I have reached a level of throwing in the towel, so tired of worrying about everything and everyone but me, I-just-don't-give-a-fuck-ness that I am ready to travel to a place with exactly what I need. (I wanted to capitalize "I" for emphasis but realized it already is so imagine me double capitalizing it....) I want to purchase a one-way ticket with no idea of when I might return. My current sanity is being compromised and I feel this is the only way to bring it back. I'm kind of kidding but I am kind of serious.
I have a nasty habit of doing things in my home because I know exactly how they are done, how I expect to see results, because I feel guilty if certain things are left unfinished, and really because the walls of my house could come crumbling down and I honestly think my technology-addicted family would not even fucking notice. It's got to stop.
Here a few things I do not want on my quest to regain my sanity:
*I do not want to talk to anyone. I don't want to have to make small talk, or big talk, or political talk, or fucking religion talk, plans for my kids' future talk, or money talk. Silence. Shut your God damn pie hole and leave me alone. If I DO want to talk I will have a small green disc on my beachside table that I will flip over like when I want more meat at those obnoxious Brazilian meat orgies. But if I hear the words "Jesus", "damn Republicans", or "my child just got a 36 on their ACT and was already accepted into 5 Ivy League schools" I will flip that red disc over faster than you can say Kim Kardashian's camel toe.
*I do not want to have sex or even think about it. My mind is not going to be on dicks, it's going to be on sleep and chill out and maybe not even trim my Sasquatch bikini line because who the fuck cares.
*I do not want to have to play with dogs/cats for the 5th time of the day because I feel guilty they have been ignored by everyone but me all day long.
*I don't want to have family members fib and tell me the dogs have been taken out when I know the exact way I put their leashes in the drawer and they are still that way. There is also piss and shit under the dining room table that tells a different story.
*I don't want to be questioned about "What did I DO all day?" when something someone else needs doesn't get done. I did a LOT. And on this trip if I literally want to eat, sleep, and shit and nothing else, I'm doing it.
*I don't want to see a single eye roll from a teen or pre-teen for me asking to turn the volume down on TV, music, phones, Vines, Snapchats, Tweets, twats, or whatever loud-ass device that is currently annoying the shit out of me.
*I don't want to worry about carbs or gluten or drinking diet soda or eating 10 pounds of Reeses Peanut Butter Cups washed down with Nutella straight from the jar. I also don't want to read on Facebook how I will grow cancerous tumors and go on a killing spree from having a mother fucking Fresca now and then. Because Fresca rocks. There is no Whole Foods bullshit organic substitute. Period. The end.
*I don't want to drive any kids all over hell and back for sleepovers and movies and mall trips and pool time and dance class because it's summer and my kids are "bored" and my kid would be the "only one who's not there". Suck it. Go outside and fucking find some friends and play in the woods and drink water from a hose. I did it and my summers were fun as hell.
*I don't want to pick up piles of wet towels and dirty thongs and 48 pairs of shoes because the other members go my house could literally step over the same shit for weeks and not even care.
*I don't want to hear about the things I DIDN'T buy from the grocery store even though I've been there twice this week and spent $475. Go eat a dirty thong, there are plenty to choose from on your bedroom floor.
Here are some things I would like:
*I want to sit on a beach with sand in between my toes, a nice cold drink in my hand, an awesome book to read, and a pillow to nap if I so fucking choose.
*I want to be told how stunningly beautiful I am every single day even if it's by a gay pool boy named Juan.
*I want the bed to made perfectly with the sheets pulled tightly to the top, no lumpy blankets half-assed wadded like a dead cat under the bedspread, and ALL the pillows placed in their proper places EVERY GOD DAMN MORNING by someone other than me. Just because I like it that way and it makes me happy.
*I want to bask in the sun and just recline in a kick-ass beach chair without kids, pets, or husbands whining and asking me to do something for them. This is MY island, go the fuck back to House of Crusty Thongs.
*I want breakfast prepared for me that I get to eat FIRST without worrying about everyone else first, with awesome coffee and an awesome view. This view should not include skinny-ass bitches with perfect bodies in their "Cross Fit" or "I Heart Hot Yoga" or "Ask Me About Beachbody" tank tops. It's time for breakfast, chill the fuck out. It's Sanity Island, not INSANITY Island. I also do not want to see hairy, fat men or toddlers wearing a diaper with no pants, screaming bloody murder. You are not welcome on this island.
*I want fresh flowers in my room every day with notes that read "Just because you are awesome!" or "For all that you do---thank you!" or "You look so sexy eating that Nutella straight from the jar at the beach!" You get the idea. Like tropical flowers that cost a shit ton of money. I'm going all Oprah on this island, fuck it.
*I want towel animals in silly places made by someone who knows how to fold fucking towels better than me. Also perhaps my name or inspirational quotes spelled out on my perfectly made bed or the foyer of my giant suite in rose petals or chocolates or even diamonds.
*I want my TV to have only the channels I would like to watch available daily. No bullshit Spanish channels, no sports of any kind, no Game of Thrones, no Nickelodeon/Disney/any movie or show with the voice of Ashley Tisdale, no depressing ass news, no politics, no religion, no lesbian porn. I want TLC chock full of The Little Couple, 19 Kids and Counting, Hoarders, Little People, Big World, Breaking Amish, and Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. Maybe throw in Food TV as long as it's not Giada DeLaurentis having an orgasm as she eats her own food with her tits hanging out.
