disappointment of Tami or Lynn or Lynn (everyone is Lynn) cuts through me like the tool used for removing the robust cuticles will eventually cut my pinky.

My friend and I took our adjacent seats and dutifully dipped our fingers into the warm bowls of mildly soapy water as Lynn and Lynn prepared their swatches of paper towel and strange ropes of cotton. My Lynn was very nice and made jokes with me about nail color as I loudly announced that the “accent nail” is over and that I’m bored with it. And then I noticed the girl on the other side of my friend and her impending “accent nails”. And then I noticed Lynn’s “accent nails”. Oh no. I had to think fast.

These are over. So over that I'm not sorry if you're offended.

These are over. So over that I’m not sorry if you’re offended.

Luckily for me, Lynn had no time to get sassy with me because Lynn two seats down was getting sassy with her “accent-nailed” customer. I couldn’t hear all that was said, and most of it was in barely whispered Vietnamese anyway, but there was a tiff happening. It seems Lynn-two-seats-down had tipped Accent-Nail’s French manicure in the wrong shade of sparkly pink. I know. How DARE she? It’s not like there’s a language barrier and an entire wall full of pink nail polish. What a dilettante. Tension was thickening and those whispered Vietnamese phrases were reaching a level I could almost hear. Shit got real. Tracy, the owner of the salon had to come over and defuse the situation by speaking simultaneously to the customer about how they would fix it and to Lynn-two-seats-down about something very tonal, in Vietnamese. I bet it was mean. I would have been mean. Then Tracy yelled, “I know it misunderstanding. I misunderstand her too. Now you have to fix!” and marched back to her station.

You go wash your hand now!

You go wash your hand now!

Truthfully, because of the tonal qualities of the language, I have no idea who was mad or what was mean, but it all sounded intense. That’s why I’m scared into submission and regress into childhood every time I enter one of these places. There’s a sternness about Lynns that causes my friend to accept the chip in her fresh polish and mutter nervously that “it’s probably just the light…” when she gets caught inspecting it. It’s why I’m terrified to fish my keys from my pocket even a second sooner than the unspecified drying time limit. I have no idea how long I’m supposed to keep my hands under the ineffective light but I do know I’m always too early. You will be scolded unabashedly and you will apologize for their mistake.

I'll be good!

I’ll be good!

And you better or you’ll get a sliced cuticle doused in nail polish remover. And it stings something fierce. My pinky finger is painted in a mixture of blood and black polish but I only winced for a second. I know the drill.

Funky Cold Medina

The laws of attraction are strange. I’ve recently begun making an effort to “put myself out there” and try to meet some people who could be a potential dating pool. My current cast of characters leaves something to be desired in the straight-men-who-are-sexually-interested-in-me category. Mostly because I’m often in groups of people who prefer their own sex, but also because I’m apparently a very specific type that only blossoms into desirability at oddly specific places with attention from oddly specific human archetypes.

Online dating-

I refuse to pay money to an organization that fails so miserably at matchmaking and consistently lies about the instances of attractive people using their services, so I stick to the free sites like Plenty of Fish (the worst) and OKCupid (only slightly less worst). I try to be forthcoming about my appearance so that in case I ever decide to meet one of the drooling miscreants in person, they don’t run screaming about amazon women or Carnie Wilson. So I include a full-body shot or two on my profile and I’m guessing it’s my “full figure” that sings the siren song of evolution and draws these very specific sailors to their rocky death. Er…to my inbox.

One of the pictures I use to be honest online. Although...I am definitely sucking in and standing strategically...

One of the pictures I use to be honest online. Although…I am definitely sucking in and standing strategically…

On Plenty of Fish, my inbox was flooded immediately (and I mean immediately) with Grand Rapids men who have recently arrived from Africa. They are very interested in the lord Jesus and also in how faithful of a wife I would be. As you may have guessed, these questions sent me flailing wildly from my laptop and directly into the arms of OKCupid. I fared slightly better on OKCupid but was struck with the realization that everyone is kind of a creep. Including myself. Should I feel bad about my level of standards? Is it wrong to want to date a normal human man? I didn’t think so but online dating has me reevaluating everything I thought I knew about the world.

In the Real World:

When I go out I tend to be the funny girl. I make self-deprecating jokes to try to make myself feel better about being surrounded by gorgeous people but on the inside I sort of feel kind of pretty too. I just have a lot more going on in the girth department. So when someone approaches me to chat me up, my confidence gets a little boost and I am able to go with it a bit until I realize they’re biding their time until my roommate/friend/homeless lady I happen to be standing near is free to chat about their future of happiness and babies. I end up being the fluffer in my own life. How does this happen? I’d like to think I have a pretty big personality. Maybe it’s too big? Maybe I’m a jerk. I do have it on good authority that I have a pretty serious case of “resting bitch face” so I guess that could be sending the suitors packing.

One Fedora Per Group. Duh.

One Fedora Per Group. Duh.

