Tom is my cousin. He is A LOT like me, but he’s got a mustache instead of bangs.
Peg is his wife. She’s like a sister to me. She knows she can call me any time Tom acts a fool. His actions are easy for me to explain. We basically share a brain.
Tom and Peg are the closest I’ve ever come to having siblings. I love them. So much.
I also love their children, Samantha and Jake.
I especially love when they prepare meals for me. Everything that comes out of their kitchen is made from scratch. All I have to do is bring booze and tell stories/jokes.
At dinner one night (while we were assumedly passing some type of salty meat), Tom made fun of my necklace in front of his kids. It’s not unusual for them to make fun of something I’m wearing. I often try to broaden their backwoods horizons. But he made fun of one of my favorite pieces of jewelry…
If Tom knew what I paid for this Tarina Tarantino pendant, he probably would have slapped me upside my head. Thankfully, he wasn’t concerned about my spending habits. He and Jake were more distracted by the message I was proudly parading around my neck.
Jake, who could not have been more than five or six years old at the time, looked me square in the eyes and said – NATALIE, WE DO NOT HATE.
Jake was/is right. It takes so much energy to hate. Hatred is such an ugly, unnecessary emotion/action. This little man-boy is wise way beyond his years. Jake is good for this world. Jake is awesome-r than the movie Tombstome. He’s cooler than Wyatt Earp…
THAT BEING SAID…I’m kind of cranky right now…and I can think of a handful of things I actually do hate. Hate is real. And I’m going to write about it right now.
Ingrown hairs. I don’t feel like a whole lot more needs to be said about ingrown hairs. They just seem like a really cruel way to ruin an otherwise beautiful Brazilian wax.
Morning people. What, exactly, is the point of a morning person? Nothing good happens before brunch (or 10 a.m.).
Cap sleeves. The least flattering sleeve. Ever. Who thought of this cut? Somebody with amazing arms, I’m sure. I hate them too.
Goldschläger. You do not need to know why I hate it. Just know that I hate it more than all three of the other things I already mentioned – combined.
When grown-ups do not use their words. I’m going to use myself as an example. I imagine this situation is not exclusive to me (at least I hope not). If I upset you, or hurt your feelings, or irritate you or if you just have a straight bone to pick with me – TELL ME. Because, well, words are my thing. I will talk to you about almost anything…BUT YOU HAVE TO TALK TO ME. I am not a mind reader and even if I sense something is wrong, I am not going to beg you for more information – because we should not be incapable of using our communication skills as adults. I will always take responsibility for my mistakes (if it’s legitimately my fault), I will apologize (if I actually owe you an apology), I will even feel bad and I will try to make it up to you (I swear I will)…but I WILL NOT take responsibility for your feelings if you do not share them with me. You have to talk to me about them. I would talk to you about my feelings. I would talk to the world about my feelings…obviously.
Bunco. I don’t know what my deal is, but I hate Bunco. You can hate me for hating Bunco. I would understand-ish.
Tight underwear. I remember the first time a pair of my underwear felt tight around my hips. I wanted to fling myself into oncoming traffic. It just didn’t seem fair. I know I earned it, but still. I suppose I should have turned down a few pork tamales here and there. Whatever.
Spanx. They seem like a good idea when you put them on. And, for the most part, they help in the ways they say they’re going to help. Then they roll down around your waist as soon as you sit down in your car. Or they pinch your thighs in a weird place. Or it’s impossible to go to the bathroom in them. Or you can get them off to go to the bathroom – but you can’t ever get them back on – at least not in the same place you had them the first time around. Or people can tell you have them on when you walk or when they hug you. Or you can barely breathe. Or you sweat to death in them. Spanx are stupid. They had to be created by a man who had his heart seriously broken by a chubby…err…curvy chick. And he wanted to punish her with an expensive body shaper that would just enslave her and her curves for the rest of her life. He wanted her to be uncomfortable without him. That bastard. Do what I do ladies. Forget how much you hate them…put them on…and then remember how much you loathe them about eight minutes after you leave the house – and rip those @#$%ers off the first time you go to the ladies room. Leave all $60 behind in the first women’s restroom you can find. That’s what I do. I am one classy, blunt-banged broad. I can’t help myself.
Driving with my mother. I know she has been driving for like three more decades than I…but it’s terrifying. Really. I’d rather drive with Miss Red Pants.
Men that moisturize. Ok, I don’t really hate men that moisturize. But I’m sort of irresponsible in this area (just in THIS area). So…when I dated a guy that wouldn’t go to bed until his face was washed and moist…it kind of creeped me out. Needless to say, he didn’t like dirty, dry me for all that long. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
Coors Light. You have to hate Coors Light if you love Bud Light. It’s a fact. Bud Light-4-Eva.
Long distance relationships. During some girl talk last night, I remembered just how horrible long distance relationships are/can be. There aren’t enough plane tickets, phone calls, emails, road trips, cards or text messages in the world to make this kind of relationship easy. Bleh.
Running (insert the look on Bob’s face when he reads this…here).
Dry limes. You know the kind. The kind that are worthless to your Ketel One.
Adam Levine. Let me be very clear about what I hate about Adam Levine. The only thing I hate about this man is that he is thinner than me. It’s hard to have an undying love for a front man that is thinner than you. What if I broke his tattooed, amazing-pelvic-muscle-having, please-sing-me-a-song Adam Levine body? That would be mortifying. Surely, someone would burn my house down for breaking Adam Levine.
Pictures of me without bangs. I want them all to perish.
Ugh. All that hatred was exhausting. I need a nap. Or some Sauvignon Blanc.
And Jake – we only hate for the purpose of blog posts. Don’t ask your father about this. Your mother will explain.