Tag Archives: Judging

Big Hat, No Cattle.

Who doesn’t love this phrase I have learned recently?! Big hat, no cattle. It’s gloriously southern, to the point, charming, and seems to me can be used in a wide variety of contexts. I am pretty much in love with this phrase and will probably add it to the list of words that I apparently overuse on the regs. It is especially versatile and I’m really quite excited to put it in practice as often as possible. Since I had to get an explanation, I’ll assume I’m not the only one who’s unsure what it means – especially since I know some of you readers are yanks, I know ya’ll need some extra guidance. Miss Sassy is here to learn you once again, don’t worry.

My favorite and probably the most excellent example of how this phrase can be used is when referencing a big talkin man. You know, the kind with big egos who yack at the mouth about all their crazy skillz with women. Miss Sassy of course knows nothing about any sort of anything about these supposed and rumored skills, however she does have a fantastic BS meter! And this weekend, it was tested and proved to be in good working order.

Friday night, Roomz and I found ourselves with some friends at this cool place in downtown Ralz called Hibernian. It’s the perfect place for seeing, being seen, meeting and mingling. There’s at least 4 different bars, plenty of seating, a cute little outdoor patio perfect for people watching, and the music isn’t too loud. Nothing worse than zero conversation because I can’t even hear myself think. Anywho, so Roomz and I are on our last drink, closing out tabs, beginning to think better of the shots we just took, when Roomz spots a real live cowboy across the bar. She’s from Pennsylvania and has never seen a man in a cowboy hat and boots (and tight jeans and a big belt buckle if you must know) so she wants a picture. I don’t have my camera but we don’t discover that until we’ve already drawn him into conversation. So we’re chatting and then mid-convo, he leans over to me and asks for my number. Oy. Roomz excuses herself thinking she’s doing me a favor, meanwhile in my head I’m screaming please don’t leave me with this tool! Too late. I hesitate, thinking that I’m about to say my usual: no thanks, I don’t give out my number, sorry. But then I say “I’m moving in 3 weeks, does that change your mind?” (cute right!) He says he doesn’t care and I shrug and hear myself say “um, sure.” I know, so enthusiastic. He’s excited, it’s kind of cute. I’m still trying to decide if he’s actually good looking or if it’s just the hat that drew me in. We chat for a couple minutes about standard things. Where do you work? What do you do? Where are you from? I ask a bit more unconventional questions like, “Are you really a cowboy?” and “Why are you wearing that hat here?” dripping with my usual sarcasm. He thinks I’m joking, which is also cute because I’m so not. Then he asks me what my first impression of him was. This kind of question always makes me laugh, because really, it’s like asking “So, you think I’m hot right? I know.” And ya’ll know, I’m not a batting eyelashes while nodding and giggling kind of girl. I will say what I think, especially if I’m on the backside of 5ish drinks. So I gave him a once-over and told him he was wearing that big hat and buckle for a reason, and that his boots were awful fancy (I think they were snake skin. Yuck). He chuckles and asks me what I mean by that. I politely explain that no man in Raleigh, North Carolina wears those big 10 gallon cowboy hats so he must be trying to get noticed with all his Texas finery. He of course denies it and says that he’s been wearing that hat since he was 5 years old. Again, I repeat, this is Raleigh, not a party on your daddy’s ranch. It is at this point that I devise my exit strategy. My future husband is not hiding underneath that hat, and I don’t do snake skin. Next in line please.

Why is it that most men will deny that they are trying to get noticed? I have no problem admitting that when I get dolled up to go out, I am wearing shorts with 4 inch zebra heels to get noticed. I do not wear them for my health or because they help tone my gluts and hamstrings. If I wasn’t trying to get noticed I’d probably wear baggy jeans and a t-shirt. Or I’d stay at home and watch Gilmore Girls instead. Simple. And really, it’s not so bad to just admit it. Why lie? Why try to be all, “Oh I’m just here to hang out with friends and have a few beers.” It’s cute really, but we all know why we are all there. If you only wanted a few beers with friends, you could hit up the Piggly Wiggly and get yourself a case and catch up with friends on your couch. I feel like it’s just human nature. We spend time making ourselves look as not trife as possible and go out to be social because we are social creatures. And there is nothing wrong with admitting that you are proud of your tush and so yeah, you bought those tight jeans specifically to go out in because you heard chicks dig them (fact). And yes, you bought that shirt because it fits better, shows off your pecs and biceps that you work so hard on. Seriously, it’s ok. And yes, we notice. But please, don’t try to be all innocent like it’s an accident that you look so good (or flashy, which does not necessarily equal good). You consciously decided to wear that big buckle, put on your best boots, and wear that hat (indoors even. Rude.) because you know it’ll set you apart from other tight-jean’d dudes. And surprise! It worked, we noticed you. But, surprise! You had nothing behind the hat to back it up except for a feeble and disrespectful attempt to get me to go home with you. Ergo: big hat, no cattle.

