Seriously, FUCK OFF

Will the fucktard douche cock who keeps posting bullshit in my comments section please shut the fuck up about investing and all the other crap you are posting?!!! It's like you are taking a giant dump of BULLSHIT on my blog. Back off, ass clown.

It's NOT a Bomb, I Swear!

I returned Sunday from a brief but fan-fucking-tastic mini vacation in Cancun, Mexico. Just enough time for me to frolic in the sand, drink ridonkulous amounts of frozen beverages all day long (hey, it's happy hour SOMEWHERE!), wear my new bikini, and get a decent tan. It was such a dick tease though because now I am back it Mother Nature's dysentery shit storm of cold. Fuck winter. My tanned hands are shriveling like Walt Disney's head in that freezer somewhere. So sad.

I felt slightly guilty after entering the Cancun airport because I thought to myself, "I really, REALLY should not complain but my tits are sweating like God damn faucets. Pretty soon this will be a wet t-shirt contest." But the thought passed as I recalled the nipple-wrenching chill I had left only a few hours prior. Fucking hallelujah!!! It was 85 God damn degrees outside!!! Upon de-boarding we had to pass through customs. Easy enough, no worries. Until I realized they had to go through certain peoples' luggage. No whammies, no whammies....
"Please ma'am, press the button," the kind customs lady said to me. Big fucking whammy.
"Move to the line over here, you got a red light," she said.
God damn right it was a red light. Because now my sweating made me look like a key fucking witness in a mob case in Jersey. Why me?! What the fuck?! Breathe, just breathe..
See the problem is two-fold. Not only had I met my husband's colleague and his lovely wife who did NOT have to press the red button, but they were waiting for us a few yards away. Problem two is that buried in the recesses of my suitcase was a certain toy I have NEVER packed when flying but somehow decided an international flight to a tropical locale was the opportune time to bring it. Like the Bad Idea Jeans commercial on Saturday Night Live, this could be quite awkward. I watched nervously as the man before us had his luggage raped by her rubber-gloved little paws. Fuck me. She took hold of my husband's suitcase, unzipped, rifled through a few layers and he was good to go. I tried to smile naturally (she probably thought I was already drunk) as she unzipped my super heavy bag and felt it up like a drunk freshman girl at a frat party. She skimmed over my precious dirty cargo, which thank fucking God I had the sense to remove the batteries from.
"Okay, you are good," she said as she motioned for me to zip up. I had visions of a waving of said precious cargo, questions being asked, translators being called over ("How you say DEEL-DO?..."), and me yelling , "It's not a bomb! Really, I promise!" as a hot pink "massager" is waved in the air like a Mexican flag on God damn Cinqo de Mayo. But alas, no such adventure came to be. Fucking PHEW!!!!!!

The all-inclusive resort proved to be mind-blowing to me, a gal who has never been to such a place let alone Mexico. So let me get this straight, I can drink ALL the decent booze I want, from morning till night, I can eat at any restaurant without any reservations, order whatever the hell I damn well please, and simply WALK AWAY? Fucking AWESOME!! I lead a sheltered life I guess. A girl could get used to this shit. Easily. My husband's new company treated us to this little getaway and I am sooooooo grateful for breaking up the monotony of winter like this.

We went to a tequila tasting. We rode a random boat up and down the coast with some cool-as-shit new friends. We ate dinner on the beach at sunset. We swam in the ocean. We got sunburns in JANUARY. And we partied and danced and laughed our asses off over ping-pong games, cigars, and Miami Vice drinks poolside. An evening that began with tasteful bottles of wine and a kind toast amongst new friends ended with me being barefoot, drinking several flaming shots through a straw (what WAS that shit?!), having a slight recollection of walking (or was it crawling?..) back to my room, and waking up like Dr. Faggot, Hangover-style. There might as well have been chickens running about and a God damn tiger in the bathroom. I am sure the lady at the spa who gave me my "tropical oasis" body scrub and treatment recognized the scent of pure agave poisoning wafting from my every pore. She handed me blue paper panties and a matching tube bra. Did she think I was going to shit myself or was it standard attire for all spa-goers? Feeling bloated, definitely unsexy, and queasy, I let Lupe' (or whatever the fuck her name was..) exfoliate me, wrap me like a giant chalupa in plastic and foil, and rub me down with delicious lotion. Praise the Lord the lights were VERY dim because I was a fucking hot mess. I smelled good but it was not pretty. After ringing some sort of triangle instrument three times, she whispered, "Miss Molly, your TREE-ment ees done." I rose, glanced in the mirror and noted my eyes looked like I had been in a UFC fight, put my robe back on, and exited. No one else seemed to be the slightest hungover as the lounged in the waiting area. I pounded about 4 glasses of grapefruit essence water and avoided eye contact. No. More. Booze....EVER.

