Thursday, July 28, 2011

Guest Poster In Da House!!!

You guys!!! I am literally beside myself with excitement!  I'm not exactly sure how one is beside herself, but I can assure you, I am there.  I am hosting my first guest poster!


When I met this amazing HILARIOUS woman at She Writes, it was one of the best days of my life.  I have mentioned her several times before.  She is...

Laura from Catharsis!

And the crowd goes wild.

The first post I read of hers had me peeing from laughter.  And then I read Balls, Box and Other Baseness about how she and her husband are the epitome of maturity (snort!) and I knew she was somethin special all right.

But her awesomeness does not end there.  She started the Witty Women community, of which I am a proud member.  When I joined, I hit her up on the twitter and was all, "I joined.  Where's my prize?"

Her response?  "Check your ass."

I was smitten.  I knew we would be Best Friends Forever Ever.  Laura aka @lauramiri is also responsible for all the vagina kicking that goes on at the twitter.

So without further ado, let's all welcome Laura from Catharsis!
Image via Wikipedia

Of Flags and Pornography

Dear Neighbor,

This is embarrassing. I know we don't know each other very well, but I feel it's important for us to get some things out in the open.

About the other day. Look, I know you think you know what you heard and saw. But that's totally not it. Totally. Please, just give me a minute of your time, and I'm sure you'll see things from our perspective.

You see, those signs plastered around the neighborhood with our pictures on them? So. Not. True. For one, we are NOT bigots. Not at all. Sure, we may be uninformed about a few things, but the accusation that we are homophobic is complete nonsense. And as for that visit from CPS? I assure you. We are NOT showing our son pornography and encouraging him to call passersby explicit names. That pornography is not for him, no matter what that social worker's official report suggests.

See, my son, my three year old, he has a bit of a speech impediment. He has a hard time saying his L's. A reawy, reawy hard time. It's not a big deal. I mean, he is only three. Should correct itself in time. But this speech impediment? It's responsible for that catastrophe problem slight misunderstanding last weekend. Yeah. That nice family out for a stroll? They've got it wrong. All. Wrong.

What everyone else thought was, "Hey! Daddy, look! A fag! A fag! Daddy, there's a fag! Over there! See it? Do you see that fag, Daddy? Do you SEE THAT FAG?!" was NOT in reference to that nice gentleman's sexual orientation. Really, it was in reference to his lovely flag. The lovely, patriotic flag he enjoys carrying on his person whilst strolling. See, no fags here.

And what the neighborhood thought was, "And that cock! Mommy, look at that cock! That cock right there! The cock on the sidewalk! Look, Mommy! A cock! That cock! That COCK ON THE SIDEWALK!" was in NO WAY in reference to that nice man's son. No. Way. In actuality, my son was talking about that son's clock. The clock he brought with him to time his stroll. The one he laid on the sidewalk while he tied his shoe. Clock. So, again, cock-free over here.

And the nice man's wife? My husband accidentally slipped and punched her nose. It WAS NOT intentional. It was merely an outgrowth of high tensions, and that's ALL. That's precisely what you should say to the detective next time he stops by. Pure. Accident. Nothing to be concerned about. Won't happen again. Promise.

Really, what I'm saying is, it's okay to revoke that restraining order and remove the bars from the windows. You have nothing to worry about from us. Honest.


Your Completely Sane Neighbors

P.S. Are we still on for that play date?

Liked what you read?  Of course you did!  Visit Laura at Catharsis for more awesome hilarity, become a follower and hit her up on the twat: @lauramiri

Thanks so much Laura!  Love you, my vagina kickin sister!

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Mistaken Identity

Can you believe it's already here again?  One of my most favorite days of the week...WTF Wednesday!  I cannot thank Poppy enough for hosting this most magical of days on her amazing blog Funny or Snot.

I have always had an affinity for Wednesdays.  Sure the humping is great, but even better than humping?  Chicken nugget day.  That's right, I said CHICKEN NUGGETS!  Every other Wednesday at my high school (which was also my junior high school and my elementary school; I went to a pre K-12 school) was chicken nugget day.  The Wednesdays that weren't chicken nugget day were Chick fil-A day.  Yeah, my school was pretty kick-ass.  At least when it came to food.

Now as awesome as chicken nuggets are, they weren't even the best part of Chicken Nugget Wednesday.  The best part?  The BBQ sauce.

Now let me just say, I am not a BBQ person.  If you were to offer to cook me a BBQ meal I would probably punch you in the throat for suggesting something so vile and offensive.  But the BBQ sauce at my school?  Fan-freaking-tastic.  I highly doubt there was one real or natural ingredient in the stuff, which was probably why it was so good - and man was it good.

There was only one small problem with Chicken Nugget Fan-freaking-tastic BBQ Sauce Wednesdays.  The BBQ sauce pump.  In order to sauce up your nuggets you had to pump the sauce out of these ginormous soap dispenser things that sat on tables at the front of the cafeteria.  And by front of the cafeteria I mean, everyone-can-watch-you-walk-back-to-your-seat-after-the-BBQ-sauce-catastrophe.

What is the BBQ sauce catastrophe?  Allow me to illustrate.

This never, as in not once (because usually that's what never means.  usually.) happened to me.  Seriously, it did not - no sarcasm here.  Because I am smart.  And I always turned the pump away from me so that if it exploded, it could explode all over the floor.

The point of this story is: I've always loved Wednesdays because of Chicken Nugget Fan-freaking-tastic BBQ Sauce Wednesday, but now that Wednesdays are also WTF Wednesdays they are slowly but surely inching their way to being MY MOST FAVORITE DAY OF THE WEEK!

Now that the longest intro in the history of ever is completed let's get to the WTF portion of the program.

This week I am WTFing yours truly.  That's right.  Something happened last night that made me say, "WTF, me?"

The husband, my friend The Mandy, and I went to a new restaurant.  It isn't so much a restaurant as it is a cheese-slash-wine-slash-all-the-beers-in-the-world-slash-more-cheese-and-cheese-fondue-and-some-sausage-and-a-little-bit-of-salami-and-more-cheese-and-hey-I-know-this-isn't-on-your-menu-but-you-think-you-could-make-me-a-cheese-and-salami-sandwich bar.  Which is really fantastic and all, but totally irrelevant.

What is relevant is that I went to the bathroom.  Not in my pants this time - yay me! - but in the actual restroom, where most potty trained adults go to pee.

When I exited the restroom, I saw the husband standing at the end of the hallway.

Now here are three things you need to know about me and the hallway.

1. I am nearsighted. Or farsighted. Whichever one means I can't see far away.  That one.

2.  The hallway was dark.

3.  The hallway was long.  Meaning the husband was really kinda far away.

Got it?


So...I exited the bathroom, saw the husband and was all sexy-eyed hey how you doin?

And the husband was all sexy-eyed ohh yeeeaaah.

(And by sexy-eyed I mean we were talking with our eyes.  Not actually talking.  Just want to be clear on this.)

I continued walking toward him and we continued our sexy-eyed hey let's make out in the hallway and feel each other up...and down conversation.

As I got closer I was all, wow, what long hair you have, husband.  Much longer than I recall.


Wow, your mid-section has gotten...bigger, husband.

Closer still.

Wow, husband, have you gotten taller?

And even closer.

Oh shit!  You are not the husband!

That's right, I eye-molested a total stranger, who I thought was eye-molesting me back, but that could just be how he looks when he really has to pee.  I don't know those types of intimate details about him because he was a total stranger!

Now in fairness to me, the guy looked nothing like the husband and was wearing the exact same shirt as the husband.  So you can see how this case of mistaken identity could happen.  Also, please refer to points one, two and three above about me and hallway.

I went back to the table and impatiently waited for the husband and The Mandy to finish whatever they were talking about and blurted, "I almost molested another man I thought was you, husband."

Hahaha, we all laughed, and I thought this will make a great blog post.

