Just Call Me Tits McGee
/***Post Update: For all of you curious to watch me make an arse of myself, the producers at Connect with Mark Kelley have obliged your requests and put my television mockery on line for your viewing pleasure.
So grab some popcorn, say a Hail Mary, and thank the Heavens above that I'm not your Mother and then click this link.
Don't say I didn't warn you.***
This summer, as I was sweltering at my uncle's funeral, with rivulets of sweat trickling between my breasts and making my boobs itchy, Opportunity knocked at my door.
There I was, discreetly trying scratch the itch away, not realizing no matter how discreet I thought I was, I was still sitting in a torn folding lawn chair parked next to a broken RV trailer sitting on wooden blocks, scratching at my boobs like a monkey in a zoo.
There is no accounting for Opportunity's timing. Nor is there, as my parents would like to point out, any accounting for how I always manage to be that one chick sitting there scratching her tits in public.
(I, myself, have a theory about that but in the interests of not being disowned, again, I'll keep my mouth shut.)
So, like the rube unknowingly inviting a vampire in, I opened the door.
I'd totally be the chick who asks the homicidal psychopath in for tea because I had nothing better planned for the afternoon.
(Can you tell it's only days after Halloween and I have spent far too many hours of my life watching scary movies?)
Ahem.
So it was on that hot and sunny day as the boob sweat threatened to drown me that I was offered an unexpected job.
On television.
It could have been the beer I had chugged moments before, it could have been grief had clouded my usually impeccable judgment (shut up) or perhaps I was suffering from heat stroke, but whatever it was, I heard myself agreeing.
To be on television.
Why yes. I do have rocks for brains. Thanks for asking.
I always wanted to be the female version of Ron Burgundy. It's like the heavens opened up and offered me the opportunity to 'Stay Classy' on a silver platter.
So this is how I found myself staring at the television screen last week with my children beside me, listening to them heckle and mock me as I counted all my double chins staring back at me.
Once I got past the whole Vanity Destroying Self-Esteem factor of seeing myself on the boob tube, I began to realize the benefits of this opportunity staring me in the face.
Not only was I just given access to an entirely new medium in which I can make my husband squirm uncomfortably as I air our dirty laundry in public but I can use this opportunity to get really flexible with myself as I learn to talk with one foot permanently embedded in my mouth!
I do love me the taste of my own toe jam.
If that weren't enough to convince me of the brilliance of this choice, just seeing the rabid fear on my children's face as they braced for the inevitable embarrassment they are sure I'm about to gift upon them was enough to cement my choice and reaffirm my decision to appear on a national prime time television.
Suddenly, a whole new realm of parenting possibilities opened before me. I could use this position on television as a means to keep my spawn in check. Forget to do your homework? You wouldn't want me mentioning that on television would you? Back talk your mother? Oh, payback will be sweet when I go on air wearing curlers while munching on a piece of straw to talk about how you used to run around naked in the playground.
The threats of parental punishment are limitless, really.
(However, if any CBC producers are reading this, I promise you it's a hollow threat. I'd never make an ass out of myself just to teach my kids a lesson.
Don't read my blog archives though, okay?)
The very best part of being asked to be part of a news program like this? Sending pictures of David Hasselhoff in a bikini to the very professional host of the show.
Er, I meant, the best part of my appearance is it is lends street cred to my blogging for my husband, who actually (misguidedly) believes I now have a REAL job.
You know, opposed to the fake job of pounding out these posts to invisible people while maintaining our household, doing all the shopping, driving and parenting of our three children.
(Wait! Does that make me sound bitter?)
Anyways, if I'm really lucky maybe I'll get so famous I'll inspire an entire line of Halloween wigs like that chick with eight kids and a douchey soon to be ex-husband.
So grab some popcorn, say a Hail Mary, and thank the Heavens above that I'm not your Mother and then click this link.
