Tuesday, December 29, 2009


Last night, I bought “Super Mario Bros.” for my Nintendo DS. I really don’t play with it all that much, because frankly, I don’t have a lot of time and I hate most of the games out there. I grew up with simple video games like Pac-Man and Donkey Kong. If I have to press more than one button in order to make my video character do whatever it is that video characters do, it’s too complicated for me. I think all day for a living – when I spend time doing recreational activites, I want to shut my brain off for a while.

“Super Mario Bros.” seemed like the perfect choice. There’s not a lot of buttons to deal with and plus, everyone loves Mario, right? I took Daughter with me to the video game store, and I made the purchase.

A little time later, we are taking turns on my DS being Mario. Whenever one of us lost our turn, it was the other person’s opportunity to play. We were having a blast. Then we remembered we could sync up our DS’s (she has one too) and we could play Mario as a two-person game. Great idea!

Since we couldn’t find the original instructions that came with the DS (who keeps that shit anyway?), I went to the computer to look up the directions on how to sync our DS’s. On the way up the stairs to our computer room, Daughter says to me, “We’re like peanut butter and jelly.” I ask her what did she mean? “It means we’re like best friends.”

HOW CUTE WAS THAT? We’re like peanut butter and jelly. Nevermind that she doesn’t even like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The analogy couldn’t be more fitting.

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Too Many Apologies

I feel the need to apologize to all of you, my dear readers.  I have been paying as much attention to writing in my blog as I have to becoming a vegetarian (which, in case you didn't get it, is ZERO.  I am a bona fide MEAT EATER.)

Despite not having a job at the moment, I have been extremely busy.  Go figure, right?  Christmas shopping, wrapping presents, baking cookies and being lazy (such as sleeping in late and taking long naps) has been monopolizing all of my time. 

Please don't give up on me.  I promise to write something hilarious and thought-provoking sometime soon.  Hang in there and bear with me.

Saturday, December 05, 2009

The Irritation Continues...

I went for an interview today with the Michigan National Guard for their Judge Advocate General (JAG) Corps.  I had to drive about 100 miles to get there (one way).  Once I got there, I was supposed to see Captain America (not his real name, obvs...but I must protect the innocent).  I ask for Captain America and once I introduce myself and tell him we had a 10:00 a.m. appointment, his all-American face is oh-so-very puzzled.  Like my name and the fact that we have an appointment doesn't ring a bell kind of puzzled.

Oh, I see we are starting off on the right foot, aren't we?

It gets better.  He acts like he had NO FUCKING IDEA I was supposed to be there.  I do the polite thing and tell him that if this is a bad time, I can come back (and trust me, if he had told me to come back there was NO WAY IN HELL I was coming back, considering it took me nearly 2 hours to find the place).  I even resorted to showing him the confirmation email I received regarding our appointment.  It's December 5th isn't it?  So we do the interview.

Going into the interview, I was under the impression (from the recruiter) that the JAG Corps was in desperate need of lawyers.  Speaking to Captain America -- who told me there are only 17 lawyers in the whole state, and only 2 of them are on "active" duty -- that despite there being buttloads of work to do, he really only needed lawyers who were experienced in litigation. 

I have no litigation experience.

I also found out that "for sure", because, after all, Captain America doesn't want to "bullshit" me -- that if I were to join the JAG...I'd be deployed "overseas" (read:  The Middle East) immediately after training, and that deployment would last one year.

FUCK THAT PEOPLE.  I didn't like those odds.

So I pretty much bid Captain America adieu and went on my merry way back home.  Only to be grilled by Husband for nearly an hour about how I should still consider joining.  I FLAT OUT told him that there was no way -- hear me? -- NO FUCKING WAY I was joining when there would be a 100% chance that I would have to leave my daughter for one year.  Nevermind the 6 months of training when I would be away.  Want to know what his response was?  Go ahead.  Ask me.  Please....

He said that I would be given leaves and that I would still see her. 

That's when I had to crush his hopes of being married to a JAG Officer once and for all.  FLAT OUT.  And please don't get me wrong.  I admire the men and women who serve this country with all my heart and soul.  I'm just too old and too set in the ways of being with my kid where I want to sacrifice any more time away from her (the four years I spent in law school were enough time away).

Oh, and the best part of the interview?  Captain America asked me if I had considered joining one of their other units -- specifically, the Human Resources branch.  He mentioned this because all of my pre-law school work experience was in Human Resources.  I told him, no, I was pretty much focused on legal positions, I mean, considering the schooling and the student loan and the fucking 2 years I spent trying to pass the goddamm Bar exam. 

Seriously?  WHAT THEE FUCK CAPTAIN AMERICA?  You can't be serious?  Dude, I look forward not backward.  If I had loved HR that much, I would have stayed there instead of investing 7 years of my life and $100k into a legal career. 

Tuesday, December 01, 2009

Thoughts in My Head

Lately, I haven't had any "big" topics to write about, but I've thought of a bunch of little things I need to write about.

1)  I've decided that I think Adam Lambert is one sexy mo' fo'.  I've never wanted to be a gay man more in my life than I have over this past week.  I love love LOVE his new song, "For Your Entertainment" and I think he's hot stuff in the video.  Love the guyliner, love the hair, love everything.  This is just one more thing that proves I'm a gay man trapped in a heterosexual woman's body.  And I don't give two shits that he kissed a guy on stage at the AMAs or that he simulated oral sex.  Honestly, who gives a fuck?  I've taught daughter about gay people in simple terms (sometimes boys want to marry boys and girls want to marry girls...'nuff said.)  I don't think I'm gonna "turn" her gay by explaining what it means.

2)  I am so pissed at Farmville -- some of the things that are available to buy to decorate your farm with you have to pay with "farmbucks".  Only there seems to be no other way to accumulate these "farmbucks" other than to purchase them with real money.  And fuck that, Farmville.  Keep your Mystery Boxes and your black ducks.  Even though I want one I will not be spending any money on you.

3)  I've started snoring as of late (meaning the past few months) and I've been kicked out of my bedroom.  I now sleep either on the sofa in our living room or in Daughter's room (she sleeps in my bed with Husband).  At first I was all fired up about it, but now I kind of like it because I get her whole bed to myself (she has a Queen).  It ain't half bad because she even has a TV with cable in her room, so I feel like I'm back living with my parents again.  Except without the dysfunction.

4)  When did Pandora radio start playing commercials?  I have been away for a while, but tonight, when I was here in my home office putzing around, I have it on and I'm all WTF?  I don't appreciate commercials AT ALL.  And speaking of Pandora, when did my "George Michael Radio" turn into Beatles Hour?  I've heard "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" and "Come Together" one right after the other.  Don't get me wrong, I appreciate me some Beatles, but seriously?  It's called "George Michael Radio" for a reason.  Play some fucking GM or I am going to get my feathers all in a ruffle.

5)  OMG Pandora is now playing the second Elton John song...I've realized that Pandora must be intepreting "George Michael Radio" to mean "Gay Male Performer Radio" which is fine by me considering my #1 above, but seriously...PLAY SOME GODDAMM GEORGE MICHAEL ALREADY and stop fucking with me, Pandora!  (And speaking of Elton John, I love me some Elton, too.  My mom once took me to one of his concerts when I was 3 years old, and I still remember him wearing his crazy outfits back then.  Like that one over there to the left.)

6)    I got my letter from Unemployment today and hopefully the cash should start rolling in any time now.  Of course, it's a fraction of the money I was making when I was employed, but I am not going to complain.  Being unemployed has got me thinking of starting my own practice.  I've been mulling it around for the past couple of weeks.  I'll keep you posted on my progress.

7)  Husband has rearranged my home office and I can't stand it.  There was once a futon in here and he's moved that out and replaced it with bookcases.  Now there's only one chair in here which is fine if you're the one person in here, but forget about two people being in here because there's no where to sit.  He's also rearranged just about everything else including taking my pictures off the walls.  I can't tell you how much his touching my shit annoys the fuck out of me.  I find it beyond irritating.

8) I think I'm going to try and put up my Christmas tree either tomorrow or Friday.  I meant to do it on Monday but we had a death in our family.  One of Husband's aunt's passed away last Friday and so I've been involved in visitation and funeral activities. 

9)  Still no George Michael on my Pandora.  Who can I write a strongly worded letter to?

10)  I can't think of a 10th thing...so I'm outta here bitches!  :)

Friday, November 27, 2009

Thanksgiving and Birthday Wishes

My good friend IRL (that's "In Real Life" for all you not in the know) Kim, from A Perfectly Cursed Life has given me an award, y'all! It's the award she started last year in honor of the Thanksgiving season, and it's the "Thanks for Blogging" Award. Ain't she sweet for including me? Yeah, I thought so.  And, unfortunately, I can't get to her blog because I keep getting an error (over and over) so please forgive me for not posting the award itself.  In receiving the award, I'm supposed to thank some of my fellow bloggers for blogging...so here goes:

Like Kim, I have to thank LiLu at Live It, Love It for blogging.  Her blog has make me laugh out loud on many an occassion, and I'd really be lost without her.  She makes me want to go to Washington, DC and start stalking her and make her be friends with me.  When I say "stalking", I mean it in the most harmless way possible.

