How I Met Your Maybe Step Father.

Ok, so all my life I’ve been a chubster. I came shooting out my Mommas baby ejector searching for just my size diapers.  I’ve tried countless diets, hell this blog started out as a testament of my journey on “The Paleo Diet”; yeah…ask me how that’s working out for me.  This post isn’t about my many failed diet and exercise routines, this post is about my boyfriend. He’s skinny, I’m fat and oh does the hilarity ensue.

I’ve always had a type; my type was “fat bearded asshole with tattoos” because clearly a fat guy would understand the fat girl struggle, right? Right…. So one failed marriage, three children and god only knows how many emotional eating binges later I decided that maybe, just maybe it was time to change my type.  However once you go fat bearded asshole it’s hard to go back. I tried dating sites, blind dates, pretending to be stranded at truck stops, and the oh so classic come hither stare in the checkout line of Wal*Mart. Sadly, none of it worked; I was still single and all I had were my Pringles.

After a while, I had just given up; I was ok with being alone. Hell I had even started a sturdy collection of newspapers and had been stalking local humane society pages on Face Book to start that cat collection. The day of my birthday, a guy hit me up on one of the many dating sites I was registered on. I knew this dude, we kind of ran in the same circle. Befuddled I responded to his adorable yet simplistic “hey what’s up” message. He passed the texting test (if u type like dis u fails bro); he even was witty and funny.

Days pass I discover that we are prolific texters and immediately I put myself in the friendzone. I mean come on now, he’s tall and skinny and I’m short and the shadow of my ass weighs a thousand pounds how is this even going to work?! I mean surely we have all heard that “Jack Sprat could eat no fat; his wife could eat no lean” rhyme. But most importantly dudes like him never ever go for a girl like me. Every Ricky Lake movie ever was a lie, and I was founder in the church of “Ricky Lake is A Liar”.

I needed some handy man stuff done, you know being a working mom of 3 and primarily lazy I just didn’t have “time” to do stuff like painting my house.  So my adorable, hilarious smart godlike prolific texter friend offered to help; up until this point we hadn’t had a face to face interaction in oh I’d say about 15 years. About 20 minutes before he arrived I noticed that if I had a pore nervous sweat was flowing out of it freely, like when little children tamper with fire hydrants in movies. I’m certain that my tits were jiggling because my heart was beating so hard. It was in that moment that I had to accept that I Erica, lover of the fat bearded asshole, had developed a crush on tall, soft spoken, good smelling… SKINNY GUY.  So I did the only thing I could thing to do when I had a life crisis. I went shopping and then bought pizza (which I cleverly brought him back because everybody knows you got serious feels when you bring someone pizza). He paints, polite face to face convo continues and he goes home.

Well this is it, I’m sure this is the part where we go our separate ways,  he painted, I slid him a little cash because of course I am my own woman and shit and refused to let his work go unrewarded. I’m sure I’ll never hear from this dude again. I didn’t, not until he had made it home at least, he said he had a great time and was like hella thankful for the pizza. Next weekend he was going to do some mudding and finish a room. Just like that, the power of pizza is a strange a miraculous thing.

After a weeks’ worth of all day texting, paint day had finally arrived. I of course had to look extra spiffy because you know; crushing on people makes you do that sort of thing.  Painter guy comes over, gathers all his little materials and gets to work. Of course I didn’t bring up that hug nonsense because I didn’t want to be like those thirsty girls, even though I would have hugged his fucking face off…and maybe touched his penis.  After about 10 minutes of idle chit chat and discussing the colors and the many compliments of how cute I looked (I never take that shit seriously) he wanted his hug. So in we go for that awkward “I don’t know you like that” hug. Oh my balls, I cannot even begin to explain to you what this hug felt like. Kitten whispers while high on a cloud listening to The Gorillias with a life time supply of orange sherbert did not even come close to the feeling that jolted through me.  Then after we finally stopped It was like I had some sort of impulse control problem because I had to get another one of those.  We nervously tittered about it then went about our way in doing little house things.  Until I heard him walk up behind me, so I turned around as I’m sure most normal people do, and he grabbed my face and kissed me, that mother fucker kissed me right on the mouth. In that split second I knew that I was his, I don’t know for how long and why, but I was his ineffably.

Oh..so I’m gross now too?

So yeah..just who the fuck do you think you are Thesaurus.com.? You house all the words one could ever dream of and you come up with “gross” as an alternative to “chubby”?? Now, before you argue with me on this term, look what my good friend Google showed me here. I move to strike this word (no seriously click that link), desecrate it from any idea of someone with “extra padding”.

Is it not enough that as I sit here right now, I’m listening to my co-workers get on the “lets diet” together bandwagon because clearly, in the rural south being fat is on the same level as say..horribly disfigured in a house fire..

I dunno, I’m OK with me, until someone tries to make me not OK with who I am. My name is Erica, and I am overweight. I am NOT gross. (unless its like day three of “hair rest” day then yeah that’s another blog) I do not ride around wal*mart on the handicapped cart, I’m actually pretty active and I hate ranch dressing. I know please dont kick me out the Better Big Girls Society because all fat people like ranch dressing..right? Right.

Dear Children, I’m Sorry….

Dear Ducks,

I’m sorry that I work 40 hours a week and sometimes I come home so tired that I allow a feast of Easter cookies from your grandfather and barbecue Pringle’s as a suitable dinner. I’m sorry that the car door doesn’t shut like its supposed to so some mornings when you miss the bus because I slept through the alarm that when I wheel into the parking lot of your school that sometimes that blessed blue strap that holds the door shut fails us and the door flies open making people think that were about to not so gracefully tuck and roll into the school-house. I’m sorry that I swear…a mother fucking lot. I’m sorry that I had extremely poor taste in fathers for you so now I have to beyour mom and dad, hell I’m even sorry that I had to use father in plural form. I also need to apologize for the times when “I just need a minute” it’s not you my darling I swear. It’s just that sometimes after a day of selling things, errand running and clothes washing that I’m just not ready to listen to you talk about a youtube video that if I have to watch with you one more time that I might just pluck my eyes out. I am also very sorry that I don’t understand the concept of your newest anime show or the conflicted feeling I get when i see cartoon titties pop out. Mostly, I’msorry that I will never be one of those Betty Crocker moms who can come home from work cook you a five-starmeal, sing to you clean up after you and iron your clothes, yanno instead of throwing them in the dryer. I’m sorry that I’m not here when you get in from a long day of school to hand you a snack and argue about the need to do homework.  I’m also terribly sorry for the long nights at the laundromat and my breakdowns over washing never worn clothes because i cant be bothered sometimes to actually make it to put the clothes away. Finally…sorry but not sorry that I have a love for you three that is ineffable. That the very fiber of my being goes into you and I couldn’t be more pleased with the results. I’m sorry I gloat about how perfect you are…with your little teeth..or rainbow hair..or awkward stand up routines. That the very thought of you sometimes brings me to tears…whether or not it’s from frustration or pride is my business thank you very much. Maybe one day you’ll read this..if this is even still around…and know that right down to my Joan Crawford melt down over dirt..that its all for you.