Monday, December 28, 2009
One trend I have noticed is a lot of blogs having certain themes for certain days of the week. For example, Batcrap Crazy has a day she devotes to posting little, yellow post-it notes (which are really funny!). Katie's Corner now has a Wordless Wednesday, where she will now post only images or pictures instead of writing something. Speaking From The Crib (SFTC) has a lot of different themes devoted to different days or weeks of the month as well.
So this got me to wondering if I should come up with a theme and devote it to a certain day of the week or month. Maybe I could do something in honor of my unexpected periods. Perhaps I could follow alongside Katie's idea and just post a picture of my blood-stained underwear each time it happens.
I was thinking I could have a "Kill The Teenager" day, but that would be almost every day and it would be filled with way too many cuss words.(BTW...my teenage daughter knows EVERYTHING! It's true! Every time I say something to her, she says, "I know, Mom!" Even before I finish my sentence, she knows! It's fricken amazing! WINK! WINK!)
Of course, I do my best to post a blog each month when I'm PMSing, which basically could be considered "Bash the Husband" day, which is always fun (for me at least).
Anyway, just thought I'd pass along my random thoughts and observations today. I'm going to go back to my "jingle blogging" now. Perhaps I will find another great idea I can steal...I mean, borrow and give credit for.
Friday, December 25, 2009
This is how things went down...
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Each child steered clear of me, even my spouse.
The stockings were hung, but no chocolates inside,
So I yanked them all down, and threw them aside.
The children were frightened as they ran off to bed,
And my husband was thinking, he’d be better off dead.
Yes, me and my hormones, we were raging like mad,
I was bloated and moody, my PMS was quite bad.
Suddenly, outside, I heard such a noise,
So I rose from my bed, thinking, “Damn neighborhood boys!”
I stomped out of the room, annoyed out of my mind,
Went to the window and flung open the blinds.
With the street lights shining my front yard all aglow,
I started to get pissed when I saw down below.
There on my lawn, to my angry eyes did appear,
A huge-ass sleigh attached to eight F’ing reindeer,
With a big, fat old driver, so large and so thick,
I knew it was Santa, that stupid prick!
Faster than a mood swing, my anger grew,
And I cursed and shouted every bad word that I knew.
"Damn it, Santa! You dumb-ass! You F’ing nitwit!
Get the hell off my lawn! Look at all that reindeer shit!
It’s all over the porch! It’s even on the wall!
Get the hell out of here! Before I kill you all!”
As awkward as chickens when forced to fly,
Like fumbling idiots through the sky,
To the rooftop of my house the reindeer flew,
With that huge-ass sleigh, and Santa’s fat butt too.
Like a circus of elephants, I heard on the roof,
The damaging of roof tiles from each clumsy hoof.
As I thought how my insurance would never pay for that claim,
Down the chimney, that hairy bastard came.
Santa was filthy from his head to his toes,
With ash and reindeer poop all over his clothes.
He had a huge dirty bag, which he dumped on my clean floor,
And that got my hormones raging even worse than before.
When Santa’s eyes met mine, he knew I was not merry,
He could see I was pissed and my nostrils were flaring.
He gave me a smile and said, “Ho, ho, ho!”
And I said, “What did you just call me?” and he said, “Uh-oh.”
He tried to explain that he did not mean it that way,
But I told him to zip it, and not another word did he say.
“Did you bring me the ugly maid I asked for this year?”
When he shook his head no, I said, “Then you stay right here!”
I ran to my closet in a speedy, mad dash,
And returned back to Santa as quick as a flash.
“Here, put this on!” I said with demand.
And like a child in trouble, Santa obeyed my command.
There Santa stood, in my pink apron with white frill,
On the front it said, ”Put your big girl panties on and deal!”
I then put Santa to work, with a broom and a mop,
Then scolded, “Not until the floor shines, do you get to stop!”
Santa swept and mopped until he’d satisfied my wishes,
But when he was done, I pointed to the sink full of dishes.
After he scrubbed and rinsed them, I handed him a towel,
“Now dry and put them away, damn it,” I said with a scowl.
After Santa carefully dried and put the dishes away,
He asked me politely, “May I go back to my sleigh? ”
I looked into his begging eyes, as innocent as a pup,
“Nope, not yet, you’ve got reindeer shit to clean up!”
As I stood at the door watching Santa clean the lawn,
My husband appeared beside me with a big sleepy yawn.
He asked, “Is that the ugly maid you asked Santa for?”
“No, that’s Santa,” I answered, and he said nothing more.
When Santa was done cleaning up all of the crap,
His face beamed with joy when I started to clap.
But his joy soon vanished and he became filled with despair,
When he heard me tell my husband, “Go get the ladder…he’s got a
roof to repair.”
Santa gave my husband a look, then up the ladder he did go,
And my husband quietly whispered, “I know, Santa. I know.”
I glared at my husband, ready to break off his weenie,
When he eagerly said, “Let me go make you a chocolate martini!”
As Santa fixed every tile his reindeer did break,
The noise from it all caused the children to wake.
At the bottom of the stairs all three did appear,
All ready to ask me if Santa was here.
Right at that moment, Santa walked through the door,
“I’m done with the roof. Is there anything more?”
I downed my second martini and gave Santa a wink,
“Actually, yes, there is…you can make me another drink.”
Santa mixed the vodka, Baileys, and Godiva liqueur,
The perfect ingredients for a PMS cure.
Santa handed me my drink and I took a sip,
As I eyed him up and down, with my hand on my hip.
“No too shabby,” I said with a smirk,
“I think this chocolate martini will be the last of your work.”
As Santa moved swiftly towards the door,
The kids asked, “What about the big bag of gifts on the floor?”
“Just keep it, ” he said, “take every gift in the sack.
Because after tonight, I doubt I’ll ever come back.”
Before I knew it, Santa was gone,
So I stumbled out front and watched from the lawn.
Up the ladder he scrammed, back to his sleigh,
And he and his reindeer began flying away.
As I staggered around, waving goodbye,
I hollered out loud, up into the sky.
"Merry Easter, Santa! Have a good life!
And make sure to mention my blog to your wife!”
Thursday, December 17, 2009
I know it has been awhile since you’ve heard from me. Gosh, I think the last letter I wrote to you was sometime back in the 1970s. I guess that’s just because over the years, I’ve learned a thing or two about the whole “Santa” thing and know that not everything my parents told me about you when I was a kid is true. That’s what comes with being a celebrity, I guess. There’s always going to be gossip and false rumors floating around about you.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t still believe in you. I remember sitting on your lap that one year when you made an appearance at Sears, and how you knew my name without me telling you. You also brought me that Barbie camper I wanted so much when I was eight, and when I sent you a letter with my Christmas list when I was nine, you brought me the Donny & Marie dolls I asked for.
So, in case you’re still doing the whole delivering of presents thing, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to write you a letter and let you know what I’d like for Christmas this year.
I guess the thing I want most this year is a maid. Between work, the kids, and trying to be a good wife, I just can’t seem to find the time to keep up with all the messes that get created around this house. But please know that I don’t want just any maid. She’s got to be an ugly one. I don’t care if she’s skinny or fat, short or tall, just make sure she’s nice and ugly…maybe one of her legs is shorter than the other, she has some facial hair, a few missing teeth…anything that will keep my husband from wanting to check her out and getting himself into a mess like Tiger Woods. Come to think of it, one that looks like Hillary Clinton would do just fine.
The second thing I would like is a math tutor. No, the math tutor is not for my kids, it’s actually for me, because when my kids come to me and ask for help with their math homework, I have no fricken idea what I’m doing. Between the fractions and algebra and negative integers, it all looks like hieroglyphics to me. And to think I was an “A” student when it came to math during my younger years. Well, not anymore. Somehow all those math memory files in my brain got deleted or overwritten. I guess it’s like they say, “Use it or lose it.” (Either that or all the partying I did in my 20s.)
