Jody Wallace's Snarky Sister

The column that proves snark is genetic. While Snarky Sister is on some kind of annoyingly long hiatus, you can still enjoy these entries. Feel free to email my Snarky Sister at:

I read a blog recently where a gal was dwelling on mommyhood, mainly nattering on about how much she adored her child, how protective she was of his little toesies, how she couldn't imagine life without said child, blardy, blardy, blar. Mostly the same stuff you see on all mommy blogs. She did pose an interesting query, though: How far would you go for your child? What would you be willing to sacrifice, what acts would you be willing to commit, what laws would you be willing to break?

Now, I'm no mommy. Anyone who knows me would tell you that I am a bit of a particular singleton. I will forsake all for an awesome pair of sandals. I know exactly what is in style this season, what you can get away with from last season, and can toss out a pretty darn good prediction on what will be in style next season. I have more clothes than a super-sized Burlington Coat Factory. I like my surroundings clean, clean, clean. I wash my hands more than a few times a day and my entire self at least once a day. I like to stay up late and sleep even later. I waste precious little time watching television, but I would rather eat my feet (after removing the delightful sandals, of course) than go to the gym or the grocery store. I read the latest chick lit, juicy novels, and thought-provoking biographies. I hate idle chit-chat; I like to laugh and work the crowd. I'm on the go, baby -- I like the nightlife, I like to boogie.

At least, I WAS all of these things once.

These days, I might not be a mommy, but I am The Nanny. And I will tell you what, I am sincerely shocked on a daily basis what I have done and would do for my beloved nieces.

I have:

However, I can't say that I would sell my precious body for cash. Because I accidentally looked in the mirror today, and I think the girls would need a tad more than $8.57 to live on.

May 26, 2006: Mega Blocks Old McDonald's Farm Playset

I'm sure that most of us have, at some low point in our lives, imagined what "the worst" is. You know, was that "the worst" book I will ever read? Or is there some tome even more wretched out there? Was this really "the worst" day ever? Or will another 24 hours come along eventually that will eclipse even the terrible misery of this day?

In fact, in a strange way, I fear meeting "the worst." Because it will take the macabre thrill out of each day - knowing that you will never encounter anything more awful, more vile, more nasty than what has come before.

But there is one thing I know. On "the worst" day of my life, whenever that may occur, the soundtrack will be the electronic jams of the Mega Blocks Old McDonald's Farm playset.

I grew up in the South. I got mad because it was so hot, so I moved to the Midwest. Then I got even madder because my boss was a suck-head, so I moved back to the South. Now I am all sweaty and trying to find a job.

Here’s the rub: It seems like every job I am qualified for is in New York City. My eclectic mix of teaching, writing, PR, and environmental skills are a perfect match for about ninety-bazillion positions currently open within the NYC park system, the NYC private school network, and the philanthropic non-profit sector. There’s even one NGO in NYC that would hire me to travel around, play with kids, and then come back to a big fancy office and write about it. Good money, good career move, good idea, right?

Wrong. Although my professional persona may be an ideal fit for the Big Apple, the rest of this Snarky Sister is altogether a different can of hominy. I am so un-NYC that I might as well be that honky-tonk guy from the Pace picante sauce commercial. Not that I am necessarily small-town, mind you. I have survived the bright lights in big cities and lived to tell the tales. I even thrive in most cities; I have a good sense of direction, I don’t get mad in traffic jams, I like going out to eat, and it thrills me to have a whole city’s worth of shoe shopping potential. But NYC? Please.

Not that I have ever been to New York City. But ignorance has never kept me from snarking about stuff before, so I won’t let it get in my way now. Aren’t there, like, over two million people in the NYC metropolitan area? I don’t even really like people, why would I want that many freaking neighbors? Shoes cost so much there, too, and so does food. And I love me some shoes and food. All the apartment buildings are dingy and you get mugged and raped at least once a week; at least, that is how it seems on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.

No, I won’t be moving to NYC, regardless of the plentitude of splendid jobs. Although give me a few more months of summer in the South, and I might reconsider.

Send a comment

So I'm spending some time as a nanny this spring. My sweet sister has recently given birth to my second niece, which is quite an accomplishment, if you ask me. Sis also gave birth to my first niece four years ago, which was also a significant happening. What this means is that Sis is now in possession of an mewling infant, a large C-section wound across the middle.....and a VERY high-energy four year old. Bro-in-law inevitably had to return to work; luckily, Aunt Carrie has no job and no life and was able to step in as Nanny Extraordinaire.