Well that shit lasted till about lunch time. Those drinks are just so damn REFRESHING!! How does a girl say no??? Bikinis, booze, and the best time ever--that's pretty much how I'd sum up Cancun. I plan on heading to Mexico again in the near future. It is paradise. But I'd better be careful because there's a good chance a tiger WILL be in the bathroom if those flaming shots of death reappear....

De-Christmas-Fying

I have been in a funk for several days now. I just can't get my workout mojo back, get into the groove, stay on the wagon. I am crabby and unmotivated. It really sucks balls. I figured out today where part of my disdain has come from. I started the monstrous task of putting away all my holiday crap. Now some might argue that December 26th is the perfect time to say "fuck you" to the lights, tree, ornaments, garland, and stockings. I beg to differ. I spend days putting it all up, meticulously planning where each poinsettia garland is hung, where the burgundy ornaments are hung up the stairs versus the frosty blue ones on the evergreen swags in my kitchen. It is stressful to put it all up but yet so nice to glance around my home at the cozy holiday splendor. I'm not one of those assholes who turns my Christmas lights on well into March. But I will take it down in my own due time.

Christmas break symbolizes many things. Kids being home from school to terrorize the shit out of each other, whine about being bored every 5 seconds, and to act like shit heads on Christmas morning when they scan the array of packages and decide Santa has not brought them their most desired gift. Fucking ingrates. It is a time for socializing, for parties where fattening dips and sweets are consumed, where pomegranate cocktails spill freely, especially on beige carpet. It is a time for headaches, from having to pay quadruple the cost for a fucking robotic asshole hamster toy on Amazon because it is the hottest toy, and also from pounding 3 peppermint martinis and then doing shots of Jaegermeister just because I think I'm 21 again. Praise the pharmaceutical companies for creating good drugs. It is a time for recreational consumption of anti-anxiety pills when the joy/stress/financial burden of the holidays is too God damn much to handle. Hello Valium and Xanax, my lovers... It is a time for gingerbread house making, cookie baking, shoveling, grocery shopping, and occasionally working off a few (thousand) extra calories with a trip to the gym. It is a time to bust out rolls of gift wrap, tissue paper in every color, bows, and gifts bags. We wrap till we are blind and slightly retarded, slurring our words from the inane task. I have been known to utter, "I have MORE fucking gifts to wrap?! Cocksucking Christmas presents..." as I slam that glass of milk and nibble on the cookies left out for the fat fucker in the red suit. It is a time for reindeer food and urging kids to get their sweet asses to bed or Santa will have to skip our house. This is not really about Santa, it's more about cleverly arranging the obnoxious amount of presents we vow every year to cut back on. My mom swears EVERY year, "Let's just keep it down to a dull roar. We are not going to go as crazy next year." Yet there we are on Christmas morning, slowly watching each person open gift after gift after God damn gift. We take coffee breaks, baste the turkey breaks, take a nap breaks, shower breaks, take a shit breaks, meal breaks. It is a multi-hour event in our house. Fuck, I'm exhausted just TYPING this.

So once it's all said and done, it is a let down of excitement and emotion. I mean you build it up for months with the shopping and the music and the pretty lights in the trees. And then, BAM! It's gone. Faster than you can say "Old Saint Nick". It's just really depressing. I'm not saying I want to live in some fucked-up, year-round Christmas utopia. That would be creepy as shit. But maybe Santa could pop some happy pills into the grown-up stockings. A little sumthin'-sumthin' to ease the transition into bleak, freezing cold nothingness that is known as January. Christmas is like a powerful drug that we become addicted to at first glimpse of glittery garland after Halloween. Sure, we bitch and moan, "My WORD, I cannot believe how much earlier they seem to put out all the Christmas paraphernalia each year! This is plain NUTTY!" But you know you secretly love it. You see those stockings with furry trim and all the choices in gift bags, you smell those cinnamon pine cones, you hear that light station finally switch over to ALL Christmas music and you are fucking PSYCHED! You agree with your Christmas hater friends how it's so annoying but secretly you are calling them SHB's----Santa Hating Bitches. Fucking twats, they do not even KNOW the joy this season brings to you! They need to be beaten down with a massive 5-foot candy cane. Till they are bleeding profusely. And you will stand above them, singing "Deck the Halls", "Jingle Bells", and "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer", in a loud, bellowing Christmas-carol-y voice. And when they FINALLY claim that Christmas is the greatest, most show-stopping, light show bonanza-filled holiday to ever exist, maybe THEN you will call for medical help. But only after burning their ass with a big candy cane branding iron. See who's Santa's bitch NOW. Take my lights down on the 26th my fucking ass.....