Don't say I didn't warn you.***
This summer, as I was sweltering at my uncle's funeral, with rivulets of sweat trickling between my breasts and making my boobs itchy, Opportunity knocked at my door.
There I was, discreetly trying scratch the itch away, not realizing no matter how discreet I thought I was, I was still sitting in a torn folding lawn chair parked next to a broken RV trailer sitting on wooden blocks, scratching at my boobs like a monkey in a zoo.
There is no accounting for Opportunity's timing. Nor is there, as my parents would like to point out, any accounting for how I always manage to be that one chick sitting there scratching her tits in public.
(I, myself, have a theory about that but in the interests of not being disowned, again, I'll keep my mouth shut.)
So, like the rube unknowingly inviting a vampire in, I opened the door.
I'd totally be the chick who asks the homicidal psychopath in for tea because I had nothing better planned for the afternoon.
(Can you tell it's only days after Halloween and I have spent far too many hours of my life watching scary movies?)
Ahem.
So it was on that hot and sunny day as the boob sweat threatened to drown me that I was offered an unexpected job.
On television.
It could have been the beer I had chugged moments before, it could have been grief had clouded my usually impeccable judgment (shut up) or perhaps I was suffering from heat stroke, but whatever it was, I heard myself agreeing.
To be on television.
Why yes. I do have rocks for brains. Thanks for asking.
I always wanted to be the female version of Ron Burgundy. It's like the heavens opened up and offered me the opportunity to 'Stay Classy' on a silver platter.
Ladies and gentlemen, can I please have your attention. I've just been handed an urgent and horrifying news story. I need all of you, to stop what you're doing and listen. Cannonball!
So this is how I found myself staring at the television screen last week with my children beside me, listening to them heckle and mock me as I counted all my double chins staring back at me.
Once I got past the whole Vanity Destroying Self-Esteem factor of seeing myself on the boob tube, I began to realize the benefits of this opportunity staring me in the face.
Not only was I just given access to an entirely new medium in which I can make my husband squirm uncomfortably as I air our dirty laundry in public but I can use this opportunity to get really flexible with myself as I learn to talk with one foot permanently embedded in my mouth!
I do love me the taste of my own toe jam.
If that weren't enough to convince me of the brilliance of this choice, just seeing the rabid fear on my children's face as they braced for the inevitable embarrassment they are sure I'm about to gift upon them was enough to cement my choice and reaffirm my decision to appear on a national prime time television.
Suddenly, a whole new realm of parenting possibilities opened before me. I could use this position on television as a means to keep my spawn in check. Forget to do your homework? You wouldn't want me mentioning that on television would you? Back talk your mother? Oh, payback will be sweet when I go on air wearing curlers while munching on a piece of straw to talk about how you used to run around naked in the playground.
The threats of parental punishment are limitless, really.
(However, if any CBC producers are reading this, I promise you it's a hollow threat. I'd never make an ass out of myself just to teach my kids a lesson.
Don't read my blog archives though, okay?)
The very best part of being asked to be part of a news program like this? Sending pictures of David Hasselhoff in a bikini to the very professional host of the show.
Sorry about that Mark. Blame the writers of Mamapop. They made me do it.
Er, I meant, the best part of my appearance is it is lends street cred to my blogging for my husband, who actually (misguidedly) believes I now have a REAL job.
You know, opposed to the fake job of pounding out these posts to invisible people while maintaining our household, doing all the shopping, driving and parenting of our three children.
(Wait! Does that make me sound bitter?)
Anyways, if I'm really lucky maybe I'll get so famous I'll inspire an entire line of Halloween wigs like that chick with eight kids and a douchey soon to be ex-husband.
I'd totally wear that haircut. If I were blind and all the camera's in the world were broken.
I'll settle for not entirely and completely humiliating myself on a weekly basis.
What can I say? My bar isn't raised that high.
*I appear on tonight's episode of Connect With Mark Kelley on CBC's Newsworld Network. Don't ask me if you can view it in the States, cuz I have no idea.*