Except, I am realizing quickly that I am not particularly extraordinary in the arena of childcare. I mean, I love my sis and nieces to itty bitty bits. I don't mind changing poopy diapers, fixing up Yoo Hoo and cheese nibs for snack every single afternoon, and discussing the intricacies of breast-feeding for hours on end. I actually enjoy answering the same question ninety times a day, it is relaxing to sit for an hour or so with a hot little bundle of baby snuggling on your chest, and I always love any time I get to spend with Sis.

It isn't really the nanny part that I mind so much; it's the peripheral aspects of being non-biblically with child. See, when you spend most of your time in the company of a four-year old, you end up watching certain television programs that you would not normally watch. Actually, I don't normally watch much TV at all; I haven't even had a TV for the past month or so, but I didn't really miss it. However, when I DID have a TV, I did not find myself tuning in often in the morning hours, specifically between 8am or 11am. I was either at work, or asleep, or still out -- ya know? Not zoning in front of the tube.

Nowadays, I know who Steve, Joe, and Kevin are, and can debate the pros and cons of each. I can sing along with all the Wiggley tunes. I can spot that Swiper from a mile away and every time I step into the backyard, I am surprised when there isn't a pirate ship or an archeology dig. And it is driving me FREAKING INSANE.

What ARE these crappy shows?? Man, I hate those stupid chirpy noises that Blue makes; if she could just open her doggy cakehole and say something, maybe we wouldn't need all those lame clues to figure out what she's thinking. And I hate that I know that Blue is a girl puppy rather than a boy puppy because it's not like someone could really tell. I just want to slap the sleepy look off that narcoleptic nancy-pants Jeff Wiggle's face. Why does Dora have to holler everything in that sing-song voice and seriously, why do the Backyardigans move so sloooowwwwly?

But I save my deepest scorn for that most extreme of duuuudes....Diego. As if Dora and Boots weren't enough, with their shouting and maps and idiot Benny the Bull. Now there's a show for Dora's studly cousin Diego, who is somehow a world-famous wildlife biologist at only 8 years old. He jets around with his all-powerful laptop (how does he get wireless in the Amazon, anyway?) and rescues all sorts of wild animals from perilous scenarios and always comes out on top. The fake constipated grunting sounds some of the animals make drive me nutso, especially the three-toed sloths, which you probably can't relate to, because you probably don't want the show and haven't seen that episode where Diego somehow manages to save a mommy and baby sloth from a ravaging mudslide. Because an 8-year-old could totally do that. While yelling out, "Can YOU see the MOMMY and BABY SLOTH? WHERE? WHERE ARE THEY?" as if he can actually hear kids from outside the TV. And then an 8-year-old would be able to carry around the sloths that would weigh almost 100 pounds. Can you say, "GIVE ME A DAMN BREAK," kids? Can you?

The show is called "Go, Diego, Go." I would add "To Hell."

In fact, I think you should email her! She has been recently saddened by her empty email box as she job hunts and relocates to climes hopefully warmer than Wisconsin. So please help me nag her to snark for us!

Surely she's got more snark than this 4 month hiatus?? Email-nag my surly sister to request more snark at sister@meankitty.com.

If you've checked in today hoping for some fun, lighthearted snark, then you are going to be sorry. Because I have no fun in my soul right now, nor is my heart even remotely light. There is nothing about me that is light, in fact. Recently, I described my downward spiral into adult onset acne. I refrained from mentioning that I also have monstrously unattractive Leo Sayer hair and a burgeoning ass. Seriously, these days I can't even remember what it was like in the mirror and not see a freakishly pale spotty ghoul-face framed by s**t brown puffs of an indeterminate length. And forget pear-shaped -- pears are too skinny up top. I've got more of a bloated urn thing going on. Still no cleavage, though. Unless you count the skin folds at my waistband when I button my size-million pants.

Anyway, so yeah. Not lookin' great. However, I have noted that EVERYONE around me suddenly looks like a rock star. Not like drug-addicted, skanky, scurvy-ridden rock star types, but all glowing and smooth and pretty-like. One of my co-workers recently shunned the expensive Aveda salon where we get our haircuts and went to freakin' Cost Cutters and came out with this glamorously sleek Linda Evangelista 'do. Even my boss, who for the longest time had a shocking Eddie Money mullet, has a nice layered bob right now, which, when she bathes, looks quite nice. The Slumpy Man on My Couch cut HIS OWN HAIR WHILE DRUNK last week, for crissakes, and somehow managed a tweaky mod Jude Law look.

Then there's me, from whom small children run screaming. I realize life is not fair and all, but throw me a bone already.

OK, so now I'm a dog. Gah!

October 14, 2005: Antibiotic Gut Riot

Dude, I have this scary face since I hit my 30s. My skin was pretty typical as a teen, never completely clear, never completely blemished. I could get by with washing it once or twice a day, occasionally smacking on some Clearasil, and keeping a Maybelline Coverstick handy (do they even make those any more?). Even when I did go zitso, at least I had plenty of company -- I was surrounded by other hormonally imbalanced, junk-food-eatin' punks like myself.

