I Swear I Don’t Try to Be This Way

Ahhhh…massages. In a perfect world, massages are an über relaxing experience for the body and the mind.

But, when you’re an over-thinker, just because the lights are dim, there’s soft music playing, and you’re laying on a comfy, heated table, doesn’t mean your brain immediately takes a vacation. Usually this is when the brain is most active and alert.

The other day, as I was getting my massage, instead of finding my inner chill and namaste and all that other impossible-to-do-when-you’re-neurotic relaxation crap, I was instead obsessing over the fact that I forgot to shave my toes.

How could I have forgotten that those bristly bastards had gotten so out of control they were poking through my socks?

What else did I forget?



Did I wear my Limburger cheese boots without socks again?

Why are you the way that you are, dude?

They’re just really easy to slip on…

I’m forgetful.

I’m an asshole.

I’m sorry.

As my massage therapist worked closer and closer to my porcupine stubs, I reflected on all of the other things that I obsess/worry/think about before, during, and after a massage:

1. Did I shave everywhere? Like, what if an extra long downstairs hair pops out while she’s doing my thigh? Ugh. I’m basically Robin Williams’ knuckles.

2. For some reason, whenever it’s my monthly massage time, my body thinks it’s fart go-time. I probably am doing irreparable damage with all of the clenching I’m doing.

3. OMG. Can she tell I’m holding in a fart?

4. I always forget to have my boyfriend check for back decor. So, it’s almost 100% certain that at every massage I’ve ever gone to, I have some ugly, one-eyed puss monster that the lucky lady who has to touch me gets to rub over. *shudders*

5. I wonder if she notices how bloated I am this month? Bloated? Self, she knows you’re fat. She literally kneads your fat like bread dough. Never does she think you’re just “bloated”.

6. What does she think about as she’s rubbing my fat ankles and calloused feet? Does she think about having to hold down her lunch or is she mentally making her grocery list?

7. Do other people forget to shave their toes? Do other people even have to shave their toes?

So, now I feel the need to apologize to my massage therapist. I’m sorry that sometimes my body is prickly in random places and that my stomach sometimes sounds like a koala’s mating call. I swear I don’t try to be this way.

Anyone else feel like this during a massage or am I just insane?

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?)


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:


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. 

Why Salad Sucks

Actually, I will be referring to vegetable trays in particular, but it might as well be called ‘salad’. Besides, “salad sucks” is just fucking poetic.

So, last night I volunteered to bring a vegetable tray to a student art exhibit at a local coffee shop. One of my student’s art pieces was featured, and the coffee shop in question has amazing chai. No, I did not only go for the syrupy, cinnamon-y sweet chai. Well, kinda I did. Sorry not sorry.


I picked up a tray at a local grocery store, because ain’t nobody have time to wash and cup up numerous kinds of vegetables (except my mom. She will spend hours preparing a beautiful vegetable tray that just gets decimated in minutes. No thanks).

I was careful to choose the prettiest, freshest looking tray that wasn’t $1,000.

When I arrived at the coffee shop, our beautiful, sweet, thoughtful art teacher gratefully accepted my store-bought tray of health and placed it on the counter.

At this point, I went to get my chai. While I stood waiting, our school dean came in. As we stood making small talk, I suddenly smelled ass. Like, rotten-pumpkin-left-in-a-hot-dumpster-ass.

OMIGAWD. The dean just cut ass right next to me.

It’s permeating my delicate, virgin nostril skin.

It burns.

It was so bad, I had to move away, using the excuse that you have to pick your drink up on the far opposite side of the room.

But, the smell was over there, too. For a moment, I was worried maybe he had had an accident. I was momentarily quite embarrassed for him.

Wait, the smell is worse over here. So, much worse *gag*. It is worse over here, by.the.tray.

My $100 vegetable tray smelled like hot farts.

I looked around at the others in the room. Could they smell it?

Of course they could fucking smell it, you noob. Someone with no sense of fucking smell could smell it. 

I was immediately self-conscious.

People are judging me. The art teacher is judging me. She is thinking, “Why would this idiot girl bring the smell of death into my event?”

Then, I couldn’t decide what to do. From the other side of the room, with my nose inside my shirt, I tried to decipher if the vegetables were rotting. From feet away, they looked fine. Perfectly fine. Right?

I contemplated asking the art teacher if she noticed the fart smell, and if she thought everything was a-OK, but I was feeling incredibly self-conscious. I wanted to continue pretending that my vegetables were not enveloping the fresh air in the room with the smell of dying asshole.

Eventually, the smell dissipated and surprisingly, the veggie tray was eaten completely.

Then, I freaked.

What if it was bad? What if people died? What if it’s my fault?

When I got home, I messaged the art teacher and asked her if she smelled farts. She thought I was silly, and said the vegetables tasted great.

Still, I spent an hour googling, “Is broccoli supposed to smell like farts?”

Cupcakes would never have smelled like farts. Never.



When You Know You Need a Vacation

Image courtesy Buzzfeed
Yesterday, I got a new student. He’s a spunky, sweet kid from the south. I am sure he will be a wonderful addition to our classroom. As for his opinion of me? I am going to have to be extra awesome-teacher for the next few days, let’s just put it that way.

