Postmaster Funk

It has recently come to my attention that I’ve still got it. You know, that certain little something that can occasionally get you attention at the bar? Boobs, I’ve heard it called. I’m just kidding of course! Due to the magnitude of my belly, my boobs are rarely given their due these days.

Anyway, the point is that the siren song of the chubby and rapidly aging stay at home mother in her only good shirt and an underwire bra is one that never, ever goes out of style.

How did I come to this realization?

Allow me to set the scene. It all began when I went out with my beautiful and amazing friend for her birthday…

As I was sitting next to the witty and vivacious birthday girl sipping my drink, someone on the dance floor caught my eye.

He was tall, aggressively bald, and extremely large. Being a chubby lady myself, I’m not one to harp on size . However, to paint the proper mental picture, it must be said that this man weighed 400 lbs at the minimum and was the sort of big that is perfectly round rather than flabby. Dressed in a blue short sleeved button down shirt and black slacks, his outfit gave the unfortunate impression of a giant mailman, as my best friend’s brother hilariously pointed out.

This giant mailman and his diminutive, fresh to death, majestically-honed-facial-hair having friend, were dancing with abandon in the middle of the floor. It was a performance that I considered to be a perfect mixture of just having fun and self deprecation.

“Postmaster Funk” and his partner were pulling out some major hip hop moves and there was even a bulky man’s version of break dancing thrown in the mix that involved rolling around on the floor a bit.

When they sat down near me afterward and I couldn’t resist leaning over and say/yelling, “That’s the best dancing I’ve seen all night!”

Had I only known that I was setting into motion not only the confirmation of my remaining mojo, but also a distinctly upsetting turn of events.

The music was good, the company was better, and I was shaking it like a Polaroid picture with one of my favorite people in the entire world. As I shook, I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye.

He was gliding around the dance floor like a giant human pirate ship, his shiny round head acting as a sort of flesh colored version of a jolly roger, marking his approach and striking fear into the hearts of the other vessels (aka ME), he had in his sights. I didn’t stand a chance, I was just a sitting duck floating out there in the middle of the dance floor, waiting to be picked off.

I don’t make a habit of dancing with men other than my husband. It’s just weird and awkward. However, as the “Good Ship Mailman” approached, signaling its intention of cutting a rug with me, I saw it not as an advance but as a sign of friendly recognition of our mutual appreciation of comedic dance.

Thus, we boogied down, me doing my hilariously bad version of hip hop dancing, and him doing his hilariously bad version of break dancing. I was busting out moves that should really never be busted, having a grand old time making a complete ass out of myself. At a certain point, I was even doing the running man, which isn’t easy for a lady of my proportions.

Yes, we were all having a great time.

That is, until I happened to glance over to the side of the dance floor. There stood “Fresh to Death”, his iPhone clutched in his elfin hand. He was recording our appalling dancing. He was RECORDING IT!!!

As I stared at him in dawning horror, I felt a looming warmth at my back. A giant peach colored paw appeared from behind me and wrapped around my ample middle, dragging me towards the repulsive dewiness of the man it was attached to.

Oh dear God, no. No, no, no, no, no!!!!!!!!!

This gentleman was no gentleman! He was attempting to… And believe me, I’m sorry to subject my dear readers to such filth… But there is no way around it. He was attempting to dirty dance with me. That’s right, he was. And it is forever preserved in the memory chip of a man with a facial hair chinstrap.

My “je ne sais quoi” was validated by the unwanted grind attack of a man twice my age and quadruple my girth, who was attempting to immortalize the whole thing on film. Is there anything sadder?

It is one thing to comedically dance with a 400 lb human pirate ship. It is another thing entirely to end up on YouTube in a video that could only be labeled “Two Fatties Dancing.”

Because of my amazingly quick reflexes (or his amazingly slow ones, it’s hard to say which), I was able to escape his grasp almost immediately and put my hand over the imp’s iPhone like a celebrity on TMZ as I walked off of the dance floor. It was sort of awesome in a way, because when am I going to ever get a chance to be all “indignant celebrity” again, but mostly it was just humiliating.

I ended up dodging the grasp of those peach colored paws at several more intervals during the night with some of my exceedingly fancy footwork. But not before I was forced to endure the snippets of his fairly upsetting life story that he yelled at me across the dance floor and after he followed me to my table. Oh, the curse of irresistible charm!

And that concludes this woeful tale my friends.  I guess if this story had a moral, it would be that just because you see someone dancing badly, it doesn’t mean they’re doing it on purpose.  Beware the husky man dancing!