These days, MOST of my peers have started getting wrinkles, not acne. *I* have been lucky enough to enter my 30s with BOTH. My doctor claims that 50% of adult women go through phases of yick-face (clinical term, I swear!) after they hit 30, and various Internet sites state the same statistics, but I am not convinced. What do those putzes at Harvard Medical School know, anyway? What I know is, none of my friends are hanging out in the Oxy-10 aisle at Walmart. Then again, they are all paying ten times what I pay for my skin care regimen, but that is small comfort when my face looks like a connect-the-dot puzzle of an amoeba.

Not all of my zit-blasting artillery is topical, of course. I am supposed to be moderating the amount of simple sugars and processed foods I consume, which sucks the bag because I love me some powdered donuts. Plenty of water, fresh air, regular exercise, sunscreen blah blah blah. Isn't it funny how those elements are indicated in the treatment of every malady in the world? One of these days, somebody is totally going to sue because they've spent the last 25 years chugging aqua while they racewalk wearing SPF 2-bajillion, and they come down with the same shit as their next door neighbor who tans in the parking lot of McDonalds. The question will be, who to sue?

I also have this antibiotic, twice daily, with or without food. I've taken some sick days in my life and experienced more than my fair share of medicaments. Allergic to sulpha drugs -- found that one out the hard way with an all-over body rash. Pretty much every bottle of antibiotics I've ever had has a shiny label slapped on the side that says "Take with food if stomach upset occurs." You usually try to poke a sandwich or at least a banana down the old cakehole before you pop the pill, but not always. If you are on drugs, often you feel like crap anyway and probably wouldn't notice a little "stomach upset."

However, I have learned that taking an antibiotic for acne is an entirely unique scenario. Except for when I look in the mirror (yikesabee!), I feel fine. So a few nights ago, when I tossed back my PM dose of scientific breakthrough at bedtime without an accompanying snack, I woke up 45 minutes later in a bit of a pickle. "Stomach upset," my ass!! It felt like the entire lining of my gut was on fire. Accompanying the burn were occasional sharp pangs in the upper gastric region and an undercurrent of mild but constant nausea. Dizzam. Needless to say, after I had nibbled on some saltines and sipped some ginger ale, I made a vow that I would never again be downing my meds without some sort of cushion. And my face still looks like crap.

August 21, 2005: Shut Your Cakeholes

I admit it. There is one sporting tournament on TV that I get completely wrapped up in. For eleven months of the year, I care about televised sports about as much as I care about televised cooking. That would be, not much. Sure, I tune in for an occasional match or the creation of a particularly tasty-looking entree, but for the most part......meh. I would never plan my weekends around "the game" unless it entailed being invited to a kickin' party with sweet bar-bee-que chicken wings and ice-cold beer in order to watch "the game," in which case I would likely as not skip the watching part so I could scarf down more of the free food. But every July, this all changes. This isn't a sport you can follow with TiVo, so I watch the Interweb with baited breath, waiting to see finalists announced and the dates set for........wait for it.......The Little League World Series, LIVE from Williamsport, Pennsylvania.

Bejesus, I love it!!! I've been tuning in for eight years now, ever since ESPN and ESPN2 realized they could bring in some fat viewer stats pimping out little kid sports to the world. Fresh-faced 12-year old cuties, playing their pre-teen hearts out for a chance to be world champions, the DRAMA, the EXCITEMENT, the damned GLORY of it all!! And it actually is a 'world' series, unlike some tubby, overpaid, stubbly dudes' non-world series that I shan't mention. Teams from Japan! Poland! Jamaica! Saudi Arabia! Netherland Antilles (eh?)! The thrill of victory! The agony of defeat!

And spare me the "what are you, some kind of sick young-boy-lover-type Letourneau" bullshite. Yes, I am 30-ish and could theoretically be the mother of one of these kids, although that would mean that I had gotten some man-sex in my teens, which is such a ridiculous notion even now that it isn't worth the snark. I certainly do not have fond memories of my skippy, sporty past, as I never skipped nor sported except for one aborted attempt to play basketball in junior high which ended as soon as I realized it would take work, for crissakes. And I have always been loathe to work.

I just love to watch me some Little League. So shut your cakeholes.

There is no way that my last contribution to snarkiness was July 15. Because I have snarked since then; oh yes, I have snarked. I must have forgotten to record it for posterity. Or posterior. Or pustule. Or whatever the hell word I'm grasping for here.

