WTF Wednesday: Whacked-Out Searches, Vol. 2

Forgive me for the graphic ... I'm not awesome at "The Photoshop."

Few things are more amusing (and, okay, downright disturbing) than checking out Internet search terms. It's like snooping into other people's computers, kind of. So when I need a laugh, I bring up the search terms that have brought people to my blog and try to figure out why - and now I'm sharing some of the funniest with you. These are actual things people have typed in, mind you, that have led them here to Fighting off Frumpy. Some are obvious, but some ... well ... see for yourself.

#1: Really black people. I'm seriously pale. I make a piece of paper look like a manila envelope (see here for proof). So this one baffles me.

#2: Camel toes and pit stains. I did once write a post featuring both camel toes and pit stains, so I'm guessing that's how this search led to my blog. I'm not, however, too proud about that.

#3: Real poop for sale. Someone's looking to buy real poop? Seriously? They should have sent me an email while they were on my site, because I would totally sell them some real poop if they're looking to fork over some cash. I have an abundance around this piece. (Poop, not cash. Unfortunately.)

#4: Fart perfume. This search term is a little unclear: is the person wanting to smell like a fart or disguise one with perfume? Either way, I'm pretty sure this post about an insertable fart silencer is the reason they ended up here.

#5: Does beer hops irritate my contact lenses? I'm neither an optometrist or a substance-abuse counselor ... but if you're rinsing your contacts with beer, you probably require the services of one or the other. Or both. Just sayin'.

#6: Big '80s hair and a cigarette. I don't know how this search landed someone on my blog, but I do hope that they ended up finding this gem of a photo:

It's my mom in the '80s. Big, bleached-blonde frosted 'fro, tan-from-a-bottle, and hella blue eyeshadow. And an ashtray. Surely this picture satisfied all the searcher's "big '80s hair and a cigarette" needs.

#7: Is holding in farts mannerly? Well. Clearly I've established myself as the Internet's foremost expert on manners, so people are seeking my advice. And in this case, dear reader, yes: holding in farts is mannerly. Especially if you're, like, on an elevator. Or a date. (Or in Target.) But it's also uncomfortable, so I encourage you to let it out at your earliest convenience. A word of warning, though: farting when you think you're alone is the equivalent of sending up a beaming beacon of light like the Bat Signal, and people will miraculously appear out of nowhere. Trust me on this one - I speak from experience.

#8: Cute guy in Eye Mart AND Sexy guy in Eye Mart. Two different searches about - I can assume - one delicious bit of Eye Mart eye-candy? I have noooo idea why this brought someone to The Frump, but now I want to know what Eye Mart this Greek God of Optometry works at because it's about time for my annual exam.

#9: Proper etiquette for placing your penis in your pants. Um ... erm ... eh .... I've got nothin'. I mean I guess I understand why that particular term led them here, but for starters, I haven't got a penis of my very own to properly place in my pants. And as for the members of my household who are endowed with such things, well, they don't wear pants all that often. Except for my husband, of course. Maybe he could help someone answer this question.

#10: Legos strung all over the house. Finally - a search term that brought someone to the right place. Searcher of this term, I feel your pain. Literally. Right in my bare feet.

(If you wanna see Whacked-Out Searches, Vol. 1 - click here!)

An Abode to Unload

I think pretty much everybody has thought about what their dream house would look like - or at the very least, the cool details it would contain. Like built-in storage or a spa tub the size of Texas or under-cabinet pot racks so you wouldn't risk an avalanche every time you make dinner (or is that just me?). I have a Pinterest board full of such revolutionary items, but I can't seem to find a pin for the one thing I want most: a "decompression room."

See, every time I walk in the door, I'm immediately bombarded by kids. But not so they can heap adoration upon me and tell me how sorely I've been missed ... oh no. From the millisecond my foot makes first contact with our floor, someone is whining. Or tattling. Or asking if they can do this or have that.

I don't understand this in the least, because when my husband walks in, they're all, "Daddy! Yay, Daddy is home! Welcome home, Daddy!" and smother him with hugs and kisses. I mean, yeah, that's bombardment ... but at least it's the good kind. With me, though, it's a swift and determined takeover. "Mom-mmyyyyyy, my brother has been on the computer for way too long and it's my turn!" "Mom-mmyyyyyy, now can we have a Popsicle?" "Mom-mmyyyyy, Daddy promised we'd go outside but he's been sitting on the toilet playing his iPhone!" ... all against the backdrop of the toddler whining like he's been abused and neglected during my entire absence, because of course.

What I need is a room between the garage and the house that serves as a buffer. A no-whining, no-tattling, no-request-of-any-kind zone. Preferably soundproof, with someplace comfy to sit and a mini fridge. (Or, you know, a minibar.)

Oh, the possibilities. As long as it picks up on the Wi-fi.

I could chill in the room for a few minutes to unwind from whatever I've been doing and mentally prepare myself for whatever lies waiting for me in the house. There'd be a place for my shoes and bra, which would come off right away, and a supply closet full of comfy pants. (And maybe a direct chute to the laundry room so I wouldn't have to come collect the dirty clothes later.)

Of course, it probably wouldn't do me much good - because unless I could somehow procure a completely silent garage door (unlikely), my kids would still know I was home. And they'd know where I was. And they'd clamor at the door like a horde of hungry zombies.

Okay, so the decompression room sounds great in theory, but I'm not sure how well it would work out in real life.

Maybe I'll just start dropping by the bar down the street instead.


