I saw on my facebook feed this morning a question directed at women on why we turn down sex at night. I decided to add my 2 cents.
Top 10 reasons why women turn down sex according to me in no particular order:
1-Mexican food. Seriously, is there anything less sexy that getting down and dir-tay and then hearing that rumble?
2-Too damn tired. If persistent, I reserve the right to just lay there though. No ego stroking, no "okay my turn!"
3-Need a shower. I really want you to...ummm..."warm me up" and without a shower, that's not happening for you or me.
4-Indian food. See #1.
5-You pissed me off earlier. Don't touch me, I am still thinking about your snarky comment about how the laundry isn't done. If we have sex I'll have to take off my clothes and that just adds to the pile, jackass. You want nookie, the laundry room is downstairs.
6-You're probably going to piss me off later. Truth. It's coming. I can feel it like a cosmic shift in the atmosphere. Chicks have a sixth sense for this shit.
7-I'm in a really good part of my book. I just invest 3000 pages of my life into the Game of Thrones series. I am now friends with every character. I can't leave them now, they will miss me.
8-I stink. Similar to #2 but this is the covered in baby spit up, sweating, hair all a mess, "is that chocolate?" level of stink. Combined with #3, I'll just sleep now and change the sheets tomorrow.
9-You stink. Ain't nobody got time for that. I'm not talking about that sexy phermone stink, you know. The one where they itch their balls, stinky. Oh YOU know.
10-I want to sleep in and not take a shower before work tomorrow. Sleep is a precious precious gem of awesomeness. There is no time in my life that my bed hasn't been more comfortable at 6am then it has been at 11pm. If I have to get up at 6:30 you can be damn sure I set my alarm for 6 so I can hit my snooze button 3 times and feel like I am cheating the system. I plan my life around if I have to wash my hair in the morning. Don't mess that up.
Anymore you can think of?
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Turtles are an affordable guilty pleasure...really guilty.
A little over a year ago Usbandhay and I went on a week long, kid-free trip to Maui. For 7 days we did nothing but eat fatty foods, drink yummy tropical drinks with slices of pineapple as garnish and drink some more. I can justify all of the pork consumed by balancing it with all of the pineapple that was used as a garnish. In my way of thinking one pineapple molecule bonds to a fat molecule and neutralizes it into nothingness. I'm sure you'll see this on Doctor Oz soon although you'll know where this knowledge originated.
Anywho, Usbandhay and I decided one morning to take a drive. We had a convertible, sunscreen and an entire day to kill. You can't get lost on an island that small, if you hit water you go the other way! So we decided to head to the North Shore. As you are driving north you see a sign: "State Highway Ends 500 feet" then "State Highway Ends 100 feet" and then "State Highway REALLY ends in 50 feet, you jackasses" but we keep driving cause where we're going, we don't need roads! Paved ones at least. So it turns out the signs weren't just a clever use of State funds. The State road ended and we went from smooth paved 4 lane roads to a dirt 1/2 lane road that most Ugandan's would sneer at. What made this even better(read: more terrifying) was the sheer cliff that sent you on a downward spiral to the Pacific ocean after a 50 foot fall on jagged rocks and bacteria infested coral beds. Turns out you DO need roads.
Since we were still in carefree vacation mode, we traveled on! Adventure? Heck Yeah! Danger? For shizzle! "The Planet's Best Banana Bread" hand painted on the side of a tree with an arrow pointed to the only way possible? Whhaaat? Yes! That was it. That sign was a metaphor for our finish line. We were now on a path the find the World's, nay The UNIVERSE'S best banana bread and all that we had to lose was our lives as we potentially careen over the side of a cliff to our doom and have to pay the deductible on the rental car insurance!
Now remember me telling you about my theory on molecular cohesion of fat to fruit? There may be a side effect... As the the road turned and wound so did my stomach. As we climbed yet another hill I gripped the door handle like a life line and when my stomach made noises loud enough to echo though the rocky caverns we were driving next to. I laughed and turned up the music so my sweet driver would not hear the screams of revolt happening in my midriff section. Because, you see, we just had gotten engaged 2 weeks prior to this fantastic romantic vacation and he still was not allowed to know that I, a girl, had bodily functions other that wild orchid scented B.O. and peppermint morning breath. In fact, for the whole first year my kegel muscles were stronger than a bear trap from clenching while vacating my bladder so he wouldn't hear me pee!
Finally! We came across the hut(literally) in question! Banana bread (and hopefully bathroom!) we have found you! I slide gracefully out of the car and pray to the volcano gods that I don't embarrass myself. I browse the breads and dried fruits and make my purchases including a bottle of water that I know I'll need to replenish lost fluids later and nonchalantly ask if their quaint little hut had a bathroom. Not a chance. Not a honey bucket, not a hole in the ground covered with banana leaves...nothing. F@*k....
