As
a teenager I was an awkward little lump, with big eyes, big lips, thick knees
and a drowning sensation into the shame of being me!
Plus, it always seemed like I was surrounded by pretty people.
You know the types who flutter around life with effortless grace, while all my
round self could do was waddle.
Of course this twisted reality of teenage-dom has resulted in my inability to
stop believing that anyone who has beautifully shiny hair, perfectly applied
make-up and a flawless silhouette without the presence of Spanx has no problems
in the world.
I think this is why I still watch The Real Housewives; I'm waiting for
an announcement that all the drama isn't real.
So I nearly fainted recently when I tripped over a piece of information that
severely bothered me when it should have actually soothed me:
Not everyone who portrays herself as such is perfect!
“Well duh!” you say.
But you see, I am the forgiving individual who will not question whether those
freakishly large E-cup boobs on a size 4 frame are real or whether those lips
that look suspiciously like dead animals are collagen injected.
However, when I walked in on one of the Mrs. Perfects that I know personally
while she was changing, I saw a naked truth that destroyed my illusion.
Like me, she had thighs that touch, two stomachs and an extra set of elbows for
boobs!
I used to idolize this woman.
I used to skip dessert and exercise with the hope that one day I would look
like her, only to find out that she looks like me!
Now what am I supposed to do with this information?
Ella Roberts,
When
I first arrived in Las Vegas over three years ago during the height of the
cloying summertime heat I got two surprises!
One pleasant and one unpleasant.
The unpleasant surprise was that the heat took away my ability to blink
comfortably without breaking into a sweat.
The pleasant surprise was the absence of mosquitoes, or rather my making it
through the summertime without falling victim to these greedy little parasites!
For two magical summers I (rightfully) kept my blood to myself but for reasons
unknown to me, in the summer of 2013 a gang of stray mosquitoes has magically
appeared in my house and I have spent more time than needs to be admitted chasing
them around, trying to get rid.
Sometimes I glimpse my murderous face in the mirror as I smack every surface
trying to kill, kill, KILL one!
You see, I have always considered mosquitoes to be the lowest form of severe
irritation since I, myself was a source of annoyance to my parents' insecure
attention-seeking friends.
This is because for some reason every mosquito in whatever country, finds my
blood to be a particularly tasty treat.
Meaning, I have to wake up with an average of three new bites every morning...
though I wonder if it is one little drain bag doing all the work or it is a
collective dogs-in-heat situation, where if one gets a go then everyone else
has to mark a spot too!
Usually I feel guilty when I kill a bug even accidentally, but I will gladly
hand mosquitoes over without a second thought!
Ella Roberts,
See
I am one of those pitiful individuals that know nothing about grocery store
placement logic, in fact where stuff is placed makes no sense to me and the
only reason I may know where something is is because I've seen it there before!
So there I stood shaking at the entrance of aisle one on a Saturday afternoon,
holding onto the un-sanitized cart for dear life, trying not to drop my list,
afraid to ask for help or move in case someone knocked me into the cat litter.
Whoever said “necessity is the mother of invention” must have experienced this
situation, because in my terror I resorted to creativity.
An overwhelmed father of two came running towards me, chasing his over hyper
twin boys and leaving a well stocked cart at the other end of the aisle.
In his cart were six magical items from my very own list and since I didn't
know where he'd found them and was too afraid to ask in case he asked me to
help discipline his boys or something, I reached in and shopped in his cart.
And I would have gotten away with it too if the previously absent mother hadn't
suddenly appeared, holding a block of cheese and a bottle of wine
(drunk!), asking what I was doing – like she didn't know!
I was going to argue on principle, but having witnessed her over hyper boys and
assuming they didn't get their unruliness from their dad, I replaced each item
slowly (hoping she would say “it's okay take them, we know where to find them”)
back in her cart, I smiled, muttered a resentful “I’m sorry” and almost ran down
the aisle, knowing she was looking at me with disapproving disgust.
Don't judge me; you would have done the same thing!
Ella Roberts,