How To Pick Up a Guy with Questionable Sexual Preferences

Last night Roomz and I ventured out into the wild that is dt Rals. Tuesdays are ON FIRE let me tell you. Just playing. But seriously we did go out, and I’m proud of us because we stayed out until 1am! A record for me of late, as I am fast turning into an old lady who goes to bed no later than 10:30pm. Feisty. Anywho, we met some friends (yes, friends! I found some!) at this cool bar called the Flying Saucer, where they were having weekly Trivia night. Super fun, totally unrelated to the story. So we’re chatting it up and one of my pals brought up Miss Sassy Pants! This here blog loves to be mentioned in everyday convo because it means more readers and typically fuels the fire for some good sassy stories to share (spread the good Sassy news people). Which is exactly what happened here. I was saying that I am sort of boring lately and haven’t had any good stories or triflin messes to share…and my sweet little Roomz reminded me that I haven’t shared the gay waiter story! Oh yes. Now you’re hooked. So now Miss Sassy will commence to explaining How To Pick Up a Guy with Questionable Sexual Preferences. You know, for all those times you just aren’t sure.

Let’s rewind to the first weekend after I moved to the Rals. So picture it: Just met Roomz, know nothing about Raleigh, tired from the first week of work, stressed a bit from all the projects I was assigned, probably feeling a bit overwhelmed, not on my game. So Roomz’ friend GBFF, who we can all infer from his nickname is gay, comes to visit this weekend. We all go out to dinner to PFChangs, and while waiting for our table at the bar, all take notice of a particularly good looking waiter. I mean really good looking. Tall, dark, and handsome, mysterious, cute smile, total package. And he’s not a 50-yarder, which is a plus. So GBFF points him out first, saying that he’s hot stuff, to which Roomz and I instantly agree. BUT is he gay? GBFF thinks yes, I said no, Roomz couldn’t decide. Eventually we’re seated, unfortunately not in his section despite trying our hardest. Throughout dinner we all get our stare on, discreetly of course, and may or may not have drawn attention to ourselves while simultaneously eye-flirting with him throughout our meal. Honestly I don’t remember, but it’s entirely possible and probable. Then the end of dinner roles around and GBFF is stuck on this guy. I mean rage-at-the-machine in love with him because he is so ridiculously good looking. But what to do? It’s not a typical pick-up scene. He’s busy waitering, we’re busy with our teriyaki, would probably be rude to interrupt him taking orders at his table and ask him what sign he is and does he live nearby. Not to mention the fact that we still can’t decide if he’s gay or not. Conflicting gay-dar readings do not a concensus make. So Roomz comes up with a brilliant plan, grabs a cocktail napkin and pen from my mom-bag and writes the following:

Are you gay? If yes: GBFF, 919-555-0000. If no: Roomz, 919-555-0001.

Except she used their real phone numbers, duh. Then, when we had all paid our checks and were ready to leave, she bravely walked up to Mr. Hunky Waiter and presented him with the little note. Ballsy little gal! We walked out of there giggling like fools, vowing to never return to that particular PFChangs if neither of them got a phone call. Which they didn’t. What makes the story even better is that GBFF’s parents visited the next day and wanted to go to PFChangs for lunch. Clearly that didn’t happen.

The moral of this story is that sassiness comes in all shapes and sizes. While Miss Sassy does not personally give out her phone number to strangers or even good looking men in bars or restaurants anymore (unless it says “Mr. Perfect-for-Miss-Sassy” on his forehead), it is sassy to act if you like what you see. Because you never know where the next adventure will start. No, you probably won’t marry Mr. Hunky Waiter, but he might be a nature enthusiast just like you! And maybe he’ll take you out a couple times and you might get some fun flirting in. Why not? Do it while you’re young people because eventually you’ll be a creepy old guy or a wrinkled too-tan cougar. But always always always, as I always say always, maintain the class. Sass – Class = Trash. And trash smells bad, even from 50-yards away.