But then a few minutes later I know what would have made an even better blog post? if I hadn't realized it was the husband and actually molested a total stranger.

And THEN I thought, WTF me?  You wished you had molested a total stranger just cuz it would make a good blog post?!

But the WTF me didn't last long, because I am a blogger.  And I know my fellow bloggers will agree: we will do almost anything for a blog post.

So I guess this isn't so much of a WhatTF Wednesday, but a WHYTF-did-you-have-to-realize-it-wasn't-the-husband-which-prevented-you-from-molesting-a-total-stranger-and-walking-away-with-the-best-post-ever! Wednesday.


Maybe next time.

Don't forget to check out the other WTF entries!

Liked what you read?  Of course you did!  Then hit the little follow button.  It would make me so happy to see your face there.  Don't want to wait hours upon hours for my next post?  Follow me on twitter @sarcasmgoddess and get minute by minute vagina action.  I also talk about bacon a lot.  And sausage.  It's exactly as awesome as it sounds.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Stop It Social Media

Those of you who are regulars ‘round these parts (thank you, I love you, you are my favorite) know that me and the technologies?  We gots the issues.  And by technology I mostly mean social media.  But also? Technology in general.

It was probably a bad idea to proudly call myself a social media snob several years ago.

“Oh,” I said with an upturned nose and a look of disdain, “I don’t do that facebook thingy.  I have real relationships, with real people, in real life.” 

I resisted and resisted until it became clear that real life no longer mattered.  If you didn’t have a facebook page, it was like you were dead.  Rotting in the ground, maggot meat, do you think these bones make me look fat? kind of dead. 

I never did the myspace thing, cuz everyone knows that’s only for whores.  And as much as I proclaim to whore myself all over the internets, I actually think sex is evil. #NoIDon’t.

Woah!  Did you see what I did right there?  I just combined two social media mediums, twitter and blogging!

See, you DO know what you’re doing!

Yeah, don’t get too excited.  That right there was an anomaly.  In statistics, they just throw those things right out, cuz they f*ck up the rest of the data.

I know as much about social media as Sarah Palin knows about saying things that don’t sound stupid.  If you're a Sarah Palin fan then replace her name with the politician/realty star/hockey mom of your choice.

But somehow, I manage.  I’ve got this here blog, where I put up words (gasp) and sometimes those words form sentences (oh!) and sometimes there are pictures (ooh, yeah, don’t stop) and one time I even put up a video (OH YES! Seven! Seven! Seven! Seven! – if you get that reference then you and I are sole-mates – can I borrow your hot pink stilettos?  thanks.).

Several weeks ago, I put my twat on display and joined twitter.  Since joining I have tried multiple times, with little success, to explain twitter to those of you who are not twats.  I finally think I’ve come up with an analogy we can all understand.  Twitter is like when the husband opens up the 365 day sex book and says, “let’s do number 130.”  And you’re like, “you want my leg to go where?”  It’s confusing as hell, yet pleasurable at the same time. 

As much as social media confuses me, it can, occasionally, be incredibly helpful.  Recently I announced on twitter that I would like to create a button, and on a scale of one to impossible, how hard is it to do?  The answer?  Pretty f*cking impossible.  For me.  Apparently.

Many of my twats came to my aide, emailing me detailed instructions, referring me to websites, or providing the steps in their tweets.

I compared and cross-referenced all the sources, hi-lighted and copy and pasted, and not the hi-light-right-click-copy-right-click-paste kind of copying and pasting. The literal scissors and glue copy and paste method.  I got a giant poster-board and organized all my information with arrows and flow charts, and Venn diagrams and concentric circles and pie charts and pictures of flowers - those didn’t really serve a purpose, I just thought they were pretty – and pivot charts and bar graphs and push pins on a map connected by color-coded string.

By the time I was finished, my living room looked like Russell Crowe’s shed in A Beautiful Mind, and when the husband returned from, yet another, golf weekend, he was all, “Woman have you gone mad?!”

Um…are you just now figuring that out?

Finally Rach @DonutsMama took matters into her own hands and created the damn button for me.  Those of you that participated in my Most Embarrassing Moment linky owe her a huge thanks.  Heck, all of you on twitter owe her a huge thanks cuz I can now shut up about WHY THE HELL IS IT SO CONFUSING TO MAKE A DAMN BUTTON!!

I was starting to feel pretty good about myself.  I’m on twitter!  I have a blog!  I have, like, 86 facebook friends.  That’s right.  Eighty.  Six.  It’s okay. You can be jealous.

I was all, “I’m a social media winner!”

And then Google + happened.

Um what?

No really.  WHAT?!

Immediately I was all, “Nuh uh.  No way.  I have no idea what Google + is, but it is dumb and lame and I don’t need it.”  Which is code for, "Nuh uh.  I don't understand it.  I'm scared.  Someone hold me."

I figured it was just a fad, like I thought twitter was several years ago, when the crazy lady jumped up in the middle of a meeting and shouted "TWITTER!" and we all thought she was a mental patient.

But then I heard more and more about Google + and twats started tweeting that they just had THE BEST TIME with TitsMcGee and RoboTwat on Google + and I couldn’t help but wonder: What the hell are they doing over there? 

My guess?  Acid. 

I imagine Google + to be like a movie flashback, or flashnow, or whatever it's called when they cut to a trippy scene with psychedelic lines and swirls and rainbows and maybe Rainbow Brite  is there- do you guys remember Rainbow Brite? i loved her - and it makes you feel high just watching it, which I imagine is the intended effect, because otherwise why?  And people are floating all over the place and getting closer and then farther away and then closer and then farther away, and this goes on and on until you forget what movie you were even watching and you're like, "whatever!  I'm high!...Or am I?"  You honestly don't know, but you feel amazing and sneak into your neighbor's yard and start jumping on their trampoline and you're all, "everything is so brilliant!  look at all the pretty colors!"  And then all your friends come over and start jumping too and it's THE BEST DAY EVAH!

That's exactly what Google + is like.  I assume. I don't actually know cuz I haven't been there yet.  Because my mom was all, "hugs not drugs," when I was growing up, but um Mom, have you seen some of the people giving out drugs these days?  They have no teeth and open sores and um yeah, they can keep their hugs; I'll take the drugs.  To throw away, of course.

Cuz seriously, y'all drugs be bad.  Don't you remember those commercials?  Apparently your brain is a raw egg and your brain on drugs is scrambled eggs.

Which, in theory, sounds like a good analogy, but did anyone really think that through, because last time I checked raw eggs contained salmonella which could make you die, but scrambled eggs?  F*ckin delicious.  So… pretty sure scrambled is the way to go.

That is not an endorsement to do drugs!  If you are doing drugs I will come punch you in the throat!  Because I love you.  Hugs not drugs, and all.

The point?

Is there a point? 

Yes!  The point is STOP IT SOCIAL MEDIA.  You're going to make my brain explode.  And honestly, how many different ways do you expect people to worship me?  Hey come be my friend on facebook, ooh look follow my blog, be my twat!  And while you're at, come, um...Google + me?

Seriously, though, this is starting to make me feel incredibly inadequate and dredging up horrible high school memories.  Recently @mytimeasmom, who is a social media genius, said she was going to give StumbleUpon a try.  I was all, "good luck with that," but then I had the crazy idea I could try it too.  I went to their site, looked at the screen for a few seconds, turned off my computer and quietly walked go bash my head into a wall.

And Pinterest?  When I first heard of it I, of course, was immediately all, "whatever."  I'm not even sure if this is social media or interweb scrapbooking,  or whatever, but after months of resistance and watching everyone around me lose their damn minds over it, I decided to check it out.

Invite only?!

Oh HELL no.  There's no way I'm begging Pinterest for an invite just so they can reject me.  I've been to that rodeo and it is not a good time.

