2004: Beauty School Dropout

Drop it like it’s hot… Drop it like it’s hoott. When the pimp’s in the crib ma…When the pigs try to get at ya…And if a n… Even while quoting Snoop Dogg – it makes me uncomfortable. Completely irrelevant to my white-girl, suburban living self in 2004 – I loved that song and not to brag but I would pretend-to-know-the-words-mumble-rap better than the next guy. I’d turn up the bass in Prancer, my silver Mitsubishi Lancer and evaluate my surroundings – who thinks I’m a bad ass? You- in the Jeep? 

By the end of that year, I was officially a beauty school dropout. Not the proudest fact I have about my past but it does hold a level of, what-the-fuck-ever humor. Anyone who can handle the pressure of altering someone’s entire appearance, because that’s what hair does, while being forced to hold an, at least somewhat, sincere conversation while doing so – seriously, kudos to you.

The real reason I quit?

I couldn’t handle old lady feet in my face while trying to pass the nail portion of cosmetology. Did you know that students, and I’m sure salon workers who have the displeasure of feet-in-face work, put smelling oils under their noses?

Me: Why can’t I just learn hair? I’ll deal with skin – but I’d like a build-your-own curriculum where I can just skip nails altogether. 

Administration: No.

Being a habitual quitter my whole life, there were zero fucks given. I couldn’t do it, so logically I just quit. Ten plus years later, older and obviously so much wiser… the only real reason I regret the abrupt decision is strictly financial. I’m not passionate about hair and makeup or making stinky feet pretty.

Big Picture? I regret making a habit out of giving up and simply not caring enough, so I’m trying my best to give a shit more often nowadays.

Sometimes inspiration falls into my lap on the regular, sometimes it needs to be found. The single-word prompt staring at me this morning was Drop. The first thought that entered my head was a lemon drop martini – the second was when I dropped my newborn baby.

[Disclaimer: Those two ideas are in no way related and no babies were inured]

There were a few other contenders that came to mind when I forced myself to take on the prompt: mic drop, drop the beat, Drop Dead Fred; classic movie, tear drops, football fumbles, drop it like it’s hot, beauty school dropout – and there it was.

Let’s be honest, if I only write when the inspiration slaps me – I’ll post nothing but Bernie Sanders and other political rants for the next eight months. See ya tomorrow for the second attempt at PostADay.

Awkward.

 

How different growing up would have been had I known that awkward could be an asset. More often than not I was the kid standing in a group, pretending to know what’s going on.

I was, and still am, an overly-excessively-insanely-analytical person; it’s easy to get wrapped up in one particular moment while life goes on around you. Quickly, the state of mind changes when you wake up from your thoughts and see one, two or three people waiting impatiently for a reaction to something you 100% missed while off in analytical-la-la land.

The overthinking shenanigans is where I believe the awkward roots planted themselves deep within me.

There is a logical explanation as to why my father’s mantle of pictures include my younger sister’s tennis photo, my brother’s football picture, my older sister’s cheerleading picture… and my prom picture.

I tried lots of sports, but as soon as they made me run, which was always before the team photos, I’d quit. I joined track thinking I could just do the shot-put. I joined swimming… and they still made me run. Had I put forth the effort I probably could have been at least decent at something. Growing up awkward I was consumed by opinions of others. What happens when the clumsy girl totally fucks it all up?

So, instead of trying I silently willed and chanted:

please don’t come to me

please don’t come to me

please don’t come to me

please don’t come to me

please don’t come to me

…Whenever there was a chance I’d have to participate.

Don’t get me started about running a mile in gym class, or the standardized physical fitness testing. Yes, I did awkwardly hang on the pull-up bar and climbing rope and no, I did not even try.

mindy
Proof that Mindy Kahling is my awkward soul sister.

Everyone goes through an awkward stage (or three) and others just have awkward woven into their genes. The perks of those come later in life, after you’ve had the chance to outgrow the inner thoughts that lead you to believe every person is harshly critical and making note of every last flaw.

I learned while trying to figure out adulthood that inappropriate wit and quick comebacks have the power to turn awkward from weird to likable. I have grown into this mess of weird thoughts and klutzy movements. The best part is that my decent amount of awkward tendencies no longer make me uncomfortable. I want to over analyze. I want to stare at people all weird and wonder how I can incorporate them into a story. Lacking a filter, unapologetically, is something I’d like to stick around well into my 90’s.