Have a wonderful week, and may you never have to make a phone call that begins with, “Hey Babe! I just wanted to let you know that I might end up on YouTube…”

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Adventures in Hypochondria

It’s been said before that I’m a little strange. I can’t exactly deny it, but I prefer the term “quirky” because it makes me sound a little less commitable and a little more adorable. For some reason the quirky thing hasn’t caught on, even with my own Mother, who has called me “weird” on more than one occasion.

One of my many adorable little quirks (it is too adorable!) is that I am a little eensy tinsy bit of a hypochondriac. And by “eensy tinsy” I mean that you should never tell me about any malady you or anyone you know has or I might end up with it. In an adorable, definitely not crazy, way.

I realize on a logical level that it’s completely preposterous for me to think I have random exotic illnesses. But logic has never been my strong suit. At various points in my life, I have been so convinced that I had incurable diseases that I was writing very touching goodbye letters to my children in my head. I was also imagining how sad everyone would be when I was dead, and that maybe my family and friends were invited on Oprah to talk about my brave struggle and what an amazing person I was. I’m not really sure why Oprah would decide to take an interest in me after my death, but inside my brain that’s how it works. My funeral, of course, would be full of people dressed in black, weeping and rending their clothes in grief.

For the record, I am not one of those people that wants everyone to “party” at their funeral and have a great time. No, absolutely not. If you have a great time at my funeral, I will roll over in my grave. I will!!! You be sad at my funeral!!! Unbearably sad!!! Mourn me!!! I’ve actually been contemplating the solemn drama of a funeral pyre. But if any of you dares to turn it into some kind of bonfire funeral party, so help me…

Anyway, as a loving tribute to my hypochondria, I have assembled a list of my top ten absurd imagined ailments. Enjoy!

1. Rheumatoid arthritis. In my defense, the origins were legitimate… I woke up one day when I was pregnant with my youngest and every joint in my body was sore. I went to the doctor and got tested, and the tests came back negative. He was too nice to tell me that it was probably psychosomatic. That’s actually not so crazy… The crazy part of the story comes in where I still sort of believe that I might have rheumatoid arthritis. My next door neighbor told me it can sometimes show up negative on tests even if you have it, so of course that means that tiny rhuematoids are lurking around in my body just waiting for me to let my guard down so they can attack.

2. Brain aneurysm. Every time I get a bad headache I consider going to the ER because I could be having a brain aneurysm. I don’t want to be one of those people who thinks they’re fine and then ends up dead. Then again, I don’t really want to be the crazy lady who shows up at the ER once a week and is sent home with a $700 bill and some Advil either.

3. Heart failure. For a period of about 3 months I was completely convinced that I was in the early stages of heart failure. I would start having “chest pains” and my heart would beat all weird and fast. In fact, I had actually sort of pulled a muscle in my chest when I was sweeping and I was very out of shape at the time so my heart was beating fast. I’m very delicate, ya know.

4. My name is Mandy, and I have adult onset stuttering. Or so I thought. I felt like I was stumbling over my words a lot and, obviously, stuttering. I kept asking my husband and my Mom if I was stuttering and they always said no. I didn’t believe them, so I Googled “adult onset stuttering” every day for a week… As I was reading, it became pretty clear that I wasn’t actually ever stuttering. I came to the conclusion that I talk too much and I need to cut back on my caffeine.

5. Blood clots. Anytime I have a pang or sore spot in my leg I think I have a blood clot that is going to detach and float into my lungs.

6. Detached retina. One of my contacts was blurry the other day and I started freaking out a little bit thinking that my retina had decided to detach. My aunt just had a detached retina so I sort of thought I had caught it from her. I eventually calmed myself down by cleaning my contact and reminding myself that detached retinas are not contagious.

7. Cancer. I’ve been convinced many many times that I had various types of cancer. I know I don’t. However, I am now worried that I have worried about having cancer so much that “The Universe” is going to give me cancer. Thank you Oprah, for the gift of “The Secret.” You made it sound so nice, like if you just thought about the things you want they would land in your lap. I have somehow managed to warp that into a plot that The Universe has against me where if I think about cancer I get it. Stay away from my boobs, The Universe!!!

8. Deadly ticks. I know that ticks aren’t actually deadly, but I always worry that the one that lands on me will be a deadly mutant one. Every time we go up on the mountain, I obsessively check my head for ticks, and one time I found one. It turned out to be a zit, but it was an extremely upsetting five minutes before I figured that out.

