Category Archives: weirdo

The Fake Weight

Not to brag much but the other day I got on the scale and realized I had gotten down to my fake weight without leaning on the wall.

“Fake weight” — the number we put on official documents like our driver’s license applications and other “public” forms. Every woman I’ve mentioned this to knew exactly what I was talking about.

Men, however, had no clue. They apparently don’t have a fake weight! They’ll deny it but they have a fake height or fake length they tell themselves…

But, honestly, I’m here to tell you that it’s a little disconcerting if you ever see your fake weight on a real scale. I mean, with attainment of the fake weight all should be perfect in the your world, right? The fake and the real have merged and anything is possible!

We should at least expect a rousing parade or curly confetti to miraculously fall from the sky or Ed McMahon with a big check.

But no. I got none of that.

Given my up’s and down’s with life weight, I’ll likely bounce back up and the fake weight will once again become fake if these Girl Scout cookies have anything to say about it.

Or maybe it won’t, in which case I’ll be required to come up with a new fake weight. Where do our fake weights come from? Old insurance charts? Some online weight calculator? An asshole ex-boyfriend? A number from your past? The Miss Universe pageant?

The fake weight must be lower than your actual weight, but not so far removed as to cause snickering at the DMV or when your driver’s license is broadcast on a local news show after you run off with the soccer coach go missing.

I will confess that once I touched on my fake weight, it somehow managed to lose its power. It is just an artificial, externally-imposed number. Health, strength, energy, focus, these internal traits are the things that should have meaning and magic for us all through life, right?

All of which I promise to ponder deeply as I Google weight charts and calculators to generate my new fake weight.

Not My Idea, and yet Somehow Still Entertaining

Here’s usually what happens when someone suggests a blog idea for me:

Them: Oh my God, this is so hilarious! You should totally put this on your blog!

Me: silently smiles & nods

Me to myself: Yeah, that is now a thing that will never be on my blog.

Well, there’s always an exception to prove the rule and here it is. I present Mishka, the talking dog. Please enjoy.

Not to toot my own horn too much more than usual, but I happen to do an excellent impersonation (imdogation?) of Mishka talking. But this galaxy doesn’t need that video floating around for infinity scaring the little alien babies…

Kid, you’re welcome.

Girly Cupcakes

Just so you know, the Hubs said I shouldn’t blog about this, so Hello! You’d think he’d have learned by now….

This post is brought to you by Facebook and its new anti-privacy rules, because it was a friend of a friend who I have never heard of who posted this photo and my friend, a guy I actually do know, “liked” it.

Which apparently means the whole world gets to see it now, in case you just got out of that coma don’t know Facebook is raping you daily, right now.

Hold onto your britches. Take a gander at the girly cupcakes:
Puts new meaning in the term variety pack, eh?

Okay, focus, readers. Are ya with me? I posted this because I want to ask if you think it was would be outrageoushorrendousdisgusting of me to show this photo to my eight-year-old daughter?

Purely, a hypothetical question, Mrs. Child Protective Services, for the purposes of discussion.

I mean, if I did, I wonder if my child would guess right away what she was looking at or needed a hint from me.

I wonder if she’d then drop her jaw first, and then with a twinkle in her eye, her own drawers to show me hers as comparison to the frosted ones.

I also wonder if young girls should possess a relaxed, secure knowledge of their amazing, delicious cupcakes body.

Purely hypothetical, ya’ll. Don’t go get your panties in a–oh, never mind.

What do you think? Would you show a daughter and not a son? Is age a factor?