Who's Your Mama?

The following is a paid advertisement from Sit On Your Fat Ass Productions and does not necessarily represent the views of Mrs. Hyde, A Bitch Called Mom, or The Well-Fed Spirit.

Just kidding. The last time I had ads on my blog, I only had about 20 followers. Took the ads off, now almost 200. So...the ads stay gone.

What I really want to do is tell you about a conversation I had yesterday in a parking lot.

Apparently, I have a face that says, "Please bore me with your mindless, personal bullshit" because strangers are always coming up to me and telling me all their personal business. Once a lady, in the same parking lot now that I think of it, just started telling me about her illnesses and all the medication she had to take but couldn't afford. She started crying, bawling actually, and people were looking at me like I had done something to her. I would have given her a hug, but...I didn't know that bitch. I didn't know what kind of germs and shit she had. I mean, she said she was sick, right? So I gave her two dollars to put toward her next crack hit and hightailed it the fuck outta there.

In our area we have what might be called a super shopping center. Nobody really calls it that. I'm just making this shit up as I go along, but roll with it. In this super shopping center there is a Walmart/Sam's Club/Home Depot Complex, several smaller stores and restaurants, and my favorite store Aldi. Directly on the backside of this complex, the ass if you will, there are even more stores including, Giant, Marshall's, Dollar Tree, etc. I count at least 24 additional businesses that I haven't named. Needless to say, I live in this shopping center.

Back to the conversation. Let me set the scene for you:

Approximately 1:00 PM on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. The temperature was about 60 degrees, but as it was not that warm when I initially left the house, I was wearing a whole sheep heavy cardigan sweater.

I had just left Sam's Club and was in the parking lot placing my 17-pack of bread in the trunk of my van. The minuscule amount of exercise it took for me to walk from the store to my van with all that bread was enough to encourage a hot flash. I opened the driver's side door and proceeded to remove the five pounds of sheep's ass from my back and toss it into the passenger seat.

As I did this, a young man, a baby really, happened by. And so the following insane conversation ensued.

Man Baby: Damn! Who knew you were hiding all that under that sweater?
Me: Are you calling me fat?
Man baby: Naw, Ma. I'm saying, you looking good. (the preceding comma was not a mistake. 'I'm saying' is an expression all its own)
Me: Do I look like your mama?
Man Baby (laughing his ass off at the hot old lady): You damn sure don't look like my mama. That's just something young guys say to women who look good to them. Like 'baby,' but less offensive.
Me: You think it's less offensive to call me 'Ma' than it is to call me 'baby?' Of all the things I need, one more person calling me 'Ma' ain't one of them.
MB: I thought older women didn't like to be called 'baby.'
Me: So now I'm old?
MB (fidgeting nervously and wishing he had just admired my ass and boobs from a distance): No, um, you're not old, just older than me. A little. I think. Look, I was just trying to give you a compliment. I saw you standing there and when you took off your sweater, I saw your body and I was like 'wow.' I just wanted to tell you how good you looked.
Me: Actually, you were like 'damn', but whatever. What do you like about it?
MB: Huh?
Me: My body. What do you like about it?
MB: Um, your um...the whole thing.
Me: Do you like my ass?
MB (sweating bullets): Yeah. It's...it's nice.
Me: Good. I was wondering if the injections were working or not.
MB: Injections?
Me: Yeah. I get chicken hormones injected into my ass once a week.
MB: Why the hell you do that, Ma?
Me (giving him the evil eye): Because not all black women were born with Beyonce booties. Besides, have you seen the asses on those Purdue chickens?
MB: .......
Me: What? You never heard of that? How do you think Kim Kardashian's ass got so big? The only downside is that you have to keep getting the injections because the hormones don't last long. Think about it: every time you see Kim K, her ass is a different size. That's cause she's in various stages of chicken ass withdrawal.
MB: ......
Me: What I really hate are the side effects. You see this? (I show him a gray hair on my chin) It looks like a hair, but it's really a feather. They grow everywhere that hair grows. EVERYWHERE.
MB: Yeah...I'ma...um...it was nice...yeah. (He starts walking real fast toward Walmart)
Me: Hey! Are you all right? You don't look so good. Watch out for that truck!

That'll teach him to call me an old fat mama.

What?

I'm was merely preparing the lad for his future relationships. Because when you accost women in the parking lot of the Walmart/Sam's/Home Depot complex, all you'll get is crazy.