Not much has changed for this Snarky Sister in a month. Well, I have gotten fatter and spottier and somehow managed to pull out an even shabbier attitude towards most things. Luckily, it has cooled down and dried out a bit where I live, so I won't have to kick the climate's ass as I had intended to. I thought that my hair would stop frazzing out like an Arlo Guthrie-a-like when the temperatures and humidity decreased, but I still seem to be sporting a 'fro most days. I have a small selection of attractive hats for tamping down the puff during leisure time, but I am forbidden to wear headgear at work. Thus, my co-workers are forced to sidle into my office, clinging to the walls to avoid becoming entangled in the massive mass of my head.

At least it used to be blonde. My hair has blahed down to the most nondescript shade of brown as I have gotten older. I sometimes pay stupid amounts to have it henna-ed by my Aveda guru Amber, but it isn't very often that my pocketbook stretches far enough to dump a lump sum on a smudgy red hair crayon treatment.

Ugh. I am so disillusioned by my tubby, acne-ridden, poo-hair-colored self that I don't even have any more snark right now. Now that's sad.

I am going to a wedding tomorrow. Now, I am not anti-wedding by any means. I may be always the surly bridesmaid and never the bride and I might have attended more weddings in my life than you could shake a champagne flute at, but I am still relatively in favor of blessed events. There is usually decent, free food and plentiful, free booze and at least a few faces that you recognize and not from the post office wall, either. You can easily strike up a chat with anyone to cover awkward moments, because you both know SOMEONE who is getting hitcharood and it's a good bet that the ceremony was "lovely." the flower girl was "sweet," and/or the bride looked "radiant." And if one of the groomsmen let fly a huge fartbomb or an old codger in the crowd fell asleep and snored foghorn-ishly during the ceremony, so much the better. You can talk AND laugh. I might be a sappy sapper, but I also kind of honored to be invited to share a day with someone when they are about to stand up in front of deities, family, and sundry and say, "This guy/gal seems to be OK, so I think I'll stick around."

So I am not snarking to say, "Oh boo, I have to go to this wedding and it's so lame and waah waah waah." I have a decent rag to wear, although it is shorter than I prefer and shows my KNEES for poop's sake, so I will have to shave my toots. I have some flippin' sweet sandals to match and a few of the heinous spots on my face have lessened their radioactive glow, and--shockingly--the dress makes the most of my B-cup cleave. The chica saying 'I do' is a groovy pal (I orchestrated her Bachelorette Party a few weeks ago. Whew! Still trying to sleep that one off.) and her intended is a solid chap with a smart face. It is an outdoor ceremony in a state park, so I won't have to worry about ducking the jagged bolts from above as I try to sneak onto holy ground. No, the problem isn't the wedding itself. It is the datelessness.

Ladies and gents, I am NOT normally someone who feels snifty if I don't have a date-ish sidekick at social functions. I can recall a few events from my checkered past that I wish I HAD been solo (senior prom, anyone?). It is just that this particular day has some twisty details that could make my stag-ness uncomfortable. In fact, downright shitty.

I did, of course, attempt to pressure Slumpy Man into going. He is a dedicated wedding-hater; he didn't even relent for a chance to go to Vegas for my sister's star-studded fete a few years ago. He is a lousy date at functions of this sort, anyway; he doesn't like champagne or wine and he refuses to hold my sundry cosmetics in his jacket pockets so I don't have to carry one of those geeky evening clutches. I admit that I have ALOT of cosmetic items that I take around with me--whatever, like his shoulders are going to break from the strain of one more lipstick? So Slumpy was not available as a companion. I had to turn to other options. Herein lies the problem: there are no other options.

Which leads me to the reason being dateless at this particular nuptials is problematic. EVERYONE else I know who will be attending is either semi-permanently coupled in some way or has scrounged up some pathetic excuse for an escort. I do know single people, I swear I do, but none of them managed to get themselves invited to this shindig. All in all, I can guarantee I won't have much competition for that humiliating game of tossing the bouquet. And something about weddings makes obnoxious matchmakers out of the most mild-mannered people. "Have you met Creepy Snirkins? He was Bride's dentist her whole life. He's recently divorced, has hair sprouting out of his ears, and probably has children twice your age, but he's SINGLE!!" *wink wink*

And then there will be young studs who will think, "Poor single chick at a wedding, hey, easy meat." Now, depending on how tasty these younguns happen to be, I could be convinced to play along to some degree with this particular but intriguing folly, but I am inclined to predict that on this day, it will be a geeky nineteen-year-old who plays the tuba and the Groom's drunken redneck cousin who calls himself 'the Devirginator." Neither of whom are worth sacrificing my self-respect or shaving my pits for (the dress has sleeves, dammit).

So moral of the story: I'm going to don my too-short dress with my awesome footwear and magically enhanced chest, strut around slurping down gratis champers, and when it comes time to throw the bouquet, I'll walk right up and say, "I am no good at sports. Just give me the damn thing."