I would laso like to to thank Lisa from Lemon Gloria.  She is also someone who makes me laugh out loud on a regular basis, and I also get to relive those days from when I was a new mommy through her blog.  Not that I necessarily want to relive those days, but it's a nice reminder sometimes.

Thank you also goes out to Sass at Hot Piece of Sass.  She's hilarious and another blogger who makes me LOL.  I find myself wishing she'd just spend all of her time blogging because I love reading her blog that much.

I want to thank mysterg, at Meditations in an Emergency even though w may not always see eye-to-eye.  No matter what, he's still a good read.

And lastly, I want to thank my two favorite thought-provokers.  Is that a word?  It is now, y'all.  First, there's Tennyson at andy warhol goes shopping and then Dr. Jay at Yoga for Cynics.  Both of these blogs give me cause to think quite often, even though their writing styles are both very different.  I like reading their blogs because I like to take the old noodle out for a spin once in a while, and can't spend ALL my time laughing a baby poop and adult fart jokes.  Although, trust me, that is quite an excellent way to spend my time, in my humble opinion...


Getting this award got me thinking about my Thanksgiving topic this year. I have been mulling it around in my head for the past week or so.  Funny enough, this year, Daughter's birthday feel on Thanksgiving, and she's the one thing in this world I am most thankful for.  (Sorry for the late post!) 

If you care to read last years' birthday post about the day Daughter came into this world, click here.  Otherwise, just read about all the reasons I'm so thankful for her.

I'm thankful she is healthy.
I'm thankful that I got to be her mother.
I'm thankful that when I'm having a shitty day and she knows about it, she offers hugs and kisses.
I'm thankful she has a wicked sense of humor and fully understands the meaning of sarcasm.
I'm thankful that I have someone to share fart jokes with -- and who will laugh harder than me at them.
I'm thankful she still has her childhood innocence intact and hasn't been jaded by the world yet.
I'm thankful she still believes in Santa Claus.
And the Tooth Fairy.
I'm thankful that she doesn't care about money, and only cares about love.
I'm thankful she speaks her mind and doesn't censor herself yet.
I'm thankful she is sensitive and kind to others.

Happy 7th Birthday (yesterday) to my baby girl.  She's the one light in my life that keeps me grounded and sane.  xoxoxo

Monday, November 23, 2009

Soon To Be Living Life On The Dole

Goddammit. I noticed that my last blog post was on November 13, and now, 10 days later, I haven’t posted. Well, technically, this is a post, but you must realize that I had the thought about not posting before I posted.

If you’re still with me after that doozie of a sentence, I am writing to say that I haven’t written because I haven’t felt all that inspired to do so. A lot has changed in the last 10 days, and so the perpetual black cloud that seems to hide behind every corner is back, ready to take a nice, steaming shit all over my mood. To catch you up –

Riding the high of passing the Bar exam sure didn’t last very long. I found out last Monday that I am once again, losing my job. My last day at this job is November 23. MERRY CHRISTMAS! Welcome to Unemployment!

Husband says I should write a thank you note to my current boss, telling her how much I enjoyed working here and whatever happy horseshit I can work into the letter. You know--make it a proper ass-kissing letter. The mood I am in today – here’s how the letter would go:

Dear Boss:

Thank you so much for providing me the opportunity to get my hopes up into thinking that this company could be a place where I could set some roots. You have no idea how much I appreciate knowing that despite the fact that you acted like you wanted to mentor me, saying you wanted to be “like a mentor” apparently means that you were going to shit-can me as soon as possible. 
Thank you also for releasing me from this position just in time for me to “celebrate” the holiday season with my family. I am so glad I am not going to have any money for Christmas presents this year – thankfully, my daughter will think Santa Claus is the asshole for the sparse appearance of Christmas presents and not me (I truly thank you for that!).

I also would like to thank you for all of the constructive criticism you provided me while working here. Since I am leaving, I am going to probably forget everything you said since I will have no where to apply my new knowledge – so basically, you wasted your time (and mine!)

Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to drive 100 miles round trip everyday to a job. I really loved getting to know the City of Livonia and its neighboring cities of Plymouth and Northville. Oh, and nevermind all of the miles I put on my leased vehicle, all of the money I spent on gas, and getting rear-ended a few weeks ago.  Those were bonuses!

Thank you for allowing me to sit on my ass at home while I collect unemployment through the winter (no snowy rush hour drives)!  I know the unemployment checks will be nowhere near what I was making at this job, but at least I will be getting paid for doing nothing – except sleeping in and watching talk shows (especially The Maury Show with its paternity and lie detector tests--WHOOPIE)!  I see that my dedication has been richly rewarded. Just goes to show me that persistence, hard work and dedication ultimately pays off!

Oh one last thing -- here's a big FUCK YOU.  I'm running over to the supply closet right after I type this so I can steal as many highlighters, pens and pencils as my purse will hold.  Tomorrow, I'm bringing a bigger purse.

With Warm Regards,

Friday, November 13, 2009

That Fucking Fucker Should Go Fuck Himself

A reader of mine, Tennyson ee Hemingway, at andy warhol goes shopping, recently wrote a post about swear words. His post got me thinking about my own love affair with swear words and has inspired my very own post.

In my mind, I have different levels of swear words, similar to the varying rings of Hell in Dante’s “Inferno”. At the bottom of the pit, would be those words that are the worst. “Cunt” falls into this category. I rarely use this word. Not that I don’t enjoy using it, don’t get me wrong. And I particularly love using it in the quote I stole from an episode of “The Sopranos” where Pauly is telling Christopher to stop acting so “cunty” – which is funny all in itself considering Christopher is a man. I really don’t use it all that much, unless I’m really trying to make a point – or trying to describe my loathing of a particular person or thing.

Next, we have those words that I think should only be used in the bedroom. You can probably guess what these are – “pussy”, “dick” and “cock”. I am not comfortable using these words outside of the bedroom – and am really not all the comfortable using them IN the bedroom, to be honest with all of you. I rarely talk in the bedroom at all, much to Husband’s chagrin. The reason why I'm not a "talker" is because I’m concentrating too hard on what I’m doing, and really don’t feel like sex is a conversational activity. But I digress here (is this TMI?)….and I guess I have used the word “dickbag” in the outside-the-bedroom world, but that’s very close to “douchebag” and I don’t consider it a “swear word”. I mean using the word “dick” to describe the penis. Not as an insult. There is an exception to this rule: I have often used the phrase “I was left with my dick in my hand” or the variation, “I hope he/she doesn’t leave me with my dick in my hand” used to describe those instances where someone has or is going to fuck me over. In that phrase, I am comfortable using “dick”.

After this second ring of Swearing, comes the following tier – where the word “fuck” sits all by its lonesome. This word deserves a tier all on its own, because frankly, there is no other swear word like it. It can be used to describe a noun-person (fucker), an verb-activity (fucking), or an adverb-description (the fucking fucker). Fuck is my very favorite swear word because of it’s versatility. I would probably also put “motherfucker” on this tier. I love using that form of “fuck” – because it goes from ultimate harshness in “motherfucker!” to something funny when said as “muthafuckaaaaa!”

Next tier is saved for “shit” and “piss”. Funny that both words are used to describe bodily functions. “Shit” is relatively versatile, but not as versatile as “fuck” so that’s why it is on this next tier. “Shit” also comes a close second to fuck in my usage – although it doesn’t have quite the same sting as “fuck” does. As an example, I wouldn’t be embarrassed to say “shit” in front of old Christian ladies, but I’d probably be a little blushed to say “fuck” in front of them. Of course, it depends on the context. Saying, “I gotta take a shit” is the most embarrassing form of this word – one that I’d never say to a group of Christian ladies (or any other person on the face of the Earth) anyway.

The final tier is saved for those swear words that seem to be OK to say on American television. Those are “ass” and “hell”. Neither is very brutal in the forms in which you can use it, except maybe “asshole”, which I would sandwich into the tiers between this one and the one above it. Like one of my friends said – when you are going from “ass” to “asshole” you’re moving from “something fleshy and soft to something smelly and rank.” Well said.

Of course, there are many more words not included in my tier system. “Twat” is one of those words. I find it just so vile that I want to pretend it doesn’t exist. I once heard my mother use “twat” in a sentence, and I have forever been scarred for life. Best part is that it happened only a couple of years ago. You can imagine my horror.

So what are you favorite swear words?

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Black Clouds Over a Kiwi Green SUV

It happened again.

I’ve been involved in another car accident. You may remember last summer’s accident and if not, go ahead and click the link.

And once again, it was not my fault.

I’m beginning to think my cute, kiwi green Mercury Mariner SUV is cursed. Or at least carries a black cloud over its awesome little sunroof. Why, do I think this? Well, here’s a list of the work its had done on it since I leased it 2 ½ years ago:

About 2 months after the start of the lease, I totally caved in the passenger side when I cut too close on a brick retaining wall in a parking lot. Yeah, it was a total blonde moment, and I’m not proud of it. It was in the body shop for a week.

I have a starburst chip on the windshield from a rock that flew up and hit it, about 4 months after leasing it.

Last summer’s accident. It was in the body shop for two weeks and needed an entirely new hood, front bumper and grill. The radiator needed to be replaced.

