I Love Resembling My Mother— And Not For The Reasons You’d Think

Ever since I can remember, I have been told that I look just like my mother. She’s 29 years older than me, we both have brown hair and eyes, and we both look ridiculously Scandinavian (except the dark hair and eyes bit). We’re about the same height, but that’s where the resemblance stops. We’re both heavy, sure, but her boobs are huge, and I’m pretty flat chested. I have a butt and she has none, she has skinny legs and my legs clap and make thunder.

You’d never be able to tell we’re related. Ever.

It’s just how genetics are cruel. God gave my shy, quiet mom huge boobs when she wanted no attention, and I was given a flat chest and huge thighs when I’m social.

Thanks God. You totally destroyed my ability to date until I was 20 years old.

Moving on.

But nobody can deny that I look like my mother.

And I used to hate it.

I would always fight that we didn’t look alike because she’s way older than I am. And she’s so much quieter than I am. And any other reason I could think of that I can’t think of because they don’t exist.

But as I’ve gotten older and more brazen thanks to my many years of living among my strange Alaskans, I’ve come to embrace the fact that my mother and I look alike.

Because I can embarrass the shit out of her.

And she can’t deny that I’m related to her.

So, of course, I take full advantage of this when the opportunity presents itself.

You see, my mother is very easily embarrassed. She gets embarrassed when we talk too loudly in restaurants, or if we say a bad word. She’s not nearly as bad as she used to be, but she used to freak out if we said “damn” in public.

Now, I’ve mentioned how odd my husband is before considering he’s a dungeon master, he’s very loud and goofy, and he seeks to make people laugh at every turn. He was also raised by East Coast parents, and I don’t care if it’s stereotyping, they’re very noisy. But in a good way.

And my husband loves to point out random discrepancies in public. Because he’s an asshole like that.

So the first time Alex came with me to Minnesota, my mom ditched us in Target. Not as in drove off, mind you, as in she did what she always does. She tells us to find something in the aisle she just passed and then learns how to magically fucking teleport to the other side of the store and makes it impossible to fucking find her until a half hour later.

She does this every fucking time. (I know you’re reading this mom, don’t even try to deny it. You have teleportation powers)

However, last time she tried to do this to Alex and I, we decided to have fun with it. She did her usual “Oh, can you go back one aisle and get something I have in my cart already but it’s the name brand and I need the off brand because I’m a thrifty saver/wizard?” And we agree because we’re good kids.

And she ditched us.

And she was our ride.

So, being the oddballs that we are, we did the most obvious thing we could think of.

We ran up and down every aisle in the store and started screaming “MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!”

Now, when a 22 and a 27 year old are doing this when looking for a woman in her early 50s, I’m told that it’s horribly embarrassing. I thought it was hilarious.

After going down about six aisles, my mother magically teleported behind us and hissed, “What? What do you want?!”

To which we rejoiced because we finally found her. And nobody could deny I was related to her because we look alike.

Authors note: This story is slightly hyperbolic. My mom can’t actually teleport (I think) and we weren’t “screaming” per se, we were just talking ridiculously loudly so everyone was looking at us funny. But she did hiss at us. And she does ditch us in the store all the time. And this story is not to show that my mom is easily embarrassed, she’s pretty awesome and she’ll probably tease me for writing something so ridiculously stupid.  YAY MOMS!

How Marriage Changes Everything In Your Life

I have several friends who are about to get married or who have been with their significant other for a long period of time, and they talk about how excited they are to get married, to which I always say “DON’T DO IT! IT’S A TRAP!” and they laugh like I’m kidding.

I’m not kidding.

It’s a trap.

Run.

I think they have a different expectation of what the reality is, so I’m going to go over some of the basics.

Cleaning

Expectation: You’ll have help and it will get done twice as fast, or your wife will do all of the cleaning because hey! Women LOVE cleaning!

Reality: You’ll be sitting on the couch in your sweatpants, using your sweatpants as a napkin, hopping from one room to the other, looking for pants under a mountain of garbage. Note, this is not everyone, but I’ve met more people who have had this problem than who haven’t had this problem. Also, dishes won’t do themselves at mom’s house. You have mother fucking chores that you don’t get rewarded from.

Communication.

Expectation: Married couples are always friends with other married couples who talk all the time and never have issues telling each other anything! Communication is no problemo!

Reality: Lack of communication causes a lot of divorces. And to be fair, I forget to tell Alex stuff all the time. We talk all the time. He is probably the chattiest person I have ever met. And I talk a lot. But we both talk non stop for hours and don’t say a fucking thing.

Lovin’, touchin’, squeezin’

Expectation: Humping like gorillas.

