Bad Girls Eat PB&J

19 Sep

Today’s blog post begins a new segment of my blogging career that I hereby dub “Responding to Dem Haters.”

There comes a time in every young blogger’s life when negative reviews are hurled like post-milk chugging contest chunks.

This week, I got the chunks.

Yes, I received a message from a disgruntled blogger about a post I’d written.

When I first saw this person’s message, my immediate thought was CHUNKS! DUCK! GRAB A PONCHO!

Unfortunately, my rain poncho has a hole in it after being slashed by some woman’s aggressive bangles. So, I got chunked.

Lucky for me, this is not my first time dealing with chunks! I dealt with even chunks before I was a blogger. I basically have my PHD in “Chunk Studies.” (Labs were interesting for that degree, let me tell you.)

Shall we reflect on the past for a bit?

Ski camp, 2002: It was my first time on skis and I was in the “Beginning Bunnies” class at Okemo Mountain. I was nine, and the other skiers ranged from womb to six. Because of some unfortunately incorrect advice from my rental equipment salesman, I’d opted to try my luck at skiing without poles.

Do you know what’s hard about skiing without poles? EVERYTHING.

Every time I fell – which was more often than I stood – I would slide into my fellow pupils and knock them over like a bunch of snot-nosed dominos.

After the tenth incident, one of the snot-nosed, womb-aged dominos had had ENOUGH.

“Maybe if you had POLES you would be able to SKI like the rest of us!” she declared.

She was right. That was exactly how it would have been had I’d had poles.

Was I supposed to congratulate her on her astute powers of perception? Was I supposed to ask to borrow one of her poles in exchange for half of my PB&J sandwich? Was I supposed to have brought a PB&J sandwich with which to barter?

WHY DIDN’T ANYONE PREPARE ME FOR THESE THINGS??!

It took me a while to realize that Ms. Pole Up Her Ass had been hurling chunks. But once I did, I spontaneously insulted her mother. And that’s how “Yo Mama” jokes came to be.

You’re welcome.

Spring Dance, 2005: I was twelve and somebody who shall remain nameless (“nameless” because by “somebody” I meant “too many people to specify”) told me I needed to get my eyebrows waxed and/or plucked.

I did need to get my eyebrows waxed and/or plucked. It was only a matter of time before some environmentalists accused me of harboring an invasive species on my forehead. Come on, though, that’s something I would have figured out on my own! I didn’t need the added pressure of dodging chunks!

But dodge those chunks I did. I dodged them all the way to the salon, and now my mom says I have the “best brows on our street!”

Creating the change you wish to see in the world. That’s what I’m all about.

Driving Lesson, 2010: I was in the middle of a driving lesson with my instructor, Barry, when he asked me what classes I had after our lesson. When I told him my afternoon consisted of “lunch, chorus, and then French,” he told me that I “reminded him of his autistic son.”

At first, I thought he was just saying “artistic” with a Boston accent, so I tried to create follow-up conversation by asking him about his son’s views on acrylic versus watercolor.

“Huh? You don’t listen good, do you? I said ‘au-tis-tic.’”

Once it had been established that I was both on the autism spectrum and a poor listener, I decided it was time to “accidentally” slam on the breaks.

I call that fleeting instance of rebellion my “Bad Girls Club” phase.

***

So that brings us up to the present!

Taco Night, 2014: My friend Selby had kindly invited me to a weekly Taco Night extravaganza. I was in the midst of forking ground beef into my oral cavity (because my taco had exploded onto the ground and I’d been too hungry to repackage it) when I received said disgruntled comment.

Hmmm, I thought. Disgruntled indeed.

I dove into my toolkit of life lessons to try to find a wrench with which to smooth things over. I then Googled “how to use a wrench” and found out why my toolbox is such an unhelpful resource.

Foiled again by wrench-related confusion!

You should know that all of the stories I just got done telling you are very true. Their outcomes, however, I did bedazzle in my own *special* way.

Okemo circa 2004? Yeah I’m pretty sure I double fisted hot cocoa and listened to Judy Blume books on tape for like, eight days to get over the sting of that experience.

Brow Deforestation of 2007? I told my mom I was being “bullied” and begged for a trip to Old Navy. I can’t remember if we went or not, but judging by the seventy-five “ribbed tanks” I own, I’d wager that it was a successful tactic. One tank for every eyebrow waxing *suggestion.*

Driving confusion in 2010? That bit about slamming on the brakes was true. But also entirely accidental and a product of me not knowing which pedal was the gas and which was for the brakes…

So, without my imagined Bad Girls Club instincts, how was I supposed to deal with these blogging-related chunks?

Dear Blogger,

Let’s be friends, shall we? I’d offer you a taco, but I just ate them all. Can I instead offer you a phat ass PB&J?

Love,

Sophie

Because the best defense is a good PB&J.

Bad Girls Club 4 LYFE.

Photo: http://quietlunch.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/Big-PBJ-Milk-by-Mary-Ellen-Johnson.jpg 

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2 Responses to “Bad Girls Eat PB&J”

  1. alyssamichellefrench September 19, 2014 at 10:54 pm #

    Sophie! You are HILARIOUS! You’re actually one of the funniest people that I know, and I always laugh out loud when I read your blog posts! You are the last person who should be getting chunks thrown at them, but as they say “If you have haters…Then you’re doing something right.” I think Gandhi said that, but it could have been Charlie Sheen on crack, in which case, the sentiment changes a bit from how I meant it to come across.

  2. thisthatandtheotherthang September 19, 2014 at 5:39 pm #

    To all the haters, I would just tell them to chunk off, girl! They are obviously just jelly (see what I did there?) of how funny and amazing and totally awesome you are (even if you don’t quite exactly know which peddle is the gas and which is the brake–hey, it happens to the best of us. Don’t even get me started on how I learned to drive a stick shift!).

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