Yesterday’s accident. I was rear-ended on the freeway. Luckily, as you can see, the damage isn’t bad and no one was hurt. It was more inconvenient than anything else, but I know it’s going to need a new rear bumper. And this morning, I noticed the hatch in the back was dented a bit, so I’m hoping that can just be puffed back out (yes, that’s a technical term).

I suppose I should consider myself lucky. The accident occurred when a woman, driving her SUV wasn’t paying attention and nailed the girl driving in her BRAND NEW Ford Escape SUV, who then in turn, hit me. The girl behind me – her car is FUCKED. She has front-end AND rear-end damage, and I’m pretty sure it was her radiator that was pouring out onto the freeway while we waited for the police to arrive. So, yeah. I could have been in her shoes. I felt bad for her. And thank goodness she didn’t hit me hard enough for me to be launched into the car in front of me, otherwise, I would have been sandwiched too.

I can’t WAIT for this lease to end (May). Then maybe the black cloud will go away!

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Do You Promise To Love And Cherish Each Other As Long As You Both Shall Live?

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
1 Corinthians 13:4

Falling in Love is a funny thing, don’t you think? Today is my wedding anniversary, so I am going to do a little reminiscing. Fasten your seat belts! Here we go…

When we were young, love was a white-hot fever. It was something that made me feel like I would explode. Being in love felt like a fierce, maddening passion that would never subside. Sex was urgent and explosive. We couldn’t keep our hands off of each other.

As I grew older, the passion evolved into something different. It wasn’t as white-hot anymore, but it felt stronger, more like the cement hardening on the foundation of a building. My feelings changed, too. Where urgency once lived, comfort found a home.

As time wears on, the history of my relationship continues. Memories serve as reminders of what the past looked like, and gives me hope on what the future will hold. Like a book, the pages are continuously written each day. Pages turning, turning, turning.

Good memories, sad memories, bad memories, happy memories.

My wedding. Husband wiping the tear from my face during our wedding vows. You couldn’t wipe the grins from our faces after it was announced we were married. We were so happy to finally be able to call each other Husband and Wife and begin the next chapter in our lives.

My miscarriage. Husband holding me in our bed the night the miscarriage began. Holding me as I cried, the physical and emotional pain overtaking me. Physical pain subsidizing with a few Vicodin. Trying to take away Emotional Pain by Husband getting me to watch “Caddyshack” so we could laugh. Laughter is the best medicine. Laughter heals everything.

Divorce discussions. 2007 was a very bad year. Not a lot of laughs. But still a compelling chapter in the book.

The birth of my daughter. Waiting for her to take her first breath while I held mine. Waiting to hear the hearty cry of a newborn baby. Husband bitching out the anesthesiologist after he spent a half an hour trying to insert the epidural. I try to remain still even though I’m hunched over my pregnant belly, the contractions are fierce. I am trying to breathe and make the physical pain go away. Chuckling to myself because Husband is losing his shit. He is scared and doesn’t know how to make me feel better. “Caddyshack” is not available at that moment.  But he stills tries to make me laugh, even though during the contractions, all I want to do is punch him in the face.

The fabric of our marriage.  The laughter.  The tears.

We met when I was 17 and he was 18. We were just kids. Twenty-one years later, we are still together. Still together riding the roller-coaster of life. Two kids growing into adults together. We are married. We are homeowners. We are parents. We are partners.  We are friends.  We are enemies (sometimes).  We are "we".

Most of our friends are divorced. Some are divorced and remarried. Some are still single. So far, we have made it through the war. Marriage is not easy. Getting married is very easy. Staying married is not. Every day takes work. Marriage is not something you can coast through on cruise control. Some days you need to press the accelerator, and some days you need to press the brake. But every day you need to start the ignition and make sure there is gas in the tank.  And hopefully along the way, you can smile through it all.

We recently went to a Halloween party. The party was hosted by a couple whose children went to the same daycare center Daughter attended. The daycare center was partially subsidized by Ford Motor Company as an employee benefit. Daughter went there because Husband is a Ford employee. The couple whose house the party was at are both Ford employees. I was friends with the wife, mostly because our children were in the same classroom through much of the first 4 years of their lives. She now works at the same Ford plant as Husband (she is an engineer). They have become friends now. She has shared with Husband how unhappy she is in her marriage. Both Husband and I were at her Halloween party. She told Husband that she watched him and me together and she can really tell how “close” we are. We can still look into each other’s eyes and smile that same smile that was on our faces the day we were married. I told Husband we’re still close because we laugh together no matter where we are. Laughter heals everything.

When I look at Husband (depending on the day) I either want to kill him and bury him in the backyard, or I want to give him a great big hug. My feelings sometimes border on extreme contempt or extreme love. I think these feelings are one of the reasons we are still married. I think apathy would be the true killer of our relationship. I mean, even when I want to kill him it’s because he stirs up enough emotion in me that I’ve thought about burying him in the backyard. That’s passion, n’est pas?   Sometimes in the middle of an argument, one of us cracks a joke.  Most of the time, in any situation, one of us cracks a joke.  We're like that.  Always trying to find the "funny".  Quoting movies.  Quoting comedians.  Laughter is the best medicine.

We’ve laughed together.
We’ve cried together.
We’ve grieved a baby that never made it.
We’ve celebrated a baby that did.
We’ve fought and made up.
We’ve forgiven each other (and sometimes not).
Through all of our ups and downs, we’ve always had each other.

And I have to thank God everyday that he’s funny. Or his ass would have been buried in the backyard years ago.

Monday, November 02, 2009

You May Now Address Me as "Counselor"

My apologies for not posting anything in a while. (Life has been crazy lately.) Here’s a quick update of what’s been going down in my zoo:

1) I PASSED THE BAR EXAM! HIP, HIP, HOOORAY! I got the letter in the mail last Thursday, and have been riding the cloud for several days now. The only thing that has put a damper on things is that I wonder what I’m supposed to do next. I’ve spent so much time focused on passing the bar exam, I never looked past it in any type of meaningful way.

2) Halloween came and went. Daughter was Dorothy for Halloween, just like I had hoped. (WHEW) Gearing up for the big day took a lot of planning, running errands, and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning my house…because my parents and in-laws came to visit and see Daughter in her costume.

3) Work has been pretty busy, and as I’ve mentioned before, I usually only blog at work, so there you go. I try not to get on the computer when I’m home after work, considering how much time I spend on it during the day. It’s just a time-suck and I don’t want to take any time away from family time.

4) I’ve become an addict. I’m addicted to Farmville on Facebook. I knew I would fall prey to it if I started, which is why I’m late to the game (lots of my friends are also Farmville addicts, so I’ve been hearing about it for months now.) I finally gave in to temptation early last week and now I am a farming fool. I even have Daughter addicted to it…she enjoys running my farm and sending my friends gifts (so if you get a weird one, I’m sorry, it’s her not me).

That’s all the big news on my end and explains why I haven’t been around. Blame Farmville and work for most of it…Halloween and the passing the Bar were bonuses for you. I promise to post something worthwhile soon!

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Girls Gone Wild and The Gays

I’ve never understood the appeal of the “Girls Gone Wild” DVDs advertised on late-night television. I thought they were a bit pathetic actually – in that there’s nothing more going on in these DVDs than a bunch of young girls (usually 18-22 years old) in various stages of undress, and maybe, MAYBE you get a couple of them kissing each other. Or taking a shower, or some other bullshit like that. To me, these DVDs are not sexy at all. Who wants to watch a bunch of immature girls taking off their bras, or sitting in a tub, or rolling around on a bed? Zzzzzzz….snore…..

Fast forward to this weekend. I was flipping through the channels of our cable TV provider. I was venturing into channels I never watch…meaning those past channel 125. I was going through the menu, when I came across a show that was featuring a bunch of stand-up comedians. After watching the channel for a few minutes, I realized I stumbled across the LOGO channel. If you’ve never heard of it, I assume the target audience is the LGBT community. All of the comedians were gay, and one was a transsexual (female to male, pre-op). He was really very cute (does that make me gay?) and they were all very funny. Especially, the half-Japanese woman who referred to the “Gaysians” and did a rap that included references to her “Hello Kitty” underwear. (I find stereotypical humor hilarious.)

So right about now, you’re asking yourself how the “Girls Gone Wild” videos are related to me watching the LOGO channel? Well, it all has to do with the commercial I was bombarded with on every commercial break. It was the one for the “Guys Gone Wild” DVDs!

And guess who, for a brief moment, wanted to order them?

Yep, you guess it. ME. Why?

Because those guys were fucking hot. And who doesn’t want to watch a bunch of young, well-muscled men rolling around on a bed or doing push-ups, or flexing their muscles while taking off their shirts?  With their young faces and young bodies?  I mean, what’s wrong with that?  I couldn't decide which video I wanted to see first -- the "Beach Bums", the "Bad Boys" or the "6-Pack Abs".  Hmmmm.  Decisions, decisions.