The 50-yarder gets me every time!

You know when you’re out somewhere, maybe doing something innocent like shopping, and you’re looking around and suddenly you spot a good looking somebody. You are standing just far enough away that you can take a good long look and not get caught. Nice bod, good looking hair, and it’s just far enough away that you’re guessing on facial features but with the lighting and shadows, it looks just right. Now, who really picks up a chick or a dude while shopping…no one. But let’s say you’re in a bar, and add beer to the equation. NOW that person across the bar is smokin’ hot and you can’t take your eyes away. You’re telling all your buddies…”OMG Stacy look at that guy down there! I SO want him, he is the picture of perfection!” [No, I have never used any of those words whilst at a bar, nice try] Or, “Dude, chick is bangin. Check it.” Yeah, clearly I’m not a dude so I have no idea how it really goes. Maybe it’s more like “Yeah, I’d hit that,” which makes what’s about to happen even worse because now what you’re about to hit explodes into ugliness! Because here he/she comes, walking you’re way, maybe being coy and heading for the bathroom or doing a frat lap or something around the bar (in real life, seems like there’s no frat lap anymore which is a shame because I always liked that part of being at TOTS) and he get’s closer…and closer…and BAM. The ugly slaps you in the face! Shit! How did that happen? And now, Stacy and whatever dude you shared your find with is laughing hysterically at you as you both watch in astonishment at how ugly this person is in actuality and up close. I know what you’re thinking now…surely this has never happened to you Miss Sassy Pants! Your radar is so good! False.

Anecdotal proof: Rewind a 5 years. I’ve just graduated from high school and am at the beach with some girl friends for “beach week.” Holler to underage drinking. JK we didn’t drink obvs! So I have this friend, she’s a little hard of hearing and so when we’re sitting on the beach checking out dudes (what else is there to do?) we obviously can’t yell or talk loudly depending on how close they are, so we come up with a code word: Grapefruit. Don’t ask, just go with it. So when you see something worth looking at, as a courtesy to the other ladies, you announce his presence by yelling: “Grapefruit!!” And then indicate his position using the clock system (a tale as old as time…pun intended). So one day I see “red shorts guy” as he was dubbed. He’s about 50 yards away or more, but he looks pretty solidly built, super tan, brown hair with sandy sun-highlighted hair blowing in the wind. Baywatch lifeguard material from afar. So the alert goes out: “Grapefruit! 10:30!” So we’re watching, and he gets a little closer and a little closer still…and he’s not even that close to us, still about 25 yards away when it becomes painfully clear that he is at the very least over 50. Yes. 50-yard extreme foul on my part. Thus, MSP’s grapefruit alerting privileges were revoked and it took a couple years for that joke to go away.  No doubt by resurrecting it here I will catch more flack for it. So I like older dudes, whatev…JK again…I might like my men a bit older but 50+ is so not my scene, unless you own a yacht, then we’ll chat. Digression.

This 50-yard catastrophe continues. Last week I was out with some coworkers again, and there were these two pretty ladies sitting a good distance away. I pointed them out because obviously I have good taste in cougars, but was politely corrected that they were indeed 50-yarders. Upon further examination I accepted the correction as fact and we moved on, a little disappointed. The gym also causes me to be victim to the 50-yarder. Of course there can’t possibly be 50 yards in between me and every dude in a muscle T but the sweat in my eyes (and the sheer determination to get jacked) clouds my vision and so pretty much everyone there except the grandpas looks like a hottie. Tonight at the gym I was sorely disappointed numerous times. As in at least 15 times in a row they’d walk by or I’d walk by and get a closer look (no not on purpose, you judgers) and instantly avert my eyes. It is sad! It is also awkward when Judgement Face comes out of nowhere and they see it when you walk by. Remember when I said the JF cannot be stopped? Still true.

The lesson to be learned here folks is simple. 9 times out of 10, you will not find your happily ever after at a bar. So when you see that cougar or cute boy across the bar, let them stay there. When you walk by the bench press or pull up bar, take in the sights with your peripheral vision, because I’m telling you it looks better from there. Once you focus, the fantasy is shattered an all you’ve got to think about while you’re doing crunches is ugly. And ugly is not nearly as motivating as smokin’ hot, even if it’s an illusion.

Orange and pink hair is not professional. Thanks though.