I’ve been scribbling down and compiling my most embarrassing, outlandish awkward memories and realized my school days, and even my thirty-somethings are a giant compilation of, That-Awkward-Moment-When memes.

Stories for days.

book cover
Awkward: A Memoir – Coming Soon

 

 

 

 

Daily Post Prompt: Toot Your Horn: Most of us are excellent at being self-deprecating, and are not so good at the opposite. Tell us your favorite thing about yourself.

A-Cup: The Struggle Is Real

I remember asking my mom if I could get a bra, knowing very well it was not necessary and only because all my friends actually needed them. Most young girls are probably embarrassed to ask because they’re weirded out by their new body; I was embarrassed because I didn’t want to get called out on my want for breasts.

Eventually I was able to comfortably fill an Almost A-Cup from JCPenney’s. Since a boob job is unacceptable and unattainable to a 14 year old, I had a plan: gain a bunch of weight, get really fat – then I’ll have boobs.

When I got pregnant one thing I was looking forward to, obviously, was having some real woman tits. I’d waited 22 years for this moment. They will produce milk and grow because that’s what happens to everyone… right?

No.

It does not happen to everyone. It ended up on a list of concerns to talk to the doctor about, not because I thought it was a health concern or affecting my baby, I just felt gypped. For Christ’s sake, I just want to know what it’s like to have cleavage.

Some women do not produce the majority of their breast milk until they’ve given birth. Don’t worry. -My Doctor.

I ended up formula feeding… with a flat chest.

Nowadays, I’m mostly concerned with finding clothes that fit my confused body. I’m not picky – I just want my attire to accommodate me. Just because I lack upstairs doesn’t mean my ass is flat or my hips are nonexistent. I need a dress created that fits as a medium on top and a large on the bottom. Maybe a whole store can be established called, Flat & Wide. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about my lower half, I’m perfectly content having an ample hindquarters.

Someday I’ll get a boob job, bucket list item #11. Until then, I’ll keep falsely advertising with my padded bras and trick everyone into thinking I’m a solid B cup.


DAILY PROMPT: KICK IT – WHAT’S THE 11TH ITEM ON YOUR BUCKET LIST?

More Food Less Flowers

Most people females would be delighted at the sight of a huge bouquet of flowers awaiting their arrival.

Surprise!

They’d pick them up and proceed to bury their face into the overgrown blossoming buds, take an exaggerated whiff and end the transaction with a soft, pleasant smile. Me? I’d stand about 5 feet away, one eyebrow arched and wonder who they are supposed to be for; Brandin wouldn’t do that.

My husband enjoys the instant gratification of handing me flowers, besides… I’m not super keen on them. I’d rather have food; he knows snacks and treats are better than a bunch of flowers that are going to die (mostly because after the initial feeding of the white powder, I’ll never water them again). Worse yet, they’ll die and stay put in the vase longer than they should.

Food is just better.

These flowers, wildflowers, tulips, roses (which I dislike most of all)…however you’d like to picture them: go imagination crazy. There’s no card. No explanation of who they could be from or for?  I have to assume this hypothetical bouquet was left by mistake. If you’re leaving flowers with no correspondence attached, they are fair game…

…so, I’d take them and enjoy them.

The unfortunate thing is, every time I looked at them I’d wonder if some guy is bitter that his lady friend didn’t guess they were from him. He’s probably not wanting to mention it to the intended recipient in fear of coming across like a complete douchebag.

So, uh… you never said anything about the flowers.

Obviously it wasn’t done for the recognition – otherwise he would have left a card or hand delivered them! Who just leaves a bouquet of flowers sitting out with no direction? Seriously…what an idiot.

Later, in this hypothetical day I’m having, my husband would come home from work and I’d begin spouting off about what kind of a person leaves flowers with no card? I’d go on and on and on until he couldn’t take it anymore.

Then, I’d apologize because they were indeed from my husband and I ruined yet another surprise.

That is the story of our married life.


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Secret Admirers.”

[You return home to discover a huge flower bouquet waiting for you, no card attached. Who is it from — and why did they send it to you?]