When you get a new student, it behooves any good teacher to make a great first impression. I made sure we got all of our dedicated brain breaks throughout the day-“Hey, this is a really fun classroom-we get to do a YMCA kids Just Dance video between math and reading?!”. I made sure to emphasize the positive reward system and incentives-“If I make good decisions, I get to eat lunch with the teacher? Baller status!” I made sure my students really showed what they have been learning about ancient Rome-“Wow! They know so much about an ancient civilization. I want to be like these kids!”

After that, it all went downhill. Clark Griswold-sledding-like-a-fool-downhill-like.

Every day, I do a read-aloud about our social studies topic. In the middle of reading about Julius Caesar’s ultimate demise, someone farted.

I know, I know. What the hell is it with farts? I know.

I have always been excellent at ignoring fluffs. If you don’t, you lose instruction time, there is the potential for embarrassing the culprit, and it is just not good role model behavior. This year, however, farts have become exponentially funnier. I don’t know why.

But, I am a freaking human, alright?

I could feel it building inside. I tried to ignore it. I tried to focus on Brutus killing Caesar, “Et tu, Brute” and all that.

There wasn’t a single laugh or even any acknowledgement that it had happened.

But…it went “Bloop”.


I couldn’t hold it in. I started laughing. I didn’t dare look at anyone. Maybe it would stop. I kept my face behind the book.

Reading…long pause…expectant re-positioning. Silent laughing. More reading. Longer pause. Not-so-silent laughing. 

Fuck. I cannot believe this is happening to me. AGAIN.


I can’t.

Because, it went “bloop”.


At this point, I am too far gone. You know when you are not supposed to laugh? During funerals? When someone is telling you something sad? When you are getting bad news of some sort? But, someone told you a joke before the bad news and you are still laughing, or the person talking to you has a crusty booger and you just can’t even?

It was like that. I knew I shouldn’t laugh and so, that is precisely when I can’t control laughing. 

My best friend in high school will relate, because we were the most hated students in Ms. Gibb’s class. We had laughing fits, on a daily basis, over stupid shit, like Ms. Gibb’s flock of seagulls hair. Once we started, we could.not.stop.

It was like that as my poor students sat, wide-eyed, watching their demented teacher lose her shit.

A few brave souls attempted apprehensive, “hehe’s”.

One student said, monotone, teacherly, “Are you OK, Ms. P?”

No. I was not OK.

Eventually, I did collect myself and we carried on, but not until we discussed why I was laughing. I was not laughing at the person who farted. We went over that it is a natural bodily function that is funny. Right?

The same student who asked if I was done losing my shit said, “Ms. P, that wasn’t even a fart, that was my shoe…”


What an excellent first impression for my new student. Teacher of the year right here.

Image courtesy of wm-n.glb.shawcable.net
Image courtesy of housetalkn.com

Yoga Farts

Guys, don’t go to yoga when you have gas. It’s a really, really bad idea. Also, it’s nearly impossible to meditate when you are trying really hard to hold in air that desperately wants out. I know this is graphic, and somewhat crude, but it’s real life.

Last night I attended a reiki yin yoga session. After dinner. After lunchtime sushi. After cereal with milk. It truly was a recipe for disaster. I should have told my friend I couldn’t go because I needed to sit on the couch and fart all night. Instead, I thought it would be fine, the gas would go away, and it would be all zen and Namaste.

Not only did I have horrible gas, I also had acid reflux in a major way. Nothing says ‘you’re 32’ like regretting you didn’t eat 10 Tums before physical exertion. Remember Jeff Foxworthy’s, “You Might Be a Redneck…” routine? I totally need to make a ton of memes with, “You Might Be In Your 30’s If…”.

Some examples would be:

You might be in your 30’s if you actually consider buying Dr. Scholl’s, because they look comfortable. Instead, you buy the really stylish shoes, and are rewarded with your first corn. 

You might be in your 30’s if you catch yourself mentally chastising young’ins and their inappropriate fashion choices. 

You might be in your 30’s if prepping for a big night of drinking means steering clear of greens all day and popping Prilosec like its the end of days. 

You might be in your 30’s if you constantly tell yourself you need to get your shit together, but you still buy the purse you can barely afford. Because purses. 

You might be in your 30’s if the thought of going home to watch The Office reruns in your fat pants genuinely gets you through your day. 

So, after I’m made rich with all of the tee shirt royalties and jazz, I’ll create an anti-gas pill that actually fucking works.

Not only was I trying not to throw up stomach acid the entire yoga session, my stomach was making obnoxious gas noises. Quite audibly. Even worse, this yoga session was a reiki one. Reiki basically means the instructor comes around and puts their hands on you. I think it’s so you can feel their warmth or something. I’ll have to do further research, obviously.

Well, when she got to me, my bowel party was in full swing. The room was quiet, except for my intestines. They were gurgling, rolling, squeaking, and popping. I knew she could hear it. People in the next state over could hear it. I actually had to flex my toes to keep it in. Instead of going to my happy place, I kept imagining the absolute nightmare it would be if I relaxed and let it go. It would obviously be a silent, but deadly bastard. I would be able to count the seconds until it reached her. She would recoil, and I would promptly die. There is no coming back from farting on your yoga instructor.

In ending, I will not be attending yoga when I have gas. Because I have gas basically everyday, I’m in real trouble.

I have to know, people, do you toot at yoga? What is your method? Please tell me your strategy, as I desperately, painfully need to know.

Bloatedly Yours,


 My absolute favorite ecard of all time.