As some of you may or may not know, last week I had my hair colored and highlighted for the very first time! Yay! I am now among the masses of women who put harmful chemicals and animal doodoo in their hair to look different. Except I went to a place that only uses organic hair jiz so good for me, being so sustainable.  Here’s the story.

Lately I’ve been bored with my hair, love it as I might, and wanted something new. I contemplated cutting it super short, but was deterred by that idea since a) I tried it once and it was a disaster, b) some other reasons but all I remember is the disaster. So then I thought, fine, trim up the layers, boring.  Then I was inspired to color it and get highlights. Different? Yes! So I go for my free consultation, thumb through some fashion mags and point out some color that I like and we decide to go for a deep mahogany with some reddish tints. I tell the lady I want it to be subtle but noticeable, there but not streaky, and as natural looking as possible. I mean I work in a professional office, right? I don’t want to leave there looking like my next stop will be to have my lip and eyebrow pierced, pick up some black lipstick, then on to the tattoo parlor where I’ll get myself a nice sleeve of classy tattoos. [Ahem: no offense to anyone with lip/eyebrow piercings or tattoos rocking black lipstick…it’s just if you know me, you know it’s not for me. We’re all God’s children. And I guarantee that you with the piercings and intense lip color do not work in a professional IT office.] Anywho. So I anxiously await appointment the following week, get myself up extra early and arrive semi-promptly for my 7:45am appointment for cut, color, and foils, as it’s apparently called. 2 hours go by and I’ve been trimmed, reshaped, and painted all over with slimy gook all over my head. I’m excited and can’t wait to see the new, edgier me! Finally, we wash and dry my hair and it is fantastic. I think. Each time I look in the mirror I am more and more unsure that I like it. But I am now very late for work and would really just like to leave, so I shrug it off thinking it’s just me and it’s just new and whatever I’ll get used to it. Right.

So my first hint that it’s not good is when my boss comes over later that day and says: “Miss Sassy Pants! [no he didn’t call me that, silly] You really do love Virginia Tech don’t you!” I’m wearing a cream sweater and brown dress pants, nothing with VT gear or colors on it. I smile hesitantly, knowing something else is coming and ask him what he’s referring to. He smiles big, like he’s giving me a big compliment and is so proud of himself for noticing, “Your hair! It’s perfect VT colors, isn’t it?!” Um. I close my eyes for a brief moment, thinking maybe when I open them he will have disappeared. Yes, I love my school. Virginia Tech for Life, people. But no, I do not have, nor do I want maroon and orange in my hair. I smile painfully and nod and he chuckles and finally walks away, after telling me some horrendous story about his wife coloring her hair which I am sure she would not have wanted him telling anyone.  Men. Yeesh.

The next person I see who comments is one of the other dudes I work with. Quote: “Hey. You colored your hair.”  All geniuses, my coworkers. Realize this: I work with a bunch of dudes. Dudes are all over this floor and they dominate the building. Old ones, young ones, married ones, fat ones, skinny ones. All clueless. None of them are my bffs, none of them have been with me through other hair disasters, and none of them are qualified to give honest feedback. So I am clueless all day as to how it really looks.  Is it really terrible? Is it super edgy and I just can’t get used to seeing red/orange/pink tints in my hair when I walk past my reflection?  By the end of the day I am near panic with not knowing. I call home to Momma Sassy and warn her that the hair situation is questionable and she should prepare herself.  She hmph’d and 20 minutes later I walked in the door to her skeptical face. Which then turned into her “I’m-horrified-but-am-trying-to-look-semi-neutral-and-think-of-something-nice-to-say-while-still-conveying-my-dislike” face.  We then discussed my impending career change from IT professional to punk rock groupie. Apparently with my dark rimmed glasses, purple nail polish, and red/orange/pink streaked frizz ball hair I’d fit in, but would have to re-think my cable knit sweater and cuffed dress pants with Franco Sarto flats wardrobe.  So we fluff (quick curly hair fix: always fluff) and try to be optimistic and hide the pink/orange-y looking pieces but to no avail. I decide it must be fixed immediately.  Again, no offense meant towards anyone who has orange or pink or red or crazy highlighted hair. You probably pull it off somehow. You probably actually are edgy and into punk rock. But you also probably don’t work in a professional office full of baby boomers who only dye their hair to hide the gray.  They would judge me and think I’m totally weird and trashy. And not give me a raise.