Reality: You or your spouse will say “Hey, wanna have some fun?” and you’ll respond with “OR… there’s a new episode of Big Bang Theory tonight.”

So then you stay up all night watching reruns of Big Bang Theory to catch up on the new episode. This will go on for six months and then you both will replace touching with ice cream and not care. Note: This can be any show from Dragon Ball Z, to Deadly Women. When you’re married, you can have sex anytime, but reruns may not always be there.

Money

Expectation: Two incomes means we’re rich bitches!

Reality: Two people means twice the bills. Two cars? Twice the gas! Clothes for two! Eating enough to fill a buffet, the works! While I’m technically better off now that I’m married, I have to look like I’m married. Which fucking sucks. I can’t go grocery shopping in a parka and basketball shorts anymore. People won’t excuse it as “Oh she’s just a poor college kid” because they’ll see that shiny little thing on my finger and think “HER HUSBAND ABUSES HER!”

Which he totally doesn’t. I just hate clothes shopping. And washing clothes. And folding. I’m not my mother who is a wizard with laundry and clothing.

Going to the bar

Expectation: Your husband (or if you’re a guy, you) will buy all of the drinks and it will be amazingly fun!

Reality: Alex refuses to go to the bar with me unless I drag him. With a bunch of friends. To which we are both ignored because we have rings on our fingers. Except in Alaska. Alaska men didn’t care if a woman had a ring because there were no women in Alaska. Getting a free drink now is ridiculously hard. I’ve given up.

Work Functions

Expectation: Since you’re married, everyone will think you’re respectable and kind and will act like mature adults.

Reality: Nothing has changed. Except one of you will always be the DD. If you’ve read my blog from the get go, you’ll realize that my husband is always the designated driver. And I am absolutely humiliating at function. As well as nearly half of the people there, because one will drive, and the other drinks for the couple.

So tell me, anything you want to add to the list? Anything you feel should be rebutted? Every couple is different, I want to hear your thoughts! TELL ME YOUR WEIRD MARRIAGE STORIES!

Like what you read? Follow me on facebook! I post all updates on there, as well as weird news stories. Thanks for reading!

It’s Official: I am an Amazonian

So I recently started a new job as a donation attendant at a well known thrift store, which I shall leave nameless for the sake of privacy.

Doing this job in the south is very unheard of, considering I’m a woman.  My manager told me this when he hired me, stating women rarely apply for this job.  When I started the job, I couldn’t understand why either.  Yes, it’s very physical, but there are a lot of women as short order cooks as well, and a lot of women who are waitresses, which I think is far more physical than any other job.  But this job, it’s a lot of lifting.  My job description even states that I will be lifting over 75 pounds at a time.

I’m totally okay with this.

My legs are going to look amazing.

FUCK YES!

FUCK YES!

 

However, I’m thinking that I must be an Amazonian.

Last week, I had a woman pull up to the donation door and open the back of her van.  She worked in the office part of our building and stated she wasn’t donating, but she needed some help.  Being as I wasn’t doing anything at that particular moment, I decided to step in and assist.

“Oh ma’am, you are going to need to get a man out here to lift theses boxes.  They’re way too heavy for a lady.”

I felt my blood pressure go up just a tad.  She continues.  “Also you’re going to need a flat bed.”

 

Strike one: She didn’t even ask me to get her boxes out of her car.

Strike two: She told me I had to have a man do it.

There are a few things that I am very certain of about myself.

I am stubborn.  I am not a lady. I am independent to a fault. I am caring.  I am Minnesota Nice.

And most importantly, I do not need a man to lift something for me.

So I go over to the box, ready to throw my back out to lift this box for this woman…

And the box was maybe ten pounds.

I tried not to roll my eyes, and this woman was just dumbfounded.  She told me that they were far too heavy for her to lift.  She then told me to bring them to her cubicle so I followed her there with the flatbed with the six boxes that were maybe ten pounds.

This is what really pissed me off.

She just watched me take all of these boxes off of this flatbed.  And not just her, every single person in the office watched me lift these boxes.

Since then, I have had four separate women tell me that I needed a man to lift something for me.  I always stay polite, but I usually respond with something along the lines of “I’m a corn-fed Midwesterner, I don’t need a man for anything.”

Which has caused everyone I work with to call me the “Minnesota Wonder Woman.”  Or to have customers ask me if I’m a “Yankee.”  Which apparently is the same as being called a Wonder Woman.

And Wonder Woman was an Amazonian warrior.

Basically me, just add more fat rolls and corn

Basically me, just add more fat rolls and corn

That’s right bitches.  I’m an Amazonian woman.  Because I can lift over ten pounds.