Yeah. Call me a Hyopcrite. I deserve it. (((me blushing))))

The funniest thing about all of this wasn’t the realization that I am a gay man trapped in a woman’s body. No, I already knew that. It was that both of these DVDs are obviously marketed to men (although the “Guys Gone Wild” people should really find a way to market their DVDs to sexually frustrated women in their late 30s. They’d probably make an assload of cash. Just saying.)

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Don't Ever, Ever, Poke a Mama Bear -- She Will Fuck You Up

God, I love my kid. (That's her and me over there.)

This morning, I read a story in the news about a missing 7-year-old girl from Florida. She disappeared while walking home from school. Her body was found in a landfill this morning.

Reading the story made me really sad. I always put myself in the place of the parents when stories like this are in the news. My heart broke in two for these people – because their beautiful little girl was thrown away like she was a piece of trash.

It made me remember walking Daughter to the bus stop this morning, and the kiss she gave me before getting on the bus. Sending your child off on the bus for the first time has to be one of the worst things a parent goes through. Why, you may wonder? It’s because you’re giving control over to someone else. The fear never goes away, either. I experience it every morning when she climbs aboard the schoolbus.

I am constantly reminded that I do not completely trust anyone to keep Daughter safe. I do not trust my own mother, I do not trust Husband, I do not trust my inlaws. I do not trust ANYONE 100% with the safety of my child. Husband was personally insulted when I admitted this to him this past weekend. I don’t care if he was insulted – I worry about her every second she is out of my sight. LITERALLY. If I can’t see her, I worry about her.

No one will care about that child more than me. I cared for her from the day she was conceived. She has two arms and two legs and all her fingers and toes because of me. She is not addicted to drugs, nor did I smoke cigarettes and give her asthma problems. I grew her inside my body. We shared a BODY. I felt her move around and hiccup even before the world could see her do those things. She was my very own parasite and no one else but ME could have done this for her, therefore, no one else but ME will truly understand that even though her umbilical cord no longer is needed, in my mind, it will always be there.

I tell people that you will never truly understand what "LOVE" means until you have a child. Daughter is that one person in this world who I will love unconditionally. It is without limit and makes my heart feel like it will explode.

And don’t ever fuck with my child. I will fuck you up in a heartbeat. This reminds me once of a girl scout meeting I went to with Daughter. She was playing in a group of girls, when I overheard one of them say something like “Those glasses make you look weird.” Daughter wears glasses, but there was also another little girl in the group wearing glasses. I proceeded to go over to the group and confront the girl who said this. I asked her to repeat what she said – all she did was give me a blank stare. I had to ask her 3 times before the other glasses-wearer repeated it. I told the girl who said it that I didn’t think that was a very nice thing to say to your friends. After I said this, she ran away in tears to her mother. Did I feel bad for making a 5-year-old cry? NOPE. SHE FUCKING DESERVED IT. I am not above making a bully feel bad – even when the bully is a 5-year-old girl. ESPECIALLY if you’re inadvertently bullying MY kid.

So if you have a child – go home and give him or her a hug. If you don’t have any kids, go home and call your mom. Or dad. Or whomever was your primary caregiver, because that person loves you like I love Daughter. And if none of those people are alive anymore – take a few moments to say a prayer to the universe for parents who are grieving, for wannabe parents who are trying to conceive, and try to understand the reason why your mom didn’t want you to go to the sleepovers or why she was so terrified when you drove a car on your own for the first time. It’s not that she didn’t trust you to do the right thing – it’s because she loved you so much that she was scared to death of losing you.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

The One About the Necrophiliac (Yes, You Read That Correctly)

After yesterday’s emotional post (well, it was emotional for ME, I don’t know about you), I need to lighten shit up around here. I can’t let things get too serious, otherwise, I’ll start crying…and pretty soon, we’ll all start talking about our feelings all the time and then, my male readers will start growing vaginas, and then it will be like one big tampon commercial, where we share our emotions, give each other those knowing looks, and we’ll all hug and crap like that. I’m not what you could call “comfortable with my emotions” so let’s talk about something more superficial, shall we?

I read this article in my local newspaper online. My favorite quote from the story? “This is off-the-charts weird.” Gee, you think? No, this is fucking disgusting, appalling and more-than-weird weird. I noticed in the comments section at the end of the story, someone wrote, “OMG white people crazy” to which someone replied that he/she googled the perpetrator in this story and wrote he was a black guy (that's him to the left). HILAROUS. I love that race was an issue for two people reading this story enough that one of those two people did an IMAGE search on GOOGLE. Another commenter asked “Isn’t there another name for this besides disgisting?” Someone replied, “Yeah. Disgusting.” I FUCKING LOVE PEOPLE SOMETIMES.

I also love that they know the exact dates this guy had sex with the bodies. Did he keep a sex calendar or something? Like did he go home after having sex with these poor bodies and put a heart on the date with some xxxooo’s?

This story also got me wondering about what runs through this guy’s head the day after he does this stuff? I mean, I’ve done some shit in my life where I’ve felt guilty the next day. Could you IMAGINE? I don’t think the Walk of Shame in my clothes from the night before, or the hangover quite cover this situation though. Does he get a boner again thinking about it? Does he feel shame? Does he go to confession?

I’m also left wondering about the mechanics of the whole situation. I’m sorry people, if I’m grossing you out, BTW. But seriously…I wonder these things after reading stories like this. These poor girls are in the morgue, cold and dead. Does he hop into the refrigerated drawers with them? Are they in the missionary position? Does he cover them except for their genitals? Is he completely naked or does he just undo his pants? WHAT THE FUCK, DUDE? Thanks for making me wonder about your mental fuck-up-ed-ness.

OK, I think I’ve subjected you to enough of this. Until next time, friends…

Monday, October 19, 2009

Comfort Food is the Work of the Devil

I have been fighting the battle of the bulge all of my adult life. When I got married nearly 14 years ago, I was at one of the lowest weights of my life. Once I got married, a little bit of weight would creep onto my body…and I would try and get rid of it.

Note the word “try”.

One day, not too many years ago, I woke up and was 50 lbs. heavier than I was when I got married. Despite wanting to say, “I don’t know how it happened!”, unfortunately, I do know how it happened.

Then I got pregnant. During my pregnancy, I ate pretty healthy. Probably the most healthy eating plan I’ve ever had in my life. I didn’t want to indulge in sweets or overload on carbs. I wanted to enrich my body with a balanced diet, because, after all, I was nourishing another person inside of me.

So I gained about 45 lbs. with my pregnancy, and before returning to work after maternity leave, I had lost 55 lbs. I was actually 10 lbs. smaller than I had been when I got pregnant. Yay to me!

Over the next couple of years, I gained and lost those 10 lbs. numerous times. Up and down, up and down on the scale. The revolving door of my life.

Until, once again, a few months ago, I woke up and was 25 lbs. heavier than when I got pregnant. Yep, I know how it happened. I lost my job last summer, had lots of personal problems, and pacified myself with food. I medicated myself with sweets and carbs, because I am the type of person who can make the pain go away with food. When my stomach is full, I feel numb – and frankly, feeling numb gets two very big “thumbs up” from me because I’m the type of person who would rather run from her feelings rather than face them.

So here I am. About 75 lbs. heavier than I was when I got married. And don’t think I haven’t noticed it, either. I feel it in my inability to do any type of physical activity without feeling like my heart is going to explode. I feel it in my knees sometimes when I’m trying to climb stairs. I feel it all the time – my clothes are too tight and when I look in the mirror I see it in my midsection. It makes me very unhappy.

I was reading the book, “You Can Heal Your Life”, by Louise Hay. Ms. Hay discusses how she has her patients make an “I should…” list. If I were doing the “I should…” list with Ms. Hay, I know one of my thoughts would be, “I should lose weight.” Ms. Hay says that instead of saying “I should…” people should say, “If I really wanted to, I would…” I think about that statement a lot, because mine would read, “If I really wanted to, I would lose weight.”

This is something that is difficult for me to face, though. I have put forth effort (albeit a half-assed effort) in the past when trying to lose weight, and have given up when the pounds just didn’t melt away. I have tried every “diet” plan under the sun. You name it, I’ve tried it. And they have all ended in dismal failures, because I usually give up after a few weeks after not reaching my weight loss goal of dropping 50 lbs. in a week. (Unrealistic, yes, but I am a card-carrying member of the Instant Gratification Club.)

I bring all of this up, because today, I feel like a broken person.

My husband has witnessed all of my weight loss failures over the past years, and he’s usually supportive. Although, I do have to admit, I think because I have had too many failures, his patience is wearing thin. He is also the type of person that is more like a drill instructor rather than supportive partner, so if I ask for “help”, he will ride my ass from here to kingdom come, rather than decide not to order that pizza for dinner. He will bug me about exercising 3000 times a day rather than help me create a workout plan. In general, he will become one of the most annoying fucking people on this planet.

This weekend, the topic of my weight became the focal point of one of our conversations. You would think by now – BY NOW – he would understand this is a VERY touchy subject. And when I say “very” – I mean it’s fucking nuclear.

He tells me he’s only concerned because he doesn’t want me to die at an early age. In my book, this is fucking bullshit, because #1) he smokes cigarettes, and #2) I don’t have any weight-related health problems, except for my underactive thyroid, which I maintain with medication. And really, that’s not “weight-related” like hypertension is, or like one of those forms of diabetes is.

