Hello, My Name is Fertie McCerpcerks

So, I was totally meaning to share my beautiful school picture with ya’ll months ago, but being a teacher, tutor, and have-to-do-everything-during-the-holidays-freak kind of distracted me. 

I’m excited for the holiday break coming up. Maybe I’ll find some inspiration to write some little ditties (is that how that’s spelled? It kind of looks like a dirty word to me…no?)

Anyway.

So, way back in the beginning of the school year, was one of my most favorite days ever. 

I mean, I get up early and actually do my hair for this momentous day. 

I pick out a special outfit that I hope will say, “I’m a teacher, but that doesn’t mean I’ve resigned myself to denim jumpers and solid white orthopedic shoes”. 

I make sure my eyebrows are on fleek. Or, at least, they’re laying in the right direction. 

I.get.up.early. Did I already mention that part?

Unless you’re a skimmer (and you missed that part) or you’re shit at comprehending what you read, I’m talking about picture day. 

So, I hate picture day. 

I am not the most photogenic of people, and there’s something just downright evil about school pictures. 

Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it’s the ridiculous glamour shot poses they make you sit in. Maybe it’s just that I look like a tool when I fake smile. 

Because my eyes always look like two, tiny, beady little assholes smashed into fat cheeks, I decided to wear my hipster glasses.

This was my ultimate downfall- I just didn’t know it when I was trying to make myself look half decent. 

After my super awesome “modeling” sesh this last spring, I learned some tricks of the trade. I fully planned on incorporating what I learned so that I didn’t get lost in my chins like every effing year. 

So, I started out with jutting my chin out like an utter idiot as my first trick. After that I firmly planted my tongue against the back of my teeth. 

Then, I waited for the already-over-it photographer to take my first ever decent school picture. 

He snapped once, checked out his work, and then shook his head, disapprovingly. 

“Your glasses are creating a huge glare. It’s going to feel weird, but I need you to put your head down, look up, and stick your chin out by straining your neck forward.”

I almost just said, “Actually I’ll just take the glare”, but I did what I was told like a good teacher.

Want to know what it looks like when you  are jutting your chin down, but out, as you look up, expectantly, all the while holding in a gnarly fart?

Well, this is what that looks like:


HOW YOU DOIN

I give up trying to take a decent school pic. 

My eyes still look beady and my forehead looks six inches tall.

I look like I’m 12 years old. 

I look like I have a naughty secret. 

I look like I’m holding in a fart (well, I guess I really was). 

I’m so excited that this will be included in the school’s teacher and faculty photo page for everyone at school to see. So excited.

Well, now the whole world (at least my followers) get to see it first. 

Today I got some mini stickers, so I can share my derp face with family and friends. 

Oy vey. 

Flashback Frightday

Yesterday, I shared some old pictures of when I went to Washington D.C. in the 8th grade with my students. Among the images of famous landmarks and monuments, were a couple pictures of me. I was not prepared for their responses to my awkward 13-year-old self. I mean, I knew I had some serious Mom jean action going on, but damn, kids can be brutally…honest. 

Some of their responses/reactions:

1. Open-mouthed shock 

2. “Why are your jeans so tight at the bottom, but baggy?”

3. Snickering 

4. Why is your hair so pouffy? 

5. Which one is you? 

6. “Your face isn’t red like that anymore. Good job, Ms. P.!”

7. Why are you matching? 

8. Whispering

9. “Why do your eyebrows look so different?”

10. “Are you missing teeth?”

Jerks. Wow. Payback will be in the form of zit-covered-too-big-for-their-face-teeth-adolescence. Don’t say you weren’t warned, little darlings. 

Is it really that bad? Yeah, yeah it is. Woof.

Food Naughty

 

Image courtesy of minimoi.com

 
Hello, Readers! My latest post is up on Shopper Lottie! If you so desire, check it out, and let me know what you think of it on Shopper Lottie! I can’t fully express enough how appreciative I feel and blessed I am for the people who take time out of their days to read what I have to say. It’s the best part of being a blogger-the awesome people you meet and the positive connections you make. Feeling very excited heading into 2016! 

8 Awkward Things That Happen When You’re Being Food Naughty 

Image courtesy of Buzzfeed

 

FrankĀ 

It’s funny how the littlest thing can trigger vivid, and super random memories.  Obviously, this leads to the desire to write, because all writers must take advantage of inspiration wherever they can find it. We are resourceful like that. 

Socks. Socks are what made me remember a really ridiculous incident in my past, involving my first boyfriend’s dad, a pair of knee high socks, and Frank. 