When it comes to breakfast (and, okay, any other time of the day) I never met a sweet thing I didn't like. Pancakes. Waffles. Doughnuts. Fruit crepes. Cinnamon rolls. My husband Curtis, on the other hand, is more of a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy and always wants bacon or eggs or hash browns ... or all of the above. However, since I'm the one who does most of the cooking, you can guess which type of breakfast we typically go with.

The other day, though, I decided to be gracious and cook a breakfast he'd like. So I whipped up this concoction of eggs and shredded potatoes and bacon crumbles and cheese and onions and green peppers. I even made him coffee, which I don't drink (although there are times when I sorely wish I did). Then I decided to top off the meal by slicing him some jalapeño peppers, which he loves. He was going to be so happy. This was going to be a WIN.

Unfortunately, in my fervent bid to be an awesome wife, I turned into a not-so-awesome mom. Because while I was chopping up the jalapeños, my four-year-old, Coby, came waving a tube of yogurt at me. "Mommy, can you help me open this please?"

I grabbed the yogurt, ripped the top off the tube, and handed it back to him with a smile. And then got right back to cutting peppers. All was well with the world until I heard a blood-curdling scream from the living room, followed by a high-pitched wail.

"My mouth! Something's wrong with this yogurt!"

With a sinking feeling, I gingerly touched my finger to the tip of my tongue and felt an immediate and intense burning sensation spread across the surface. The same jalapeño-ey fingers that, a moment ago, had been all over the top of Coby's yogurt tube. The part where his mouth went.

... Oops.

At least I didn't pepper-spray the entire house on accident like Curtis did that one time.

But hey, let's just say I was introducing my son to spicy foods via a medium he really enjoys. Like strawberry yogurt.

That sounds better, doesn't it?

PS - Are you a blogger, or have you ever wanted to know what it's like inside the mind of one? Check out this hilarious BabyGizmo video collaboration I got to be a part of (twice!): Sh*t Mom Bloggers Say.

That Awkward Age

Think for a minute about the parties you went to when you were younger. I don't mean the ones where you played Pin the Tail on the Donkey and ate birthday cake; I mean the kind your parents would have disapproved of. The kind that involved alcohol and loud music and things people get arrested for doing.*

*Mom, if you're reading this, I'm just basing it off of ... you know, other's people's stories. I was too busy at the library to ever go to any of those parties. Yeah, that's it. The library.

Anyway, at those parties - and even the ones you went to later, like in your early twenties - there was always "that person." You know: the one who was a lot older than anybody else there but trying to fit in just the same. In the earlier years, this was the person who probably supplied the booze; in later years, when you were old enough (barely) to buy your own, this was the person who was just ... kind of pathetic. The person that was clearly trying to reenact his or her "glory days" by hanging out with a much younger crowd and trying - and failing - to be cool. And the older and more uncool they actually were, the harder they tried - like middle-aged hoochies in shorts they bought in the juniors' section, baring cottage-cheese thighs and crepe-paper cleavage. Or the skeezy older guys who hit on girls young enough to be their daughters. They may have thought they were hip and youthful, but in the minds of the kids they were hanging around, they merely served as a cautionary tale of what happens when you get old.

I swore I'd never turn into that person. But, like, I also swore I was going to be a perfect mother and we can all see how that turned out.

At the awkward age of almost thirty-four, I don't have much of a choice. If I want a social life that extends beyond children's birthdays and please-buy-this-overly-expensive-product-and-then-agree-against-your-better-judgment-to-book-your-own-party parties, I pretty much have two choices. One, go to a dance club feeling all hot and then walk through the doors and realize that everybody there is 21 and all their body parts are still firm and feel like an old piece of crap all night while watching them stumbling and grinding on each other and saying to their friends, "OMG, I'm sooooooo drunk right now." Or two, go to a sedate bar where everybody is quietly sipping martinis in dim lighting, looking like off-duty lawyers.

I don't like either of those choices. Because although I adore dancing, I'm of an age that automatically makes me "that person" at dance clubs. The old, overreaching one. And I appreciate a good martini and a relaxed ambience, but sometimes an oldster just wants to shake her (aging) ass to a good beat.

It's hard out there socially for us thirtysomethings, y'all. We don't exactly fit in when you plop us into the middle of a club full of people who were born when we were in, like, high school. Yet we're still young enough to sometimes want more than soft jazz music and an overpriced cocktail.

My friend Lindsey and I were talking about this the other day (she totally forgave me for the time I messed up her car, thank goodness) and she had a brilliant idea: someone needs to open up a club exclusively for people in their thirties. With a dance floor - devoid of perky twentysomethings - that plays at least the occasional '90s hit because seriously, who in this age group could resist getting down to, say, a little bit of Sir Mix-a-Lot?*

*If you just chanted, "I like big butts!" in your head, we could totally be BFFs.

The place would open at like seven in the evening so we have time to eat first - because when you're in your thirties you have learned that drinking on an empty stomach is a bad idea. It would close by one o'clock because hello, that's past our bedtime ... we still have obligations in the morning outside of sleeping off our liquor consumption. There would be awesome two-for-one drink specials since, in your thirties, you have real bills to pay like the mortgage ... or at least that arm-and-a-leg you forked over to the sitter for a night out. There would be a section to chill away from the dance floor when it gets too loud (because while "too loud" wasn't a thing in our twenties, it's a recipe for a headache these days). And an ibuprofen dispenser in the bathroom. And it would have a complimentary shuttle service: because by now we're mature enough to know that "whoever is the least drunk" is not a viable option when it comes to transportation.

I think it sounds like a fabulous, magical place. Who wants to open up the first location?

Hip-hop-hooraaaay! Ho! Heeeey! Ho!


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