Next on my list would be some new clothes. This is mainly due to the fact that all of my clothes keep shrinking…especially my pants. I don’t know how or why this happens, but it continues to be an issue every single year. I've tried switching detergents and fabric softeners, washing my clothes in cold water, and even leaving them out to hang dry instead of putting them in the dryer, but no matter what I do, the damn things continue to shrink. I really do think it’s the manufacturers and the materials they use. You know, a marketing ploy to force people to buy new stuff from them every year (kind of like Microsoft does with their damn operating system software). Now, I know you might be thinking that maybe it’s not my clothes, maybe it’s just “me” getting a little larger over the years, putting on a little weight. But believe me, Santa, when I say, YOU DON’T WANT TO GO THERE! Just bring me some new clothes, okay?
Since we are on the subject of clothes, there is something else I need. I’m almost embarrassed to ask, since it’s kind of personal, but you’re Santa, and my parents told me when I was younger that you see and know “everything” that I do (BTW…my apologies for what you’ve seen me do with my husband in the bedroom…and living room…and kitchen…and closet…shower, countertops, stairs…oh, yes, and those couple times in the car). So, I’ll just come right out and tell you that I need some new underwear. Now, I’m not asking for any of that expensive Victoria’s Secret stuff, because I figured out her secret a long time ago, and that would be that her fancy panties and bras are overpriced and can’t make it through the wash more than three or four times (I don’t care if the tag says I’m supposed to hand wash it in cold water with mild detergent…I don’t have time for that crap! Remember? That’s the whole reason I need a maid!) Hell, I’ve still got some period panties that I bought years ago from Walmart that have outlasted every pair of Victoria Secret panties I have ever owned. So panties and bras from Walmart will do just fine. Oh, and make sure the panties are all red. Now that I’m in my 40s, my period seems to have a mind of its own and starts whenever it feels like it, so red helps hide the stains those unexpected periods leave behind. Thanks!
Last, but not least, I would like to ask that you “actually” bring my kids their presents this year. The older they get, the more they ask for gifts that cost a fortune. Between the X-boxes, video games, iPods, cell phones, and clothes, clothes and more clothes that my teenage daughter wants, my kids are going to bankrupt me before they get old enough to move out of the house. I know you are a busy man, and you’re really old now, and you’ve got the whole weight issue and all. I’m sure you’ve got some health problems you are dealing with, maybe need a knee replacement or two. Hell, for all I know, you might be sitting in a wheelchair in the North Pole Nursing Home right now. But you’re Santa! Is it too much to ask to bring my kids some presents just one time? I’ve been covering for your ass for years now, and quite frankly, I’m getting tired of spending all this money, staying up late every Christmas eve, waiting for the damn kids to fall asleep so that I can retrieve all the presents I hide in the attic and stuff them under the tree, all with tags marked “From Santa” on them. God forbid should they find out you have not brought them any presents over the years. Do you know what that would do to their self esteem? I'm also tired of eating all those damn Christmas cookies the kids leave out for you every year. That’s not helping my thighs or my ass (remember, Santa, don’t go there when it comes to the whole “clothes” thing…my clothes are shrinking…got it?).
Well, I guess that’s about it for my Christmas list this year. There are some other things I need, like some type of software that I can install into my husband’s brain or some other body part that will make him more romantic, but I know our technology has not quite made it there yet, and you’re no miracle worker. I also need my own personal plastic surgeon, but I think I can hang on a few more years without one.
Thanks for taking the time to read my letter, Santa. I really don’t expect you to bring me everything I asked for, but if you were to bring me just one thing on my list this year, I would be thrilled. Seriously, if I wake up Christmas morning and find only an ugly maid sitting under the tree, I will cry tears of joy!
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
But don't worry, it's nothing serious. I'm going to live. I've just been busy trying to get the issue resolved so that I can go back to my normal life of working, working, working, yelling at my kids, PMSing, and giving my husband a hard time. Actually, my hubby has been such a sweetheart through all this, I don't know if I'll ever be able to get mad at him for anything again (okay, we all know that's not true, but it's a nice thought, isn't it?). In all seriousness, he truly has been the BEST hubby these past few weeks with taking care of me and everything else around here.
Now that we have that out of the way, let's get to today's post.
Have you ever sat back and thought about the things you are "really" good at? I took a moment today to do just that, and this is what I found:
1. I’m really good at being tired. In fact, I think I’m a master at this now. I am so good at being tired sometimes, I actually have to take a nap. I take my naps very seriously too. I have rules and everything. Even my kids have learned that if Mommy is sleeping, you don’t wake her unless you are bleeding or on fire.
2. My husband would probably tell you I’m really good at "leaving the dirty dishes for him to clean." But I actually would disagree with this and say that I’m really just good at "not getting around to doing the dirty dishes" myself. At least it works out well for the both of us, since he’s really good at getting around to doing them (as well as getting them nice and clean). I like to look at it as one of those opposites attract kind of things.
3. I’m also really good at telling other people what they should or should not do and why they are wrong. I really don’t mind giving advice and correcting people on the errors of their ways either. I like to look at it as my way of giving back to the world...my very own charity, if you will.
4. Another thing I’m really good at is creating piles of laundry. I have a dirty pile and a clean pile. When the dirty pile gets too big for my own liking, I wash everything. I then start building my clean pile as I unload everything from the dryer. Eventually, as I wear clothes from the clean pile, I slowly build up the dirty pile again. From there the cycle continues. It’s actually quite harmonious.
5. But the one thing I think I am really, really good at is singling out the stupid idiots in the world. I located one on the phone not long ago. I called into DirecTV because I was not able to order a Pay-Per-View movie through their online service. The lady on the phone told me she could order the movie for me over the phone but it would cost me an additional $5 for her to do so. I explained to her that it was not my fault that their online service was not working properly, so I did not think I should be charged. But she just simply told me that it would cost me an extra $5 for her to order the movie for me over the phone. I then tried using my skills in telling people what they should or should not do and why they are wrong. I once again explained that I had no choice but to call in to order the movie because their online service was not working, it was not my fault, and I should not be charged because that would be WRONG! Her answer was, "Ma'am, if you want me to order the movie for you over the phone, I will have to charge you an additional $5 to do so." So, I told the lady to forget it, let her know that she was a stupid idiot, and hung up the phone. What can I say? It’s a gift, I tell you.
Friday, November 13, 2009
I thought I’d share a few of my reminders in case some of you are also experiencing a little hormonal discord today.
Things To Remember While PMSing
1. Yes, they are “your” children. There was not a mixup at the hospital.
2. You wanted to marry him. You were not drunk, drugged, brainwashed or desperate at the time.
3. Duct tape is to be used on household items only, not on your kids, husband, cats, dogs, or the religious people that knock at your door.
4. It is illegal to sell children (yes, even on Ebay).
5. The dirty dishes go in the dishwasher, not in the trash. The trash goes in the trash bin outside, not in your neighbor's yard.
6. Your husband is not purposely trying to annoy you. Talking, eating, smiling and breathing is his normal everyday behavior.
7. You are not on a TV show that plays practical jokes on people. This really is your family and there is no hidden camera.
8. If your pants are tight, it is just normal premenstrual bloating. You are not the size of a pregnant elephant.
9. If your breasts are hurting, take some Tylenol or Motrin. This will work better than duct taping the sofa pillows over them.
10. You are not crazy, demented or possessed. You just have PMS.
Monday, November 2, 2009
It is because of my birthday that I am forced to sit in my chair today and hammer out lots of work. I would blame my hubby and Happy Hour Somewhere (Kat) for taking me out Friday night to get an early start on my birthday celebration, but we all know it was because I drank like a sailor. (Hey, the kids were at their other parent's house for the weekend and a woman needs to take her mommy hat off every now and then.)