Funyun Crotch

Now some of you might gag a bit at the title of this post. Some of you might cry out, "This woman is too much!" But if you really and truly laugh at my shit and/or know me, you will read on. Got you curious, didn't I?

I am a fan of group fitness. What is this you ask? It is an organized class where a fitness instructor leads a group of several people in some sort of ritualistic torture which is often accompanied by booty-popping bass music. You will walk out sweaty and hearing impaired, it's a hoot! You burn a LOT of calories. (Read: you can eat those fries at Red Robin once in awhile..) Why don't I merely enjoy doing my own thing at the gym? Because I am a lazy sack of unmotivated shit, that's why. Sure, I have my new Nike Air Shox sneakers on, my Lucy suction-my-ass-like-Michael-Phelps'-lips-on-a-bong workout pants, and my double sports bras to restrict black eye induction caused by excessive jarring of my double D's. I have my freshly loaded Ipod with great club music. I have my aluminum thermal water bottle full to rehydrate me. But I also have my trashy People magazine, which will unintentionally distract me from getting much faster than a meander on a treadmill. I will be so caught up in Kate Gosselin's new hairdo or Jessica Simpson's erroneous choice of camel-toe-inducing mom jeans that I will not even break a sweat. And isn't that why we go to the gym?

So I subject myself to these perfect (bitches) instructors who could be stunt doubles for the movie 300 with their God damn 8-pack abs. Their asses are so tight if I shoved a lump of coal between their mini hamburger bun butt cheeks, I'd have a diamond in 42.7 minutes. And let's talk about the gun show!! Apparently I got the short stick when God was drawing good body parts for me. The instructors arms look like finely sculpted perfection, whereas mine resemble lumpy cans of Pillsbury fucking French loaf. Sigh. That's why I ATTEMPT to do push ups, though I often cave to the pussy-style, on-the-knees girly variety. Fuck you, push ups are HARD! We repeat various moves with dumbbells, benches, rubber yoga mats, balance balls, resistance bands, benches of varying heights, medicine balls, weighted bars, and even weighted gloves. It sounds like an S&M convention but the only thing you "get off" is the calories from those Reeses Peanut Butter Cups you inhaled last night at 11:30.I am not complaining, I NEED someone to kick my ass into gear.

There are various degrees of perspiration you create from said activities. Some people drip like they're having tantric donkey sex in the Amazon rainforest, others merely glisten. If you can imagine, this perspiration creates an odor situation in the fitness studios. Some days it is fucking rank as shit. I admit, I do sweat quite a bit when I am not reading about Lindsay Lohan's coke bender as I walk at 1.5 miles per hour on the treadmill. I may very well be a culprit in the case of the dirty foot aroma wafting from Studio 1. But there is another odor, one you sometimes need to be up close and personal to enjoy. I lovingly refer to this as Funyun Crotch. Combine 1 pair of thong panties, one pair of tight Spandex workout pants, 1 hour of intense cardio activity, and 1 shitload of sweat. Have you ever smell a bag of freshly opened Funyuns, the corn snack that is supposed to resemble onion rings? It is NASTY. Welcome to the world of post workout panties.( I hope you are either laughing or vomiting at this depiction. Admit it, it's funny.) This smelly cooch phenomenon is not solely my plight, it is one we often discuss in the locker room or at the cafe over smoothies. (Not Funyun flavor, I prefer Strawberry Mango..) Some may be shy in admitting it but we all know it's there. It's like that turd in the toilet someone won't claim and flush. ANYONE could have done it. So don't pretend your vag smells like sunshine and fucking roses after you work out. I stood behind you in class, I should know.