I am rather inexplicably reading and enjoying Paul Reiser's "Couplehood." Here is a paragraph I particularly like:

Ugh. I agree. Although there are certain aspects of "gymming" I enjoy. For example, I am learning to like to swim. Believe it or not, I have reached a relatively advanced age (not that advanced, dammit) without ever really being able to swim well. Growing up and in college, my mother was a swimmer; not the Olympics, of course, but a strong swimmer nonetheless. My father was a slow but graceful water-mover, and both parents did plenty of swimming in the pond on the farm where I grew up. My older brother and sister learned to dive and swim adequately, taught mainly by nuestros madre. The "test" for being able to go to the pond alone was being able to swim all the way across and back using one stroke, and to tread water for a certain length of time. I don't recall what that certain length of time was, probably a minute or so?

I don't know if it was my general "youngest child" attitude or a vague indication of the recalcitrant nature I would develop later in life, but I balked when it came my turn to learn. I liked to pretend that I had a fear of water dating back to my toddler years, when I managed to splash myself right off the end of the pond dock into 6 feet of cold springtime water. I was quickly and efficiently saved by Mother, and I don't even think I cried about it. But it was a good story to throw about when my peers began sloshing around --- "This one time I fell through the ICE into water 20 FEET DEEP in our pond and I almost DIED." My mom taught me all of the basic strokes--backstroke, crawl, breaststroke--but I just never DID them. I did alot of staring off into the distance and complaining, alot of not paying attention and not arching my back, and alot of squishing pond mud between my toes. I sulked and slogged through my swim test using the good ole doggie paddle (a damn good stroke, if you ask me) and rarely swam again.

That is not to say that I never got in water. I mean, I got in the pond every summer, and played in plenty of pools through my childhood, took various trips to beaches and journeyed to the local state park for lake adventures. My summer family vacations usually took us camping with about 40-odd assorted members of our clan along various icy cold rivers in West Virginia, that I was forced to explore because it was the only way to bathe. (For several years, I neglected to bathe for the entire camping trip, but that is another snark entirely.) I just never "swam." I only feebled around in doggie mode and floated on my back and basically played.

In my early twenties, I ventured to swimming locales only because I was skinny and had some cool bathing suits. Later on, the willingness to don a bathing suit faded, and I stayed away. Far away. I still yanked out the nasty old purplish-brown tank suit for the annual camping trip or pond splashes with my newborn niece, but beyond that, I avoided the water and the revealed flesh that came with it.

So why did I pick it back up? Basically boredom and a granny named Irene. I did not have some life-changing event that propelled me back into splashville, nor am I teetering over 300 pounds and need a low-impact way to lose weight (although I have heard that swimming is great for that). I already go to the gym a few times a week to work out, mostly treadmill, stationary bike, simple weights, and abs toning. I am not a gung-ho fitness gal; I'd just like a little less thigh and belly. I usually join a friend of mine during these workouts. My Fitness Friend (FF) is much more vigorous than I, but it is always more enjoyable to socialize while sweating. Turns out, FF is also a competitive swimmer. On some gym days, she goes to the pool rather than the fitness center. And man, did I get bored on those days! My CD player broke, I am too poor to get an MP3 player, and I can't stand to read a book with sweaty fingers (eww). So I asked FF if she would teach me how to swim.

Our first were somewhat confusing. FF had taught children's swim lessons through high school, so she had a VERY patient and descriptive style, which was perfect for me. We went in the mornings, so the pool was never crowded. What confused me was the deja vu atmosphere that I already knew how to do this. After a few swims, whaddya know? I did know how to do it. Apparently, completely against my will, I had been listening to my mother 22 years ago. Argh. Anyway, my backstroke and breaststroke are pretty good, although my crawl is a shambles and I have just quit trying that one because I can't concentrate to count which head turn I need to breathe on. I swim in the mornings a few times a week, pop in the shower, and scuddle on into work.

FF has since moved away. She was bright star in my social sky that unfortunately left to orbit more exciting climes than central Wisconsin. I was afraid I would lose my motivation to swim, but then I met Irene.

Irene is 82 years old. She swims every single morning at 7am, except on Sundays, when the pool isn't open until noon and she goes to Mass at 9am. She wears a jaunty floral swim cap and a plain black tank suit, bright red water goggles and always stretches out poolside before she chooses a swim lane. Once in the water, she bounces up and down gently for a minute or so, "getting her old bones wet," she calls it. Then, she proceeds to BLOW MY WATER WINGS OFF. Because Irene can swim. Extremely well. And extremely quickly. She can usually lap twice in the time it takes me and my pathetic breaststroke to finish one turn. She cackles at my floundering as she whizzes by me, sometimes calling out, "Better hope there's no shark after ya, slowpoke!"