My mom reads my blog, so I can't tell you that I woke up sometime in the early morning hours on the bathroom floor. She would probably think I need to go to AA, but in reality, it's just proof that I don't get out much and I was in need of a good time. So, I'll keep that tidbit of information to myself.
My husband also reads my blog, so I can't tell you what I did to him while parked in the driveway after we got home that night. He thinks certain things need to be kept private, so I won't mention a word about that either.
It was because of all the fun I had Friday night that my well-thought-out plans to get a lot of work done over the weekend never made it off the drawing board. So here I will sit for the rest of the day banging away at my keyboard, probably until the sun goes down. But I am prepared, as I have stocked my desk full of food and water. The only time I will have to get up is when I need to use the toilet (we are actually best buds now after Friday night).
Birthdays can be fun, but believe me when I say, I ain't 29 anymore.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
As for what he did (I had several inquiries), let's just say it was basically a case of him getting a little too big for his britches and forgetting who he married. It took a couple of days of me altering his britches, but I think they are fitting him again just fine now.
Which brings me to my subject for today's post--strong women.
Now, I'm not talking about women who can bench press a horse. I'm talking about women who have strong spirits and are strong willed. Women who know who they are and know they deserve respect. They are women who are smart, proud and confident, and rarely take crap from anyone.
You want to know how to tell if you are a strong woman? Just count how many times you've been called a bitch or at least been told you were acting like a bitch or being difficult and that will give you a clue.
It just so happens that I am one of those strong women and I must say, I am damn proud of it. One thing I am not, however, is a bitch. A bitch is a woman who is overall unhappy and unloving and goes out of her way to make everyone as miserable as herself. That is not me.
That does not mean that I am never unhappy or unloving. I am on occasion. Who the hell isn't? But I am never miserable. Overall, I love my life and I love who I am. During the times when I am unhappy or being unloving, it is usually for one of two reasons--someone has overstepped my boundaries or my crazy hormones are out of whack and I am PMSing.
What I find interesting, however, is just how quickly the man of a strong woman can categorize her as a bitch. Isn't it usually that strong side of her personality that attracted him in the first place? In the beginning, he sees her as sassy and feisty and he just has to have her, no other woman will do. But somewhere along the line, things change and he starts to see her in a very different light.
But the truth of the matter is that she is really no different than she was when he met her. The only thing that changed was the way he thinks about her. Perhaps he needs to be reminded that he chose his strong woman for a reason. Something inside him wanted her and needed her. He should not expect her to be anything but strong...even when he gets out of line.
Yes, when a strong woman fights, she fights strong. When she hurts, she hurts strong. But the most important thing a man of a strong woman needs to remember is that she also loves, and when does, she loves strong.
So here's to all you strong women out there. Be proud, be strong, and don't ever let your man mistake you for anything else.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Of course, when my PMS starts, I don't realize that PMS is actually what the problem is. Instead, I blame every little annoyance on the person annoying me. But as things start to build, there will inevitably come a moment when I am beyond annoyed and just outright seathing mad. It is usually then that I lose all sense of reasoning and rationale and I realize that the problem is not every one else. It is me and my PMS. Of course, there is always a victim, and this time around, it was my poor little son.
He had a book report due on Friday, so naturally, he waited until Thursday afternoon to finish the damn thing. He had written about two paragraphs when he was at his father's house earlier in the week, but he still had a lot more to do.
He began on the report at 4:00 p.m. after he had finished all of his other homework. There he sat, pecking away at his keyboard, working diligently. After about an hour, I asked him how he was doing, and he said he had two more paragraphs to go. Pleased with his response, I'm thinking he'll be done in no time.
But at around 6:00 p.m., two hours from when he started on his report, he was still sitting at the computer. This is when my annoyance started to set in. So I asked, "Are you done yet?"
"No, I have one more paragraph to type," he answered.
"You mean to tell me it took you an hour to type one paragraph?"
"No, I typed other stuff too."
"But you said you only had two paragraphs left to type the last time I asked you, and that was over an hour ago."
"I know, but I had some stuff I had to fix. I'm almost done."
So I left it at that and went downstairs to begin dinner. Meanwhile, my stepson is going in and out of the house, letting the door slam behind him each and every time, adding to my annoyance.
At around 6:45, I yell up the stairs to my son, "Are you done yet?" And my stepson, more than happy to tattle on his stepbrother, proudly announces, "No, he's not done yet." I look over at him and ask, "Was I talking to you?" He turns his eyes to the floor and answers, "No."
So I yell back at my son, "Evan, are you done yet?"
It is at that point that my annoyance starts to bubble over into madness. So I yell back to him, "Alright, that's it! You've got ten minutes and then you are done whether you're finished or not!"
I go back to the stove and work on dinner some more, this time keeping track of every minute that passes. After five minutes I yell up to my son, "You've got five minutes left!" I go back to stirring this and turning that, checking the clock like a crazy person.
As soon as the ten minute mark hits, I yell to my son, "Time's up!" He says something that I can't make out. But as my husband comes down the stairs, he tells me that he said he just needed two more minutes.
I stormed over to the stove and began slamming things around. After two minutes, I marched up the stairs to find my son waiting at the top of them. Very close to shoving him back into my uterus, I ask him, "Are you done?!"
"Yes, but I need your help emailing it to you so that you can print it for me."
"Jesus Christ! I just showed you how to do that yesterday! What the hell is wrong with you?" I yell.
So I go over to his computer and explain each step of the process of attaching a document to an email in a manner that did not mince any words.
I trudged over to my computer to retrieve his report and print it. As I sat there waiting for the document to open, my son quietly crept down the stairs, probably greatly relieved that he was done with his report and even more relieved that he was done with me.
But little did he know he was not done with me. In less than a minute after opening the file of his book report, I yelled, "EVAN, YOU GET YOUR ASS UP HERE RIGHT NOW!"
As quiet as a mouse, he crept back up the stairs, as if walking quietly would somehow calm the monster he was about to face. I could see that he had no idea what he had done wrong now. He stood there before me, his face full of unknowing fault and fear.
It was then that I enlightened him on the error of his ways when I asked,
"Why in the HELL did you use this stupid font?!"
Before he could answer, I started into my lecture. "This is ridiculous! I can barely read the damn thing! And if I can't read it, I know your teacher won't be able to read it! She's older than me! So I know it's going to be harder on her eyes than it is on mine! Old people like us can't read shit like this! Look at it! It's impossible to read! You mine as well have typed it in Japanese! And why is everything capitalized?! Your report is NINE frickin' pages long! That's ridiculous! You have like only five or six words on each line because of the stupid font you used! And why did you put a hard return after each damn sentence?! That makes it impossible for me to fix the stupid thing! When I try to fix it by changing the font, there are still only five or six frickin' words on each stupid line! I don't know how you can be an "A" student with crap like this! What were you thinking?!"
And on and on I went, ranting and raving about the font my son used in his book report.
Of course, my son offered to fix it, but I was not going to have any of that. My patience with him had run out and I did not think he would survive the night if it took him longer than a minute to remove all the hard returns. I just printed it off the way it was and he quietly crept away with his book report in hand and whatever lesson he learned.
By the time dinner was done, everyone in the house was annoying me, even if all they were doing was breathing. So off I went to my bedroom to watch some TV. As I sat there decompressing, it was then that I realized that I was PMSing. I mean, how more obvious could it be? I got angry at my son over a font!
Lucky for me, my son is a very sweet and forgiving young man. While I laid in bed watching TV, he came into my room and curled up in bed next to me. It was then that I told him I was sorry for yelling at him and being so grumpy. "It's okay, Mom," he answered. I hugged him tight, and as he hugged me back, I told him, "Thanks, sweetie. Just make sure you don't use that stupid font again."
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
GULP! GULP! GULP! goes down the wine.
