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.