Fat Bottom Girl Said What

It's not about the ass, it's about the attitude!

Remains of Betrayal

As I sit here
in my puddle of bourbon and tears
disassembling the life I’d created
for us in my head
I’m sure that for you
life goes on
Nothing has changed
because there’s someone there
to fill my ruby slippers
and to carry on my
legacy
of ego stroking and ball licking

Haunted by what is reality
and the harshness of it
I curse you out loud
all the while knowing the connection
we experienced is something rare

In a world of relationships
littered with demons
and the scars I carry
from the talons they’ve dragged across my heart
the good things you brought to me
in comparison
were a downy feather
brushed against my cheek

Forever in Blue Jeans

Today I turn 46. I’m trying to make peace with it. I’m trying to wrap my head around this “aging gracefully” thing.

How does one attempt to age gracefully when time begins to kick your ass?

My eyelids look like Droopy Dog’s, I’ve got jowls, and laugh lines, and crow’s feet, and a bat cape–which is infinitely worse than bat wings, and boobs that require wires of steel to keep them up where they were 25 years ago, and a pooch from 2 babies and a C-section scar and curtains and mud flaps and spider veins and bunions from trying to wear those cute strappy high heels and hands and knees that ache allowing me to forecast the weather and numerous other issues. I take horse pills for maladies and lotion and lubricate and don’t eat carbs and attempt to exercise on a regular basis and I don’t smoke anymore and try to drink the right kind of wine and wear sensible shoes and bifocals. Seriously, all of it is a quite exhausting and a bit depressing.

But you know what really pisses me off about aging?

My inability to find a pair of jeans that fit, that don’t cost as much as a mortgage payment.

At least a couple times a year I drag my semi-sagging derriere to the mall, or some other shopping venue, in an attempt to hunt down a pair of pants. I walk in the door feeling optimistic, only to leave a couple hours later with my hopes dashed, my hair flat, and tears of shame running down my face. All of this the result of tugging and twisting and bending and pulling and zipping and buttoning and jumping up and down and hopping on one foot and when finally getting each of the 50 pairs on, to be met with flat ass or muffin top or camel toe or moose knuckle or too big in the waist and too tight in the knees or poopy diaper bottom or under my boobs high or crack of my ass baring low.

What, in the name of all that is holy, is so damn difficult about making a pair of jeans that will fit a woman?

Until they figure it out, I’ll be sitting over here in my mu-mu.

**This was originally a guest posting on Valley Girl Gone Country, but I thought some of you might have missed it, so I’m posting it again.  :)

Blank Spaces

The space in me
that you filled up with your words and lies
is now empty

Your attention lavished upon
some other unsuspecting female
who you lick with your demon tongue
of wordsmithery

Tell me
does your wife know
all the games you play
and what fills your days and nights
when she’s not there to

The energy it takes to lie
is exhausting
and seems such a waste

Time much better spent
Figuring out how to love yourself
and live authentically
instead of in the house of mirrors you’ve created

*Originally posted on The Fat Bottom Bard. Working on shutting that site down. One freakin’ blog is more than plenty.

Guest Posting on Valley Girl Gone Country

I was graciously asked to guest post on Valley Girl Gone Country, and quickly agreed, as I had something on my mind as my 46th (gasp) birthday loomed.  Those of you in your 40’s know aging is not for the faint-hearted, but there’s one particular thing which sticks in my craw about it.  Head on over to Valley Girl Gone Country, and check out my post “Forever in Blue Jeans”, and you’ll find out what it is.  Much thanks to Jolene for inviting this Fat Bottom Girl to guest post!!

States of Grace

I can’t stop loving you gracefully because I’m the chick that trips over shit and falls up the stairs and is constantly pulling my pants up or my shirt down and walking around with a piece of lettuce stuck in my teeth and snort laughing inappropriately and wearing tap shoes and singing karaoke.

So you’ll have to forgive the way I’ll awkwardly stop loving you.

Go With Your Gut

I am a fool for love. Or at least what presents itself as such.