Yes, when I started my blog, I inadvertently forgot...okay, FAILED to tell my husband. Why you ask? Well, there was really no specific reason. Just my own stupid fears about what he might think. I meant to tell him...eventually. There just seemed to never be a good time. Every time I found myself with an opportunity, I would run the dialogue through my head and it always sounded...well, STUPID. So I said nothing and my secret continued on month after month, until that day at the winery, when my friend’s BROTHER (I won’t mention his name, although it starts with a “K” and rhymes with “Kyle”) spilled the beans!
Well, to say the least, my hubbie was not happy. He didn’t even want to talk about it. He even told me he was NEVER going to read my blog because I did not tell him about it. (Of course, I'm thinking, "Okay...how old are we?")
This went on for a couple of months, until recently, while driving in the car, my husband and I somehow got on the conversation of my blog. My hubbie then asks, “So can I read your blog?” Of course, this is right after I posted the PMS anniversary story, which was the first time I had posted anything that had to do with him. So my response was, “Um...well...I guess, as long as you don’t take things too seriously. I mean...." and on and on I went, looking for a defense or a reason why maybe he shouldn’t read my blog. My husband said nothing more about it...until....
About a week or so ago, my good friend Happy Hour Somewhere came over to hang out with us for the evening. I’m sitting there sipping my glass of wine when I say to Happy Hour, right in front of my husband, “He hasn’t read my blog yet. Do you think he could handle reading it?” At that moment, my hubbie announces, “Oh, I read your blog already...just yesterday.”
GULP! GULP! GULP! goes down the wine.
The remark my husband and Happy Hour heard me say out loud was, “I thought you said you weren’t going to read it.” But the silent remark I made to myself was “OH SHIT!”
Before I could ask him what he thought, he looks me in the eye and says, “So, you think I’m a dork, huh?!”
Of course, Happy Hour starts laughing her ass off, and all I could do was backtrack.
“No, honey...I just said that "other" people might think you are a dork. I live with you though, and I’ve gotten used to that side of you. I’ve learned to love that part of you.”
(Hmmmm...looking back, I’m thinking that came out wrong.)
Well, to make a long story short, by the end of our half-joking, half-serious banter, everything turned out fine. When my hubbie and I went to bed that night, he snuggled up close to me, looked me in the eye and said, “I actually liked your blog, honey, and I think you are a very talented writer.”
Now, this doesn't mean I won't still drag him from the back of my menstrual cycle from time to time, or that he won't start a blog of his own called "I'm Married to the Bitch of Tampons & Chocolate." But I can honestly say that thanks to my wonderful husband, all my bloggy fears drifted away, and the two of us grew a giant leap closer.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Have you ever shaved the kitty? Now, I’m not talking about the one that meows and scratches up the furniture (if it does, then you need to see your doctor...soon!). No, I'm talking about the other “kitty.” Yes, that one!
Okay, now that we are on the same page.
Over the years, hairstyles have managed to work their way “south” and shaving or waxing the kitty completely bald became one of them. Well, let’s just say that somewhere in my distant past, curiosity got the best of my kitty, and I thought I’d give the bald look a try. So I took out my razor, assumed the position, and shaved away. When I was done, I walked over to the mirror and took a look. Staring back at me in the mirror was pretty much the same thing you see in that picture up there. Wrinkles and all! IT WAS HORRIFYING!
Okay, so the bald look is not for me. But like a lot of you women out there, I do have a certain style that I like to maintain. But before I reveal mine, let's take a look at some common styles, shall we?
WILD AND FREE – This style is all about being carefree and letting things grow as nature intended. It is surely a look that requires a bathing suit bottom with a skirt. If you go without one and you are a backyard sunbather, this could explain why your doorstep is littered with business cards from the neighborhood gardeners. For some of you the look works. It requires no maintenance, just wash, rinse and dry and you’re done. However, I would not recommend this look for any of you single gals who are looking for love, as most men nowadays would respond with the same look as the one on that monkey’s face the first time he sees you naked.
NEAT AND TIDY - Here, we have an example of those ladies who like to keep things nice and neat. There’s nothing fancy about it, just a simple trim here and there that shows you have an interest in your appearance. But unlike our gal in this picture, if you are going to do a dye job, I would recommend making sure the carpet matches the drapes.
SALT AND PEPPER - For those of you who are older, you may have more of a salt and pepper look going on. Some of you keep it neat and tidy, while others let things go wild and free. Either way, it’s a low maintenance style and saves the cost of expensive dyes. This is very important, because it’s usually around this time of our life when our aging kitty has to pay a visit to the doctor more often, so that extra money comes in handy.
THE HYBRID - Now, this is more like my look nowadays. Shaved in certain areas and neatly trimmed in others. It does take a little skill to get things just right, but definitely worth the effort, as this style is very bathing suit friendly and it does a great job at keeping the gardeners away.
BAD TO THE BONE - For some of you, your kitty looks a bit like this. Now, maybe the hair is not quite as long and spiky, but it's got a bit of an edge to it in more ways than one. Not everyone can pull off a look like this one, but then again, not everyone wants to. It is certainly best left for our female rebels of the world.
POTPOURRI - Last but not least, there are those who have it all going on down there. Trim, buzz, and dye, with a touch of personal flair mixed in. Sometimes I wonder if this might be how a clown looks naked. For some of you, this look is on purpose, for others it’s the result of an experiment gone wrong. Regardless, you can be rest assured that this look is no stranger than me wondering what naked clowns look like.
So there you have it. All of the various kitty styles walking around out there. Of course, if I missed something, I would love to hear about it. But no pictures, please. I was frightened enough by the sight of my own kitty when I decided to go bald. I don’t need to fry anymore scary images into my already warped brain.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Whose my stylist? The one and only “Miss Thang” herself, Mary “Rock”wood-Crabtree. You have got to check her out! Just click on the “Blog Rock” link on the bottom left of my site to pay her a visit.
I have to give a BIG shout out to Mary for all the time she put into designing my new blog site. She is one talented lady and very easy to work with. She was so very patient with me, and believe me, I was no easy client. It seemed that no matter what I asked her to do, she was willing and able. She even designed from scratch, that sassy looking lady up there in the heading. Yes, that was designed after me, and what fun it is to see yourself as a cartoon! It was like undergoing plastic surgery without the scalpel.
And check out my "Menstrual Cycle." Isn't it cool?
Mary loves what she does and as you can see, she is AWESOME! So make sure to pay her a visit at “Blog Rock” to find out what she can do for your blog. Her rates are very affordable and her talent is endless.
Thank you, Mary, for the sassy new look and for being the wonderful lady you are. You ROCK!
Monday, September 21, 2009
So here's what's sitting on my nightstand right now (and what it all means):
1. Three used wadded up tissues (I have allergies and I am obviously a slob).
2. An empty tissue box (I need more tissues).
3. Eyedrops (Again, allergies and dry eyes).
4. Seven pens (perhaps a fettish of some sort? One for each of my personalities to write with?)
5. Two issues of Psychology Today (always trying to find out what is wrong with me).
6. A small notebook (so I can take notes on what I learn when it comes to what is wrong with me).
7. Antacids (I'm getting old).
8. Reading glasses (Really OLD!).
9. Fitness books (my attempt to stay healthy and keep from looking OLD!).
10. A bottle of at least 4-day-old water (not going to stay healthy if I drink that crap).
11. Phone with the ringer turned off (the beast does not like to be awoken from her sleep).
12. A plastic ring of caps to my son's cap gun (Heck if I know...I told you there is something wrong with me!)
So what does all of that as a whole say about me? Everything I try to hide from the world, which would be that I'm a neurotic, aging slob with a drippy nose and too many pens! Oh yeah, and that I NEED TO CLEAN MY NIGHTSTAND!
