Damn I hate it when it's one of those days. You know those days, ladies, don't you? Men, I can't speak for you, but considering that dh is rubbing sweat off his glistening rock hard abs AS I TYPE, I don't think you can.

Maybe it has to do with my impeding 30th birthday. What usually comes after impending? DOOM, umm hmm, that's it. Three Zero. No, after staring at Demi's perky bosoms I don't think it's old, but damn if a summer of sitting on my ass hasn't softened me up to the likeness of the Michelin man. The Pilsbury Dough Girl. TEE HEE! I can still giggle vapidly, though. C'mon poke my (rapidly expanding) belly.

My boobs, in all their pre three decade glory, have made a run for the border. The Southern One. If they were making a break for Canada, I'd *HALLELUJAH!* right past the push up bras with steel liners. Those braless tops I used to wear? Looks like I'm smuggling banans in the boys' tube socks. Say it with me, y'all, EWWWWW. Victoria is no longer my secret, she's my LIFESAVER. I can't leave the house for a teaching job without a bra for fear of turning around and wacking some unsuspecting 2nd grader in the face. And if you think they don't get that close to your boobs, OH, THEY DO. The boobs? They are not perky. They are frumpy.

My hair, once reddy and pinky and stylishly smooth - did I tell you what happened when I went to the Casino, did I? Did I? One girl gushed over to me, "YOU WIN FOR CUTEST HAIR EVER!" She may have been drunk, but I say don't look a gift horse in the mouth. Or in the drink, considering this broad couldn't even see my hair. SO my hair? Once hairy and fabulous and shiny and swingy? FRUMPY. FRUMPY BROWN. FRUMPY CUT.

What has brought about this case of grump frump? Dh's sister. Is coming. On SUNDAY. With her fabulous career and fabulous boyfriend and fabulous dog. Do I like the girl? I don't know. She hasn't spoken more than two words to me in her whole life. She is as beautiful as dh is handsome, and is quirky! and stylish! AND I HATE HER and her 100 pound 5'2'' self. Here I sit unemployed, overweight and UNEMPLOYED and OVERWEIGHT and I don't want to pet her stupid dog.

Now I realize that I am being completely childish and CHILD!ISH! Especially since it is my own damn fault I don't have a job or six pack yet, but I find her completely intimidating. Every situation I've been in with this woman (who is my age EXACTLY which makes it worse), she has completely dominated the situation. And I just sit there like somebody's WIFE. FRUMPY WIFE. Looking at dh for an okay to stick my two cents in before I open my mouth. Sitting there wondering, "WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?" I don't think there's a person on this planet who makes me feel more barefoot or more backwoods.

But don't let 'em see you sweat, right?

Hopefully South Carolina will tell me today that they have FOUND just the job for ME and at least I'll be employed.

Self-pity is funny when it's not you, ain't it?