So we get into an argument, and the truth comes out. He yells at me that he “hates how I look.”

Well, then.

Can you image how much this hurt me? The one person in this world who I have trusted with most of my secrets – from my shitty childhood, to my depression issues, to all of my hopes and dreams – has betrayed me in the worst way possible? On November 3, 1995, he promised to love me above all others for the rest of our lives, through sickness and in health, through richer and poorer – and impliedly, through thinner and fatter. I remember making that promise. Obviously, he does not.

If my memory serves me correctly, the 25-year-old I married was probably about 70 lbs. lighter than the 39-year-old I am married to. Does his extra weight bother me? Not one bit. But apparently – my 70 lbs. bothers him. Bothers him so much, that he “hates” it.

In fairness, I didn’t ask him for clarification. I didn’t ask if the “hate” bothered him in the way that I took it. Of course I took it to mean that he is physically repulsed by me and finds me unattractive. I don’t want any clarification. Actually, at this point, I don’t want anything from him. I am so hurt, feel so betrayed – I can’t even look at him. Since he said those words to me yesterday, I have only spoken to him when absolutely necessary. As far as I am concerned, I don’t ever want to speak to him again.

If he thinks this “tough love” is going to drive me into a gym for 4 hours a day, he obviously doesn’t know me. All this does is make me want eat sugar and carbs until I feel like I want to throw up. I am like a heroin addict, needing to feed my addiction. The pain in my heart today is too much to deal with – so bring on the numb.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Nice Guys Finish Last....as they should (wink)

Warning – long post!

One of my friends, let’s call her Vivienne, has recently started internet dating. Vivienne is a good soul. She’s 39, divorced, has 2 daughters, and a steady job. She is pretty, and funny and likes sports. I think she’s a catch for any decent guy. Yeah, she’s a little crazy (frankly, aren’t we all) but as long as she takes her meds like she is supposed to, she’s fine. And look, I’m in a glass house, so I don’t dare throw any stones. I just encourage her to take her meds and find a nice guy.  One who won't beat the shit out of her and call her a "cunt", and one who makes her feel like she's worthless (she has had men in her life who have done all of those things).  No, definitely not one of those guys.  Actually, the direct opposite would be a great start.

Nice Guys are a problem for Vivienne, though. She is attracted to “Bad Boys”. "Who isn't?" is my usual response to that one -- but Bad Boys are not guys you get married to. Bad Boys are not guys you take home to meet your mom. Bad Boys are the guys you fuck in your car in a crowded parking lot, and the ones you let do things to you in a movie theatre; they’re the ones who command you give your panties to them over dinner at a restaurant, and the ones who you give blow jobs to while they’re driving. They’re the boy that you do all the things with that you never thought you’d do with anyone, but there you are, doing them – all because he’s a Bad Boys and your Inner Slut comes out to play with Bad Boys. Bad Boys never ask permission.

Nice guys are different than Bad Boys, though, we all know this. Nice Guys are the ones with the respectable jobs, who make decent money, who treat you like a lady when you’re in public by opening doors for you and letting you order your dinner first. You're excited to introduce your Nice Guy to your family, because your dad/mom/grandma is going to love him. Nice Guys are the ones who ask you if it’s OK to kiss you goodnight, and the ones who, if you eventually marry, will make sure you save money and have a retirement account and will buy you a nice house and give you some nice children and all of your family photos will be so nice. Nice Guys will make sweet, slow love to you and always make sure they’re not hurting you. If you marry a Nice Guy, everyone you know will tell you how “lucky” you are.

Personally, I once had a choice between a Bad Boy and Nice Guy. I was in college, dating Husband. One semester, I ran smack dab into the middle of Bad Boy and he was like a magnet, drawing me to him. We became friendly (after some brilliant maneuvering on my part). We became a little more than friendly, and that’s when my guilt set it. Here on one hand, I had this Bad Boy who was fucking gorgeous, made my heart leap out of my chest and thrilled me to death. He also promised me nothing, never called when he said he would, and was rather undependable. On the other hand, I had my Nice Guy. Nice Guy swore he would love me to the ends of the Earth, wanted to marry me and live out the rest of his life with me. He wanted me to have his children and wanted to grow old with me. My choice was to break with Nice Guy and throw away all of the lovely promises to have hot-monkey-sex with the Bad Boy.

Where’s the dilemma, right?

This is where we return to Vivienne’s story.

A couple of weeks ago, she met someone named Greg. Greg and Vivienne exchanged cell numbers and started texting each other one night. They exchanged pictures and chatted. Greg was at a bar with some friends watching baseball or football, or whatever sports game was important at the time.

Through the course of the evening, the text messages from Greg got more aggressive and sexual in nature. Let me remind you, Greg and Vivienne haven’t even met yet. They had planned to have lunch the following day at a local restaurant. As the evening wore on, Greg’s text messages started asking if he could come over Vivienne’s: Please? We can just cuddle? No sex, I promise? I just want to see you and feel you. Vivienne, please? I want a relationship, just like you and when I am into someone I’m all over them. Please let me come over. You’re so fucking hot I just want to see you….

Can you see where this is going?

Ah, don’t worry. Vivienne isn’t THAT crazy. She told him no, that she was looking forward to their lunch and then they could see what happens next. And secretly, on the inside, Vivienne was giddy with these texts. Point is, Vivienne loves sexually aggressive men. She loves dirty talk. She loves to be under a man's command. She's your classic submissive.

You’d think that the forcefulness of his text messages would have been a red flag, right? Or at least a yellow one? Of course not. Women make all kinds of excuses for men and their shortcomings, and Vivienne just said he must have drank too much. The fact he drank too much was obvious in the next several texts he sent her that said something about him having to sleep in his car because he was in no condition to drive himself home.

Now, in my book, this should have been red flag #2 – she had not only been drunk texted (and graphically, I might add, by someone she hadn’t even MET YET -- a deal killer FOR SURE in my book, because that is just WEIRD), he was so drunk he was going to have to sleep his buzz off in his car. If he had been 21, I would have laughed it off because only irresponsible young men do things like this. Not a 38-year-old grown man. Do they?

Yes. They do. That much is apparent.

Vivienne told me all of this and we made jokes about whether he was going to cancel lunch with her. Or whether he was going to show up in crumpled clothing, reeking of last night’s beer, cigarette breath and unshaven.

Surprisingly, he did show up to lunch. And he was clean, and smelled nice. And from Vivienne’s account, “was really nice”.

Fast forward to a couple of days ago. Vivienne invites Greg over to watch TV. One thing leads to another, and they start to make out like teenagers. I’ll spare you most of the details, but the most tantalizing ones are that Vivienne gives dear Greg a blow job, and while she’s doing it, he asks her to stick one of her fingers up his ass.

Back up. WHAT? 

I’m not shocked because he asked her to stick her finger in his ass…I’m shocked that he doesn’t even know her and he’s asking her to stick her finger in his ass. I mean, what is he going to ask for on date #2? For her to put plastic wrap on his face and her to shit on him? I mean, SERIOUSLY?

Again, in my book, red flags were waiving so hard, I swear a flag pole broke. It took me YEARS to fart in front of my husband, and here is this guy, whom Vivienne has only JUST MET IN PERSON not 2 hours ago, and he's asking for digits up the bum? I'm no prude, but that's fucking forward as all hell, far as I'm concerned. There's just some stuff you wait to ask for. Anal penetration of any sort just happens to fall in that category.

The next day, Vivienne didn’t even hear from Greg. As I mentioned in a text message to her, I think it’s only proper etiquette that if I had your dick in my mouth less than 24 hours ago, a “Good Morning” text message is quite in order. (Let this be a lesson to you guys out there.) It’s only common fucking courtesy. (I swear. Miss Manners needs to update her book for situations such as this.)  First the ass play an now the morning-after silent treatment. This man has absolutely no manners.

Anywhore, Greg does text EVENTUALLY, and I’m already getting that uneasiness I get when I figure out that someone is a complete douchebag. Trust me – I totally have this skill. I have excellent Gaydar and I can spot a douchebag from 200 meters. Swear. I know human nature.

Good thing you’re still reading because this is the part of the story where it finally takes a crazy turn.

Vivienne invites Greg over to her place again, for a little cuddling and what-not. Although she’s sworn that she’s not going to have sex with him – because we’ve both determined that first date sex has killed many potential relationships – she caves. She caves and describes to me that they had sex for about “3 minutes” before he moves into the fetal position in pain – as he has “kidneystones” and he runs out of her place like it’s on fire.

Now, I don’t know if the kidneystones are for real, and that’s not the pertinent part of this little tale. Because later on in the evening, Vivienne receives the following text message from Greg (oh, and a little backstory…Greg had told Vivienne he used to be a police officer, and is currently unemployed):

Greg: This is not going to work. I’m sorry. Leave for Iraq on Thursday. You know how important this job is to me. This really sucks for me.

Me (in my head): WHAAAAAAT?  Are you kidding me? You’re being shipped off to IRAQ? Ohhhhh, OK.

Vivienne responds: It’s ok. You don’t have to lie….(she writes some other shit but it's boring and not important to this story.)