Fast forward an agonizing hour on the same road. No houses, no restaurants. No electricity and no running water. I had even considered shattering the perfect girly image and go find a bush to do my biz-ness but the only bush/tree around looked like the scene from the karate kid where Ralph Macchio tries to save the bonzai and nearly dies by (none other than) plummeting to his doom down a cliff into the ocean. I was starting to lose faith while thinking of this theme song to keep me entertained when out of NO WHERE this gorgeous mansion with a paved driveway pops up. I thought it was a mirage! An art-dealing mirage! I yelled "Turn there! I need art!" or something close to that and simultaneously hopped out of the car and my flip flop in my haste and jammed my foot in the gravel. "No time! Save yourself!" I thought as I shoved it back on my foot possibly bleeding and infecting. I made it through the front door, looked like I belonged there for about 4 seconds until I word vomited my plea for a working toilet and tropical scented air-freshener. I tried to make it sound like "Excuse me Ma'am, but may I use you facilities, please? I promise to shop afterwards and make large purchases of your very over priced art work and glass thingies." but I am sure she heard nothing since by this time my body was starting to reject it's self and I was sweating more than what is appropriate for a twenty-something in flip flops.
I hit the head, released some demons and think I might have seen Jesus. Pretty cool guy, wears Birkenstocks.... As I vacated my bowels and then vacated the premises I had that terrible feeling of guilt. I just wrecked this poor lady's bathroom. Nothing that unholy had ever come out of me before but that's what a diet of alcohol, pork bits, and 17 pineapples a day will get you. I couldn't leave here without buying something. I wandered around...and wandered. I slipped in and out of the aisles trying to find something that could be justified as a purchase AND not break the bank. JesusH! $150 for a painting of a starfish? Really? Usbandhay was watching me in wonder. Wondering why weren't leaving that is since not a single thing in the gallery appealed to either one of our tastes when I finally came across a $12 ceramic turtle. Done. I paid in cash for my guilt-turtle and we continued on our way. Dehydrated. 2 pounds lighter. And with a severe respect for the digestive system of a traveling roasted pork consuming, one-week only alcoholic.
Best. $12. Ever.
Anywho, Usbandhay and I decided one morning to take a drive. We had a convertible, sunscreen and an entire day to kill. You can't get lost on an island that small, if you hit water you go the other way! So we decided to head to the North Shore. As you are driving north you see a sign: "State Highway Ends 500 feet" then "State Highway Ends 100 feet" and then "State Highway REALLY ends in 50 feet, you jackasses" but we keep driving cause where we're going, we don't need roads! Paved ones at least. So it turns out the signs weren't just a clever use of State funds. The State road ended and we went from smooth paved 4 lane roads to a dirt 1/2 lane road that most Ugandan's would sneer at. What made this even better(read: more terrifying) was the sheer cliff that sent you on a downward spiral to the Pacific ocean after a 50 foot fall on jagged rocks and bacteria infested coral beds. Turns out you DO need roads.
Since we were still in carefree vacation mode, we traveled on! Adventure? Heck Yeah! Danger? For shizzle! "The Planet's Best Banana Bread" hand painted on the side of a tree with an arrow pointed to the only way possible? Whhaaat? Yes! That was it. That sign was a metaphor for our finish line. We were now on a path the find the World's, nay The UNIVERSE'S best banana bread and all that we had to lose was our lives as we potentially careen over the side of a cliff to our doom and have to pay the deductible on the rental car insurance!
Now remember me telling you about my theory on molecular cohesion of fat to fruit? There may be a side effect... As the the road turned and wound so did my stomach. As we climbed yet another hill I gripped the door handle like a life line and when my stomach made noises loud enough to echo though the rocky caverns we were driving next to. I laughed and turned up the music so my sweet driver would not hear the screams of revolt happening in my midriff section. Because, you see, we just had gotten engaged 2 weeks prior to this fantastic romantic vacation and he still was not allowed to know that I, a girl, had bodily functions other that wild orchid scented B.O. and peppermint morning breath. In fact, for the whole first year my kegel muscles were stronger than a bear trap from clenching while vacating my bladder so he wouldn't hear me pee!
Finally! We came across the hut(literally) in question! Banana bread (and hopefully bathroom!) we have found you! I slide gracefully out of the car and pray to the volcano gods that I don't embarrass myself. I browse the breads and dried fruits and make my purchases including a bottle of water that I know I'll need to replenish lost fluids later and nonchalantly ask if their quaint little hut had a bathroom. Not a chance. Not a honey bucket, not a hole in the ground covered with banana leaves...nothing. F@*k....
Fast forward an agonizing hour on the same road. No houses, no restaurants. No electricity and no running water. I had even considered shattering the perfect girly image and go find a bush to do my biz-ness but the only bush/tree around looked like the scene from the karate kid where Ralph Macchio tries to save the bonzai and nearly dies by (none other than) plummeting to his doom down a cliff into the ocean. I was starting to lose faith while thinking of this theme song to keep me entertained when out of NO WHERE this gorgeous mansion with a paved driveway pops up. I thought it was a mirage! An art-dealing mirage! I yelled "Turn there! I need art!" or something close to that and simultaneously hopped out of the car and my flip flop in my haste and jammed my foot in the gravel. "No time! Save yourself!" I thought as I shoved it back on my foot possibly bleeding and infecting. I made it through the front door, looked like I belonged there for about 4 seconds until I word vomited my plea for a working toilet and tropical scented air-freshener. I tried to make it sound like "Excuse me Ma'am, but may I use you facilities, please? I promise to shop afterwards and make large purchases of your very over priced art work and glass thingies." but I am sure she heard nothing since by this time my body was starting to reject it's self and I was sweating more than what is appropriate for a twenty-something in flip flops.