When did I become one of those old people looking in wonder (and disdain) at all those crazy youngins runnin 'round with all their gadgets?  When did stuff just stop making sense?  When I was younger I could bash a little Italian guy's head on a brick until a mushroom popped out like nobody's business.  But now, if you tell me to DM you, I'm all, "DM?  DM?!!  I DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS.  AHHHHH!"

I think my relationship with social media can best be summed up by my good friend Jessie from Saved By The Bell.  "I'm so excited!  I'm so excited!  I'm so...scared!"

This post is linked up with lovelinks!  Yay!

Liked what you read?  Of course you did!  Then hit the little follow button.  It would make me so happy to see your face there.  Don't want to wait hours upon hours for my next post?  Follow me on twitter @sarcasmgoddess and get minute by minute vagina action.  I also talk about bacon a lot.  And sausage.  It's exactly as awesome as it sounds.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Whole Lotta Whoring Going On

Guess what time it is!!!

That's right!  It's Sarcasm Goddess Award Show time!  You guys are so smart.  As usual, grab your drink of choice and get ready for a fabulous show.  To kick our show off good and proper, let's introduce our host Henry the Hippo.

Focus Henry!  We have a show to do.

First, allow me to welcome all of my new followers.  Welcome!  You are amazing and awesome and your awesomeness is increasing daily just by following my blog.  Congratulations.

As you know, this show is all about you guys!  My followers!  Except, of course, when it's all about me.  Which tonight?  It totally is.  But also?  It's all about you!  Get ready for some serious whoring of YOU.

But let's whore me out first, because duh.

What a week this has been.  As you know, I hosted my first linky, which was a fabulous success.  I was the featured Romantic Friday Writer for my Sweet Surrender short story.  If you haven't read it yet, you should.  It will change your life.

I overcame SERIOUS anxiety to do my first guest post on Mental Poo.  Honestly you guys, I almost had a nervous breakdown.  There was much screaming and "I'm a crappy writer!  This is the worst thing I've ever written! I'm going to take an anxiety pill or maybe just throw myself down the stairs!"  And the husband was all, "do it already!  whatever it takes so I can sleep!"

All of this had taken place by Wednesday and I was all, "this week just cannot get any better."  But guess what?!  It totally did.  I was given not one, but TWO awards by other fabulous bloggers.  The first was from Laura at Catharsis.  I have talked about her blog several times now and if you have not gone over there and visited her yet, there is something seriously wrong with you.  SERIOUSLY.  Like you should probably go to a doctor.

The award she gave me was:

Ooh ahh!

I was so excited to receive this because, I deserve it (obviously) and because I get to pimp 10 of my favorite bloggers.

As I was preparing my list of bloggers I wanted to pass the honor on to, I found out I got another award.  Seriously, you guys are in the presence of greatness.  This award came from the amazing Christine at Quasi Agitato.

I get to pass this one to 15 bloggers whom I love, which just totally made my day because I had a hard time only picking 10 bloggers to whore for my previous award.

These awards both require me to share seven things about me that you don't know.  I figured I'd combine them into one post, because I'm humble and don't like to talk about myself very much.


Let's get started, shall we?

Number one: I am awesome.

Oh wait, I'm supposed to tell you stuff you don't know.  Okay, for realsies.

1.  I am an accidental kleptomaniac.  I have stolen more things accidentally than most thieves have stolen on purpose.  Relax. I always realize it and go back to the store and am all, "hey I accidentally stole this."  And the cashier always gives me weird looks like he/she cannot believe that I came back to pay for it.

2. My entire life, the one thing I wanted more than anything was a trophy.  I'd received many accolades: certificates, medals, plaques and group trophies, but never an individual trophy.  I had told the husband this many years ago.  A few days after the husband and I had played a round of golf - the first time in which I broke 100 - I came home and saw a trophy on the kitchen counter.  I thought he had won a trophy at one of the many golf tournaments he plays in.  But no!  It was for me!  From the husband!  Best husband evah!

3.  I just cut myself shaving.  It's bad.  Like woah that's a lot of blood bad.  I should probably go to the doctor to get stitches, but I've got a show to do!  I always push through the pain.  Unless, of course, not pushing through the pain can get me out of work.

4.  I have a terrible headache.  Probably because I can't stop watching the woman who can't stop sniffing gasoline.

5.  I want to be a published author.  I think you guys probably already know that, but thought I'd just throw it out there in case any agents or publishers are reading this.

6.  When I was in the womb, I ate my twin.

7.  Sometimes I lie.

Time to whore some of my favorite bloggers!  These first ten I am giving the Blog on Fire Award

1. Things That Are Not Bagels because she once saved me from being eaten by an alligator.

2. Sassy Miss Allie because she pierces her body without fear.

3. Just Jennifer because her name should be Just Plain Awesome.

4. Musings of a Sarcastic Mind because she is my sarcasm sister.

5. Because My Life Is Fascinating because her life is fascinating.  Honestly, I shouldn't have to explain this.

6. Funny or Snot because she hosts WTF Wednesday, my favorite day of the week.

7. All The Things I Am because she is a fellow goddess.

8.  Quasi Agitato because she lives in Brooklyn and I am supremely jealous.  Also?  Brooklyn is the name of the daughter I'm never going to have.

9. Mama Wants This because she is the sweetest most supportive blogger on the planet.

10. The Suniverse because of her love of Gwenyth Paltrow.  (you guys know this is a sarcasm blog, right?)

Now it's time to whore out some of my favorite bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award.

1. Handflapping because her blog is "profanity, insanity, and a splash of lime."  Seriously, what else do you need in life?

2.  Catharsis because I am obsessed with her.  It's starting to become unhealthy.

3.  Attracted to Shiny Things because she's raising awareness of plant rape.  And also?  She shit in the park.

4.  Yeah Good Times because she is so funny she makes my head explode.

5.  Life With Baby Donut because without her, I never would have created my first button.

6.  Atoll Annie and the Non-Specific Rim because she is an amazing writer.

7.  Coffee Lovin Mom because of thong onesies.


9.  My Time As Mom because she is a nerd.  And also?  Super smart.

10.  Absolutely Narcissism because she's not a Disney Mom but she is The Boob Girl.

11.  Writing In Flow because I love reading her stories.

12.  The Robot Mommy because of labia and leg warmers

13.  Saucy With a Twist because she shares my love of bacon.

14.  Not Blessed Mama because she is awesome.  Plain and simple.

15.  Momma Teacher Lady because she's a Momma.  A Teacher.  And a Lady.  Duh.

Now the rules of the Blog on Fire and Versatile Blogger awards are, you must share seven things about yourself and pass them on to 10 and 15 bloggers respectively.

There aren't any custom awards this week.  What is a custom award?  So glad you asked.  Read this and find out.  But I am super excited to announce the Comment of the Week.  You guys know that when you leave comments you make me so happy I pee, right?  All of the comments are awesome sauce, but this week the honor goes to:

MommaKiss in response to the post Magical is Not the Word That Comes to Mind 

so take this for what it's worth. trying to spell correctly


semen at prom? WHY I NEVER! (lying).



MommaKiss made me feel a little drunk when I read this, and who doesn't love that?

I hope you all have a fantabulous Monday.  It's the first day back from vacation for me, so I'm sure it will be super awesome.  

Liked what you read?  Of course you did!  Then hit the little follow button.  It would make me so happy to see your face there.  Don't want to wait hours upon hours for my next post?  Follow me on twitter @sarcasmgoddess and get minute by minute vagina action.  I also talk about bacon a lot.  And sausage.  It's exactly as awesome as it sounds.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Excuse Me Ma'am, But I Think You Dropped Something

This blog is about to go to new places.  Namely?  My vagina.  You've been warned.

Currently, according to a statistic I just made up, there are 69 different types of birth control on the market.  SIXTY.  NINE.  I'm sensing a theme here. 

Of those, 64 are hormone related.

I don't do hormones, because honestly.  Have you met me?  I have plenty of hormones.

