Sloppy Seconds Saturday

Saturdays are for sloppy seconds. No, not that kind!  Weekends are for friends, and what better way is there to show some love to a fellow writer than to share his or her funniest stuff? This week, my Sloppy Seconds Saturday is devoted to the lovely and talented Amy A. Mullis.


Hip Hop

I’m like Shakira--my hips don’t lie. 

Even when threatened.

However, without much coaxing they’re willing to reveal every bite of doughnut I’ve had in the past ten years. Try to stuff them into a pair of pantyhose and they’ll also let on what happened to the last box of Thin Mints, the banana bread the neighbor brought over, and the six dozen Rudolph cupcakes intended for the third grade Christmas party.

My hips and I have never had a very good relationship. All I long for is to see daylight between my thighs one time before I die. On the other hand my hips fantasize of a day when we can coexist on the buffet deck of the Love Boat without me snarling every time a skinny chick sucks down a milkshake without scraping off the whipped cream.

These days they’re spreading the dream to my chins, who have rebelled and resorted to disguising cookie crumbs in their folds for a late night snack. I’m so nearsighted, I thought it was just stray whiskers. If I ever locate my bifocals, I intend to act sternly in regards to my personal appearance. I may have to read up on excavation techniques.

When I was fifteen, I was all shin bones and shoulder blades. Now I’m fifty and I’ve discovered that love handles are the new hipbones. I used to sing “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” but now I have to admit that my head and toes lost touch long before size 10 became the new obese. My knees are still active, though. They take every opportunity to go out. So these days, I’m more likely to sing “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” and hope I don’t lose anything important when I stand up.

Last week I wanted to buy a pair of hip hugger jeans, but I had two get three estimates on the location of my navel to determine the right size. I was going to wear them with a halter top, just like the old days, but my kids hit me with a restraining order, the entire population of the tri-state area staged an intervention, and the government declared my entire Head to Toe area unsafe. I’m expecting FEMA to approve my application for natural disaster assistance any day now.

In the meantime, I’m investing heavily in Krispy Kreme. Because hips don’t lie, but maybe they can be bribed to keep the sugar coated truth to themselves.


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This gem was originally posted on Amy's hilarious blog, Mind over Mullis, on December 7, 2011. I have reposted it with her express permission. Ok, so I resorted to bribery.


Amy is a prize-winning humor writer who was honored by the Erma Bombeck Writing Competition in 2010 for her essay, "The Bra Whisperer." You should read it. Now. And swallow any liquids before you begin. You were warned. 


She is a regular contributor at An Army of Ermas, a place that is near and dear to my heart, and numerous other writerly digs.