The eye refuses to see what the heart doesn’t want to feel,

but the gut is like a built-in bullshit detector.

“SHUT UP!” I told my gut. “You don’t know what you’re feeling. You’re broken. I can’t trust you.”

“Oh but you can,” my gut said, “You just don’t want to trust yourself. And if you trust me, it would mean you have to trust yourself.”

So more importantly than trusting him, I decided to trust myself.

And guess what?

My gut was right. And so was I, although I didn’t really want to be.

intuition

Love Hostages

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up a whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life… You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like ‘maybe we should be just friends’ or ‘how very perceptive’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love.

—Rose Walker, in “The Sandman”

Cult Followings

How in the hell am I supposed to amass a cult following if I have no followers??  Seriously people, where did all my stalkers go?

What’s that?  You said I basically dropped off the face of the earth during this last year and didn’t post on regular basis so you all abandoned this fat bottom ship?

Okay, I see how you are.

Well, I’m back.  At least for now.  I’ll be here when the feeling hits me

I’ve promised myself I won’t worry about stats, even though obviously I do because I hate not having any followers.  Doesn’t every writer want to be wildly popular?  Seriously, if you didn’t care you wouldn’t have a fucking blog, so you might as well be honest about being an attention whore.

So in the spirit of attention whoring, here’s something I want you to do–follow me on Twitter at @fatbottomgirl1.  The one is because I’m the fucking original, and all the others are just imitations

I tweet some hilarious shit, it’s just that no one ever reads it.  If you don’t follow me, here’s some of the shit you’ve missed:

I wore all black to work the other day.  Boss asked if I had a funeral.  I told him yes, a little piece of me dies each day I come there.

What’s the big deal about a thigh gap?  If I stand around with my legs spread I have a fucking thigh gap too.

Found out an ex-bf’s wife is now a photographer.  Let’s hope she can photoshop him a bigger penis.

My hands smell like Vaseline and bacon.  I must be at a sex party with really good snacks.

Your average Kansas bar is basically Walmart with beer.

On a pessimism scale I’m a cat.  Regardless of how much anything there is, my bowl is always half full.

Why does all corned beef in a can come from Argentina? Is that the only place beef is cornable?

46 quickly approaches making bifocals a necessity for all close-up work, even blow jobs.

Hobby Lobby’s so  holy roller it makes me feel like the ultimate atheist sinner when I shop there.

For some reason I feel like this day was a total waste of pants.

Beware men who write under a pseudonym. But mostly who live life under one.

Can deep throat a 10′ dick but gags while trying to brush the back of her tongue. #pornstarproblems

You should actually get out of your marriage before getting into. . . .another woman’s vagina.

If Bartles & James is more appreciative of your support than your current SO, you might be in the wrong relationship.

Revenge is a dish best served. . . .with wine. Lots of wine.

An Ode to 80’s Lust (I so would’ve done you in high school)

MMI see you looking at me out of the corner of your eye mullet man. 

Watch me light my Satin cigarette, being careful not to catch my meticulously coiffed mile high bangs on fire with the cheap Pump Mart lighter whose flame can’t be controlled. 

You should know I’m just like this cheap Pump Mart lighter because my flame can’t be controlled either.  I burn bright and hot. 

And I look hot too, in these pink and black checked Zena jeans with the black bandana tied around my wrist.

I know you noticed the bandana as I tipped up my Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler to take a sip. 

I can tell just by looking at you, in your glued on 501’s and Motley Crue t-shirt and high top tennis shoes, that if we get together our relationship would play out like a Bon Jovi ballad. 

Strut those tight pants over here

and kiss me with your Mickey’s Big Mouth breath before I change my mind

and take a walk on the preppy side with the guy in the polo with the popped collar.

Tempered Glass

Fat Bottom Girl:

Posted on my Poetry/Prose sight The Fat Bottom Bard

Originally posted on The Fat Bottom Bard:

And who are you to throw stones

from your glass house on high

no better

or worse

or different

than the rest of the masses

who are merely

trying

to live

and exist

and find love

in the chaos

of our creation

View original

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