She looked at me like I'd just asked to lick her face and responded by trying to push the pill on me again, but I was all, "My vagina!  My choice!"

For those of your unfamiliar with a diaphragm, imagine those balls at the McDonald's playground, only less colorful and more "hey, wouldn't it be fun to stick me in your vagina?" Cut it in half and insert a springy rim and you have yourself a diaphragm.  Kinda.

You know what?  Here's a picture:

Exciting right?  You Have No Idea.

You're supposed to fill the diaphragm, who will henceforth be known as Gertie, because anything getting that up close and personal with my junk must have a name, with a bunch of gunk called spermicide, meant to destroy the hordes of sperm rushing to your uterus, DESTINATION: EGG.

Seriously, can you imagine anything more terrifying than a being sweet little egg, minding your business, bouncing round the walls of your uterin home and suddenly hearing a big whooshing sound, like a toilet flushing and next thing you know Oh Shit! What is that?  Tadpoles?!  How the hell did they get in here?!  Go away!  Go away!  But they don't go away and they keep racing straight for you intent on burrowing their squirmy little selves inside of you without even buying you a drink first.  Honestly.  Men.

Just remember, your night of fun is someone else's home invasion.

Since I wasn't planning on having sex right there in the exam room, there was no need for the sperm killer and apparently my doctor thought there was also no need for lubricant, because nothing says I'm aroused and ready to go like stirrups and a vagina swab.

Step right up, folks!  Fun times straight ahead!

She unceremoniously inserted and removed Gertie in my lady business and then was all, "Now you do it," like it was some sort of dare and left the room.

Um, okay.  No problem.  I got this.  But not literally or anything, cuz remember when I said the ring was springy?  Think Mexican Jumping Bean on insane amounts of crack.  Pinching the sides together is an absolute must in order to launch Gertie through the vagina canal and dock her safely at the cervix.


Assuming you actually get it in there.  Which, you guys!  Heed my advice.  If you're ever attempting to ram an object up your vagina for the first time, I suggest being as drunk as possible.  It will not make said ramming easier, quite the contrary probably, but it will dull the pain of being smacked in the junk every time the little sucker springs from your grasp right before entry.

After treating my vagina like a veritable punching bag for half hour or so, Gertie finally decided to go on in (honestly, was she expecting a formal invitation?) and I managed to position myself back on the table, all spread-eagled-check-me-out like right before my gyno came back in.

Gyno: So how'd it go?

Me: Well, she, I mean it, is in.  But I'm pretty sure there isn't room for anything else in there.

Gyno: Let's have a look-see.

Me: By all means.  Please do.

She donned one of those helmets with the light and rooted around like she was mining for coal.  Try your best not to visualize that analogy.  It will make your head explode.

Gyno: Are you dumb or just an idiot?

Me: Is this a trick question?

Gyno: You did it wrong.  Try again.

In order to explain this good and proper like, allow me to introduce visuals.

Of course my gyno didn't offer me any helpful drawings showing me where Gertie should finally end up. I just kept shoving her further and further in until "Houston, we have contact."

I may or may not have done a bare-assed happy dance complete with heel clicks and jazz hands.  Seriously y'all, good times were had.

The gyno came back, took a look and was all, "good job!"  And I was very proud cuz I'm a people pleaser.

"Now take it out," she said and left again.

Oh I WILL...not.

Bitch did not want to leave!

Listen Gertie, I've heard my vagina is the place where dreams come true, but you can't be in there all the time.  It's like Disney World.  It's magical because you only go once or twice a year, if you're lucky.  If you go ever day, it loses its enchantment.  Despite the husband's opinions to the contrary.  He would prefer to go every day, but I'm like "do you have any idea how expense Disney World is these days?!"

I'm not positive, but I think that analogy just made me a prostitute.  And last time I checked?  I give my shit away for free.  Not my SHIT shit, cuz ew.  My VAGINA shit.  EWWW!

Fasten your seatbelts folks, cuz this train be de-railin'.

Does anyone remember what we were talking about?

Ah yes, excavating Gertie from my vagina.  VAGINA.  Hee hee, that's a funny word.  Not only would being drunk have come in handy, so would a vacuum or anything with a enough suction to counter-act the raw magnetism with which Gertie and my vagina - which at this point honestly deserves a Lucy! and they could have their own show: I Love Gertie and Lucy! It'd be a Laverne and Shirley/I Love Lucy hybrid.  or not. whatever.  i'm blogging, there is wine, you do the math - were attracted to each other.

Unfortunately my gyno's office did not have a vacuum cleaner so I was left to my own devices to get that thing out before my doctor came back in, cuz there was no way I was going to let her know I'd failed again.  In order to get it out, you need to hook your finger under the rim and quite simply, pull it out.   But Gertie was all, "Nuh uh.  You wanted me in. I'm stayin in."

I tried everything: jumping up and down, throwing myself into the wall in an attempt to dislodge it, turning my head and coughing, bearing down and pushing - it wouldn't be the first time I'd gotten something out of Lucy that way, and I'm not talking baby.  Haha.  Kidding.  Not really.

I was running out of time.  My gyno would be back soon.  I could not fail.

I went in one last time.  Miracle of miracles, I broke the seal. Hooked my finger under the rim.  And tugged.  And pulled.  And yanked.  And tugged and pulled and yanked some more.  The suction finally gave way after one put-your-back-into-it yank and Gertie came flying out of my vagina like a bullet from a gun, blazed through the air and landed across the room.

Wo-ah shit!  Did anyone just see that?

I ran across the room to retrieve Gertie, did a quick scan of the area to make sure my cervix hadn't gone with her and hopped back on the table just in time.

Gyno: Did you get it out?

Me: I sure did.

She was proud.  I was happy.  And Gertie?  Well she didn't say it, but I could totally tell it was the best damn day of her life.

You know how sometimes, you write a post and as soon as you hit PUBLISH you think, "I'm totally going to regret this?"  This is not one of those times.  

Liked what you read?  Of course you did!  Then hit the little follow button.  It would make me so happy to see your face there.  Don't want to wait hours upon hours for my next post?  Follow me on twitter @sarcasmgoddess and get minute by minute vagina action.  I also talk about bacon a lot.  And sausage.  It's exactly as awesome as it sounds.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

My First Guest Post!!

I'm writing this a little later than I wanted, but...I'm super excited to say I did my first guest post today!!!  Please come visit me at Mental Poo.  I had seven kinds of anxiety writing at someone else's blog.  Seriously, almost had a mental breakdown.  But somehow I survived.  It's the closest I've ever been to being yay me!

This has been a fantastic week.  I'm on vacation, which means no one has yelled at me for days.  I hosted my fist linky on Monday.  Thanks to all who participated!!  You ladies rocked my world.  I was so worried no one would link up, like having a birthday party with no friends.

And...I AM THE FEATURED WRITER AT ROMANTIC FRIDAY WRITERS!!  It was totally unexpected and I feel so honored to be selected. 

Don't forget to visit me at Mental Poo, and leave a comment so all his followers will know I have friends and am not a crazy cat lady.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Your Most Embarrassing Moment

The day is finally here! I am so excited I think I may pee my pants.  Which, quite honestly, is no different than any other day.

When I decided I was going to host my very first linky I knew immediately what the topic would be: Your Most Embarrassing Moment.  Funny thing is, I had no idea what I would write about.  Since I announced my linky, several people have said to me that they don't embarrass easily, and I consider myself to be in the same boat.

I mean seriously, I pissed my pants in front of my entire senior class and wasn't embarrassed.  Mortified? Yes.  But embarrassed?  No.  That's probably because no one even knew I had done it, even though they were all standing at the base of the snowy mountain which I had just slid down, pissing the entire way.