I would love to hear what's on your nightstand. If anything, it might make me feel better about the huge slob I am. I'll still think there is something wrong with me, but at least it would be nice to know that I have company.
Now I'm talking strictly what's on TOP of your nightstand, ladies, not IN it. That's an ENTIRELY different jar of K-Y jelly right there. We can go into the batteries and little pink "rabbits" some other time (mine's a plug-in, by the way...ensures I have power whenever I need it). I can see my mom reading this right now and wondering, "Why does she think we keep pink rabbits in our nightstands? There's something wrong with her!"....IT'S OKAY, MOM...I'LL EXPLAIN IT TO YOU LATER!
So tell me, ladies...what is on your nightstand and what does it tell the world about you?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
The note was stuck to the toilet seat in one of our bathrooms. In addition to that one, my husband also left one on the cabinet that contains the cat foot that said, “Happy Anniversary while feeding the cats,” and another on top of the lid of the oatmeal that said, “Happy Anniversary while you eat oatmeal.”
Now, I imagine some of you are probably thinking my husband is somewhat of a dork (and you would be correct in that assessment), but I live with the man and have somehow adjusted to that quirky side of him, so to me it’s just him being him.
Despite the raging PMS side of me that wanted to write him a note of my own that read “Happy Anniversary while you fish this out of your ass,” I wasn’t so far gone yet to where I was not able to realize that all these yellow sticky notes were his way of trying to be romantic, and there was probably more to come.
That is when panic set in.
Several days prior, during an argument, I had told my husband that I did not want to do anything for our anniversary. I did not want to go to dinner, no gifts, nothing. And I meant it. But all those sticky notes made me realize that he was probably going to ignore my desire for “nothing” on our anniversary, which meant I was the only one on board with that grand idea, meaning I had no card, no gift, no nothing!
Knowing I had to act fast, I did a quick Google search to find out what the traditional gift was for a second-year anniversary. Answer—cotton. My next search was cotton gifts for men. Answer—t-shirt or some other type of cotton clothing. So with very little time, off I went to the closest store with clothes in it...Target.
Upon my arrival at Target, I headed straight to the greeting card isle. It was then that I remembered I was PMSing, because I was physically unable to finish reading the mushy love cards. Instead, I found myself hoping to find a card that said something like, “I love you even though I hate you” or “Another year….yeah me.” But there was nothing like that. Somehow the sane part of me was able to choke down my cold PMS heart long enough to select a card that actually talked about being thankful to have him in my life, blah, blah, blah.
Next, it was off to the men’s clothing department. My thought was to get him a shirt or two. They are made of cotton, right? WRONG! Every shirt that appealed to my eye and my husband’s taste was made of either polyester, spandex, nylon, or a combination thereof. When I finally did find some t-shirts made partly of cotton, they were $4.99 a shirt, made in Vietnam, and looked like they would not make it through one round in the washing machine.
I rattled my brain for ideas. A tie? No. Socks? No. Underwear? No. Something not made of cotton? Maybe. But then I backed up to the underwear idea. Underwear…yes, but sexy underwear…and not for him, for me. What man did not like his wife to dress up in sexy underwear for him? BINGO! I had it. If I was going to be a bitch, I mine as well be a sexy one.
As I marched over to the ladies apparel, I saw on display a matching black bra and panty set complete with a garter belt. As I discretely found my size in each of the garments, I checked the tags to see what they were made of. Turned out the only cotton in the entire outfit was the lining in the crotch (I kid you not!). I was not pleased, but I figured since that was the part he was going to be most interested in anyway, it would do just fine, so off to the register I went.
On the way home, I had an entire plan worked out in my head on how things were going to go down that evening. I had what I figured was 1-2 hours before my husband would get home, but I was not sure. So when I got home, I quickly threw a pork roast in the oven then sent my husband a text to inform him that I was making dinner and asked him to pick up some wine and something chocolate on his way home because I was PMSing. Not only would this tell me if he had left work yet, which is an hour drive for him, it would also buy me some time.
As I stood there waiting for his response, in less than a minute from sending my text, our dogs’ ears suddenly perked up and they went scurrying to the front door. The door opens and there is my husband. My sane side said, “DAMN IT ALL TO HELL!” My PMS side said, “CAN’T HE DO ANYTHING RIGHT?!”
He walks in and tells me he just got my text. I see he’s carrying a bag of goodies and he tells me he had already gotten a bottle of wine but would be happy to go out and get me something chocolate. That gave me time to devise plan B, which was to change into my sexy outfit while he was at the store and to be standing in the kitchen waiting for him when he got home.
So a few minutes later he leaves for the store. I run to the bedroom and start fixing myself up, touching up my hair and makeup. I then take out the outfit I bought and start ripping the price tags off. It was then that I remembered I had a cute little pink apron that said, “Put your big girl panties on and deal with it!” So I grabbed that out of the closet as well.
Like Wonder Woman, I begin changing from my average everyday clothes into my sexy outfit. First the panties, then the bra, then the stockings, then the garter…then the garter….then the…damn it…CRAP! HOW DO YOU GET THIS STUPID THING ON?!
As I fidgeted with the garter belt, I heard doggie feet scurrying across the floor downstairs along with the sound of the door open and close. He's home again. With plan B foiled, I quickly think up plan C, which is to get my ass into the bathroom as fast as I can so he doesn’t see me yet, because I’m not ready!
So I shuffled into the bathroom. There I must have spent 15 minutes wrestling with the fasteners on the damn garter belt, trying to get them to stay attached to the stockings. Where was my duct tape when I needed it? Finally, I got the little bastards fastened. But just as I am about to put my apron on, I hear my husband turn on the shower, which is right outside the bathroom I am in. WTF!
At that point, I had ran out of plans. I knew the only thing I could do was to just wait until he got out of the shower and then walk out of the bathroom and let him see his surprise. So there I sat, on the toilet, in my sexy black outfit, complete with little pink apron and stiletto heels, waiting.
After a few minutes of sitting there talking myself out of tearing everything off and flushing it down the commode, I heard the shower turn off and the glass door open. That was my cue.
I opened the bathroom door, took a quick look in the mirror across from me to make sure I had everything on right, and walked out. When my husband saw me, his mouth dropped open and all he could say was “OH, YEAH!” I gave him a smile, handed him my card, then strut my fancy ass down to the kitchen, where I poured myself a well-needed glass of wine.
With the PMS beast within me nice and tipsy, the rest of the evening went great, and my husband and I had a very fun night together. Little did he know that it was all due to his stupid little yellow sticky notes. Of course, I couldn’t let the day end without writing him a note of my own. He found it stuck to my tummy after I took my little pink apron off. It said, “Happy Anniversary while….” (I'll let you fill in the rest!)
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
I sensed that something was off last night when my husband and I were laying in bed watching TV and he kept talking to me and I wanted nothing more than for him to shut up. The next clue was when I woke up this morning to a yellow sticky note stuck to my bathroom mirror. It was from my husband and it said, "Happy Anniversary! I love you," and I said, "Whatever." Then, when I made my way to my desk, I found another sticky note stuck to my computer screen. It said, "Happy Anniversary again! Smooch - Smooch - Smooch - Smooch - and a quick feel," and all I could do was roll my eyes and grumble.
Next, I saw that my cell phone was turned over on my desk. So I picked it up to see if there were any messages for me. Stuck to the front of it was another sticky note that said, "Happy Anniversary while talking on your phone," and there was also a text message from him that said, "Happy Anniversary, my love." That is when visions of Godzilla trampling the villagers began to enter my mind, with Will Robinson's robot in the back ground yelling, "DANGER, DANGER!"
Yes, today is our anniversary. Two years. Now, I know that some of you women out there are saying, "Awweee...how sweet of him." Ahhhhh, yes...how frickin' sweet of him. Although a tiny part of my brain knows that his gesture is sweet and thoughtful, the rest of me can't help to hate him anyway. Now is not the time to be sweet to me!