Luckily, Carol (aged 83) and Agnes (aged 79) are often swimming as well, and they swim at a kinder, gentler speed, although Agnes is pretty spry. So I can almost keep up with those grannies, but not Irene. She's a monster, Loch Ness even.

June 15, 2005: Stupid Hot

When I finally buggled my way through graduate school (still a mystery to me how I pulled that one off), I needed a job. Some folks do like to try to find steady income 'round about that time in life, except for those tools who step out of college with undergraduate degrees and land big time six-figure dream jobs. Man, I hate those jerks. Anyway, not being one of those people, I didn't begin my hardcore "real" job searching until I got my second piece of parchment. I had a nice undergraduate degree and an even nicer graduate degree, both of which looked tee-rific on paper, so I was not unduly worried about becoming employed. No, my biggest quandary was, "Where?"

I spent not only the better part, but the whole part, of my life, in the hot and steamy South. You can jabber all you want about gracious belles (bitches), courteous gentleman (ass-grabbers), and sweeping landscapes (pine plantations and chicken farms as far as the eye can see). I will probably even agree with you, because I am one of those fools who actually does love the South and a tidbit of what it stands for and deludes myself into thinking (when I'm not snarking) that wonderful things are in store below the Mason-Dixon line. Heck, I've heard of most NASCAR drivers, eaten everything fried, and still have a hard time understanding why anyone would want to drink UNSWEET tea. I also truly believe that a dab of bacon grease improves the flavor of most cuisine.

My love for my homeland aside, when I was looking for that first "real" job, I thought to myself, "I wonder what it is like out there? Are there really places to live where it snows? Do rivers really freeze over? And, dammit, somewhere out there, in a distant galaxy, is there a place that ISN'T SO FREAKIN' HOT AND STEAMY?"

I may be Southern and relatively proud of it, but I HATE TO BE HOT. I hate 90+ degrees. I hate 90% humidity. I hate when wearing jeans becomes a health risk. I hate burning my hammy thighs on a blistering car seat and scalding my palms on the steering wheel. I hate that my hammy thighs are exposed to such treatment by the fact that I am forced to wear SHORTS. I hate sweating wet through the pits and back of my shirt five minutes after I step outside. I hate how my face glistens slick and red all day in the sticky warmth, producing extra oil for my pores to store in the form of lumpy whiteheads. I hate itchy heat rash, damp and smelly feet, and yicky farmer's tans. I hate it all.

So when I started applying for jobs, I roamed. Although I did send a few resumes out to places like St. Louis and D.C., I sent more to Michigan, Vermont, and New York. And in my field, the number one career-boosting destination: Wisconsin.

I know, I know. How can Wisconsin be anyone's number one career-boosting destination? I'd rather not get into it right now, just accept it. Lucky me, I landed a dream job. In central Wisconsin. Where it gets very cold and snows a whole bunch. The rivers freeze over, people fish through the ice in colorful shacks, and snowmobiling is an eight-month-long journey through an icy paradise. It gets bitterly cold, but I love the winters.

This is my third summer so far in good old 'Sconey. Can I tell you what I wore to work today? Shorts. Because it was stupid hot outside.

Me to family: Can you guys send me some entries? How about Snarky Mom or Snarky Brother? Isn't there anything you want to snark about so I can update my site? Come on, dudes.

Sister: I feel snarky in general. Snarky and fat. But that doesn't make for much of a story.

Sister: It's quite easy for me. In fact, I'm doing it right now. I've got seventeen bazillion CDs uploaded onto my computer, and I still can't find any music I want to listen to. But I have to find SOMETHING because the office across the hall is blaring Creedence Clearwater Revival, and it's killing my mojo. Snarkety snark snark. It's accurately recording the snark that is too time-consuming.

I sometimes experiences these other-worldly feelings, as if I lift out of my own body and drift up high somewhere, looking down upon myself. And I wonder, "What the hell am I doing?"

Today is administrative assistant's day, and our AA is da bomb, so we all chipped in and gave her a lovely card with some cold hard cash inside. Her car just blew up recently, so we knew she could use some spare dough. We gathered at her office door with smiles and hugs, and presented her with our gift. As she opened it, the rest of the staff warbled a lilting rendition of "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow." Not being one to sing, EVER, I added my own celebratory fillip by breaking into a peppy boogie.

That's when the out-of-my-body lifting occurred, and I looked down at four calm and friendly faces, singing a jaunty tune to honor a dedicated co-worker, and one maniacal dervish, breaking a sweat by leaping up and down in a frantic Running-Man-Not-Getting-Anywhere dance. What's more, for some reason, after the song was over, I continued pogo-ing for 20 or so seconds. Nobody mentioned it and we all proceeded back to our offices to stare at screens, but still......