I thought about writing about the time I crapped my pants on my honeymoon.  But again, that wasn't embarrassing because no one knew it had happened.  Not even the husband.  Surprise husband!  I took a dump in my pants four days after you said I do.  Listen, you made a promise to love, honor and cherish me for as long as you live, and while the pastor didn't say it, he implied that that promise included any and all pant shitting.

As I summarily rejected this incident as my most embarrassing moment, another incident from our honeymoon sprung to mind.  An incident that had me so embarrassed I was ready to risk being locked away in a Jamaican prison and labeled a terrorist, in order to avoid it.

The night before my wedding to the husband, I was laying in bed and going through a mental checklist of all the very important things that would take place the next day leading up to the big I Do.  Suddenly, I bolted up in bed, grabbed my phone and called my one of my bridesmaids J, and asked if she and the other bridesmaids would get something for me that I had forgotten about.  Something Very Important.

Did it have to do with the flowers?


The photographer?


The dress?  Surely something that would make me bolt out of bed and call J in the middle of the night, must have to do with the absolute most important component of the entire marital day.  The Dress.


Me: Can you pick up condoms for me?

J: Sure!  No.  Problem.

This J is the same J I went shopping for vibrating cock rings with for my friend C's recent bachelorette party, so I knew she had this "in the bag."

Now you may be saying, condoms?  But you're getting married?

And to that I say, wow, you really catch on quick don't ya?  I wonder what gave away the fact I was getting married.  That tomorrow was my wedding day?  That I mentioned flowers, a photographer and The Dress?  Those were all really tough clues. I could have been talking about anything.  I bet you graduated top of your class didn't you?  Well, good for you!

Seriously.  Good.  For.  You.

Okay, seriously for serious this time.  The condoms were a back up plan.  A-just-in-case-all-other-forms-of-birth-control-fail plan.  You see, I'm not on the pill.  Never have been, probably never will be.  Me and pills?  We don't get along.  Also?  I have serious issues that prevent me from taking the pill.  Namely?  Extreme amounts of paranoia.

I was prescribed the pill, cuz as any good gyno would do, mine didn't discuss any of my options, any other forms of birth control and reached into a closet, shoved a box of pills at me and wrote me a prescription for more.

Now allow me to say, I was very excited to have these BIRTH CONTROL PILLS, because for some reason, I was under the impression they would make my boobs bigger.  Like way bigger.  I'm talking several cup sizes bigger.  I was literally counting down the days until I was to take my first pill and let the magic happen.

Don't get me wrong.  I have great boobs.  I love my boobs.  I love them so much that some days I sit in front of the mirror naked and just stare at them.  But you know how sometimes you're eating chocolate and you're like, "Wow, this chocolate is really good. I wish I had more chocolate."  That's kinda how I view my boobs.  More is better.

This should be the most embarrassing part of the story, because you guys, I was twenty-two when I thought this.  TWENTY.  TWO.  And I thought I could take a pill and I would magically have giant boobs.  How embarrassing.  No, really.  HOW. EMBARRASSING.

But the story does not end there.

The night I was supposed to take the pill, I pulled out the pamphlet and read about all the potential side effects of taking The Birth Control pill, because I am nothing if not informed paranoid.  I read about possible stroke, heart attack, spontaneous combustion.  All these things seemed like reasonable risks to me.  And then.

I read about.


For those of you who don't know, Melasma is a tan or dark discoloration on your face.


You want me to take a pill that could cause dark splotches on my face?  Are you out of your effing mind?  Anything that messes with my looks, I don't do.  Why?  Because I'm so vain, I do think this song is about me.

After calling my friend A in a total panic, who, though valiantly she tried, could not convince me that this was a minimal risk, I went back to my doctor and demanded another form of birth control.  I won't get into what that form was (because I'm saving it for another post), but I was very happy with my choice.


The husband and I?  Don't want kids.  Probably never ever, but maybe one day we'll change our minds.  But a honeymoon baby?  Was definitely not in our plans.  So not only did we decide to use the birth control method prescribed by my gyno, we decided to combine it with like, fourteen other methods (none of which involved hormones, btw), hence the midnight call to my friend, J.

Now in order to understand the embarrassing moment in which I am about to describe you must understand something about me.  I have never bought condoms.  I will never buy condoms.  Why?  Because buying condoms is the most embarrassing thing in the world to me.

I can buy spermicide.  I can buy vibrating cock rings.  I can buy lingerie.  And every sex toy ever created.  But condoms?  I'd rather die.

I can't explain this.  It's just a fact.  Let's accept this and move on, shall we?

Not only is my friend J one of the greatest friends on the freaking planet, she is also an overachiever.  As our all of my other friends.  So when J went to buy condoms, she took two of my other bridesmaids with her and they didn't buy one box of condoms.  They didn't buy two boxes of condoms.  They bought...


Pink condoms.  Purple condoms.  Glow in the dark condoms.  Condoms with flashing lights.  Condoms with reindeer antlers and jingle bells, like those tacky headbands at Christmas.  Condoms with pre-recorded messages.  Condoms with record-your-own-love-making-message message.  Condoms that sang.  Condoms that changed colors.  Condoms shaped like bunny rabbits.

Seriously, you guys.  I had to sit on my suitcase in order to close it cuz of all the damn condoms.

I don't care how much you love sex, one couple could not use this many condoms if they were married 427 years.  But the husband and I?  Are never ones to back down from a challenge.

As soon as we got to our resort in Jamaica we broke those puppies out.  Now, I don't think we ever actually used one for doin the dirty-dirty - they were just a back up plan remember? -  but we were determined to get some use of out them. So...

We made balloon animals.

We blew them up, hit them up in the air and played the don't-let-the-balloon-hit-the-ground game.

We filled them with water, stood on our balcony and threw them at passerbys.

We used them as flotation devices in the pool.

We tied them together, went to the roof of our hotel and used them to scale down the side of the building.

We devoted two hours of every day of our honeymoon to condom creativity time, but at the end of the week?  We still had a shitload of condoms.

The night before we left to travel back home to the real world, I carelessly threw all my crap in my suitcase.  The last thing I threw in and scattered all across the top, like wildflowers in a field, were the condoms.

For those of you who haven't been to Jamaica, they take security very seriously there.  Those x-ray machines we have in the states?  Psht.  For amateurs.  In Jamaica they employ the dirty-perv-open-your-luggage-and-rifle-through-your-stuff-while-everyone-in-the-airport-watches method.

I waited in line and watched with growing dread as person after person had their suitcase thrown on a folding table, opened, and the contents tossed about in full view of everyone.  I looked around nervously for somewhere to run, somewhere to hide.  I seriously considered taking my suitcase and running like a crazy person through the line, where I probably would have been tackled and thrown in jail, but who cares?  My suitcase, exploding with condoms, was about to be opened for the entire airport to see.

I began to sweat.  I began to mutter to myself.  I nudged the husband, but he, of course, had no clue what I was trying to communicate.  And even if he did, it wouldn't change anything.  Even if the condoms weren't proudly sitting on top of all my clothes, my lingerie, the pervy mcperve guy up ahead was rifling through everything in the suitcases, tossing the contents about like a juggler making sure everyone had a spectacular view of tennis shoes, t-shirts and condoms  Oh My! 

Finally, it was our turn.  My suitcase was tossed onto the table.  I tried to look away.  Tried to pretend I didn't notice what the airport was about to see.  Tried to pretend I didn't give a shit.  But then the suitcase was opened, and the condoms came spilling out, like a Mt. Vesuvius eruption of rubber, bright colors and sex, and Pervy McPerverson continued digging through the condoms and the lingerie and gave the husband this look like the two of them shared this dirty secret while everyone else in the entire airport looked on with horror.  Mothers covered their children's eyes.  Old ladies pulled out their glasses for a better look.  Husbands started dry-humping their wives.

As for me? 

I fell through the floor and died.

The.  End.