9. Broken tailbone. Okay, this one does seem a little crazy, but my backside was super sore. Of course the conclusion I would jump to is broken tailbone and not sore from spin class. Perfectly reasonable. Also, I would like everyone to note my extremely demure use of the word “backside” instead of the other more crass words I actually wanted to use.

10. Ringworm. I was about to have a panic attack over this one, I really was. Is there anything more disgusting than something with the word “worm” in it??? When the puppy we brought home from the shelter started getting some weird skin thing, the vet told us she probably had ringworm. Being the level-headed person I am, I immediately started checking myself and my children for rings. And found one. Or at least, I thought I did. When I went screaming over to my husband and asked him if it looked like I had a ringworm he told me it looked like I had dry skin. So I put some lotion on and it turns out he was right. I have never had a more disgusting ten minutes in my life.

See what I mean? Adorable!!!

I’m sure none of my amazing blog friends (I know we’ve established on multiple occasions that I shouldn’t call you that, but it just feels so right) are hypochondriacs. However, I would like to leave you with this little bit of advice from a very experienced hypo: WebMD is the enemy of the hypochondriac. The end of every paragraph is “and then you die.” It’s better to just think you’re dying than to have it confirmed.

The Phantom Shaft

I was a very innocent teenager… Shocking, I know, considering what a worldly and sophisticated lady I am now (you can stop laughing anytime) but it’s ever so true. The only information I had about “adult activities,” I had gotten from my Gramma’s filthy romance novels and I, of course, had (thankfully) never seen a (to borrow a phrase from the novels) manhood.

Until one fateful day when I was a Freshman in high school…

I opened my locker and immediately sensed that something was wrong. I can’t remember exactly what time of day it was or what I was after, but I do remember the cold fear that gripped my heart. At first, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing… As comprehension dawned I thought, no… NO!!! It couldn’t possibly be… I stared at it, dumbfounded. It stared back with one eye.

There, perched atop the orange shelf of my locker, sat a tiny penis.

Bone white (no pun intended) and misshapen, but unmistakable. A tiny ceramic penis.

Confusion, horror, and indescribable mortification gripped my chubby teenage body. My face turned a shade of red few humans can match and hysterical giggles bubbled up inside of me.

I slammed my locker shut, the image of that one eye burning a hole in my fragile psyche. I must have looked rather stricken, because my friend Megan asked what was wrong. “Um… There’s a… Um…” Of course I couldn’t bring myself to say the word, so I opened my locker and pointed. “What the…? Is that a…?” “Yeah, I think it is… What do we do? I don’t wanna touch it!!!” But I had no other choice. If that offending little soldier was to be removed from my locker, I was going to have to touch it.

“Ew!!!” I screamed, in that special way only a high school girl can. “Eeeeeeeewwwwww!!!” I flapped my arms for a moment and did a little manic dancing in place to steel myself for the task ahead. Then I reached up, trying to handle it as little as possible, and pinched it between my fingers. I held it as far away from my body as I could and put it on the floor.

One can’t help but marvel at the ingenuity required to not only make a sculpture of a mangled little dong in an art class taught by the ever watchful Mrs. Vliem, but to sneak it into the kiln somehow and fire it. It takes a specific kind of perverted determination to fire a tallywhacker under those types of conditions.

The identity of this artist, or I should say, artists, could have forever remained a mystery. But the type of people who carefully craft a secret wiener in art class are also the type of people who are dumb enough to put their initials on the bottom of it. Was I surprised when I found out the identities of these Michelangelos of wang? Well, if you can believe it, the very same hands that were capable of creating such gentle beauty were also capable of slamming my head in my locker on occasion. Visual assault with pottery was a natural progression.

As Megan and I stood looking down at it, I realized it was the saddest penis there has ever been. I felt a little sorry for it. It leaned dejectedly to one side, it’s lumpy “base” looking like the bottom of a Pacman ghost. The florescent lights of the hallway reflected off its grotesque lumps, giving it a slightly forlorn expression. If this was what one looked like, Gramma’s novels had greatly exaggerated.

We attempted to plot revenge for awhile, but really, what recourse have you against an inanimate gentleman’s sausage? In the end, I simply picked up the little guy, and screamed “Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew!” as I high stepped my way to one of the sculptor’s lockers and tossed it in. It was returned to its father’s arms, where it was never seen or heard from again.

It may seem as if there is no moral to this story. And there probably isn’t. Except this: When you make a sculpture of a schlong, it is best to remain anonymous. Because the person who received it will forever believe that is what yours looks like.

I suppose another moral to the story could be that I now know a lot of euphemisms for earthenware male parts… See, I told you I’m sophisticated now!