I hit the head, released some demons and think I might have seen Jesus. Pretty cool guy, wears Birkenstocks.... As I vacated my bowels and then vacated the premises I had that terrible feeling of guilt. I just wrecked this poor lady's bathroom. Nothing that unholy had ever come out of me before but that's what a diet of alcohol, pork bits, and 17 pineapples a day will get you. I couldn't leave here without buying something. I wandered around...and wandered. I slipped in and out of the aisles trying to find something that could be justified as a purchase AND not break the bank. JesusH! $150 for a painting of a starfish? Really? Usbandhay was watching me in wonder. Wondering why weren't leaving that is since not a single thing in the gallery appealed to either one of our tastes when I finally came across a $12 ceramic turtle. Done. I paid in cash for my guilt-turtle and we continued on our way. Dehydrated. 2 pounds lighter. And with a severe respect for the digestive system of a traveling roasted pork consuming, one-week only alcoholic.
Best. $12. Ever.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Parenting is dirty...and full of bacteria.
I read an article recently about child rearing and how awesome it is and it inspired me to write this blog post. Having a friend who is currently pregnant, I try to hold myself back for being that woman who constantly word vomits bits of wisdom, proving that I understand the process of womb explosion and successfully raising children without going to an all women's jail. So far I am almost 7 years in and I haven't been made someones bottom yet! (Knock on wood)
Parenting is messy. You think the hardest part is bushing a bowling ball out of your vajay-jay but I guaran-goddamn-tee you that it's not. I am here to SQUASH these misconceptions and add some truth to parenting.
Hair is over rated!
So now you have had your baby. The hard part is over, right? You've endured 9 months of *cross your fingers* an easy pregnancy. It just gets better from here! Right? RIGHT?!?
Well, I hate to break it to you but your skin is going to be flappy, your boobs are going to hurt and your hair is going to freaking fall out.
How did I go through my entire pregnancy with all of the advice the was unsolicited but given to me anyway and no one told me that my hair was going to fall out??? I seriously had some 117 year old lady at a Wal-mart, whom I had never met before tell me that if my baby was constipated to stick my finger in their ass to get stuff moving. WHAT?!? We could have skipped that little tidbit of your fucked up baby raisin' and you could have told me useful information like be prepared for clumps of hair to fall out (when you finally get to shower) like a cancer patient! By the way, in my experience a belly massage does WAY more than anal raping your poor baby..still shaking my head over this 7 years later.
"Enjoy every minute, it goes so fast"
Picture me this...About 3 weeks after giving birth to my twins I was sitting on the floor of the nursery, wiping poo off of my forearm, sobbing while 2 babies screamed bloody murder on the floor next to me after being fed, changed, cuddled, changed again, snuggled, swaddled and changed. In that moment with tears streaming down my face, my unwashed hair falling out of it's glamorous scrunchy and smelling like formula and throw up...I was most definitely NOT enjoying every minute.
I started thinking about what people had said to me. All of the "Oh what a gift" "You are so fortunate, I can't have babies" and the clincher "Enjoy every moment"! This only made me sob harder. I cried because I wasn't the glowing awesomeness that I was supposed to be and everyone told me I would be. I cried because I couldn't handle functioning on 20 minutes of sleep. I cried because I forgot to send my netflix's back and I won't get the new disc of 'Gilmore Girls' for 3 more days!
The truth: It's okay to not be a beautiful glowing wonder of womb awesomeness. It's okay not to enjoy EVERY minute. You smell, your haven't actually had a full shower in 10 days, you made wheat thins a full meal because you can eat them one handed and feed the baby in the other and you're gonna make it, sister! It sucks and you don't have to enjoy every minute of it. If your son pees on you, you don't have to find it endearing. If shit is running out of a diaper, you don't have to enjoy that moment and you CAN gag while trying to get them in the bathtub before they ruin the carpet! Having babies is hard...and messy...and bacteria laden! Do you realize how far poo can fly when used as a projectile!?! Just paint your walls brown now and save yourself a step.
Anything you can do I can do better!
No one warned me about the one-upper. You are sitting there at a play date(that's what you will start calling hanging out with someone that has kids too...) and your little Timmy is coloring a dinosaur bright orange with blue spots. You beam with pride that your little genius has finally figured out to color in the lines and not eat the crayola's (By the way...that IS amusing...it's like a diaper meets tie-dye! And it is okay to laugh before calling poison control.) The one-upper will have her child, little McStupid face, come over and tell you the freaking genus, species and preferred diet of the dinosaur! She'll sit there looking amused as you stammer something about how the other day Tommy said the funniest, smartest thing EVER! Be warned though...once this happens to you, you will find yourself locating weaker prey and doing this same thing. You'll be disgusted with yourself but secretly doing the "carlton" in your head.