So the next morning I give this special salon a pronto phone call and leave a stern but friendly voicemail for them, relaying my semi positive and mostly negative feelings toward my hair and ask them to call me back ASAP so I can try to schedule a fixer-upper. Who’s surprised that they never called me back? Anyone? No? I sort of was, since they’re in the service industry and I would have thought they’d have jumped at the chance to fix it in order to keep a new client. But no.  So the lady who cuts Ma’s hair schedules me for an early appointment this morning and guess what! It took her all of 20 minutes to tone down the brightness a couple notches and reduce the rainbow affect.

Bottom line in this annoying/expensive life lesson is this: never make changes to your hair without a trusted pal at your side. I could have really used some honest Foxy feedback or the bluntness of Miss Fancy Boots.  For realz, girl would have taken one look at me and said “No ma’am, change that right now!” You know? No sugar, just truth. We all have one of those. Unfortunately no one was there with me and I was freaking out and in desperate need of truth and sugar.  Having hair you are not proud of is not sassy, and I must admit for those couple of days before it was fixed, I was not lovin myself and it showed. I know some of you are scoffing at me, shaking your head, wondering how it is that hair could matter so much. Well it doesn’t really, but when you don’t feel good about yourself (for whatever pitiful reason) and can’t do anything to fix it immediately, then you don’t feel confident. Anywho, pity party is over, new hair is fab now, and Miss Sassy is back. BAM.

Wanted: Single Sassy People

Today I had lunch with my most favorite ex-roomie, we’ll call her Miss Foxy because I think she might be working for Fox news very soon (I’m optimistic and maybe it’s good luck) and also she is a foxy lady. It was a grand time and I took way beyond my regular 1 hour because we are chatty little gals when we get together, obv.  So we’re chatting and Foxy remarks on the number of attractive men who were in this little eatery. Sure, I say, I guess.  No, she says, you don’t understand, there are no men where I live and whenever I see a good looking one, he’s either gay…or married.  I know right! So here’s our discussion topic today: marriage.  Suddenly it’s everywhere.

I was so excited to take this new job, make some new friends, meet cute boys, flirt, get some drinks bought for me (because I’m so good at it…brnt), have some fun single ladies’ nights, and do some winking across some bars.  You know you’ve done it.  So I started working, started going out, started making friends, and started realizing this fact: EVERYONE is MARRIED.  Or engaged.  Or living with their soon-to-be-fiance and adopting cute puppies to judge if they’d be good parents.  My newest instinct when I’m out is not to check out some eyes and tush (shamelessly), but the left hand.  And let me tell you, 90% of the time there is some jank on that finger that I do not want to see.  I mean I am seeing young boys and girls just starting work just like me and they are all “me and my girlfriend are getting a dog!” “My husband blah blah blah.”  “My wife and I just bought a house.” “My boyfriend is so perfect”  “I’m going to meet my girlfriend to watch Ghost of Girlfriends Past so I can’t hang out” (I mean really) “I have to leave because my fiance doesn’t like to go out and she’ll be mad.” Don’t even get me started on this last one – dudes: if you’re woman doesn’t like you going out and you do like going out, work that ish out.  It will not be good for you.

Everywhere I look, people are moving in together, getting engaged, walking down the aisle.  What happened to young single boys and girls? Where have they all gone?

Example: I recently went to my lovely and beautiful cousin’s (Miss Tiger? Yes? Rawr.) wedding in Florida. It was a bang up time for realz and I got my hair did for free. Holler. But I was one of 3 single girls there, out of 150 or so guests.  There were 3 single men in attendance, one of which was my cousin (thus making him unavailable to me, need I spell it out for you), and another was over 35 (pushing it a little but hey love knows no age, right?).  I’m not complaining, simply stating some statistics. 3/150 = 2%. Very small.  Factor in the “I’m related to him” issue:  2/150 = 1.3%. Even smaller.

Text convo between me and Miss Foxy:
Foxy: I have been driving alongside this TOTALLY hot guy for a while and I want to do something like wave or something haha
me: Haha that’s awesome. You should catch his eye and wink
Foxy: he’s driving a tinted black tahoe it’s so hot, i only have 13 miles to do something
me: Be bold, act fast
Foxy: JUST saw the wedding ring…BRNNNNNT.

Another fun flirting opportunity ruined by marriage (and excellent use of Brnt, btw). Embrace being single people.  It’s fun, there is no deadline for this marriage jank. Dudes: do not hit on me if you are married.  Go out and have fun by all means and sure we can be friends, but do not give me that look at the bar (you know what look I mean – I can’t be more specific because my mom reads this blog) and then hide your wedding ring behind your back.  I see you.