So there you have it!  My most embarrassing moment.  That wasn't too bad, was it?  What is your most embarrassing moment?  Tell us.  Don't be shy.  Did you pee your pants in public?  Poop your pants at your high school graduation?  Did your grandmother catch you doing the dirty-dirty with your man?  With yourself?  Or was it some other horrifically awesome moment I can't even fathom? 

Link up and tell all!  Inquiring minds want to know.  And don't forget to grab the damn button.  It took more effort and people and planning to create that thing than it did rescuing those 33 Chilean men trapped in that mine.

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Sunday, July 17, 2011

Let's Get Ready to Rumble!!!!

It's almost time for the Most Embarrassing Moment linkup!  YAY!!!!

I'm hosting my first linkup tomorrow, July 18th.  You have no idea what I've gone through in order to be able to do this so YOU BETTER LINK UP!

Woah, sorry for the yelling.  Another cockroach was making its way toward my vagina.


Oh, you must not be on twitter.  Yeah, the husband goes out of town and I'm left behind to battle bugs and a ghost.

The good news?  My vagina now has super powers.  

Confused? It's really not important.  What is important is that there's only TWELVE MORE HOURS UNTIL THE LINKUP! 

Or eleven, depending on when you're reading this. Or ten.  Or nine.  Or eight.


Are you guys excited?  The tap dancing penguin is excited.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Sweet Surrender

I took a few weeks off, but I'm excited to be linking back up with Romantic Friday Writers.  This week's prompt was Surrender.  I instantly thought of one of my favorite songs: That Summer by Garth Brooks. Talk about surrender!
  I was only 15 words over the 400 word limit. Win!
Don't forget that I'm hosting a linky on July 18th: Your Most Embarrassing Moment

Sweet Surrender

She shouldn't have come here.  She was fifteen years his senior.  Twenty if she was being honest. 

She gnawed her lip and ran a hand over her shirt, but like the wrinkles on her face, the lines stayed in place.

She rang the bell and sucked in her breath.  He opened the door and she forgot all about the ceramic bowl clutched between her white-knuckled hands and her fabricated reason for being there.  He was shirtless. Jeans that looked older than he was and as worn as she felt, rested low on his hips.  Her eyes traveled down his hard torso.  She hadn't seen a body like his since, well, since she'd watched him mow the lawn from her kitchen window that afternoon.  But that was from twenty yards away, at least.  Seeing him up close and personal was a full-blown assault to her senses. 


She jerked her head up.

"Everything okay?"

She nodded.

"Want to come in?"


She stepped inside and he closed the door behind her.

"Want a beer?"


She followed him to the kitchen taking in the distinctly male surroundings. Magazines were splayed haphazardly on a makeshift coffee table of milk crates and plywood.  Clothes were tossed over the backs of chairs.  He'd moved in four weeks ago, but boxes still lined the hallways and filled the corners.

He grabbed two Bud Lights from the fridge, twisted off the caps and took a step toward her, bottle extended.

She remembered the bowl between her hands and thrust it forward.  "Sugar.  I need sugar.  For a cup...a cake, a cupcake cake.  It's a cake made you have any?"

He set the beers on the tiled island and walked toward her.  She stepped back.  One step and then another until she smacked into the counter behind her.

He stopped inches from her and reached into the cabinet above her.  Eye level with his chest she studied his smooth bronzed skin and breathed him in, a heady mixture of soap, grass and sweat.

He retrieved an unopened bag of sugar.  "Is this what you came here for?"

"Yes," she whispered without looking at him.

He set the sugar on the counter and tipped her head up with a finger beneath her chin.  "Or was it this?" he asked, lowering his head.  As soon as his lips touched hers, she forgot about the sugar and the years that separated them.  She emptied her mind of all thought and surrendered to his kiss.

Okay, I probably shouldn't say this cuz it will sound like I'm making fun of my own story, which is really quite fabulous, but I wrote it a few days ago, and ever since then I've been cracking up.  I go around my house picking up random objects saying to absolutely no one in this silky wanton, possibly slightly lispy voice, "is this what you came for.  or was it this?"  Cracks me up every time and I love it!

Don't forget about the linky on Monday!  Your most embarrassing moment.  Write it!  Share it!

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Furiously Happy

Those of you who read The Bloggess, which I'm sure is all of you, and if not, hello?  Where have you been?  The Bloggess is the bees knees of the blogging world.  Well, actually she's more like the giant metal chicken and the massive stuffed boar's head of the blogging world, and while both of those things are as awesome as all the other awesome things in the world combined, today, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to talk about being furiously happy.

Just so we're clear, Furiously Happy is a Jenny aka The Bloggess' phrase, not mine.  Not that I wouldn't want to claim it as my own, I just believe in giving props where props are due.

Occasionally, or maybe all the time, I blog about my anxiety.  Usually in a joking funny way.  Because as my friend Jen once said to me, "if I don't laugh, I'll cry," and I can honestly say that's the best damn advice anyone's ever given me.  Not that she was giving me advice when she said it, but oh you know what I mean.

While the anxiety sucks big fat ones, you know what sucks even bigger, fatter ones?  Depression.  I don't think I've ever blogged about it.  Because honestly, it's really hard to find the funny in depression.  When I'm depressed, I don't write.  In fact, I don't do much other than hate myself times a thousand.

I feel like I spend half of my life depressed and the other half anxious.  That doesn't leave much room for happy, cuz I'm not a math genius or anything but I'm pretty sure one half plus one half equals one whole, despite what a former boss of mine who does not understand percentages at all may think.

Anyhoudini, The Bloggess also suffers from anxiety and depression and a whole bunch of other really bad shit.  And you know what?  So do a bunch of other bloggers.  Perhaps it's why we blog.  In fact, awhile ago I did a post about why I write and ended by asking all of you why you write.  The husband, who stalks my blog real hard core like (thanks honey) said to me, "apparently everyone writes to keep from going bat-shit crazy."  Exactly.  Your comments made me love you all even more than I already do.  And I didn't even know that was possible.

I've recently gone through a very bad bout of depression.  Like REAL bad.  Like me laying in bed and the husband holding me and telling me to stay with him.  Those of you with depression or living with someone who suffers from depression know exactly what he meant by that.

The point is, I recently watched The Bloggess' speech at a Mormon convention and, after igniting the zombie apocalypse she talked about being furiously happy, and how, even though sometimes we are knee-deep in shit, we still deserve to be happy, which may or may not involving tazing other people.

While watching it, I was all, "Right on like donkey kong!" and started thinking about the things that make me Furiously Happy and decided to make a list of Things That Make Me Furiously Happy, because lists?  Complete me.

Things That Make Me Furiously Happy

1. The husband.  You know that feeling when you've just put clean sheets on your bed, and they're warm from the dryer and you just got out of the shower and you jump in bed and roll around and it feels so good?  That's how the husband makes me feel.  And that feeling makes me furiously happy.

2.  My puppies, who are actually not puppies but full blown dogs, but all dogs are puppies to me.  Every day, EVERY DAY, when I get home they are waiting at the door and greet me with the happiest faces a person has ever seen.  It's hard not to be furiously happy when another being is that happy to see you.

3. Christmas.  Actually October - December are the greatest months of my life.  Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas, the trifecta of holiday awesomeness.  The decorations, the parties, the food, the family time, the smells, that feeling in the air.  It's heaven.

4. Having arms. Seriously.  I recently saw this show about these albinos in Tanzania (I think - I would look it up, but doing research does not make me furiously happy).  Apparently Tanzanians think albinos have magic powers and they cut off their arms to somehow possess their magic.  Watching this of course made me feel like a giant whiny shithead, because honestly, is my life really that bad?  That woman has no f*cking arms, and she is happy and forgiving and not drowning in woe.  Although I can't choose not to be depressed, I can choose to be furiously happy about having arms.  And so I am.