The fact that I am even PMSing today is a cruel trick. That's because my period is really not due for another 2 weeks. So the only explanation is that I am going to start early this month. And guess whose fault that is? My daughter's! Yes, my daughter recently joined the ranks of true womanhood, and this is actually her week of PMS. GOD HELP US ALL! It is a known fact that women who live together tend to cycle together. Well, I'm on the back of my cycle right now and am ready to run over anyone who gets in my way (okay, even the innocent bystanders).
I'm sure that once my husband catches on that its going to be PMS in stereo this month, he will probably put on his cammies and pitch a tent in the backyard for the week (if he has any sense at all). And I'm sure it won't be long before our two boys join him.
Regardless of my foul mood, I know I will have to put on my best "Happy Anniversary" face and do what I can to let my husband know that I love and appreciate him. Because I do love him... right? Yes, it says right here in my journal under "Things To Remember During PMS" that I do , in fact, love my husband very much and he is a wonderful man (huh...imagine that). Well, I will do my best. Perhaps I can find one of those plastic Princess Halloween masks with the big, white, toothy smile plastered across it to wear to dinner this evening. It's the gesture that counts, right?
I just went to the fridge to get my stash of chocolate. Guess what I found stuck to the milk carton? Yes, another sticky note. SOMEBODY SHOOT ME...OR HIM! Either will put us both out of our misery! DUNT DUNT DUNT DUNT DUNT DUNT....
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
My husband tried to steer me to the bifocals at Wal-Mart on a couple occasions, but I refused. If I was going to try on the granny glasses, I was going to do it by myself. I was determined to put it off for as long as I could. But when I had to have my son stand across the room just so I could read the note he wrote for me, I knew I had lost my battle.
My lone opportunity finally presented itself when I had to go to CVS to get a prescription filled. The lady told me she could fill it in 15-20 minutes if I wanted to wait. I agreed and moved over to the bookstand to kill the time. After skimming through the various book titles, nothing grabbed my interest. So I began meandering around the aisles, searching for something to keep me busy during my wait.
After what I thought was 15 minutes, I went back to the pharmacy counter and asked if my medicine was ready. “Ten more minutes.” I sighed and when I turned around, there they were—the granny glasses—staring me right in the face.
I looked around and there wasn’t a soul in sight. So I took a deep breath and decided it was time. As I stood in front of the display of glasses, I scanned the various styles and frames. They actually didn’t look too bad. Nothing like the ones my grandparents wore back in the day. I took a pair of bifocals off the rack and tried them on. Instantly, I looked 80 years old! I selected another pair. This time I looked 60ish.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught site of a man walking down the aisle in my direction. Mortified, I moved over to the makeup purses just next to the glasses and acted like I was looking at them. After he passed, I went back to the glasses, this time taking a look at the actual reading glasses.
As if trying on glasses is not hard enough, the makers of these glasses have to put the large plastic tag that the glasses hang from the rack on directly in the middle so that when you try them on, the tag is either hanging over your nose or covering the middle of your forehead. No matter what, you look like a nerd. And the mirrors they have for checking yourself out are barely big enough to view a pimple, let alone your face. And when you finally can see yourself, the reflection is much like the ones you see in the mirrors at a fun house at the fair.
After trying on what I think was every pair of glasses they had, I narrowed my choice down to a thin, lightweight pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses. I chose those because they were the one pair that I thought looked somewhat cute on me (if anything, they made me look smart). All I had left to do was decide on what strength to get.
I had no idea how good or bad my eyes were, so I tried on all the various strengths until the words on the sign just below the mirror began to appear in focus without me having to stand clear across the aisle to read them. It was a close call. I must have stood there for 10 minutes trying to decide which could help me see the best. Since this was my first time getting a pair of glasses, I thought I would only need the lowest strength. Of course, I was wrong. The glasses that worked best were 175 strength. Not bad, but still higher up there than I wanted them to be, just like my age.
Having lost complete track of time, I put all the glasses back except for the ones I selected. I decided to get an extra pair so that I could keep a pair on my desk for work and a pair on the night stand next to my bed—just like a real old person.
I walked back over to the pharmacy and placed my glasses on the counter. After the twenty-something pharmacy tech retrieved my prescription, she began ringing everything up. When she got to the glasses, she said, “My mom has a pair just like these.” There were several words that came to mind that I wanted to say back to her, but I decided it would be better to remain a lady, so I just stood there with my best "Screw you!" smile.
Yes, getting older is no fun. But as far as I’m concerned, I’m still 29 and holding, even if I have to wear a pair of glasses to help me see like one.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
For some of us, this video is way too close to our own sex life. He’s giving it his all and she’s just wanting him to be done already. And who can’t relate to all the grunting he’s doing? I’m sure there’s some woman out there who can close her eyes while listening to the video and say, “Yep…that’s Earl, alright.”
So why exactly is it that often times our men want it and we just want it over with?
I think one of the most obvious reasons is that by the end of the day, us women are just plain old tired. Between work, kids, housekeeping, and all the other things in our lives that want a piece of us, we often have nothing left in us by the time we climb into bed each night. For a lot of women, the idea of having sex at that point is a lot like the thought of undergoing an audit by the IRS.
Another reason we don’t feel up to stripping down to nothing and bumping uglies is because we’ve gotten into a rut and the act of sex with our man has just become plain boring. It’s a lot like watching your favorite movie over and over again. No matter how much you liked it in the beginning, it’s not as enjoyable now that you know what’s going to happen next. This is the same reason a lot of us rely on the fake orgasm. It’s like a fast forward button that helps get us to the end a lot quicker.
But I think the most common and overlooked reason for us women has to do with how we feel about our man emotionally. A lot of times it is just the simple fact that our man has not done much during the week or the day to help us feel connected to him. Instead of taking the time to pay us a few compliments, give us some undivided attention and affection with no sex strings attached, or putting in a little effort each and every day to let us know just how special we are, he gets lazy and just assumes we know. If our men were to put in even half the effort they put into the things that are a priority in their lives, whether it be their job, sports, or some hobby, I’m sure there would be a lot more “Who’s your momma?” going on.
A lot of experts would tell you to talk to your man about your feelings. But, I’m no expert. So my advice to you ladies out there is this: the next time you climb into bed and hear the words, “You wanna do it?” think of this video. It just might be the motivation you need to answer “yes” and may be the reason you actually enjoy yourself, simply because you can’t help but to think just how much your man resembles that grunting turtle.
Monday, July 20, 2009
2. Your husband asks you, “Is it that time of the month again?” and you staple a sign to his forehead that says, “Idiot of the month!”
3. You get pulled over and the cop asks, “Do you know why I pulled you over, ma’am?” and you take a sip of your glass of wine and answer, “Because you’re lost and you need directions to the nearest donut shop?”
4. Your kids say they are hungry and you say, “So am I,” and take out a bar of chocolate for yourself from the fridge and walk away.
5. You find it more pleasant to have the dog and cat undergo a waxing then to continue vacuuming up all the hair they shed in the house.
6. Your husband says, “Excuse me,” to a woman in the grocery store and you scream out, “Why don’t you just have sex with her already?!”
7. You tell your kids they were all adopted and that you received a letter from the court saying you have to give them back to their real mom now.
8. You remove the shoelaces from your kids’ shoes and secure them on their feet with duct tape.
9. After drinking an entire bottle of wine all by yourself, you still find your family annoying.
10. You start to think that the woman who ran her husband over twice with her car was really just trying to answer that burning question we all have—how many times does it take to kill him?
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
When I first heard about this, the image that came to mind was Homer Simpson smacking himself on the head and saying, “DOH!” Not only is the government going to spend over $400,000 on the study, it is going to be a “two-year” study. Two years? I can answer that question myself in less than two minutes.
