Sexy Vamp

I have a few hours to kill (ha!), so I thought I'd type up a post on my favorite subject (besides dumbasses, that is): me. I know what you're saying. Bitch, you always talk about yourself. What else is new? It's true, but I want to talk about something that will really clue you in as to the magnificence that is me.

Some of you know that I recently cut off all my hair and went "natural." To the clueless few of you who don't know what "went natural" means, I stopped relaxing my hair. This is a far bigger deal than you think, both the haircut and the lack of a relaxer.

Hair is a big part of what makes a woman feel special and/or beautiful. For at least the last 15 years of my life, I've worn my hair long and luxurious. It was instrumental in the creation of my sexy bitchitude and the main thing holding it together. I don't really know who I am without my hair. When I made the decision to cut off all my hair and never (well, maybe not never) relax it again, I was worried about how my self-image would change.

I cut it off and the first thing I felt was...


Wait for it...



Fat.

Nothing like extremely short hair to accentuate the bigness of your ass. Already having struggled with weight issues since giving birth almost 17 years ago, I was none too please about having my extra poundage so clearly...defined. I decided to shrug it off, hit the track, and significantly decrease my chocolate intake.

So as I sit here munching on a chocolate bar, licking its melty goodness from my fingers between keystrokes, I'm almost giddy to tell you about an experience I had yesterday, big ass and all.

I had to get a much needed oil change for the minivan that certain of my blog friends who shall remain nameless seem to despise. (Rhymes with The Pimptress) Realizing that it had been eight months since the van had had one (don't tell hubby), I hightailed to the cheapest oil and lube shop to get 'r done.

As I pulled up, I noticed that one of the mechanic or technicians or whatever the hell they're called followed me with his eyes from the moment I drove up, watched me get out of my car, and never took his eyes off me until I walked inside the building and up to the counter where he stood.

During this eye bath, I became self-conscious. I looked over my modest clothing to see if I had inadvertently spilled something on my shirt. My boobs tend to be food magnets; their favorites being mustard, spaghetti sauce and red wine. But no, he couldn't have seen that while I was still in the car...could he? As my muffin top was securely jammed into my jeans, I knew he wasn't staring at that particular "problem area." I had already done the cursory makeup and hair check before I exited the van, so I was good there. Finally, I said to myself, "fuck it" and went about the business I had come for.

When I walked up to the counter, I immediately noticed that the guy's breathing increased. I only noticed this because for the past week, I've been reading this vampire series and vamps can, apparently, notice subtle changes in things like that. Call me a wannabe, but that shit has me fascinated to the point that I've been acting like a vamp ever since I started reading the books: watching how people breathe, noticing smells and other things I wouldn't normally notice, biting people. Don't judge me. Last month I was acting like a werewolf. Okay, you can judge me. A little.

Thinking it was curious that he was suddenly breathing a lot heavier than he had been a few seconds ago, I proceeded to tell him what I was there for. He asked me a question, but he spoke so softly that I didn't understand what he'd asked. He cleared his throat, mentally strengthened his resolve, increased the volume of his voice and asked again. I gave him all the info he needed, then took a seat to wait.

Ten minutes later, he came back to report on what the dude under my car found, and he kept tripping over his words. "Mrs. Hyde, um, my guy said you have two tucked up fliers, I mean fucked up tires, I mean...DAMN...I shouldn'ta said that. Um...(chuckle) I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me...He said your tront fliers...UGH!...your FRONT TIRES are bad and you need to change them soon (mumbles something unintelligible under his breathe). You want us to undress them CHANGE them or are you, um, good?"

So...I sat there, brow furrowed, trying to figure out if the guy was having some sort of breakdown and if so, should I grab my shit and leave or call 911 and then grab my shit and leave? Even better, I should grab my shit and leave, and call 911 from the comfort and safety of my home. Swallowing hard, I informed him that I would tell hubby about the tires, I just needed his flustered ass to get my oil changed. I'll let you imagine the conversation about whether I wanted the regular or the premium oil change.

See how I casually threw in the fact that I have a husband? He was starting to freak me out and my vamp senses were telling me to get the fuck outta there. But, bad ass bloodsucker that I am, I stayed.

Fifteen more minutes later, this was now officially the longest fucking oil change I'd ever had considering there was no one before me. Urkel told me my car was ready. I walked over to him to pay for my services and he started breathing heavy again. I eyed him cautiously as I removed my credit card from my wallet and tossed it on the counter so as not to touch his creepy ass hands. He ripped the paper off the printer thing, picked up a pen so that I could sign the invoice thingy, and promptly lost control of the pen. It flew in the air, did a few somersaults, and came down millimeters from my face. Urkel damn near killed himself trying to apologize.

What did I do?

I grabbed my shit and left...fast.

I came to the conclusion, as I ran scared from the Oil and Lube, that I made Urkel nervous. I guess this means short hair or long, fat ass or no, I've still...got it? I don't know if I want it that fucking badly. If I wasn't so freaked out, I might have gotten my oil change and new tires for free. Oh well, live and learn. Right?

Maybe I'll post a pic after I put a couple layers of makeup and shit on my face. Maybe not. Don't know if I'm ready for the whole world to see my new look.

Thanks, you guys, for hanging in there with me during my procrastination studies. I have a few more guest posts coming up in the next couple of weeks. I'm going to try and alternate between my personal posts and my guest posts just so you won't forget me. No promises, though. Please come back and support my guests.

Love you!

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.