What the hell was I doing?

My boss recently decided she felt bad for treating her lowly staff like dog turds, and treated us all (all whopping four of us) to a half-day at a local spa. This place is definitely one of *those* spas, where they claim to be able to harness your inner chi and re-set your reiki balance with warm stones and gentle aromatherapy treatments. Whatever. Anyway, not being one to turn down anything free, especially since said boss HAS been a total butt munch and owed it to us, I signed on.

I chose a Fundamental Facial Treatment. The other staff were going for reinvigorating spinal massages and herbal body gemstone journeys, or some crap like that, but there was no way I was up for having some complete stranger touchin' my stuff. You know? Even if there is a "decency coverlet" between me and his/her hands, it is still me lying buck naked in a stinky patchouli closet listening to supposedly soothing shit muzak while some half-ass crackpot who went to a month of "school" at the local community college rubs on my personal parts. I think not. I figured that a facial and a pedicure couldn't get too intimate, and surely they won't expect me to take off my pants.

Eventually, after I hunched uncomfortable for about ten minutes in this flowery waiting area with rattan furniture and organic tea, it was time for my Fundamental Facial Treatment came. I expected to sit in a dental-type chair and have somebody rub Queen Helene mud mask on my face and then claim my skin had been rejuvenated. I was sadly wrong. I was led by a white-medical-coat-garbed Jennifer, my "personal esthetician" into.....guess what? A stinky closet. Luckily, it stunk of sandalwood rather than patchouli, or I would have been forced to sneeze my way back into the parking lot. Also, there was no chair. Not even a stool. Just a crappy raised futon-looking thing with pristine white padding like you see in coffins. There were some mechanical arms that looked sort of like dental equipment, however, looming over the futon.

Jennifer said, "Have you experienced a facial before?" I said, "No, I usually just scrub my face with Ivory soap and a wet rag and hope for the best." Jennifer seemed a little taken aback by that, but she gamely went on to say, "I think you will find the Fundamental Facial truly soothing. I am going to step outside while you prepare. Please remove your shirt and shoes and slide under the cotton sheets." To which I replied, "I didn't know I was going to have to take my shirt off?" Jennifer said, "It is not entirely necessary, but we do like to replenish the neck as well as the facial skin." I countered with, "What if I don't want to take off my shirt and be soothed and replenished?" Poor Jennifer. To be saddled with me.

She left the room a little disconcerted after that, but I figured I would be nice, so I took my my shirt and my shoes, grimacing at bit at the unshaved furriness of my armpits, and sidled under the sheets on the rock-hard futon. I lay there, staring at the weird metal things hanging over my head. Jennifer knocked softly and, I suppose, was just lurking outside the door, until I said, "Yeah?" She came in and asked if I was comfortable. Rather than snark that futons were never comfortable and was she about to bust a move on my face, I decided to be kind and say, "I'm fine, thank you." She explained what was entailed in a Fundamental Facial: a thorough cleansing, an enzyme steam bath, and a customized mask and moisture treatment. (What, no Queen Helene?) From there, the conversation went like this:

Me: "Hey, I was kidding about that Ivory soap thing. I do use Oil of Olay, at least."
J: "...................Alright."
Me: "What's this stuff hanging up there?"
J: "That is the steam mask, and equipment used during microdermabrasion and chemical peels."
Me: "Hm."
J: "So let's get started. First, do you have any particular skin concerns?"
Me: "Um, well, I get lots of acne even though I am old as hell. Mostly on my chin."
J: (Staring down at my face) "I see. You do seem to have some congested zones."
Me: "If you mean my zit-goatee, then yes, I suppose you would call that congested."
J: "Did you just say zit-goatee?"
Me: "Why, yes I did."

Jennifer was quiet for a few minutes after that, just staring down at my face, upside-down like, since she was sitting at the head of the futon. Or, hell, she might have been levitating up there, because I hadn't seen any stool for her to sit on. Then she started giggling. I started giggling, too. She finally said, grinning, "Well, maybe you shouldn't eat so many chicken wings and let the grease drip down your chin."

From then on, we were fine. The facial wasn't that bad; it actually was kind of soothing, but I wouldn't ever tell anyone that. Jennifer told me all about my skin, and how often I should use an exfoliant, and recommended St. Ives Sensitive Skin Apricot Scrub, which was nice, because I assumed she would try to sell me some fancy, shmancy $50 crud from their retail line. The enzyme steam bath was kind of tingly and neat and the moisturizer she picked out for my skin type smelled sweetly of roses. When we were done, Jennifer thanked me gravely for "being real" and called me "a pleasure." We exchanged a final grin, and I was done. I left her a nice tip at the front desk, and waited in rattan-land for the rest of my co-workers to get done with their various rubby-rubs.