5. My Moma.  I don't mean to say that my other parents don't make me furiously happy.  My stepdad is the reason I know how to play poker, won an eleven person Texas Hold'Em tournament in college, can clean up at a blackjack table, know how to throw a football, and have an insane passion for the game of football, all of which make me furiously happy.  And my dad taught me how to laugh at myself.  Which is honestly one of the greatest gifts I've ever been given.  But my Moma?  She's the other pea in my pod.  The yin to my yang.  My partner in crime.  The person I sock skate across the kitchen floor with.  My best friend.  And I know I'm lucky to have a mom like that, cuz a lot of people don't.

You know what's great about making a furiously happy list?  Once you start listing, you start thinking of more and more things that make you furiously happy.  And thinking of those things makes you more furiously happy.  And that?  Is a very good thing.

So my darlings, what makes you furiously happy?

I'm hosting a linky link on Monday, July 18th!  WOOTY WOOT WOOT!  Topic: Your most embarrassing moment. 

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Go Away Morning People

Wednesday has quickly become one of my most favorite days of the week.  Not because of all the humping but because it's WTF Wednesdays!

Before we get to today's post, I have a very exciting announcement...

I am going to host a linky link ba-dink a link! (sort of like a honky tonk ba-donk a donk except with less country music.) I hope no one thinks I'm trying to take advantage of another linky by whoring my own.  I'm not.  I just really wanted to announce my linky today, which happens to be Wednesday, a day I really enjoy participating in the WTF linky.  You know what, if anyone does think I'm shamelessly whoring, WTF ever.  My body!  My choice!  Or something like that.

I suppose I should say I'll be hosting my very first linky, assuming I can figure out how to install the Linky Tool. And you know what they say about assumptions - they make everyone look like an ass.

The topic of the linky? Your Most Embarrassing Moment. Because those incidents that cause us to hide under the table, haunt our thoughts in those final moments before sleep and make us want to bash our heads against a wall to induce amnesia should be forever immortalized on the internets.

When is the linky taking place? Monday, July 18th. So start thinking, start writing, tell EVERYONE you know, and link up next week!

Crap. This means I'm going to have to figure out how to create a badge, doesn't it. Oh technology, why doth thou hatest me!

Onward to today's post!

WTF is up with having to go to work?  Sure it's nice being able to afford food, and toilet paper, but WHY T.F. do I have to start earning those things at the ungodly hour of any-time-before-noon-o-clock?  WHYYY????

FURTHERMORE, WTF is up with morning people?  Because there are ten of us doing the job of hundreds, I just saw you clowns no less than four hours ago.  Is it really necessary to be all, "hello! good morning! howdie doody!"  HELL NO!  And Ex-cuuuuse me for not responding with a chipper, "top o' the marnin' to ya!"  Unlike you, I don't fart glitter and poop rainbows in the morning, so get the EFF outta my way until I've had least eighteen cups of coffee.  Better yet, just get the EFF outta my way, period.

While we're talking about morning people, WTF is up with them calling me at six o' clock in the A.M. and being completely shocked, and a little condescending might I add, that I haven't been up for hours bouncing around my house like a schizophrenic squirrel on crack. 

"You're still asleep?!"

Still asleep?  I had just managed to dose of before you so rudely called me and told me something that could positively not wait until several hours from now.  Something involving you crocheting a tiny hat for your stuffed giraffe that you won at the county fair where Bobby McSloberton tried to kiss you but then you were rescued by Frankie McSpankypants who was your first kiss, but he didn't kiss you that night cuz how unromantic would that be, he waited six weeks and you positively thought you were going to die and...WTF ever.  I'm going to sleep. 

Do you see me calling you at 2:00 a.m. and being all, "You're in bed?  What a lazy piece of monkey poo you are!  Speaking of poo, do you have your phone nearby cuz I'm going to text you a picture of my latest bowel movement and I dare you to tell me it isn't shaped like a heart. You and me, Best Friends Forever ever."

No, I do not do that.  It's called consideration, people.  And by the way, I would never text a picture of poo to you, I'd send it to your email with the subject To You, From Me, With Love.  And I'd most likely draw a picture of cupid shooting an arrow through it, or maybe add chains like it's a locket we could wear around our necks, but there's only one so I'd have to...

WTF? Am I honestly talking about poo locket necklaces?  Do you see what you've done morning people?!  If I lose followers over this, there will be HELL to pay!

Speaking of people who are out of their damn minds, WTF is up with morning people who exercise?  Why hasn't the government done something about this?  Clearly these people are aliens.  I recommend we strap them to a chair, stuff their faces with Twinkies and send their asses back to Uranus.  Get it?  Your Anus?

Hahahaha!  Fine, it's not that funny.  But I'm writing this at 10:00 a.m., four hours before my ideal wake up time.  WTF do you expect?

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

John and Darcy, Chapter Three

It's time for another installment of your favorite angst-ridden teens, John and Darcy.  If you want to get caught up or need a refresher on where we left off, click here.  If you're new here and are all, the hell?  Angsty teenagers?  I'm here for the snark and the sarcasm and the hilarity, then click here or here or here.

Chapter Three
John checked his watch.  He’d been waiting almost an hour.

Did she come here every night, or only when things were bad enough to warrant the bottle?

Would she be happy to see him? 

Why did he care?

He toyed with his watch.  Took his hat off and put in on backwards.  He refused to look over his shoulder.

The guys were at Greg’s tonight, continuing the celebration of last night’s win.  He’d made up an excuse for not hanging with them, something about promising to spend time with his younger sister.

They’d given him shit which would, no doubt, continue for weeks.  But he’d take it.  Because wherever the “the guys” were, so were “the girls.”  And “the girls” included Lauren.

He couldn’t go through that again.  The scene at last night’s post-game party had been more than he could handle.  On a regular day, Lauren could hurl the insults like nobody’s business, but when she was drunk and had an audience, there was no stopping her.  They came fast and furious and nothing was off limits.

He checked his watch again.  Three minutes had passed.

John wasn’t sure how he’d ended up at the dock.  He had been driving around town and before he knew it, the Peterson’s house had come into view.  He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t immediately hoped she’d be here.  He wasn’t sure why though.  Up until a week ago, he’d never said a word to her, barely knew she existed.  Hell, he didn’t even know her last name.  But the two conversations he’d had with her, were the closest he’d come to anything real in a long time.


I listened to their chatter and their giggling – Mandy’s full and robust, Annabeth’s like a smurf on helium – and but was unable to join in.

I was happy for Annabeth that she finally had a boyfriend.  Adam Glynn was, by her own admission, a giant band geek, but a giant band geek that made her feel happy all over.

Mandy made some crack about things feeling happy between the sheets and Annabeth’s cheeks grew pink.  She grabbed the nearest stuffed animal, a pink and purple Rainbow Brite atrocity, and heaved it at Mandy.  The two of them erupted in laughter, but all I could manage was a half-hearted smile.

The three of us were on Annabeth’s bed, she and Mandy stretched out at the bottom while I sat against the headboard.  My limp brown hair, pale skin, ripped-at-the-knee jeans, and skull and crossbones t-shirt were a sharp contrast to the ruffled pillows and doe-eyed stuffed animals surrounding me.

Being in Annabeth’s room was like taking a step back in time.  To an age of Barbie dolls and sidewalk chalk and backyard sprinkler dancing.  An age of innocence, hope and abandon.  An age that, for me, had ended before it had even begun.

“I’m so excited I finally have a date for Homecoming,” Annabeth squealed, jumping on the bed and sending popcorn flying.

“Now all we have to do is find Darcy a date and we’ll be set.”  Mandy deftly got up from the bed and walked to Annabeth’s dresser.  Looking in the mirror, she gathered her auburn hair in her arms and let it fall back around her shoulders like a silk curtain.

“Yeah,” I snorted.  “Good one.  Date or no date, you know I don’t do Homecoming.

“Come on,” Annabeth bounced.  “It’ll be fun.  We can get a limo, some champagne, and…”

“Condoms,” Mandy finished wiggling her eyebrows in the mirror.