It’s generally tedious to be out until I get to the specific place I mentioned. As soon as I walk through the door of Billy’s in Eastown I am the prom queen. Women hit on me in flocks (not that it does me any good in the long run) and men in terrible fedoras stop to stare at me awkwardly before whispering about my “gorgeousness” in my ear. Strangers at the bar feel fine about grabbing my rear end and winking as they walk away. People are confused about my ethnicity and my exotic beauty (no idea) and the stream of chatting bar-goers is seemingly endless. But…again…women and terrible fedoras. Creepy whisperers. People who think it’s totally legit to walk up to someone and open with: “What are you?”

Crazy cat lady forever, it is!

Resigned to my future of throwing cats at you forever.

Resigned to my future of throwing cats at you forever.

John Mayer’s Lips

Last Wednesday I was lucky enough to see John Mayer’s current tour at Van Andel Arena and I was even luckier to go for free. Lorde knows I love free things, especially in the concert ticket variety. I’ve been trying to convince people to just give me concert tickets continuously, but unfortunately these people need “credentials” to consider me a valid blogger. Pssh.

I brought Ariel along for the ride since she’s a big Johnny fan and I’m only a dabbler. I had seen him once before with a friend whose obsession rivals mine with any boyband, but I didn’t remember much from the show other than that he likes to gyrate a bit and I fell in love with his tattoo sleeve. I was eager to experience the show and was appropriately tipsy to deal with the typical “upper bowl” crowd without getting angry. We made our way to section 223 and I wriggled into the ridiculously tiny seat to settle in for the show.

A few minutes in, I realized I had better leave myself breadcrumbs or the little explosions of wit would never make it until morning (or several days later, as is now the case). I started texting myself notes throughout the show and they began with the fact that his stage presence gave me a reason to be jealous of Katy Perry and their personal life. He doesn’t smoothly grind on his guitar like one might imagine. It isn’t the overtly masculine gyrations of Magic Mike or Donnie Wahlberg. It’s sort of clunky, awkward and all too real. He literally makes love to his guitar. Er…literally dry humps it, anyway. And I was totally fine with it.

Look at those lips. Just look at them.

Look at those lips. Just look at them.

Through all of the talk of John’s personal life, his general dickery and the fact that he hates A-list celebrities, it sort of gets lost that he’s an amazing artist. The same can be said for Lady Gaga, but that’s a post for a different day. John is one of those performers we take for granted now, and then 50 years from now they’ll speak about him in the same vein as Frank Sinatra and Elvis. I promise. He scats. I mean…he just stops, feels the music and scats. And it wasn’t even funny. It was magical. Usually I get uncomfortable when people ad lib in that way but I was enamored all over again. My text to myself read: “Oh dear god, he’s scatting. He has scatted.” Clearly I was affected. He also had two guitars hanging from his deliciously tall body at one point and actually played BOTH of them. He played one as you might imagine and then reached behind his back and played the other one WHILE IT WAS BEHIND HIS BACK. He also blew that snarky breath into a harmonica for a while and I didn’t hate it. I think I love him.

For a minute during his set he morphed into Enya, but in the least uh…woodland fairy way you could imagine. Everything was very sort of ethereal without being pretentious. That’s one thing you can always count on with ol’ Johnny, a lack of pretense. His backdrop had me waiting on the edge of my seat for cloud-Mufasa to appear and tell me I was (or wasn’t) taking the right path in life. Or who my father is. Something earth-shattering, anyway. There were shooting stars, there was snow. It was beautiful and it helped take the focus off some of those childbirth faces he makes. Although, I think the faces lend a theatricality you normally wouldn’t get from a simple singer/songwriter set.

Also he's hilarious. Did you know that?

Also he’s hilarious. Did you know that?

As they tend to do in large venue shows, the cameramen spent a lot of time focusing on John’s hands as he ever-so-skillfully tickled his lucky, lucky guitar. I couldn’t help but notice that one of those hands was scabbed at the knuckles and after that I could hardly pull my focus from the loop of hypothetical scenarios in my head. Was it a skateboarding accident? Does he skateboard? Why did I just leap right to skateboarding? Did he punch a wall? Please tell me he punched a wall in a fit of hyper-masculinity. That would be so hot. I need to know what happened to his knuckles. But only if it was something cool and Patrick Swayze.

I assume everyone else in the arena was wondering about the knuckles as well. There’s something so intimate about being in a venue that size with a few thousand others who share that common interest. In John Mayer as a whole, not just his knuckles. Although, I suppose that would be fine too. In looking around, however, I noticed that most of the people around me had made some terrible decisions in life regarding style and life partners. Some had made the decision to be the only one standing up in the entire upper section, and happened to be standing directly in front of me. So they make questionable choices otherwise, but the music we share.

I just like this picture.

I just like this picture.

We also seemingly share the same opinion on “Your Body is a Wonderland”. There’s a nostalgia for it, you know the words to it (most of it) and you revel in the familiarity. But you’re also kind of sick of it. So is John. He started playing it and then stopped to laugh, saying he felt it was totally fine to like the song again now. In his words, “It started out new, then it was dumb, and now it’s retro.” Thus is life.

My texts to myself got a little harder to decipher as the night went on, but I did get that I was the perfect amount of buzzed to celebrate the magic realization that John Mayer was singing his hand-selected songs to me (and a few thousand others). The final text to myself from the evening said: “The big screen is showing him in sepia tones and for some reason this is everything.”

And it was.