|Cousin ITT or AKA Bri Potts|
Because I am, well...me, I couldn't resist this opportunity to play the same game but in my own skewed, silly way. This thought came to me while I was sitting on the commode redistributing my portion of greasy, leftover cheese pizza from two days ago (Oh Dear God in Heaven!). At that moment I was most ungrateful for eating both slices of fast food and having serious Heartburn and otherwise.
Well then, Eureka! I'll write about what I'm unhappy about. This will be a cake walk! Hell, I've always indicated that my plastic Dixie cup of spiked lemonade tends to be half empty. The only solace I can offer to my dear friend, Pollyanna, who's excellent at finding the rainbows in crystal chandelier prisms (and you know who you are), is I believe you'll at least find a giggle or two in some of my upcoming blogs.
The first and foremost thing that I'm displeased about is that I'm far too hairy to be a fully functioning, beyond a doubt, XX Chromosome human being. When I popped out of my mother's womb I had so much hair, I'm certain the doctor had to part it like Cousin Itt to make the determination - boy or girl? By third grade, I had - gasp -underarm hair. I was shaving my lower legs by fifth grade. I distinctly recall my mom saying, "Since you're blond, you'll never have to shave your upper thighs." WRONG! My blond hair immediately turned into black pubic hair which ran its course down to my knee caps. Horrifying!
When I attempted shaving my entire leg, I was in the bathroom for over three hours and went through five Daisy razors. I clogged the drain. Waxing? Oh please! And finally, why did no one ever explain to this innocent girl about ingrown hairs? "Please God," I would pray every night, "let those horrible, red pimples on my inner thighs go away before the beach party tomorrow." and "Why am I such a mutant?"
Adopting Aspergian children does not help with my self-esteem because they cannot keep their honest comments low and to themselves. When they think of something, no matter how socially inappropriate, it's said and said loudly. All my painful memories seem to revolve around quiet time in church and my youngest son Austynn. I believe he's solely responsible for my Valium addiction. No matter. Austynn sits next to me because my husband doesn't have a prescription and therefore needs to be as far away from our sweet arm-stroking-loving-face-touching-fart-making-son as possible. Before I knew what was about to happen at this particular service, Austynn powerfully shouted, "Mom, for Christmas I'm gunna to buy you a hair waxin' machine. Your arms are really, really hairy!" Now I'm known as the Furry Church Lady.
Until tomorrow's ungrateful thought for the day...