SO...The brutal truth?
When you find yourself rocking back and forth at 3am and then you wake up at 3:15 standing in the same spot still rocking back and forth, know this: After all the shitty diapers, after all the sleepless nights, colic, and gas pains, it's worth it. It is SO worth every late night run to the pharmacy and sailor cuss words when running out of wipes at THE crucial moment. It's okay to cry, it's okay to be angry at the coffee pot for being 2 minutes off or the painting for being crooked. It's perfectly normal to start singing instructions to your husband/wife while you are rocking the baby so your keep a soothing rhythm. It get's better. First smiles, first steps and his first cuss word make all of the bad things so worth it. Until teens. That's when you just lock them in closet and drink your Mommy Juice, amiright?
Parenting is messy. You think the hardest part is bushing a bowling ball out of your vajay-jay but I guaran-goddamn-tee you that it's not. I am here to SQUASH these misconceptions and add some truth to parenting.
Hair is over rated!
So now you have had your baby. The hard part is over, right? You've endured 9 months of *cross your fingers* an easy pregnancy. It just gets better from here! Right? RIGHT?!?
Well, I hate to break it to you but your skin is going to be flappy, your boobs are going to hurt and your hair is going to freaking fall out.
How did I go through my entire pregnancy with all of the advice the was unsolicited but given to me anyway and no one told me that my hair was going to fall out??? I seriously had some 117 year old lady at a Wal-mart, whom I had never met before tell me that if my baby was constipated to stick my finger in their ass to get stuff moving. WHAT?!? We could have skipped that little tidbit of your fucked up baby raisin' and you could have told me useful information like be prepared for clumps of hair to fall out (when you finally get to shower) like a cancer patient! By the way, in my experience a belly massage does WAY more than anal raping your poor baby..still shaking my head over this 7 years later.
"Enjoy every minute, it goes so fast"
Picture me this...About 3 weeks after giving birth to my twins I was sitting on the floor of the nursery, wiping poo off of my forearm, sobbing while 2 babies screamed bloody murder on the floor next to me after being fed, changed, cuddled, changed again, snuggled, swaddled and changed. In that moment with tears streaming down my face, my unwashed hair falling out of it's glamorous scrunchy and smelling like formula and throw up...I was most definitely NOT enjoying every minute.
I started thinking about what people had said to me. All of the "Oh what a gift" "You are so fortunate, I can't have babies" and the clincher "Enjoy every moment"! This only made me sob harder. I cried because I wasn't the glowing awesomeness that I was supposed to be and everyone told me I would be. I cried because I couldn't handle functioning on 20 minutes of sleep. I cried because I forgot to send my netflix's back and I won't get the new disc of 'Gilmore Girls' for 3 more days!
The truth: It's okay to not be a beautiful glowing wonder of womb awesomeness. It's okay not to enjoy EVERY minute. You smell, your haven't actually had a full shower in 10 days, you made wheat thins a full meal because you can eat them one handed and feed the baby in the other and you're gonna make it, sister! It sucks and you don't have to enjoy every minute of it. If your son pees on you, you don't have to find it endearing. If shit is running out of a diaper, you don't have to enjoy that moment and you CAN gag while trying to get them in the bathtub before they ruin the carpet! Having babies is hard...and messy...and bacteria laden! Do you realize how far poo can fly when used as a projectile!?! Just paint your walls brown now and save yourself a step.
Anything you can do I can do better!
No one warned me about the one-upper. You are sitting there at a play date(that's what you will start calling hanging out with someone that has kids too...) and your little Timmy is coloring a dinosaur bright orange with blue spots. You beam with pride that your little genius has finally figured out to color in the lines and not eat the crayola's (By the way...that IS amusing...it's like a diaper meets tie-dye! And it is okay to laugh before calling poison control.) The one-upper will have her child, little McStupid face, come over and tell you the freaking genus, species and preferred diet of the dinosaur! She'll sit there looking amused as you stammer something about how the other day Tommy said the funniest, smartest thing EVER! Be warned though...once this happens to you, you will find yourself locating weaker prey and doing this same thing. You'll be disgusted with yourself but secretly doing the "carlton" in your head.
SO...The brutal truth?
When you find yourself rocking back and forth at 3am and then you wake up at 3:15 standing in the same spot still rocking back and forth, know this: After all the shitty diapers, after all the sleepless nights, colic, and gas pains, it's worth it. It is SO worth every late night run to the pharmacy and sailor cuss words when running out of wipes at THE crucial moment. It's okay to cry, it's okay to be angry at the coffee pot for being 2 minutes off or the painting for being crooked. It's perfectly normal to start singing instructions to your husband/wife while you are rocking the baby so your keep a soothing rhythm. It get's better. First smiles, first steps and his first cuss word make all of the bad things so worth it. Until teens. That's when you just lock them in closet and drink your Mommy Juice, amiright?
Friday, December 23, 2011
Politically Correct Christmas Wishes
To all 6 of my readers and those who might stumble upon me in a midnight clear, I wish you all a:
Merry ChristmaHanuKwanzakkah!