Okay, this didn't really happen. When he doled out his initial 'compliment,' I grinned politely, got in my van, and drove away.

But now you understand the craziness that goes on in my head.

I told you it was scary.

Pole Dancing

I knew that would get your attention, ya perverts.

You guys have been blogging your asses off while I've been wallowing in self-pity. Yes, I've been wallowing, but, in my defense, I have a good reason this time. A really good reason. I'm not going to share it here because I try to maintain a certain level of levity on this blog. I may, however, share it with you in an upcoming post at The Well-Fed Spirit, a blog designed to feed your soul.

Shameless self-promotion, anyone?

I'm trying to catch up with everyone, but considering I follow 48 blogs and each of you has written at least one post in the past five days, I just don't know how I'm going to manage it. Guess I'll pop some microwave Orville Redenbacher, put P!nk on repeat in the background, and get to it...eventually.

Since I've been MIA, I thought it only fitting that I tell a story closely related to sex, a second cousin, if you will. I had to do something to make sure I don't lose any of my 92 followers. Ninety-fucking-two! That is awesomenesssssssss. Who remembers when there were just twelve of us? I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Simple Dude at Simple Dude in a Complex World. He mentioned me on his blog right after his BONing, so throngs of new people dared to trek over here to the bitchy side and some of them even stayed. Welcome to all of you! I am humbled, really. SD, your check is in the mail. Someday I'll tell you about the lengths I was prepared to go to in order to have Simple Dude follow my blog. I was a big fan of his blog, but he, sadly, was not a fan of mine. I devised a complex plan on how to change that and then...he became a follower. Just one more day and I would have begun the I ♥ Simple Dude campaign. Just like a man to make his move too soon.

I'd like to tell you about the time I enrolled in Pole Dancing classes.

You see that one girl on the floor? Now you know how I did in the class.

Blame Teri Hatcher. Her skinny ass was on Oprah gyrating and talking about, "You can do it, too!" and I, somehow, got the idea that I could do it, too. I don't think I've ever been more wrong about something in my life. I had this vision of myself effortlessly sliding down a stripper pole, flipping myself upside down, doing a split on the side of it, defying gravity with the sheer power of my thigh muscles. Did I mention that I hadn't done a leg lift or squat in about five years? You remember that episode of the King of Queens where Doug begged Carrie to take pole dancing lessons and when she finally gave in, she was horrible at it? Yeah...no, I wasn't that bad. But I wasn't far from it.

Let me give you a poles-eye view of the pole dancing room. There are mirrors covering three of the four walls. That's so when you try to flip your big ass upside down and your cellulite hits the pole before you do, you can see it clearly. Nice. There are about 10 poles scattered over a room that's maybe 30 square feet. The bowels of hell can't even compete with the temperature in there, and saying it smelled like ass is an understatement. It smelled like hot ass in a shit storm on a Tuesday in Shitsburgh, uh, Pittsburgh. Sorry, I'm still pissed that they knocked my team out of the playoffs.

Oilfield Trash, not one word from you. This is my house and in my house, the Ravens rule. Now go make Mrs. Hyde a sammich, biatch!

Oh, shit. Did I just start a fight with a guy who eats homeless people for breakfast? I should really learn when to shut the fuck up.

So excited was I to wrap myself around a pole, I didn't even mind the stench, and neither, apparently, did the nine other women in the class. It was taught by a former stripper named Champagne. Or Merlot. Alize? Shit, I don't remember. For sixty minutes, she patiently coached ten women in varying degrees of unfit the sensual art of pole dancing. It was the most fun I'd ever had breaking a sweat. I broke so much of a sweat that every time I jumped up on the pole, I'd slide right down to the floor. While everyone else was hanging on to the pole in mid-air, my feet were firmly planted to the ground no matter how many times I dried the pole or my sweaty hands. So as long as we didn't have to climb, I was good.

At the end of the class, we had to do our own thing. She played music for about three minutes and we had to show her what we'd learned. You should have seen us tossing our hair from side to side, twirling our hips, kicking our legs. We looked like a group of giant babies learning how to walk. On crack.

But that shit was fun! I think every woman should try it at least once. At least that way I won't be the only Teri Hatcher victim. I liked it so much that I signed up for the premium package which included a pair of six inch clear stilletto heels and a year's worth of classes. I've never gone back, though, and the only time I've worn the clear heels is when my husband wanted me to try them on "just to see how they look." That was about five or six years ago.

I wonder if my contract is still good?