Hmmm, let’s see…why don’t men like to wear condoms? Oh! Oh! I know! I know! Well, there are a few reasons. I think the most obvious is because condoms reduce a man’s sensation. For men, wearing a condom would be like a mother holding her baby while wearing latex gloves. Yes, you can still feel the baby in your hands, you can even feel the warmth of its skin if you hold it long enough, but the sensation of what you feel is nowhere near what you feel without the gloves.
Another reason men don’t like to wear condoms is because of the awkwardness of having to stop and put one on. And then there’s the task of actually getting the condom on the right way so that it stays on. Yes, they do pop off from time to time. Someone reading this may even be the product of a condom that popped off many years ago.
The fact that I don't have a penis but I still know the answer to why men don’t like to wear condoms just goes to show what a no-brainer the question really is. It’s like asking, “Do bears shit in the woods?”
I have a question the government can spend money on to find the answer to—why do we spend so much time and money on finding ways to improve a man's sex life? Are we trying to prove that men really do go blind after blowing a certain number of wads? Maybe the government should take a different approach and use the money to find a way to get men to keep it in their pants more often than they do. I can think of a few government officials that would make perfect candidates for the study.
Friday, June 19, 2009
I’m convinced that it’s these same “happy” people who get hired to name paint. Have you seen some of those names? Misty Moon, Dream Catcher, Soulful Music—what the hell color is that anyway? For once, I would love to come across a brand of paint that is named after real life. Something like Menstrual Period Red, Booger Green, and Scabby Brown. All you have to do is hear the name of it and you know exactly what color it is.
What exactly is it that “happy” people are so happy about anyway? Are they what happens when circus people breed, or did they just discover some secret that they aren’t telling the rest of us? Are they always happy or do they secretly go home and kick the dog?
With as much as “happy” people annoy me, there have been times when I have wished I could be more like them. They sure look like they are enjoying life, so positive and cheerful all the time, with just a hint of cluelessness when it comes to what is really going on in the world around them. But usually all it takes is for me to get waited on by some “happy” waitress at a restaurant, and soon I am liking myself again just fine.
Last week, after my daughter’s graduation from middle school, my husband and I took her out to breakfast at our favorite local diner. Of course, we had to get waited on by the one “happy” waitress in the place. By the time she got done taking our order, I wanted to stab my fork into my ear. It wasn’t so much the constant smile she had plastered across her face, but more the way she talked to us. She was like a kindergarten teacher on steroids. She made me realize why babies get that wide-eyed look on their face when we say stuff to them like, “Who's such a cutie petutie? You are, oogie boogie!” Now I understand why babies spit up so much. I wanted to vomit and I hadn’t even eaten yet.
Although most of the “happy” people I have come across are women, I have on occasion seen the male version. My husband would just say, “He’s totally gay!” But I know that gay men don’t act like that. No, gay men have more self respect. The “happy” man is a man who lives in a world all his own. I have found that there are two kinds of “happy” men—the “Mr. Rogers” version, which is the one you know is harmless but you still keep your children away from him, and the “Charles Manson” version, the full-blown psychopath that you can’t believe your friend hired as a clown for their kid’s birthday party.
Yes, “happy” people are indeed a unique breed—similar to what I think a person on both Prozac and speed would be like. Annoying as they may be, I guess they do serve their purpose in the world. I would like to say it’s because they make the world a better place, but I think it’s more because we sometimes need a reminder of why it’s important to make sure the doors are locked before we go to bed at night.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
I was 18 years old when I got my first yeast infection. Unfortunately, I did not know anything about yeast infections at that time. And we didn’t have internet back then, so I couldn’t Google “How did the cottage cheese I ate for lunch come out of my vagina?” No, all my questions had to be presented to my closest friends, where I learned that it was either (A) Normal, (B) An incurable venereal disease, or (C) A hole in my intestines and food was actually leaking out of my vagina. With the horrible thought of the possibility of actually having B or C, I went to the doctor and was relieved to find out it was nothing serious, just a little yeast infection.
Since that time, I have learned a lot about yeast infections. For example, regardless of it’s name, the yeast in our vaginas is not something you want to use to make the baked goods for your next fund raiser. The yeast in our vaginas is basically the “good” bacteria in our bodies. And when we have a yeast infection, it is because the balance between the good and bad bacteria in our bodies is out of whack, so the good bacteria overgrows. Yippee for us!
Regardless of what is going on with the yeast in our vaginas, one thing is for sure—it causes the itch from hell! Of course, no matter how much you scratch, the more it itches, and if you scratch enough, it not only itches but also burns like hell. So then you try not to scratch at all, but then find yourself rubbing up against furniture, dry humping the vacuum cleaner, and inventing reasons to visit your neighbor several times during the day so that their big dog can nuzzle your crotch.
Thank goodness we can now buy the medication we need to cure the yeast infection and that burning itch in the store. It sure beats having to go to the doctor to get a prescription like we used to have to do.
The only problem we have now when it comes to buying the medication in the store is all the choices we have. There are so many different brands now and so many different products. As I stood there in the isle at CVS, I was amazed at how much time and money has been spent on marketing by companies. And to think they are all competing for our vaginas. Not only is there the traditional 7-day treatment, but there is also now a 3-day and a 1-day treatment. There are also various types of fancy applicators for the cream. And there’s even a no-mess, egg-shaped capsule that you can insert, which for some reason gave me visions of chickens.
But the most fascinating thing I found on the market for yeast infections is the new screening kit. Basically, it is a kit that will tell you if the stuff coming out of your vagina is due to a yeast infection or something else. I can see the poor girl now, sitting in her bathroom after testing the stuff coming out of her. I imagine it being like a game show where she is hoping the yeast infection is behind door #3, but then she finds out that what’s behind door #3 is something much worse and has to report to her doctor immediately and contact the Center of Disease Control to give them the name of every man she has ever slept with.
Despite my preference for tampons over pads, all those fancy screening kits, 1- and 3-day treatments, and egg-shaped capsules aren’t for me. No, I go with the traditional 7-day messy cream with the simple plastic applicator. It works every time.
If you think about it, men don't have any stuff like this to deal with when it comes to their bodies. So why did we get stuck with all the unpleasantries? Like I said, maybe it was something man did that put God in a foul mood on the day he created us. Or maybe he just realized that in order for mankind to survive, he was going to need a much tougher creature--a woman!
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
What’s wrong with having to go to the bathroom you ask? Nothing really—except when it’s number two and the only bathroom around is a single Port-O-Potty, after 20+ teams of little leaguers and their families have come and gone before ourselves that same day.
Laptop computers. Mobile phones. TVs as thin as a book. Music players the size of a pack of gum. With all of the leaps and bounds we have made in these areas, why can’t someone make a better version of the Port-O-Potty?
Let’s face it. The name Port-O-Potty should really be changed to “Tub-O-Turds” or “Add-A-Poo.” I mean, is it really that hard to make one that can flush? If they can make a wireless phone that allows you to sit on your toilet at home and send a text message to someone else sitting on the toilet in a completely different state, then why not a Port-O-Potty that can send the poo into a different compartment a few feet away where we don’t have to see it or smell it?
I don’t know what is worse in those things, the murky pile of sludge sitting down in that black hole or the stench it produces. But it seems that no matter how disgusting we know it is, there’s always that sick part of us that can’t help but to take a quick peek. That is probably the reason they make those things with very little light. You don’t want a good view of what’s down there. It’s like that mountain that guy keeps building in the movie Close Encounters of The Third Kind. I mean, I’m certain there is someone in this world who has taken a dump in one of those things and the turd only had to drop an inch and fold in half to make the top of the pile.
As for the stench, if I can smell what’s in there before I open the door, I’m not going in. I would much rather climb into a cardboard box and crap into a bucket in the middle of the parking lot at Wal-Mart on a Saturday afternoon.