Now pass me the eggnog, Mama's got a date with Santa. ;)
Merry ChristmaHanuKwanzakkah!
Now pass me the eggnog, Mama's got a date with Santa. ;)
Friday, October 21, 2011
Law and Order: SCU
Porto potty's seem like a re-accuring nightmare to me, only acted out in real life by me. Some how I can come up with stories of horror easily and that have most likely happened to me inside or around or caused by these horrible germ filled, porous shit-containment-units(SCU).
If you've read a previous post of mine about a really really no god horrible bad start to day that I never finished to it's total potential like I have with many things (I'm sorry sweetie, I WILL get pictures up on the wall, I swear!) you'll know I am not a fan of the Port-o-John. I have to be close to having pee run down my leg in public and not being able to explain it away or jump into a river/lake/stream/ocean.
There is one circumstance that negates all grossness of the Willy-make-it grossfactordefcon12million though. And that my friends is alcohol. A lot of alcohol.
I went on a camping trip with my best friend, her husband and my guy friend who I thought was super cute but never hooked up with cause I was too good for that and didn't want to ruin a perfectly good decade long friendship and blah blah blah all those things girls say when they totally want to make out with someone but don't want to be rejected and feel like they have boils all over their faces when the boys laugh at them.
So we started off out little trip with a stop by the liquor store and then a bar. I shamelessly flirted with the bartender with at least 3 missing teeth all the while crossing my arms underneath my boobs to make them seem even bigger. Me and the 2 guys reaped the benefits with a ridiculous amount of free booze poured by the meth addict staring at the "girls". After some much needed video poker, unearned cash returns from said video poker and a little nourishment we head back to camp where we continue drinking!
After a couple solid hours of hydrating my liver with sugary sickly sweet alcohol that looked like motor oil mixed with honey, Shocker...I had to puke. Nothing says "sexy whoo hoo I wanna make out with you" like a puking girl in the bushes so I politely and eloquently excused myself to the facilities. (I'm sure it sounded like: be ri baccckk, don't drink allthe booooze suckass gotta peeee bye)
I stumbled off down the gravel road from our campsite to the port-o-germ factory and crawled in touching oh too much... I forgot I had to puke and plopped down on the hard plastic freezing cold seat. Now I can hover like a mo-fo...but when your center of gravity has been slightly altered by a half gallon of something called "honey Jager", the only thing that stopped me from falling INTO that hole was that the god lord above blessed me what is clinically called a ghetto booty. It acts like training wheels, so I learned, when you just can't quite get the hovering effect and plop down on the germ laden ugh fest toilet seat.
Half way through my business I then remember that I had to puke. Just then I heard foot steps crunching up the road. Holding bile in the back of my throat I finished up and turned around to expel some demons. As I made the frantic 180, my ghetto booty hit the (unlocked...doh!) door and flung it open just in time for my best buddy to see my pants around my ankles, ass hanging out of the door in full view and in mid dry heave. A site I am so sure she wants to forget but is forever ingrained in her innocent mind.
My advise to my PDRTM blog is that when in doubt, do the crouch. Find a lovely spot in the woods and take care of business. You won't fall in and you won't risk hepatitis of the ass either. Beware of poison oak though...no one wants to make out with someone who is oozing...even if you have a great rack and laugh at all of his jokes.
If you've read a previous post of mine about a really really no god horrible bad start to day that I never finished to it's total potential like I have with many things (I'm sorry sweetie, I WILL get pictures up on the wall, I swear!) you'll know I am not a fan of the Port-o-John. I have to be close to having pee run down my leg in public and not being able to explain it away or jump into a river/lake/stream/ocean.
There is one circumstance that negates all grossness of the Willy-make-it grossfactordefcon12million though. And that my friends is alcohol. A lot of alcohol.
I went on a camping trip with my best friend, her husband and my guy friend who I thought was super cute but never hooked up with cause I was too good for that and didn't want to ruin a perfectly good decade long friendship and blah blah blah all those things girls say when they totally want to make out with someone but don't want to be rejected and feel like they have boils all over their faces when the boys laugh at them.
So we started off out little trip with a stop by the liquor store and then a bar. I shamelessly flirted with the bartender with at least 3 missing teeth all the while crossing my arms underneath my boobs to make them seem even bigger. Me and the 2 guys reaped the benefits with a ridiculous amount of free booze poured by the meth addict staring at the "girls". After some much needed video poker, unearned cash returns from said video poker and a little nourishment we head back to camp where we continue drinking!
After a couple solid hours of hydrating my liver with sugary sickly sweet alcohol that looked like motor oil mixed with honey, Shocker...I had to puke. Nothing says "sexy whoo hoo I wanna make out with you" like a puking girl in the bushes so I politely and eloquently excused myself to the facilities. (I'm sure it sounded like: be ri baccckk, don't drink allthe booooze suckass gotta peeee bye)
I stumbled off down the gravel road from our campsite to the port-o-germ factory and crawled in touching oh too much... I forgot I had to puke and plopped down on the hard plastic freezing cold seat. Now I can hover like a mo-fo...but when your center of gravity has been slightly altered by a half gallon of something called "honey Jager", the only thing that stopped me from falling INTO that hole was that the god lord above blessed me what is clinically called a ghetto booty. It acts like training wheels, so I learned, when you just can't quite get the hovering effect and plop down on the germ laden ugh fest toilet seat.