Of course at first, Vivienne and I are dumbfounded. What happened to Greg in between the 3-minute sexfest, and the text message – that was he was so desperate to break things off with Vivienne that he had to make up a story about going to Iraq? IRAQ? You realize he MADE UP A STORY ABOUT GOING TO A WARZONE, right? A FUCKING WARZONE? THAT IRAQ.

Here are the important things we figured out:

Vivienne asked him for his last name and even spelled him back to him. He told her he was on Facebook, and when we looked for him, he wasn’t there. Obviously, he was lying either about the last name or the spelling.

That's odd, huh? How come we can't find him on Facebook?

Vivienne also told Greg that she’s been taking psychic development classes (Vivienne is convinced that she has some type of sixth sense that she is trying to develop. She told him she can usually "read" people and can figure out what type of person they are. Much more honed than my intuition I talked about earlier.) When Greg asked her what type of “vibes” was she picking up from him, she told him that the person that he shows to people isn’t the “real” him and that he uses laughter and jokes as a way to mask what is really going on inside of him.

Somebody want to yell “BINGO!” here?

Turns out, he was lying about the spelling of his last name (DUH). Vivienne googled him and he wasn’t lying about being a police officer. He used to be one, but was fired in 2007 for stealing money (about $1700) from someone he pulled over (he was convicted of larceny). Oh, and she also found out he had tried to commit suicide three times after his divorce in 2008.

I knew he was a NUTJOB.

So why this big long story? Vivienne has met another guy on the internet. His name is Ron, and he’s in his mid-40s and is the fire chief for one of the neighboring cities out here. He’s divorced and looks like you’d expect every mid-40s guy from Michigan to look – moustached, got a little bit of a gut, average-looking, but he doesn’t look like someone beat him with an ugly stick or anything. He seems NICE. Has a teenaged daughter, and is divorced. Vivienne has met him for lunch late last week, prior to the whole Greg fiasco, and her problem?

He’s too nice.

There’s no "edge". She didn’t feel like she wanted to fuck his brains out the second she met him. No immediate chemistry.

And it’s not that I don’t understand, because I do. But I’ve tried to tell her that sometimes chemistry is something that doesn’t happen in an instant, it happens over time. I have personally experienced it. The fire chief sounds like a good guy. He has a great job, he’s respectful (he’s not graphically texting her even before he’s met her) and he treats her like a woman should be treated. His flaw: he’s nice. I keep trying to convince Vivienne to give Fire Chief a chance. Because maybe he’s really a kinky sex freak in the bedroom (she’s hoping). Maybe all she has to do is TELL HIM that she prefers to the hard pounding of a hot fuck over the slow beauty of being made love to, and that she prefers dirty talk to sweet loving words.

But I know she’s not listening to me. I know she’s looking for someone like Greg again. Only minus the criminal record. She makes me want to smack her sometimes.

And take it from someone who actually chose the Nice Guy over the Bad Boy. There are days where I regret it, but they are few and far between. I have a responsible husband, one who takes his little ass to work everyday. He’s not an alcoholic, or a drug addict, and there’s no criminal record. He is polite and won’t ogle your wife/sister/cousin when he meets her because he’s not a pig (although trust me, he’ll only do it when he’s sure no one is looking). He’s dependable and is a rock in a crisis.

Last thing – he is a freak in the bedroom, sometimes more than I’d like. Although, I must admit, he’s never asked me to put my finger in his ass…but if he did, I’d do it. That’s love, baby!

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Yeast Should Only Be For Baking Bread...Not For Making Lives Miserable

I’ve been home sick for the past 4 days. It’s that time of year again…the time for me to get the first of probably 5 illnesses I’ll get this winter. Fingers crossed, I hope that swine flu is not one of them!
It started with being tired and a little run-down. And not to get too graphic here, my lady-part had a twinge/tickle in it (and not the good kind) that caused me to fear something was a-brewing down there. That was Friday.


I knew you were a sick fuck. Keep reading then. You were warned.

By Saturday, all hell had broken loose. They twinge turned into something only a stiff bottle brush could cure…that or my favorite remedy from the doctor – the little pink pill called Diflucan. Only thing--my doctor’s office doesn’t take prescription requests on weekends, so I was forced to either suffer, or go to the drugstore and plunk down $20+ on some cream that says it’s going to work in “1 day” but never does. And also be forced to lay vertical for the 15 hours following insertion, otherwise due to gravity, my $20 cream ends up outside of the places it’s meant to be, and therefore not killing the infection it’s supposed to kill.
Sunday, I end up at Urgent Care because besides my lady-parts issue, I have some other shit going on that has given me a fever of 102 degrees and body aches, and coughing, and sneezing, and runny/stuffy nose and all that good stuff.

I get prescribed some antibiotics (which is the lady-parts worst enemy in its current delicate condition, because for some reason…antibiotics cause the yeast to become overgrown and all hell breaks loose again, and therefore, all my hard work thus far would have been for naught.). I decide to get wise and ask the doctor at Urgent Care for some Diflucan because “antibiotics give me yeast infections”. I didn’t feel like admitting my current condition because she was not on a need-to-know-basis as far as I was concerned.

My diagnosis comes back – upper respiratory infection. I get my antibiotics, along with 3 other prescriptions, but notice the one for Diflucan is only for ONE PILL. WHAT THE HELL. This just isn’t going to do it. This doctor acts like its from her own personal supply, and she’s hoarding Diflucan like Elaine on Seinfeld hoarded sponges. This isn’t going to work at all. Especially since my antibiotics are for 5 days. But since it’s Sunday, I decide I will call my regular OBGYN tomorrow because he always dispenses meds with a gentle heart and a heavy hand. He’ll fix me up. I know it.

My doctor, bless his heart, gives me a prescription for 3 Diflucan pills, to be taken one every-other day. PLUS THERE’S A REFILL! See, told you he was an angel. But in my weakened condition, I’ve been taking one pill per day to keep the bottle-brush feeling from coming back. Literally. I’ve fantasized about tearing and shredding my insides with a bottle-brush – but haven’t. For obvious reasons. Like the terrorists they are, I was not going to let the yeast win in that way. I would kill it in a surprise attack of Diflucans, because its already expecting that overpriced-over-the-counter-cream-that-never-works and makes me feel like I’m walking around with blobs of Vaseline stuffed in my panties. It will never see the Diflucan coming from the OTHER end of my body! HA!

Yes, not pretty. Not pretty at all. Especially, when you’re the type of person who prides herself on having pretty lady parts at all times. You never know when you’re going to die in some horrific car accident and some emergency worker is going to see your lady parts in all its glory. At least I hope for you it IS in its glory. Because if mine is not, and if I wasn’t dead already, I know I would die all over again. I want to look at the carnage down from heaven and be proud that I practiced personal hygiene like it was a religion.

Today, I’m still a bit sick. And the twinge in my lady parts is damn near gone (yeast is a fool if it thinks I am going to get the bottle brush…because that’s what it wants! It wants me to cave and give in to the pain…ohhh, but I’m stronger than it. And so is the Diflucan).

OK, I think you’ve suffered enough hearing about my bodily functions and issues. First, last week I expose you to farting, and now this! I hope this isn’t a trend. Even though I think bathroom humor is the best form of humor. And hopefully, you do to (or at least just for today.)

Friday, October 09, 2009

Because You Know You Were Dying to Know...

(And if you weren't...well, that's too fucking bad...)

My Red Wings won last night, 3-2.  The game was very exciting, and there was even a fight. And frankly, there are not enough fights in hockey games anymore!  Who doesn't love to watch  a couple of professional athletes beat the shit out of each other?  Because I do!  Not only is it fun to watch, it's also pretty sexy.

<------From last night...that fucker from Chicago is HOLDING the chin strap of the Wings' new goon, Brad May (#20).  Dirty fighting is even sexier!  And Brad May won the fight, since the Chicago player ended up on his ass! 


Thursday, October 08, 2009

Angry Letters

Because I’ve enjoyed reading them on the blogs A Perfectly Cursed Life, and Live It, Love It, here is my version of angry letters (and you really should check out LiLu's version I linked you to above.  HILARIOUS shit right there.)  Enjoy!  (And yes...two posts in one day.  I'm bored here at work.)
Dear Mother Nature,

Can you stop being such a difficult bitch and send some sunshine my way? I’m tired of all the rain. Oh, and while you’re at it, can you possibly make the wind a little less strong? The kids at the bus stop in the mornings are going to blow away if you’re not more careful.

Thanks,  Summer’s Lover

Dear Clumsy Gene,

Thank you for spilling my lunch all over the parking lot this morning while I was leaving my car. It doesn’t matter that I also was carrying my purse and talking on my cell. You should be able to handle such things. Instead, my leftover Chinese food became breakfast for the fucking Canadian Geese that shit all over the parking lot.

Much Hatred, Not-So-Graceful

Dear Thermostat to My Office,

Whoever controls you must hate me. I freeze in the morning and have hot flashes in the afternoon. It’s not pretty. I don’t fucking appreciate that I have to dress in layers AND have a space heater and fan (which both get used on cold days). It’s ridiculous.