It’s not like they need underground plumbing for a Port-O-Potty to flush. Take an airplane for example. There’s no underground plumbing on those things. Hell, they’re flying miles above the earth. But you can still flush the toilet and the poo goes somewhere else—even if it is through someone’s roof in the form of a block of ice. That’s a lot better than where in goes in a Port-O-Potty!
And it’s not like someone hasn’t given some thought to improving the Port-O-Potty over the years. Some do have antibacterial soap dispensers in them now. But is that really an improvement or a sick joke? What we actually need is a HazMat unit waiting outside the door to decontaminate us and burn our shoes.
There are also the built-in urinals. Can you see me shaking my head? Like the guys really care what they pee in. Heck, they probably enjoy aiming at the mountain of poo. They are, after all, the ones who think it's funny to go around and say, "Hey, pull my finger!"
But, of course, I must give the Port-O-Potty its educational credit where educational credit is due. I mean, who here has not learned that you can hold your breath a lot longer than you ever thought you could, and that you can pee at the speed of light when you really need to?
As for my son’s bathroom dilemma, I walked him over towards the Port-O-Potty, much like I was walking him to his execution. When we got about 10 feet from the door and I began to smell the fecal stew waiting inside for him, I steered him in the direction of the car and said, “Come on…I’ll drive you to Wal-Mart.”
Monday, May 11, 2009
But then there are those moments—the ones when your fussy baby quiets in the security of your soothing arms, your two-year-old runs to you with joy after you’ve been gone for a few hours, and your little one hugs you tight and says, “I wuv you, Mommy.” Often times those moments last only for a few brief seconds, but no matter how long or how short, they are precious moments that can leave a lasting impression in our hearts and are often times the only thanks we need.
Two of my moments came this Mother’s Day. They came in the form of a poem from my son and a simple card with a handwritten note from my daughter. And this is what they said:
From my son (10 years old):
I am your boobers.
I wonder if you’re thinking about me when I am at not with you.
I see you kissing me goodnight.
I am your boobers.
I pretend that when you are gone, you are still beside me.
I feel very loved when you are there.
I touch your heart when I say, “I love you, Mom.”
I worry when I am not there you might get hurt.
I cry when I disappoint you or hurt your feelings.
I am your boobers.
I am your boobers.
I say I love you and I really mean it.
I dream that I will take care of you forever.
I try to make you happy when you are sad.
I hope you live forever and ever.
I am your boobers.
A card and note from my daughter (13 years old):
The card said:
I know I can always count on you, Mother
When I need advice, you listen and understand
and you’re always there for me when I need your encouragement.
The closeness we share is something I value every day of my life
And I love you for being my friend, as well as my mother
Her note said:
There is no other way I would have put that. It was the perfect card for how I care about you. You are my friend, teacher, hand to hold when life gets tough, but most of all, you’re my mom and I love you. I always will, no matter how much of a stupid teenager I turn into, I would like you to know that. I would have you no other way and you have taught me that love is strong and so is trust. Thank you for giving me both and more. I love you and there aren’t enough words for me to tell you that. Happy Mom’s day. You are truly the best mom anyone gets.
So for all you moms out there who might sometimes wonder if the hospital takes returns, keep on doing what you've been doing, and that's being the best mom you can be. Your moments will come--sometimes it’s just a matter of taking a moment to notice.
Happy Mother's Day!
Monday, April 27, 2009
So there I sat, staring at my computer screen, rethinking my entire existence. I could understand two or three, maybe even four of what I thought were original names already being taken, but all of them? So much for standing out from the herd. Apparently, I’m smack dab in the middle of it.
I was at a loss. Blogging didn’t sound fun anymore. I was ready to hang it all up. What was I thinking anyway? If I couldn’t even come up with an original title, how in the heck was I going to write about anything worth reading? In an attempt to make myself feel better, I popped a few M&Ms into my mouth then glanced at the clock to see how much longer I had before it was time to change my tampon. Then BAM! It hit me. Two things that a lot of us women share in common turned out to be the something original I was looking for.
So how about them tampons?
For me, tampons are something I would not want to live without. In fact, I think tampons are one of the best things ever invented. I think they’re right up there with electricity. I mean, if I had to choose between going a week without electricity and going a week on my period without tampons, I’d go straight to Wal-Mart, grab a variety pack of tampons, and fill up the rest of my cart with candles.
Which leads me to two of my biggest questions in life—who in the heck still wears pads? And why? Now, I know that the pad has come a long way since I was introduced to them by my mom many years ago. They are a lot thinner than they used to be, and thanks to the magical, super-absorbent, meshy stuff they have in them now, they are also a lot more absorbent. Heck, some of those things are so absorbent, they could have been used to help in the clean up after Hurricane Katrina. And let's not forget all the pretty fragrances they come in. But do you really want your sanitary pad to smell pretty? I sure don’t need to be put in the awkward position of having someone ask me in line at the grocery store, “What’s that perfume you’re wearing?” and me having to answer, “Oh, that’s not my perfume you smell, it’s my pad.”
The fact that some women still use pads is beyond my comprehension. Now, I’m not talking about those women who are gynecologically challenged and cannot use tampons. I’m talking about those women who can use tampons but still “choose” to wear a pad. I just don’t get it. I have worn pads. They are uncomfortable and no matter how thin and absorbent they make them, I still feel like I’m hauling around a couple chapters of Harry Potter in my underwear. And what is up with the so-called “wings?” Other than taking one out of your purse and shooting it across the waiting room at your kid’s doctor's office for his or her amusement, I don’t see the purpose. I know the wings are supposed to help keep the pad in place, but to me it’s just another sticky part of the pad that can get twisted the wrong way when I move so that it faces sticky side up. Ouch!
My apologies to any men who might be reading this. I realize you can’t really relate. And you should be thankful! But if you want to know what it’s like to wear pads, just try duct taping an old soggy sponge to the inside of your underwear for about a week—you’ll get the idea.
Tampons, on the other hand, are hassle free. I can just plug it in and go. I can’t feel it, there aren’t any misunderstandings about my perfume, and there’s no sticky tape trying to give me a Brazilian.
I asked my mom once why she chose to wear pads over tampons. She told me it was because she tried a tampon once and it was too uncomfortable for her. When I explained that she probably didn't have it in right and that she was supposed to stick the tampon completely inside her and not lay it in the middle of her undewear like she did her pads, she still had no desire to try again.
Of course, tampons are not 100% hassle proof. There is still the occasional leak, even when you’ve got a tampon the size of a missile stuck up your ying yang. I will never forget when my son, who was 7 at the time, pointed out that I had blood on the back of my pants. I calmly explained that I was just on my period and my tampon was leaking, then went directly into the bathroom. While in there, my son, so innocent yet so very serious, yells to me through the door, “Make sure you put lots of them in there, Mom...like ten of them!”
And then there’s chocolate. What woman does not like chocolate? I sure hope it’s not the ones who wear pads over tampons. I don’t think I can bear the thought of them living without both. Now that’s a charity I would donate to.
Just as I need my tampons during that time of the month, I need my chocolate just as much. I don’t know why. I just do. And I know I’m not alone. There are a lot of women who can’t make it through their monthly cycle without chocolate somewhere along the way. For me, it’s right before and during. It’s so much a necessity for me, that everyone in my house knows that the small stash of chocolate in the door of the fridge is not just chocolate. It’s “Mom’s chocolate,” which for them simply translates as “Leave it alone and you will live.”
Tampons and Chocolate. For me, it's the perfect name for my blog. And to think I have my period to thank for it. I think the last time I was thankful for my period was the time I was several days late and making deals with God just to have it start again. But that’s another story for another time. And no matter if you wear pads or tampons, like chocolate or hate it, or if you’re a man with an old soggy sponge duct taped to the inside of his underwear right now, my hope is that you will all join in the fun at Tampons and Chocolate.