We were sitting in a meeting, in a fellow teacher’s room, and I noticed she had old men’s socks on all the desks. What a super ingenious idea for white board erasers! I just hope they didn’t happen to be my dad’s old socks that found their way to the thrift stores. Now that he’s older, his feet have a certain funk about them. Subjecting children to his old socks would, quite possibly, be considered child abuse *shudders*.

I digress. Let me get back to my random story about socks, my ex’s dad, and Frank. 

So, before I can even get into the interesting part, I have to let you know that my brother would steal all of our dad’s socks, because taking from Dad’s neat and tidy drawer was a lot easier than searching through the abyss that was my brother’s disgusting pit of a room. 

Obviously, my dad grew very tired of never having socks to wear because his teenage son had decided that he’d help himself. So, my mom bought two big bags of socks, one for my dad and one for my brother. To eliminate the possibility of my brother stealing Dad’s socks, my mom wrote his name on them. All of them. In big, bold, capital letters. She got bored during the branding of my father’s socks, because she started writing random names, like, “Bob”, “Herb”, or…”Frank”. 

She thought she was a genius, and quite hilarious too. My brother wouldn’t be caught dead at school with named socks, so all was calm in the world of Hanes for awhile (I’m not sure how my dad felt about wearing socks that said, “Herbert” on them, but it had to be better than having none at all!)

But, what they didn’t know, was that there was another sock thief in the house. I loved my dad’s socks, because it was all the rage to wear long white socks up to your knees. God knows why this was considered fashionable. At one time mullets had their day in the sun, so weird things do occur in the world of fashion. 

The best part about this whole sock fiasco was that no one suspected me. No one. That was until I almost, single-handedly, caused the divorce of my boyfriend’s parents. Oops. 

I spent a lot of time at my boyfriend’s house. His parents had a surprise, later in life, in the form of a bright-eyed baby girl, named Emma*. I loved her so much. I loved to feed her. Dress her. Smell her sweet curls. She was like the baby sister I never got. I’m fairly certain I didn’t date Joe Blow** for him, but so I could see his sister. I’m totally not sorry.

Well, because I practically lived at his house, I would frequently leave items or articles of clothing at his house. No, I wasn’t some ho bag, his sister loved to spit up on me. We were basically teen parents. 

One afternoon, after hanging out in my boyfriend’s room, watching TV (really, we were), I decided to get some Pepsi. I bee bopped into the living room, and there was his big, scary dad sitting on the couch. I often did everything in my power to avoid this man. He looked almost exactly like Fred Flinstone, only he had the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger, in his heyday. He was scary. 

As I passed him, with my head down, eyes averted, I happened to notice, from the corner of my eye, his socks. They were long, white, and almost went over his knees. They also said, “Frank”. 

OMFG. He was wearing my socks. I was in full-on panic mode. He obviously didn’t notice he was wearing socks that named another man. Well, not yet. 

As I passed him again, to get back to the room, I did everything in my power to not look at the socks. But, like a trainwreck, I couldn’t not look. I was gawking, staring, mouth gaped, as I walked by. He took notice of me, looked at me like I was mentally challenged, and then turned back to the TV. 

Once safely back in the bedroom, my heart was pounding, but something was rising from deep inside. The sight of that bull-moose-of-a-man wearing my dad’s socks, named, “Frank” was too much. Also, my immature sense of humor starting getting the best of me. He doesn’t know. He’s sitting there, like a tool, with “Frank” on his foot. What a noob. 

I lost it. I could not stop laughing. Obviously, he heard me, and put together my gawking, like 2 + 2, and all I hear is, “Wilma!!!!!!” 

How does one explain to an incredibly irate man how his socks came to have another man’s name on them? Obviously, I had to jump in and explain the whole ridiculous story. I think, after that, he considered me mentally deranged, and that’s why he never uttered another syllable to me, unless forced. 

At least he wasn’t into wearing women’s underwear. It could always be worse. That would have been so much worse. 

*Not really her name 

**Obviously, not his name 

  
15 year-old glamour model. These are the actual socks from the story. Well, maybe they are. They could be, and that’s what makes this picture so amazing. That, and my eyebrows on fleek #didntowntweezers

Save ItĀ 

Oversharing. Just don’t do it. Unless you’re my close friend, I don’t need to know that your smoothie gave you the runs all day. I don’t want to try to fake concern while you are cleaning my teeth. With your hands. Gloves or not, I don’t care to be reminded that my dental hygienist was recently wiping their butt. Especially when it involved diarrhea. Just no. NO. 

I was just at the grocery store and the cashier was going through the whole rigamarole of small talk: “How’s your week going? Anything fun planned for this weekend? What are ya eating for dinner tonight? You gonna eat these Spaghettios?” Just say ‘hello’, alright? I hate awkward small talk. 

I swear this chick only wanted to ask me how my day was so that she could unload on me. When I asked her how her day was, she said, “I started dry heaving last night”. 