Sincerely, Sweating My Balls Off This Afternoon

Dear Broccoli,

I love you so much but why do you give me so much gas? My stomach is killing me today and I look like I have a balloon in my pants. Unfortunately, I've resorted to tooting in my office because if I didn't, I may have to be taken to the Hospital.  If someone comes in here and catches me, we are through.  Yes, consider that a threat.

What the Hell, Farty McFarterson

Dear Asshole in the Office Next to Me,

When you have conference call, could you just hold your handset like a normal person instead of putting your meetings on speakerphone? I can hear every boring word you say and I don’t appreciate it. At least put your mistress or gay lover on speaker next time and give me a thrill.

Warmly, Here to Gossip

Drop the Puck, Bitches!

It's that time of year again, y'all.  HOCKEY SEASON.  In honor of tonight's Home opener for my beloved Detroit Red Wings, here are a few pictures of the youngest Red Wings Fan in my house.  (These were taken quite a few years ago, since Daughter is nearly 7 years old, but she's still a BIG fan.)

Center Ice.  Tonight.  DROP THE PUCK!

Last year during the Stanley Cup Playoffs, Daughter made a "joke" by yelling, "Go, Pittsburgh!", during one of the playoff games.

You could have heard a pin drop, as she stood there with the biggest smirk on her face.

But the joke was on her.  Husband and I told her since only Red Wings fans lived at our house, she was going to have to pack her bags and go live with Nana and Papa.

To which she replied, "Go Wings!"  The Kid knows which side her bread is buttered on.

And in case you are wondering why an octopus is in the second picture, the "unofficial" mascot for the Detroit Red Wings is Al the Octopus.  During playoff games, people throw real (dead) octopi onto the ice.  Why?  Because way back when there were only 6 teams in the whole hockey league, it only took 8 wins to win the Stanley Cup.  Today, it takes 16 wins...but the tradition in Detroit remains BECAUSE OUR HOCKEY TEAM ROCKS THE SHIT OUT OF EVERY OTHER TEAM....Oh, and that's a wing-nut hat on her head...get it?  "WING" NUT?  Yeah, I'm a Wing-Nut.  Crazy, rabid, wing-nut.  Oh, boys, don't let me down this year!  Go Wings!

Wednesday, October 07, 2009

A Meme and a Bunch of Shit You Didn't Know About Me

The blogger I'm stalking My blog crush mysterg, from Meditations in an Emergency, tagged me in a meme.  Apparently I have to write five categories of five things of my choosing then tag another five of you to do the same.  So because mysterg finds me facinating, and because you do too, here goes:

5 Places I Want to Visit Before I Die:

Washington, DC. I would love to see the White House, the Washington Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial and go to the Smithsonian. I don’t know why, but I love museums and shit like that.  Plus, I kinda feel like a bad American since I haven't visited DC. 

Italy: Besides loving Italian food, I know Italy is rich is history. From the ruins of coliseum to riding a gondola in Venice – Italy sounds like a very interesting place. Plus I’m sure there are gorgeous men everywhere, and I’ve heard they get flirtatious and pinch ladies’ bums. I need to go there before I get too old and no one wants to pinch my bottom!

Australia: I’m not sure which part of Australia I’d like to go (because I know it’s a rather large continent!) but I’d probably go to Sydney. I’ve heard the country is beautiful and I’ve always wanted to go. Bonus: they speak English but have that funny accent.  (just kidding Tennyson!)

London: I’ve always wanted to visit London. It just seems like one of the coolest places on Earth.  And I'm a bit of a literature geek, so I've always wanted to see Shakespeare's birthplace.  Plus, mysterg is from England and maybe I could stalk him in person!   Bonus:  they also speak English.  Again, with a funny accent.

New York: New York/Manhattan. I once had a trip to Manhattan planned. I have a friend who sells real estate in Manhattan and at the time, he had an furnished apartment in Soho that he was willing to lend to Husband and I while we came out. He also promised to show us all of the “fun” places and everything…and then September 11th happened and there went our trip. We were planning to visit in October. My friend still lives in Manhattan, so barring any future terrorist attacks, I know I will make it there to visit someday. Bonus:  native New Yorkers ALSO have a funny accent...

5 Things I Cannot Live Without (besides food and water!)
My cell phone (how did we live before cell phones???)
Chapstick/Lip Balm
My friends

5 Favorite Swear-Words

5 Reasons Why Being An Adult Sucks Ass:
Bills/Mortgage/Car Payments/etc.
If you throw a tantrum, no one is going to make the excuse “She’s just tired."
I’m still afraid of the dark sometimes and I have to be brave
Fine lines that will develop into wrinkles
Being responsible (and in the alternative, not allowed to be irresponsible when the mood grabs you)

5 Favorite 80s Songs:
“Jessie’s Girl” by Rick Springfield
“Holiday” by Madonna
“Planet Earth” by Duran Duran
“Rebel Yell” by Billy Idol
“Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” by Wham!

5 Reasons Why Being a Girl Is So Much More Fun Than Being A Boy:
Boys are easily manipulated by Boobs (and girls are not manipulated by anything physical)

Girls don’t have to feel insecure by penis size (only boob size, and a plastic surgeon can fix such things if necessary)

Girls can cry when they want but boys think crying makes them weak (I always think it takes a strong man to cry)

Boys that forget to open doors to walk into elevators first are deemed to be assholes, but girls can just open the doors for themselves and can get on elevators first

Girls get to wear makeup, miracle bras, body shapers, hair extensions, fake eyelashes, etc. to “enhance” their appearance, whereas boys are pretty much “what you see is what you get”

And now, here is me tagging some of my favorite blogs (check 'em out y'all):

Tennyson ee Hemingway at andy warhol goes shopping
Sass at Hot Piece of Sass
Kylie at My Saucerful of Secrets
Notsomarypoppins at I Ain't Your Supernanny
Mandy at Sassy Ginger

Thanks again, mysterg.  Stalk you soon!

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

Story of My Life

Husband, Daughter and I went to a Halloween costume store this past weekend to find The Dorothy Costume.  Wouldn't you know it?  She now wants to be a cat for Halloween.


All of my dreams have been crushed.  Well, maybe not ALL of them.  But the one where my daughter dresses like Dorothy for Halloween has pretty much bitten the proverbial dust and now I have to act like it's not the end of the world.  :)

And if I didn't already love the SHIT out of cats, I would be super-duper pissed about her switching.  Of course, no costume has been bought yet, so technically the fat lady has not sung.  But she's getting ready to belt one out, that's for sure.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

I'll Get You My Pretty! And Your Little Dog Too!

It’s that time of year again. Fall is here. Tomorrow is October 1st, and I just can’t believe that we’re here already. I mean, it feels just like yesterday when I was bubbling forth with the joys of August. Now, it’s two month later!

October means that the weather is going to get cooler, and Daughter is on the hunt for a really cool Halloween costume. I’ve been trying to talk her into being Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz (only my very favoritest movie EVER…but more about that in another post). Last year I was thisclose to getting her to be Dorothy…almost had the costume in hand, but the fucking brilliant store manager of the Halloween USA store decided to put Dorothy next to Batgirl. In case you were not aware (and really, why would you be?), Daughter is a HUGE superhero fan. Needless to say, Batgirl won out over Dorothy, and Daughter had to break the news to me by saying “maybe I will be Dorothy next year.” *sigh* I had even bought the fucking red glitter shoes…oh well. Maybe she could use them at Christmas.

This year, we are beginning our hunt for The Perfect Halloween Costume. Over the years, I have tried to steer her choices into things I think are cute, but still allowing her to pretty much get a costume she wants to get, because I remember when my mother wouldn’t let me be things for Halloween she didn’t approve of. And in trying to erase the mistakes of mothers past, I try to be relatively accommodating in the Halloween costume department. Her very first Halloween, she was Minnie Mouse. It was fucking adorable, and it helped that she was 11 month old and couldn’t protest. Next Halloween, I dressed her as a girl from the 1950s. Neckscarf and Poodle Skirt. PRECIOUS. When she was nearly 3, she was a fairy. Which really only consisted of some wings and a pink tutu – I was trying to convince her to be an angel, but I don’t think she wanted to wear the halo (which should have been my first clue). At almost-4-years old, she was Ariel from The Little Mermaid (she was OBSESSED with the movie – still is). Definitely a mom-approved choice, especially considering she wanted to be Darth Vader. Next came Wonder Woman, and finally last year, she was Batgirl. (And as much as I want her to wear “girly” costumes, I am 100% OK with her wearing “boy” costumes, despite my crack regarding Darth Vader. My mother, however, has a problem with it, as she is convinced that Daughter is going to “become” lesbian because of these costume choices, along with all of the superhero toys she has. I have tried explaining you don’t just “become” gay one day…but she’s a Republican. What do you expect her to think? Anyway, I’m off on a tangent…)

Yesterday, Daughter told me she wanted to be Master Chief from the video game, Halo. Yes, she plays Halo. Don’t judge me. I still want her to be Dorothy. Even the promise of getting the basket with Toto in it is not enough to bribe her into being Dorothy. So I start looking through the costume catalog, my panties all in a wad because Daughter would look so cute as Dorothy. I could braid her hair, and get those fucking shoes again. It would make an awesome photo op goddammit, doesn’t she know that??? I live for that shit.
(And be rest assured this would be my dog if I had one.)  C'mon.  That shit is cute as fuck and you know it.  :)  You know what would be really cute?  If this dog had a Dorothy doll in her basket.  Right?