Half way through my business I then remember that I had to puke. Just then I heard foot steps crunching up the road. Holding bile in the back of my throat I finished up and turned around to expel some demons. As I made the frantic 180, my ghetto booty hit the (unlocked...doh!) door and flung it open just in time for my best buddy to see my pants around my ankles, ass hanging out of the door in full view and in mid dry heave. A site I am so sure she wants to forget but is forever ingrained in her innocent mind.
My advise to my PDRTM blog is that when in doubt, do the crouch. Find a lovely spot in the woods and take care of business. You won't fall in and you won't risk hepatitis of the ass either. Beware of poison oak though...no one wants to make out with someone who is oozing...even if you have a great rack and laugh at all of his jokes.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Horse-Camp for the Believers.
When you are a kid, you spend your summers playing in the sprinklers, going to the local pool and swimming for $2.00 in urine and phermones, waiting to hear the ice cream truck tinkle by and going to awesome summer camps while their parents get drunk and have sectual relations. Not me. All I had on my mind was horses. I was THAT girl.
Looking back, it's amazing I wasn't at the top of my 8 year old social circle. I had a wicked cool perm complete with bangin' bangs, buck teeth and smelled like horse sweat and leather. Every Friday my class would have show-and-tell and everyone would groan when I would shoot up my hand lightning fast to go first. Usually I would talk about my horse or something my horse did or perhaps even something my horse didn't do but I couldn't think of anything cool that had happened that week so I just made shit up about the horse. Very occasionally I would veer away from the equestrian chat but likely would return the following Friday to recant my standing on a saddle riding in a circle while New Kids on the Block Played in the background of my stable on a tape player plugged in next to an RC cola machine. (this really did happen and was as awesome as it sound, but no one believed me!)
There was one time though that I lugged 3 garbage bags full of Care Bears the half mile to school and pulled each one out and spouted off their names and respective Care Bear power when it was my turn. I still can't believe my teacher let me do that. I am pretty sure the only reason he did allow my fodder is because I knew he was boning the music teacher, even though I really didn't what boning was until 4th grade and even then I definitely had some serious inaccuracies.
Anywho, horses.
When my mom sold my horse, there was this giant super duper sized hole missing from my heart and my Fridays were filled with other kids telling lame story's that did not include horses. Her and my dad thought that as the school year came to an end, maybe I could attend a summer camp to get my mind off of my loss.
Surprisingly in the late '80's there weren't very many summer camps that weren't for fat kids or delinquents so I ended up attending a church camp. A HORSE church camp. I didn't give two shits that my mom had to buy a bible to send with me at a garage sale (she wouldn't let me take the 15lbs gold embossed King James edition under our coffee table) and I didn't care that I was going to spend 3 hours every evening in prayer, worship and reflection. There were going to be horses, damn it!
I showed up that day with my hopes high. I my mind, it was going to be like an episode of "Hey Dude". I would make friends with the ranch hands, sneak out late at night to go ghost hunting on the ridge and teach all the lesser camper the finer techniques of riding bareback and being generally awesome at everything horse related.
That all screeched to a halt when they put a helmet on my head...
"No no no...I can understand your confusion, but my mom checked "advanced" on my application. I don't need a helmet, I have a well worn cowboy hat that I intend to wear over my bad perm." You see, in my world, you only wore a helmet if you were a beginner or mentally handicapped being trotted around the circle for therapy.
The sweet Christian lady just smiled and welcomed me to the safe way to ride where everyone feels included and no one feels like they are behind. Now god bless and if you want to put money on your commissary account you may do so right over there..." I vowed to straighten it out later with the ranch hands where I would throw some advanced lingo out there like "does this horse prefer a Martingale bridle?" and they would be so awed that an 8 year old knew so much they would let me pick the prettiest and fast horse and let me leave my helmet for one of the Downs' kids in the following week.
We walked over to the commissary and my mom wrote a check for $20.00 to put on my account. (prison much?) The 15 year old behind the swinging half door showed me all the Red Vines and Sour Patch Kids and as I drooled in anticipation of stuffing my face full of Caramellos he informed my mom that she would probably have a balance returned since the kids could only buy 1 candy item per day. What the bloody hell?!? How am I supposed to make friends if I can't bribe them with treats to come up on my top bunk and braid my hair? Ugh...
I tried to stand out as much as possible. I wore my jeans OVER my boots so I didn't look like a (I need an 8 year old word for nOob), I tried to make conversation with the counselors. Nothing I did got me out of that helmet and into the horses and Caramellows. There were no ranch hands to shmooze. In fact it wasn't even a ranch. It was a dorm with a stable! Every night we trompted through the woods with our bibles and sat ob bleachers around a campfire and talked about the lord, and all lordly things. I couldn't really add too much here since I was kind of a heathen but then we would sing! This is where I knew I could stand out. I would sing loudly the words I knew, really loudly. " errmmmly lift ME UP AND mmrrrr man sirrrrr reJOICE!!!" I got attention that's for sure.
