Meet Tiffani Price. She’s small town Texas girl, mother (two kids, several chickens, probably some goats and horses, and a countless number of dogs and cats), and wife to a man who spends at least half the year on an oil rig in the Gulf. She’s a crazy Right-Wing conservative and outspoken Evangelical who, I trust, has a direct line to the office of God himself. When it comes to habits of organization, patience with children, and our general approaches to home-management, she and I are probably polar opposites.
Yet. I love her.
When I met her over fifteen years ago, she was Tiffani Wright, and she lived across the hall from me at Baylor University. She was a theater major, and the size of her laugh was only outmatched by the size of her hair on a rainy day in Waco. She left school in September when her little brother was tragically killed in a car accident, sad for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that her only-child roommate who had never cleaned a macaroni and cheese pot in her entire life sort of adopted me and my roommates to help take care of her (for the next four years). I haven’t seen Tiffani since 2003, but I feel confident that if she moved in next door, we’d pick up like we’d been together every day for the last decade.
She does nothing on a small scale. From her house, to her hair, to her heart. I could try to tell you all about how refreshingly honest she is, or how, despite her sense of humor, how much she actually cares about people, but instead, I’ve simply stolen her words from the last few years of Facebook posts, and today I’m calling her a “guest writer.” This isn’t a best-of list, by any means, because I’ve left too much out. But it is good for a chuckle today.
I tried on a strapless bra today and I’m pretty sure I heard my boobs laugh at me. Well, the right one did. The left one is usually quiet.
Welllll, my web surfing has taught me another very valuable lesson tonight. In the world of high fashion and even higher priced vacations, there is a new term in swimwear. It’s called the “Brazilian bottom.” Now, I figured with my keen vocabulary and the use of context clues I had that one pegged. Nope. Come to find out it does NOT indeed involve the use of spa grade roadside tar or a new role of duct tape. It DOES, however, revolve wholly around the idea that skinny girls like wedgies and that designers know this and will ask said skinny girls to pay $150+ for a bathing suit bottom that gives them one. This proves to me yet again that the amount of calories you ingest directly affects your I.Q. If these skinny girls would just eat a little something every now and then, they would realize they could buy a regular swimsuit for half the price and their hiney would do the rest of the work.
It’s been working for chubby girls for years.
It’s sad, y’all. Somebody needs to organize an intervention.
Ohhhhhh people of the world, you just don’t even KNOW how hard it was NOT to buy Keith a speedo today while looking for swim trunks for him online.
The look on his face when he pulled that thing out of his luggage. . . I can’t even.
I might still.
OMG- this one has an American flag on it.
You know that day when you realize you’re going to be in a swimsuit in two weeks and you need to lose 40lbs in ten days?
It’s that day.
I heard the body wraps are awesome, but I’m pretttty sure the only way that’s gonna work is if I get her to wrap it around my head so no food can get in.
5 am for an 8-y-o’s softball tournament is really pushing the limits of sanity.
So Izaac’s t-ball practices are scheduled for 7:15 – 8:30 pm.
Am I the only person who thinks that’s an INSANE time for a bunch of 5 & 6-year-olds?
Getting passports for the kids. Because you don’t need jack to get in, but you need your family history, a detailed grocery list and a blood sample to get out.
Well it’s official.
I shaved my legs just in time for Mother Nature to decide to spaz completely out.
What a waste of a roll of weed eater string.
Being a mom is all fun and games until you sit on a wet toilet seat.
The ballet was amazing. Well, it was until the middle of the sugarplum fairy solo, when, in a deathly quiet theater, Bella pooted right on my lap. Oh. My. Gosh… I spent the remainder of the show trying desperately to convince everyone around me it was her. Hard to do without talking – and in the dark.
I just almost died. Seriously. I had Bella thrown over my shoulder while we were playing, and right as I was flipping her back up, she reached both hands down my pajama pants… and grabbed my thong. And held on for dear life. Like she was spelunking. So I pretty much used my three-year-old to dismember myself.
I am going tomorrow to apply for disability.
Saw a three-year-old little boy slap his mama in the face repeatedly today at the elementary school during a fit… apparently the “Butt Whipping Fairy” does not visit his house as often as it does mine.
Cereal stinks. It’s supposed to be the “fast and easy” way to serve breakfast.
By the time I clean up the milk and all of the little fruit loops catapulted across the living room, I could’ve made eggs and bacon.
I am WAY too chubby for 100 degree plus weather. Seriously, my sweat is sweating.
We can send a man to the friggin’ moon, but we can’t create a firework that explodes in the shape of Dora?
Common, NASA, get your priorities straight!
Do you think that C.P.S. can come get me for feeding my three-year-old brownies and Doritios for supper?… not that I DID that, but in the event that something like that were to occur in the future….
Breaking a 3 day water fast at Freebirds World Burrito is a BAD IDEA.
So I hear.
I am missing my husband soooo much tonight.
I know I get all ooey-gooey a lot, but I love him so stinking much. I miss him and I appreciate him more and more every day.
And of course the kids have some weird skin rash and I have no idea where to get my registration sticker renewed and there’s a gecko in my bathroom and he needs to be here for stuff like that. I’ve checked, and I’m only good for elementary craft projects and incidents that somehow include farm animals, crazy glue or unfortunate bowel issues.
Love you, Keith. Thanks for handling the crazy.
Now tell me again how I get a new sticker?
It’s almost that time of year!
You know, that time of year when all of the Crossfit, eat right, “check this out you fatties, I just rode my bike to the moon and back while you were eating a donut” crowd starts complaining about all of the extra people at the gym.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!
I am the hamburger helper of housekeepers.
You know that night when you vacuum up a bunch of red glitter in a Dyson, look down as it catches the light and think you’ve caught your vacuum cleaner on fire?
Yeah. It’s that night.
So, apparently I had a handlebar mustache that no one was telling me about.
Either that, or the woman who just waxed my ENTIRE FACE is on a personal crusade to eliminate duck face.
Thank you Yeow Chi, but I’d really like my lip back. And please put it on ice for transport.
Found out today that some company has come out with bacon scented deodorant.
Personally, I’m going to be a very unhappy consumer if the marketing plan for this endeavor does not include the phrase “pork pits.”
The bras at JUSTICE are padded.
The bras are padded.
I have lost all faith in humanity.
So, I’ve learned a few interesting things while being at Round Top this year.
One- it always rains, bring Wellies.
Two- it’s hot. Wear linen. (Those people dressed like pirates might actually be smarter than you think.)
And three- when you complain of boob sweat and the older lady you’re with tells you the perfect remedy is corn starch, do NOT confuse that with corn MEAL or you could very easily end up with a muffin in your bra.
Now you know.