Last night before bedtime, Daughter gave me the good news…she is going to be Dorothy for Halloween! I asked her if she was serious, and she said YES! Mommies of the world shall unite as one of their sisters has won a small victory. It may have taken me a year to do so, but HELLYES! I only hope that the dumbfuck store manager (or whoever is responsible for these things) doesn’t put the Dorothy costume next to Master Chief otherwise I’m going to throw a tantrum right in the middle of the store. I mean it.

P.S.  Check back in the next day or two, as I may be posting a few pics of daughter in Halloweens past.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Know Thine Toolishness

I admit it. I am a Reality TV fan. It all started way back when – when the very first Survivor landed on my television radar. I fell in love. My feelings were so strong because I find real life very compelling (and you must feel the same way too, because here you are, reading my blog and we might not even know each other!)

I’ve been there for the highs (the first Survivor) and I’ve been there for the lows (Temptation Island, Joe Millionaire, The Swan). During all of my bouts with reality TV, I found that VH1 and all of its pathetically low-brow programming is right up my alley. My first taste of it came with Flavor of Love and its first season. Who can forget the girl who shit her pants during the very first elimination ("elimination".  GET IT?)?  I mean, COME ON PEOPLE. This shit (literally) is some compelling television! I imagine the humiliation of fighting over Flavor Flav pales in comparison to actually letting loose a trail of runny poops through a mansion DURING the elimination ceremony WHILE you’re fighting over Flavor Flav.

VH1 has also brought us such gems as Rock of Love, starring Bret Michaels of the rock band, Poison (which is a rocker-big-boobed-drunken-blonde version of Flavor of Love); I Love New York (New York was a broken-hearted reject from Flavor of Love who says she is the H.B.I.C. (Head Bitch in Charge) and she’s 100% ghetto-fabulous); I Love Money; Charm School; and Hogan Knows Best. All excellent escapism television, loved because I don’t have to think about anything while watching.

My newest favorite is Tool Academy 2. LOOK AT THESE GUYS.  DOUCHEBAGS, RIGHT?  The premise of this fine program is girlfriends bring their boyfriends to Tool Academy because these guys are classic douchebags. Initially, they think they’re all competing to be in some Mr. Wonderful contest or something, so the first show is excellent in showcasing their douche-iest behavior. Once they find out the real reason they are there, Tool Academy is a combination of couples therapy and couples challenges, where the douches all work on certain qualities each week, such as “Fidelity”, “Appreciation”, and “Romance”. The douche/tool who gets eliminated each week then has to go face his girlfriend, and she decides whether to break up with him or not.
Last Sunday’s episode made me fall head over heels for this train wreck of a television show. The men on this show are the douchiest, most obnoxious bunch of boys I’ve ever had the pleasure to watch. My favorite (read: the guy I hate the most) got eliminated this week, which made me happy (read: sad) a little inside because I know he would have provided hours more entertainment. His name on the show was “Manscape Tool” (did I mention the brilliant producers of this show give all of the guys nicknames? Anyother favorite name is “Hillbilly Tool”. Good stuff here people.)

The challenge on Sunday’s show centered around “Appreciation”. Manscape Tool got the boot because he couldn’t muster enough any emotion at the fake funeral they staged for his girlfriend (who “died” of a broken heart, y’all, because her meanie of a boyfriend didn’t appreciate her enough) AND then when the girls got set up to go off on “dates” with "real gentlemen" dressed in suits while the boyfriends got to watch their dates on TV, Manscape Tool basically started running through the house like a wild boar and ended up out on the grounds of this mansion they are all staying at, telling the producers he wanted his girlfriend kicked off the show because she’s a whore. Even though all she did was have dinner with the "gentleman".  Tell me you’re not riveted now. Please. Tell. Me.

<----- Manscape Tool (Ladies, how can we resist him??)  Right before he got eliminated, they show a clip of his girlfriend saying that if he gets kicked off this week, she’s breaking up with him. Riiiiiiiigt, honey. (I was secretly hoping she would though, but one thing I've learned from these shows is the producers take you in one direction, when really the ending goes in another direction, therefore, SURPRISING you.) Manscape Tool gets the boot, and comes outside to see his girlfriend. At this point, he starts telling her how much he loves her, how much “everything” is going to change when they get home, and he even tries to squirt a few for effect. Of course, his even-bigger-tool of a girlfriend takes him back and they ride off in the limo together.
Roll credits.

Monday, September 28, 2009

My Mother, My Guilt Trip

Today is my mother’s birthday.

If you know me have read this blog for a while, you know my mother (God Bless Her) is someone who gets on my nerves like no one else can. She has the talent to turn me, a 38-year-old grown woman and mother of one, into a 13-year-old teenage brat. She always makes me feel fat – example: included in my birthday present this year was an aromatherapy roll-on thing that had grapefruit extract in it and was specifically meant to “control hunger”. She told me I could roll it on my wrist and sniff it whenever I was feeling hungry. Gee…thanks mom! Thank you for reminding me once again that I need to lose weight. After all, isn’t that what mothers are for? To remind you of your inadequacies? Anyfat…I digress.

This weekend, my mom helped me organize and staff a moms-to-moms sale I did at Daughter’s school. If you don’t know what a moms-to-moms sale is – it’s like a flea market or garage sale of child-related things. You could get everything from cribs to bicycles to clothing to toys at this sale. I still have lots of Daughter’s baby clothes and since I’m not having any more children (now you know that since I’ve written that statement, I’ll probably end up pregnant before the year is over, right?), I might as well try to make a little cash off of what I have left. And since I’m not patient enough or organized enough to put together garage sale (nor do I really want to commit my entire weekend to sitting outside watching people rummage through my things), I thought the moms-to-moms sale was perfect. It was from 8:30-1pm, and there would be lots of people there.

Since my mom helped me, we decided after the moms-to-moms, I would go home, pick up Daughter and we would go out to lunch to celebrate her birthday. When I got home to pick up Daughter, she was asleep. I decided to let her sleep and went to lunch without her and my mother was not happy about it. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but apparently, this was the first of many mistakes I would make over the weekend. That evening, my mother called me to invite me over to have dinner at her house on Sunday, once again, to celebrate her birthday. This was a huge problem, because for the last year, if not more, Husband, Daughter and I go to Husband’s parents on Sunday evenings for dinner. My mother knows this and is insanely jealous of the time we spend over there. Correction: she is insanely jealous that my inlaws get to see Daughter a guaranteed once a week. As a side note, ever since Daughter was born, my mother turns every visit, every holiday, every everything, into a competition. Who do we visit more? Who do we spend more time with? Frankly, I’m tired of it. It’s not a competition to see who we love more, or whatever she thinks. It’s just that my inlaws are normal and my family is dysfunctional. Every moment my parents spend together is like watching War of the Roses. It’s embarrassing for me, it’s uncomfortable for Husband, and it’s not a good example to set for Daughter. My mother has nothing nice to say to my dad, and my dad has nothing nice to say to my mom. It’s PAINFUL.

But after guilting me into having dinner with her on Sunday (of course I showed up, she’s my mother), she didn’t let the fact die that she had to basically coerce me to visit, and the jealousy shined through like a bright lighthouse beacon.

“Why do you always have to have dinner over there?”
“Why don’t you come have dinner here sometimes?”

Basically, "why are you such a bad daughter and prefer to spend time over your in-laws instead of here, at your childhood home with dad and me?" Here are the answers I would have loved to have given:

1. Because all you do is pick at dad until he’s a broken man.
2. Because dad has no respect for you or any other women, and therefore, I feel compelled to open up a can of Feminist Whoop-Ass on him and cause arguments myself.
3. Because you decide to argue in front of not only me, but Daughter and Husband (even though you know this makes him extremely uncomfortable).
4. Because I hate Gizmo (their evil Pekinese dog) because he growls at me.
5. Because Annie makes me sad (their Beagle who in probably going to be put to sleep this week because she’s old and sick and is probably the sweetest dog ever).
6. Because you guilt me into shit and make me feel like a bad daughter.
7. Because you make me feel fat all the time especially when you point out how "healthy" the dinner you've made is.  Oh and let's include how you think Daughter is fat (she's NOT fat, y'all).  Just because neither of us are anorexic-stick-figures doesn't mean we're fat.  (Well, I'm a little fat, but my child is definitely NOT.)
8. Because you make me feel like a bad mother because I don’t force Daughter to eat vegetables all the time. (Sorry, mom, I’m just trying not to give her food issues like you gave me.)
9. Because you remind me that you almost died, and therefore, I should want to spend every waking moment with you.
10. Because the both of you are Republicans and drive me crazy with your ultra-conservative bullshit.  And I can't stand all of your hatin' on Obama (which I'm convinced has roots in racism which I can't stand.)
11. Bonus: Because you both like Glenn Beck. Who in my opinion, is just as big of a douchebag as Rush Limbaugh. And that’s saying something.

If I had any balls, I would tell my mother to get off the cross, because someone else needs the wood. She is the classic martyr. *sigh*