About the third day there we were all at breakfast when the Leader of the camp came in. This was HUGE! It was like a visit from Joseph Smith himself! We had all heard about this man, but no one had seen him. He was dressed in worn jeans and a purple camp t-shirt. Totally legit. He told us that we had been sent, each one of us to do good in this world and it starts today. He needed 25 kids to go out back behind the barn and help move some earth that was sliding into the creek and poisoning all the little fishies and crawdads. My hand shot up like it was show-and-tell Friday. SO far this camp sucks, but it all changes now....
25 of us, 4 camp counselors and the Leader walked behind the barn listening to how we are the very best youth there is. We are the future leaders of America. We make God PROUD! I was beaming like the hand of God had touched me directly and not inappropriately.
I made a vow that if someone shoveled fast, I would shovel faster. When people took breaks, I wouldn't. I would be there flinging what needed to be flung into wheel-barrels while others looked on admiring my strength and tenacity. This happened, oh yes it did. I shoveled for 4 straight hours. That evening I had to go to the nurse because I had so many blisters on my hands that my 15 year old camp counselor was grossed out by the thought of me touching anything in our room. My muscles hurt so bad I couldn't ride the next day on the Holy Trial Ride. I just layed there thinking that I made them proud, I stood out! They would remember me. I might even get my name on a plaque for how hard I worked. It was worth it not being able to get off the toilet without using the handicapped arm rails because I was the favorite!
I knew at the time that we were shoveling the manure and shavings from the barn away from the creek, not "earth" as it had been presented. And I knew that some of the kids left that afternoon because of asthma attacks because of the ammonia, but I didn't care. It wasn't until I received an award for being an outstanding student in god's light and the closing ceremony that my dad put it into perspective for me. Him and my mom were so proud of me for the special award so I told them what I had done to get it. I left out no detail including the number of blisters that had formed and been lanced. Tell me how much you love me and the best daughter on the planet, parental units!
"So you got an award for shoveling shit and horse piss for 4 hours so they wouldn't get fined for contaminating a running water source?" Well...when you put it that way, it sounds far less glamorous...I still want my plaque.
Looking back, it's amazing I wasn't at the top of my 8 year old social circle. I had a wicked cool perm complete with bangin' bangs, buck teeth and smelled like horse sweat and leather. Every Friday my class would have show-and-tell and everyone would groan when I would shoot up my hand lightning fast to go first. Usually I would talk about my horse or something my horse did or perhaps even something my horse didn't do but I couldn't think of anything cool that had happened that week so I just made shit up about the horse. Very occasionally I would veer away from the equestrian chat but likely would return the following Friday to recant my standing on a saddle riding in a circle while New Kids on the Block Played in the background of my stable on a tape player plugged in next to an RC cola machine. (this really did happen and was as awesome as it sound, but no one believed me!)
There was one time though that I lugged 3 garbage bags full of Care Bears the half mile to school and pulled each one out and spouted off their names and respective Care Bear power when it was my turn. I still can't believe my teacher let me do that. I am pretty sure the only reason he did allow my fodder is because I knew he was boning the music teacher, even though I really didn't what boning was until 4th grade and even then I definitely had some serious inaccuracies.
Anywho, horses.
When my mom sold my horse, there was this giant super duper sized hole missing from my heart and my Fridays were filled with other kids telling lame story's that did not include horses. Her and my dad thought that as the school year came to an end, maybe I could attend a summer camp to get my mind off of my loss.
Surprisingly in the late '80's there weren't very many summer camps that weren't for fat kids or delinquents so I ended up attending a church camp. A HORSE church camp. I didn't give two shits that my mom had to buy a bible to send with me at a garage sale (she wouldn't let me take the 15lbs gold embossed King James edition under our coffee table) and I didn't care that I was going to spend 3 hours every evening in prayer, worship and reflection. There were going to be horses, damn it!
I showed up that day with my hopes high. I my mind, it was going to be like an episode of "Hey Dude". I would make friends with the ranch hands, sneak out late at night to go ghost hunting on the ridge and teach all the lesser camper the finer techniques of riding bareback and being generally awesome at everything horse related.
That all screeched to a halt when they put a helmet on my head...
"No no no...I can understand your confusion, but my mom checked "advanced" on my application. I don't need a helmet, I have a well worn cowboy hat that I intend to wear over my bad perm." You see, in my world, you only wore a helmet if you were a beginner or mentally handicapped being trotted around the circle for therapy.
The sweet Christian lady just smiled and welcomed me to the safe way to ride where everyone feels included and no one feels like they are behind. Now god bless and if you want to put money on your commissary account you may do so right over there..." I vowed to straighten it out later with the ranch hands where I would throw some advanced lingo out there like "does this horse prefer a Martingale bridle?" and they would be so awed that an 8 year old knew so much they would let me pick the prettiest and fast horse and let me leave my helmet for one of the Downs' kids in the following week.