Annabeth rolled her eyes.  “Don’t listen to her.  Just ‘cause she’s a whore, doesn’t mean we have to be.”

Mandy stopped admiring her perfectly arched eyebrows and whirled around.  “I am not a whore.”  She bent to retrieve a giant stuffed Hello Kitty head and flung it at Annabeth.  Missing by a mile, it flew past her and crashed into the lamp on the bed-stand, knocking it and two daisy-piped picture frames over.

A small laugh managed to escape my lips.

“Good job,” Annabeth said.

“Thanks.”  Mandy popped a piece of gum in her mouth and turned back to the mirror, cranking up the volume on Annabeth’s  ipod as the Black Eyed Peas told us they had a feeling tonight was going to be a good night.

“Have you picked your dress out yet?” Annabeth's blond ringlets bounced with the beat.

Mandy lined her lips with a shade of red few could get away with and smacked them together.  “I’ve narrowed it down to two.”  She touched up her blush, added another coat of mascara and in a matter of minutes had gone from beautiful to stunning.

Of the tree of us, she was by far the prettiest.  She wasn’t a plastic beauty like the Lauren’s of the world; her looks were classic and genuine and she had a personality to match.  The combination was a rare high school phenomenon and probably the reason is she was the only person I knew who had been able to cross the clique barrier.  Her boyfriend was Scott Callahan, the Wolverines star pitcher.  They’d been together for two years, which made Mandy equally accepted by the jocks as she was the brains and the Goths, the drama freaks and the band geeks.

But her home was with Annabeth and me.  Since second grade it’d been the three of us: Annabeth, Mandy and Darcy – the blond, the redhead and the brunette.  Nobody’s Angels.

“The purple strapless one and the yellow backless one?” Annabeth asked.

“Yeah.”  Mandy frowned and plopped back on the bed.  “But I’m kinda thinking of going shopping again.”

“You just said you’d narrowed it down!”

“Yeah, well, you know me.”

I listened to their conversation and tried to participate, but I didn’t have much to contribute.  Their topic quickly changed from Homecoming to the best make out spots in Linley County.  As they discussed different kissing techniques, debated the definition of third base and listed the pros and cons of back seat versus front seat making out, my thoughts began to wonder.

I tried to push them out.  Tried to focus on Mandy’s story about the one time she and Scott almost got caught at the abandoned house on Baker Street.

But as hard as I tried and as much as I didn’t want to think about him, I couldn’t get John Campbell out of my head.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Magical Is *Not* The Word That Comes To Mind

Well, another Wine-And-Sex-A-Palooza has come and gone.  It was as awesome and informational as usual and I probably have enough material for ten blog posts.  But let’s start with one and see where it goes.

We took a trip down memory lane, with talks of how much we love bike riding, our comfy pillows and one giant-ass leopard.  If you suspect that there is hidden meaning in those things, you are correct, but some aspects of Wine-And-Sex-A-Palooza are sacred, contrary to the un-sacredness of the shenanigans of HomoErotic Fest 2011.  As I told the husband before he left, “what happens at Guys Golf Weekend, ends up on my blog.”

Of course they're all very tight-lipped about the whole weekend.  Which is just fine.  If I don't know what really happened, I'll just make it up!

Fortunately for the guys, I have bigger fish to fry - like that asshat at the restaurant - so (for now) they get a reprieve.  You're welcome.

To kick the night off good and proper, six lovely ladies and three lovely children, ages one year to 18 months, ventured to a fine restaurant where we were greeted by a waiter who apparently takes his job of Captain of the Douche Canoe Squad very seriously and was all, “our dinners range from $20- $55.”

Pretty sure not one of us asked, but thanks for the information Captain Small Dick.  And what exactly are you implying?  That we can’t afford to eat here?  These jeans may be from Target and this shirt may be from Dollar Days at Goodwill, but this purse?  Costs a shit-ton of money. Never mind the fact that it was a gift.  And these shoes?  The ones with the pointy heels perfect for stomping on your teeny tiny testicles, were like $80 whole dollars.  From Ann Taylor.  And that Ann Taylor lady?  She’s one bad-ass motherlover, so get ready to kiss your balls good-bye.

Perhaps you were implying that we didn’t have the required equipment to eat here, like a giant stick lodged up our asses and a nose that thinks your shit don’t stink.

Well guess what, it does stink.  And also, you may want to up the Prozac, cuz screaming at us in the pouring rain while we tried to get our babes in the car to, “get the f*ck away from my car, that’s my car!” and then staring at us unblinkingly from the restaurant window as we drove away, makes you look totally not psychotic.

We ended up at Chili’s where good times ensued.  And by good times, I mean the kiddos may or may not have vocally expressed how pissed they were to have been turned down from Restaurant de Douche.  And they had every right to pissed.  Discrimination is not cool, people.  I only wished we had stayed at Restaurant de Douche, cuz the mess under the table was epic.  My friend T’s son was all, “Mom, I really appreciate how you cut up that broccoli into tiny pieces so I wouldn’t choke and I loved how you let it cool so I wouldn’t burn my little baby tongue and it tastes good, really it does, but you know what would be even more fun than eating it?  Throwing it on the floor.  Seriously, mom, it’s a riot.  You should try it!”

By the time we left, the floor was a smorgasbord of broccoli, rice, beans, and bread.  I would have loved to have seen Senor Asshat clean that up when we left.  Hell, I would have joined in on the fun.  “This burger looks good on my plate, but you know where it would look even better?  On the floor!  Clean it up bitch while I go key your car.”

And for all those judgey asshats who are all, “it’s not cool to let your kids throw food on the floor and I can’t stand it when kids scream in restaurants,” send me your address so I can come over and punch you in the throat.

I don’t particularly enjoy listening to shrieks at decibels only meant for dogs’ ears, but guess what?  Those babies aren’t intentionally trying to f*ck up your dinner.  They’re babies. Sometimes they cry.  Personally, I would love to return to the days of “it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.”  What I wouldn’t give for a good temper tantrum every now and again freaking day.  And those parents with the shrieking babies?  They’re doing the best they can.  So instead of shooting them dirty looks, give them a smile, a thumbs up, an “it’s okay."  Buy them a drink.

Okay, stepping down from my soap-box now.

The moms put the babes to bed when we got home and then we popped open the wine.  And don’t worry, we had a designated sober person in case there were any baby emergencies.  In fact, the overall why-did-I-take-that-sixteenth-shot-hold-my-hair-while-I-vomit-please was kept to a minimum.

A good portion of the evening was spent with the three moms educating the rest of us on the joys of pregnancies and child-birth.  Those of us sans-babies listened with wide-eyed horror while clutching our vaginas to prevent our uteruses (uteri?) from spontaneously falling on the floor whilst exclaiming, “mucus plugs, hemorrhoids and rectal rockets?  Yes please!”  And by "yes please" we meant OMGPleaseNeverLetABabyInvadeMyUterus.

Ja told us about the time she went to a party and one girl tried to convince her of the splendor and magic of the male ejaculate.

Um what?

Listen lady, I don't know what demented Freudian cult you matriculated from, but get thee back there.  Cuz this is the real world.  And in the real world there is nothing magical about semen.    Disney World is magical.  Chocolate martinis are magical.  A good hair day is magical.  But semen?  It's the anti magic.

That would make a good banner for Prom Night.

I would say I've digressed, but honestly.  This is pretty much how the night progressed.  One minute we were talking semen, the next we're demonstrating the best way to 'do it' in the shower.  Warning: bracing yourself against the glass enclosure is not advised.

We discussed favorite positions, craziest places we'd done it, craziest places we wished we'd done it, boobs, mirrors - oh the mirrors - ate 14 dozen cookies, consumed 16 bags of Doritos and drank twelveteen glasses of wine.

In conclusion: Wine-And-Sex-A-Palooza?  Was BIG success.