Would you believe it? My skin actually looks fresher and clearer now. I feel replenished!

A lot of celebrities have stupid faces, I have decided. Case in point: I watched UPTOWN GIRLS with Brittany Murphy the other day. Hey, it was the only thing on and I didn't want to work. Poor Brittany has one of the stupidest faces I have ever seen. She could be the smartest chica around (doubt it), but her face screams dumb. She also always looks slightly inebriated. And slutty. But that is another snark.

I have often heard people refer to spring as a "quickening," a time of joyous renewal of life and bursting forth of green leaves and meltwater streams. A time for cleaning, starting over, revitalization. I do not consider spring a re-birth. Quite the opposite, really. Spring is the "fattening."

It rains in central Wisconsin all the time, and here is what I am thinking about:

-- Who gets to name hurricanes? Until 1978, they were named only after women. In 2007, there will be one named Olga. How rude.

-- The chance of meeting someone with Barbie's human-scale measurements is 1 in 10,000 while the chance of meeting Ken is 1 in 50. This annoys me.

-- Saw the new "Punisher" movie recently. What a waste of a $2.50 rental! I felt as if I had been punished by watching it. I would rather have watched the same old episode of Family Feud for two hours while plucking my nose hairs with rusty tweezers.

-- The military term for jamming enemy radar and shooting down enemy planes is "suppression of assets."

-- Words of wisdom on weight gain from Winnie the Pooh: "It all comes, I suppose, of liking honey so much."

So I had to go shopping for some new jeans this evening after work. Normally, I adore shopping. I love it. The smell of fresh pleather shoes, the stiffness of a colorful trendy tee, the fervor of a SALE, SALE, SALE. Bargains abound! (especially since I usually shop consignment, thrift, or Target) The thrill of imagination: "This sharp shirty will totally work with my khaki bootlegs. This comfy sweatshirt has Saturday Regency romance reads written all over it. These shoes are exactly what I need for that orange floral kimono (hey, I'm a *unique* dresser)." Whether or not I have imagined correctly is not an issue. Those shoes did NOT work with the orange kimono, or perhaps it is that I realized that the orange kimono was a nasty eyesore; regardless, I adventured and I triumphed with a good deal. Today's shopping, however, was not of that variety. This was fat shopping.

Because, yes, my ass has grown. And grown. And my thighs have blossomed into pale, quimbling hammy hams. And my upper arms? Flab. And my waist? Wait, what waist? The fact that a portion of this burgeoning bulging is due to a hormonal imbalance does not detract from the impact of it all. Me = not slim. I haven't actually been slim since early this decade, but my current state of non-slim-ity is beyond curvy, full, or "a cozy armful." And maybe the worst part of it is, I am still struggling to fill a flickin' B cup. Talk about unfair.

So I go to buy these pants. I refuse to spend real money since I refuse to accept that I might be wearing said pants for more than, like, two weeks. But I can't spend two weeks wearing pajama bottoms and slumpy man's pants to work, especially since the slumpy man whose pants I wear is even larger (but not in charger) than me and doesn't always bathe or wash his clothing regularly. I take my one department store piece of plastic in hand and head to the "Woman" section, flipping a big bird at the "Junior" section as I breeze by. Not that I want to wear "Junior" clothes -- frankly, I am scared by what I see there these days -- but it is more a formality than real ire. A straight-up 'bite me' to all those younger, thinner, and fresher than I. And why is it that they call the larger pants "Woman" sized? My mom is a petite and trim size 10 and she is definitely not a "Miss" and hasn't been for forty years.

The selection in the "Woman" section left much to be desired. Does extra weight make you an automatic style-less, frumpy goober? It is kind of like those sugar-sweet bows and sailor collars they put on maternity clothing. I mean, you are carrying a baby, not morphed into a baby. The generous cut of the "Woman" pant thighs was somewhat pleasing, but the size I had to choose in order to accommodate my thick waist-less-ness caused immense tents of cloth to billow out from each upper leg as if I was in an old MC Hammer video. I was also annoyed by the assumption that any Woman my size was also ten feet tall. I could have cut off the legs below my feet and sewed them on as arms of a sweater vest and had a trendy long-sleeve jean-blend look. (for the record, I am totally against that look) Alas, I was forced to leave the "Woman" frumpville behind and venture to other, more distant parts of the store.

Guess where I ended up? Slumpy man pantville. Blessed are the stocky hipster teen boys of the world, for they have pushed the market toward stretchy, bootcut jeans in gravelly washes and hip-hugging luxury. I did have to wade through the snazzed-up carpenter pants (like anybody actually hangs a hammer on loose fit jeans) and Jnco extra-extra-baggies, but found PANTS THAT FIT. And.......they were on sale.