We walked over to the commissary and my mom wrote a check for $20.00 to put on my account. (prison much?) The 15 year old behind the swinging half door showed me all the Red Vines and Sour Patch Kids and as I drooled in anticipation of stuffing my face full of Caramellos he informed my mom that she would probably have a balance returned since the kids could only buy 1 candy item per day. What the bloody hell?!? How am I supposed to make friends if I can't bribe them with treats to come up on my top bunk and braid my hair? Ugh...
I tried to stand out as much as possible. I wore my jeans OVER my boots so I didn't look like a (I need an 8 year old word for nOob), I tried to make conversation with the counselors. Nothing I did got me out of that helmet and into the horses and Caramellows. There were no ranch hands to shmooze. In fact it wasn't even a ranch. It was a dorm with a stable! Every night we trompted through the woods with our bibles and sat ob bleachers around a campfire and talked about the lord, and all lordly things. I couldn't really add too much here since I was kind of a heathen but then we would sing! This is where I knew I could stand out. I would sing loudly the words I knew, really loudly. " errmmmly lift ME UP AND mmrrrr man sirrrrr reJOICE!!!" I got attention that's for sure.
About the third day there we were all at breakfast when the Leader of the camp came in. This was HUGE! It was like a visit from Joseph Smith himself! We had all heard about this man, but no one had seen him. He was dressed in worn jeans and a purple camp t-shirt. Totally legit. He told us that we had been sent, each one of us to do good in this world and it starts today. He needed 25 kids to go out back behind the barn and help move some earth that was sliding into the creek and poisoning all the little fishies and crawdads. My hand shot up like it was show-and-tell Friday. SO far this camp sucks, but it all changes now....
25 of us, 4 camp counselors and the Leader walked behind the barn listening to how we are the very best youth there is. We are the future leaders of America. We make God PROUD! I was beaming like the hand of God had touched me directly and not inappropriately.
I made a vow that if someone shoveled fast, I would shovel faster. When people took breaks, I wouldn't. I would be there flinging what needed to be flung into wheel-barrels while others looked on admiring my strength and tenacity. This happened, oh yes it did. I shoveled for 4 straight hours. That evening I had to go to the nurse because I had so many blisters on my hands that my 15 year old camp counselor was grossed out by the thought of me touching anything in our room. My muscles hurt so bad I couldn't ride the next day on the Holy Trial Ride. I just layed there thinking that I made them proud, I stood out! They would remember me. I might even get my name on a plaque for how hard I worked. It was worth it not being able to get off the toilet without using the handicapped arm rails because I was the favorite!
I knew at the time that we were shoveling the manure and shavings from the barn away from the creek, not "earth" as it had been presented. And I knew that some of the kids left that afternoon because of asthma attacks because of the ammonia, but I didn't care. It wasn't until I received an award for being an outstanding student in god's light and the closing ceremony that my dad put it into perspective for me. Him and my mom were so proud of me for the special award so I told them what I had done to get it. I left out no detail including the number of blisters that had formed and been lanced. Tell me how much you love me and the best daughter on the planet, parental units!
"So you got an award for shoveling shit and horse piss for 4 hours so they wouldn't get fined for contaminating a running water source?" Well...when you put it that way, it sounds far less glamorous...I still want my plaque.
Friday, September 23, 2011
This sicky ickies....
I'm a mom, so when my kids get sick I kick into maternal awesomeness and buy orange juice, vitamin C drops, cough medicine, comfort food and make sure that the kiddos have blankets, snuggies and favorite toys.
I'm a "wife", so when he gets sick I get him vitamin C drops, cough medicine, cook him his favorite comfort food and make sure he has his favorite toys and video games on hand. I stroke his head and force feed him Nyquil at 5pm.
I never get sick. But now I'm sick....and so is oyfriendbay..... My nose is running green snot, my head feels like it might be on fire and explode in a snotty mess at the same time and I can't take a breath without wheezing like an 80 year old prostitute.
Where we are usually lovey-dovey-awesome-gooshy, we are now staring daggers at each other for not going to the grocery store and comparing who's snot is grosser. Mine totally was.
Hemmingway said: In modern war... you will die like a dog for no good reason.
I say: In modern cold season...you will die like a dog if you don't turn the TV back to Grey's Anatomy and give me the fucking kleenex.
le achoooo!
I'm a "wife", so when he gets sick I get him vitamin C drops, cough medicine, cook him his favorite comfort food and make sure he has his favorite toys and video games on hand. I stroke his head and force feed him Nyquil at 5pm.
I never get sick. But now I'm sick....and so is oyfriendbay..... My nose is running green snot, my head feels like it might be on fire and explode in a snotty mess at the same time and I can't take a breath without wheezing like an 80 year old prostitute.
Where we are usually lovey-dovey-awesome-gooshy, we are now staring daggers at each other for not going to the grocery store and comparing who's snot is grosser. Mine totally was.
Hemmingway said: In modern war... you will die like a dog for no good reason.
I say: In modern cold season...you will die like a dog if you don't turn the TV back to Grey's Anatomy and give me the fucking kleenex.
le achoooo!
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