got tan?
I got a spray on tan yesterday.
I look just like Jennifer Aniston fercrisake, but fatter, and apart from looking nothing like her at all, I also look a lot less, you know, *draws circles around ear with index finger*.
My diary is pretty sad (but let's go with calling it, 'introspective', okay?) so you could go postal in there and not even find a social event throwing itself onto the floor, much less find one standing proud and ripe for a potshot, but this weekend? Two weddings. Two. God.
I barely have enough clothes when I'm NOT pregnant to fulfil these social obligations, so now we're looking at my personal rendition of 'Impossible Dream'. Hence the tan. I look so fucking Malibu Barbie, that it won't matter for shit what I'm wearing.
Ooh! Which brings me to a mother story.
Tonight is the wedding we're both going to, and after clearing the ensemble with the groom's mother ('Perfect!'), the plan is to wear a long black top with spaghetti straps over a (if I can still squeeze into it) long black skirt with splits on either side. Sling a low belt under the weebs, fight my way into a pair of strappy black sandals and wullah! I'm fit fora night dancing in a cage! Or a funeral (which, given my ideas on marriage...*ahem*) the beach, which is where the ceremony is taking place.
Mum has, in the meantime, brought some of her old clothes for me. You know, to hang around the house is (She's done this as long as I can remember. I kind of have ample shit to hang around in, so this logic never computes with me. Personally, I think she's a Munchausens By Proxy hoarder) . She'd thrown in two new items, sans tags, but thinking they were mum's cast offs too, I politely declined as they are SO not anything I'd ever wear, not even if I was flying high on PCP. She's done this my whole life too though, bought things for me which are her style, her size, her everything. Once when I was like, 35 kilos, she bought me a pair of size 12 Moschino jeans, so of course, she ended up wearing them. (Aha! The Grande Planne) I honestly believe she believes she's buying things for me, but because I'm 'so difficult to buy for' (read: an ingrate) she gets them. Her piece de resistance was the 'what do you want for your birthday darling*' incident, which was followed closely by the 'I looked at what you wanted, but I didn't like it, so I bought you this. Happy Birthday!' incident. 'This', by the way, was a gold rope necklace worthy of Mr T, when I'd expressly said 'a bracelet please ma, because I don't wear necklaces'.
But I digress.
These two items? 'Cost me $275 and I bought them for you!!' . Also, 'You want to wear something nice to the wedding!!' and 'Why don't you ever wear lipstick?!!'. Yes, most of what she says involves at least two exclamation marks.
I was with her for one hour, and in that time, collated enough data to keep my psychiatrist interested for years, and that's without mentioning the part when my sister-in-law answered the door, or the bit where my brother came home.
Does anyone else think throwing myself off a cliff is a logical solution?
Mum is staying with my brother. She thinks for a night or two, I want to say she's not stepping foot in my home. Anyway, I knocked on the door yesterday, and my sister-in-law answered with a curious 'yes...?'.
She didn't recognise me. Sure, my middle bits are bigger than ever, but good grief. What kind of shit is that? Oh, I'm not offended, hurt or precious about it or anything. It's fucking hilarious. I had to tell my own SIL who I was. Bwah!
Then, while I was counting to ten for the seventeenth time, my brother came home, smiled (or curled his lip in a represenatation of what a smile could look like), and made some gesture with his hands indicating soething about having a big belly, and I had no idea what to say or do, so I panicked and said very little. I'm intimidated by him, but I still should've been more polite. When he left the room, I said something to that effect to mum, who said 'Well, you weren't very nice to him'. No, I wasn't, and I felt bad about it. In retrospect though, and not that his bad behaviour justifies mine, but ten seconds of my blind panic hardly eclipse his twenty years of ill treatment of me.
*shut up, part deux
I look just like Jennifer Aniston fercrisake, but fatter, and apart from looking nothing like her at all, I also look a lot less, you know, *draws circles around ear with index finger*.
My diary is pretty sad (but let's go with calling it, 'introspective', okay?) so you could go postal in there and not even find a social event throwing itself onto the floor, much less find one standing proud and ripe for a potshot, but this weekend? Two weddings. Two. God.
I barely have enough clothes when I'm NOT pregnant to fulfil these social obligations, so now we're looking at my personal rendition of 'Impossible Dream'. Hence the tan. I look so fucking Malibu Barbie, that it won't matter for shit what I'm wearing.
Ooh! Which brings me to a mother story.
Tonight is the wedding we're both going to, and after clearing the ensemble with the groom's mother ('Perfect!'), the plan is to wear a long black top with spaghetti straps over a (if I can still squeeze into it) long black skirt with splits on either side. Sling a low belt under the weebs, fight my way into a pair of strappy black sandals and wullah! I'm fit for
Mum has, in the meantime, brought some of her old clothes for me. You know, to hang around the house is (She's done this as long as I can remember. I kind of have ample shit to hang around in, so this logic never computes with me. Personally, I think she's a Munchausens By Proxy hoarder) . She'd thrown in two new items, sans tags, but thinking they were mum's cast offs too, I politely declined as they are SO not anything I'd ever wear, not even if I was flying high on PCP. She's done this my whole life too though, bought things for me which are her style, her size, her everything. Once when I was like, 35 kilos, she bought me a pair of size 12 Moschino jeans, so of course, she ended up wearing them. (Aha! The Grande Planne) I honestly believe she believes she's buying things for me, but because I'm 'so difficult to buy for' (read: an ingrate) she gets them. Her piece de resistance was the 'what do you want for your birthday darling*' incident, which was followed closely by the 'I looked at what you wanted, but I didn't like it, so I bought you this. Happy Birthday!' incident. 'This', by the way, was a gold rope necklace worthy of Mr T, when I'd expressly said 'a bracelet please ma, because I don't wear necklaces'.
But I digress.
These two items? 'Cost me $275 and I bought them for you!!' . Also, 'You want to wear something nice to the wedding!!' and 'Why don't you ever wear lipstick?!!'. Yes, most of what she says involves at least two exclamation marks.
I was with her for one hour, and in that time, collated enough data to keep my psychiatrist interested for years, and that's without mentioning the part when my sister-in-law answered the door, or the bit where my brother came home.
Does anyone else think throwing myself off a cliff is a logical solution?
Mum is staying with my brother. She thinks for a night or two, I want to say she's not stepping foot in my home. Anyway, I knocked on the door yesterday, and my sister-in-law answered with a curious 'yes...?'.
She didn't recognise me. Sure, my middle bits are bigger than ever, but good grief. What kind of shit is that? Oh, I'm not offended, hurt or precious about it or anything. It's fucking hilarious. I had to tell my own SIL who I was. Bwah!
Then, while I was counting to ten for the seventeenth time, my brother came home, smiled (or curled his lip in a represenatation of what a smile could look like), and made some gesture with his hands indicating soething about having a big belly, and I had no idea what to say or do, so I panicked and said very little. I'm intimidated by him, but I still should've been more polite. When he left the room, I said something to that effect to mum, who said 'Well, you weren't very nice to him'. No, I wasn't, and I felt bad about it. In retrospect though, and not that his bad behaviour justifies mine, but ten seconds of my blind panic hardly eclipse his twenty years of ill treatment of me.
*shut up, part deux
posted by aibee at 09:36
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