Single dudes: by all means, Miss Sassy Pants will have a margarita, thank you very much.

Are you judging me? That’s hot.

Happy Friday, fabulous friends and family! I love alliteration.

Anywho, today I saw something funny on the way to work.  I wanted plenty of time to get to work so I could be early for the Stat GAAP class I took this morning (What? I will perhaps cover this in a later post).  Ok so I’m in the car, vroom-vrooming and la-di-daing my way east on 64 (as stated previously, it’s like the karaoke half-hour for me), and I’m passing car after car, doing some good people watching while obviously keeping my eyes on the road at all times.  Suddenly out of nowhere there comes this red civic…the kind that came out in 1992 that run for 200,000,000 miles before you have to trade it in. As I’m coming up on this here quality vehicle, I notice a very large playboy bunny sticker on the rear passenger-side window.  And not just any size sticker, it’s like a person-size rendering of the bunny’s head, complete with bowtie.  It is HUGE.  I mean this thing took up the entire side window.  Then I notice…there’s one on BOTH sides of the car. Both. Sides.  Is this really necessary?  Ok so my judgementalism kicks in (you know you are straight up hatin on every person you pass on the highway every day), and I immediately think Kendra from that show about Hugh’s sexy young “girlfriends” (if it was a dude it would have been the silhouette of the naked chic…seen those? Real classy). Ok well this…”lady” was not even from the same planet as Kendra. [Major judgement time:] This lady is possibly the biggest woman I’ve ever seen.  In my life, even.  I mean HUGE.  And it wasn’t like oh well if she lost some weight in her face she’d be pretty.  I’m sorry, no. So I’m sort of like staring in shock (she’s 2 lanes away), and then she looked over at me! Dear Jesus deliver me from this section of highway to another section.  She has clearly just caught me in prime judgemental mode.  The look on her face was just deadly and had she not been exiting onto 295 at that moment, it would have been battle of the tiny vehicles.  I have 172 brand new turbo-charged horses on my side though (sexy), pretty sure I would have won.  Regardless, I got caught and learned something about myself: I have no control over my judgmental face. What does that mean, Miss Sassy? Well…

Apparently I can go from a smiling, pleasant face, to a grimace or scowl that portrays my judgmental thoughts.  Those of you that know me well know to which expressions I refer. But don’t worry, you have one too! If you enjoy people-watching, you know you have a judgmental face, or JF.  As I was discussing with my dear loving Twin last night, you could be in mid-convo with someone, happen to witness something trife behind said someone, and BAM. Your attention is diverted and your face morphs. You may say, “No Miss Sassy, I’m good at holding back and not letting my thoughts show on my face!”  All I have to say is: No you are not.  Sorry bout it. We all do it!  The funniest part from my convo with Twin was that in her group of friends when one of them gets the JF, the others call that girl out by calling her by her mother’s name.  Because especially for the ladies, where do you learn your JF from? Your mother!  No matter what you say, that’s where it comes from.  She’s been doing it your whole life! And it’s impossible that you haven’t witnessed at least 234,658 instances of it.  And mothers: you should not take offense to this!  We secretly aspire to be like you, and no matter what we say or how hard we try not to be, I think it’s genetic and really can’t be stopped.  My judgement face is just like Momma Sassy’s.  Twin’s is just like her Momma’s.  So on and so forth.  Dudes: you judge too, but you’re a different animal and I don’t want to get into it.  But you judge, rest assured.

Anywho, my thoughts on judging are this: while it is not classy or sassy to be outwardly judgmental or rude to people, it is sassy to NOT be hypocrite! You know you do it, so own it! And friends, let’s call each other out on this! It always gets a good laugh.  Plus, it’s like mean girls.  I was majorly judging the..um..large chick with the bunnies (God forbid she even…yucky thoughts, I won’t go there), but let’s be honest people! She was judging me too! I drive a funky looking tiny car, with racing stripes, my hair is huge and frizzy (specially today, thanks awesome Richmond weather), and I was singing to myself out loud, kind of intensely.  In the end, it’s almost flattering to be judged.  It means you noticed enough of something or someone to form an opinion.  And it’s sassy to be noticed…even for really large women.

…This is how I sleep at night.  Now, go forth this weekend and get yo sass on!