Full fucking stop. 

Excuse me? 

I wanted to just bail, to leave my Spaghettios and moscato and block of cheese right fucking there. 

Do not touch things that will be going in or around my mouth while telling me about you dry heaving. DO NOT. 

Why? Just why? 

I think she continued barfing up her whole horrible story about how long she puked and what color it was, but I just tuned it out, hoping the ground would swallow me whole. 

Newsflash for anyone not aware: NO ONE wants to hear details about your puking. Not no one. 

Now, when it comes to my close friends, it’s different. Much, much different. I don’t care if you tell me about how your quinoa hasn’t digested and it keeps making reappearances, or how when you farted in your car, yesterday, you had to pull over and evacuate. No. I love these stories. It’s incredibly amusing to laugh at my friend’s misfortunes. 

It’s just different. 

I also hate when cashiers, or just crazy people, sitting by you in the DMV, confuse you for their therapist. I have enough stress and drama in my own life, I don’t need to know how Bubba screwed your cousin Tammy Lynn at your wedding reception at Dave & Buster’s. What are normal-leave-me-alone people supposed to say to that? When I have to respond, I usually deer-in-headlights- sputter, “Oh, my phone is ringing” and then run for the hills. 

People, randoms don’t care as much as you delusionally think they do, hate to break it to you. If your response to, “How are you?” involves a story about bowel movements and/or incest, save it, mmkay? 

Awkward Moment #3

That awkward moment when you come face to face with your fat foe at the hair salon. Your hair stylist can’t put the cape on quick enough. 

I know I have extra fat in the way my pants groan when I squeeze them on, and when I’m asked how far along I am by complete strangers. I get it. I know. 

The absolute worst reminder you’re fat is when in the seated position in front of a mirror. Maybe I’m out of practice with sitting in front of mirrors, but it’s always a huge surprise when I sit in the hot seat at the salon. I guess I forget the extent at which I’m fat. My thought process, when faced with this fabulous reminder, usually goes something like this: 

Before leaving for the salon:

I need to wear something that sucks all of my fat in, but is also flowy. Something that doesn’t cling to every crevice and stretch mark. It also has to be something I don’t care too much about, in case I get dye on it. Do I have something like that? No, of course I don’t, you fool. If I did, all of my fat problems would be solved. 

I guess it’s the leggings I yank up to my boobs, a layering tank, and a moo moo. It’s stylish, it has chevron print *sigh*

At the salon, upon sitting in the hot seat: 

Just don’t look, the cape is coming soon. Just don’t look. 

Jesus. 

I looked. 

How is it possible my body spreads out like Jabba the Hutt upon sitting? Where is all of this fat when I’m standing? It must go where my boobs jet off to when I lay on my back. Backstabbing, bitch body. 

Where is the damn cape that hides all of this? Where is the cape? Where is it? The cape! Gah. I can’t avert my eyes anymore. Put.On.The.Cape. 

Oh, here it comes. It’s like a long-lost Blanket of Denial. It feels good. It feels right.

The entire time my hair is getting done, I forget what is under the cape.

 I look fabulous in a capeI wonder if I could start a new fashion trend. Fellow fat ladies would love me. I could call it “The Cape of Denial”. It would be very forward and en vogue. 

When my hair is done: 

My hair says, “I’m sexy. I’m unstoppable. I’m fucking fierce”. My body says, “I like long walks to the refrigerator and I’ve given up”. My hair is gorg. At least I have my hair.

That’s usually how I self-soothe, the “At least” thought pattern. At least I can still see my vagina. At least I have pretty eyes. At least I usually know how to dress my fat. At least.

The struggle. 

Awkward Moment #1

  
That awkward moment you are attempting to sit on a stool at the cupcake shop, you shouldn’t be at, and the bastard feels very, very untrustworthy. After coming too close to breaking a chair made out of metal, at a cupcakery, it’s only necessary to swear your friends to utter secrecy. You take it one step further by threatening bodily harm if your secret gets out. You didn’t break the chair, but in the “fat world” almost breaking it is just as damn bad. 

The next realization you have is that if you didn’t feel it necessary to suggest cupcakes right after eating an entire meal (as if that wasn’t satisfying enough), you wouldn’t be in the predicament of almost breaking a chair while biting into a massive cupcake adorned with marshmallows, graham cracker crumbs, and chocolate sauce. No one suggesting hikes after lunch break chairs. 

Then, you wonder when it will be that the awkward moments become too frequent and you actually make a change. How many chairs at specialty bakeries does your ass have to dismantle until one is done with the bad choices? 

Awkward Moment #2 happens when you realize, probably never. Because cupcakes. 

  
Shut up, Ryan Gosling, you don’t know me!