*I want a giant shower with luxurious body products and 100 shower heads. And a bench. And another TV where I can watch The Little Couple. Maybe some sort of a Patron tequila fountain to sip from. Yes, in my giant shower.
*I don't want to have to feel the need to buy souvenirs or memoirs for anyone who isn't with me, enjoying this bliss. Why? Because this is all about ME. For once time in my life...ME! ME! ME!
One ticket, one way, who the hell knows when (if) I will come back.
Now kindly shut the hell up because as you see my disc is RED and you are blocking my sun, asshole.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Happy Mother's Day
Mother's Day 2014 is almost upon us. Moms are typically given flowers, a nice brunch with the family, a heartfelt card, a gift certificate for a manicure of even a massage. I enjoy the notion of gorging yourself on a typical American buffet of 75 pounds of shrimp and crab legs, assorted salads, enough meat to keep a hardcore paleo dieter from shitting for a month, more breakfast meats than is even legally allowed at Old Country Buffet, and of course the DESSERT TABLE loaded with cookies, cakes, pies, puddings, and the obligatory fruit (ha!). Though we will most likely stuff our faces at the same buffet this May 11th, I am asking for a simpler gift, one that literally costs no money. I would ask that everyone in my house can refrain from being a FUCKING ASSHOLE for one day.
Mother's Day is MY day. The one day to celebrate ME for all the utter hell I go through being a mom. There are days I do look at my kids in awe and wonder, amazed at how they became such wonderful children. This is mostly when they are asleep or I see a kick-ass report card. Lately there have been less and less kumbaya moments and more "where-did-I-sign-in-blood-for-this-bullshit-motherhood-glutton-for-punishment-gig" moments. I have reached the brink many times recently. It has surpassed the yelling/screaming/swearing level and gone directly into the numb/dazed/blinking back tears mode. No matter what people say, being a mom is a hard-ass job.
Here are some fun facts they DON'T tell you about being a mom:
1) Stretch marks are NOT sexy or "tiger stripes". If your mom had them and you have a baby bigger than a potato, you will get them. There are zero creams or potions that will make them go away. They are ugly and unless you have a plastic surgeon cut them off you, deal with it. I am sporting some on my belly, hips, and boobs. Think of it as middle age tie dye for your skin.
2) Kids are really, really mean and they do not care about your feelings. When our children are infants, they are helpless little screaming blobs that eat and shit and rarely sleep. When they are toddlers they are unreasonable and say NO often and throw massive fits in public. This is my LEAST favorite stage of parenting. Teenagers have raging hormones which gives them this assumed license to be total dicks and blame it on being a teen. When teens do not like what they hear from you they will slam doors, sigh loudly, mumble profanity just unclear enough for you to say, "HEY!!! What did you just say about me?!"You are supremely uncool and cannot say, wear, do, speak, or suggest anything cool/normal/awesome. You will ground them often and they will hate it but repeat same behaviors two days later. It's like Groundhog Day up in my house----every single day the same teen drama recreates itself.
3) No one really ever wants to help out in the daily things moms do. The chores aren't glamorous, you don't get paid jack squat, and mom will always do it faster and better so why bother? Guess what? I don't like doing them either!!!! This year I plan on creating a sort of "This is Mom's Superglam Life Activity" scavenger hunt. Various stations will be in their usual places in the house. My family will have to figure out the order in which I do these things and then perhaps they will wager on how long each will take to finish. Great fun for all! I will sit back with a giant martini in hand and a timer.
4) Being a mom makes you dog-ass tired. I get up before anyone in my house. I am always the last one to go to bed. I have to think of things and remember details no one else will. For Mother's Day, even if it seems like something that doesn't matter to you, it matters to me so please don't be a FUCKING ASSHOLE.....
These are things I consider FUCKING ASSHOLE behavior in my house:
-keep putting trash in the trash can when it has reached the top of the bag and is now getting jammed when you close it. Change the damn bag and put the trash in the garage.
-if you are going upstairs or downstairs and you see any of your own shit that belongs to YOU, take it with you. Every. Single. Time. Shoes, bags, mail, boxes. If I see something that has been sitting there too long and you don't care, Goodwill is right down the street.
-pick up your god damn laundry. Do not leave underwear on bathroom floor, jeans flung onto nightstand, wet towels on carpet, or outfits from days prior shoved into corner where you think I won't see it. I will. There are laundry hampers very close. You can also FOLD your clothes and put them back in your closet/dresser. Again, Goodwill is very close in case you didn't want those Hollister jeans.
-empty your suitcase. If it has been two days since you have returned, you have had plenty of time. If there are two or more suitcase piled up they will be placed under the deck and I will place skunk treats nearby.
-if the dishwasher appears to be full and clean, empty it. Do not pile more dirty plates and utensils in the sink. And do not put extra dirty plates in CLEAN dishwasher because you "didn't know". It's not rocket science.
-take the dogs out JUST BECAUSE IT'S NICE OF YOU. Do not wait until they whine. Do not argue about "I did it last time" or "I always do it". No, you do not fucking "always do it". There are two litterboxes in this house, scoop one. Play with the dogs just because it's nice and you can actually stop playing Candy Crush or Snapchatting for 15 minutes. That stupid duck face you make is getting old.
-if there is cat vomit, or dog pee or poop do not exclaim "There's shit/pee/puke on the floor!", point to it, and then step over it. No one enjoys cleaning it up. You have two arms, know where paper towels and spray cleaner are, fucking help out.
-do not leave your crusty ass granola, mustard, or egg yolk dishes in sink dry to turn into cement so I have to clean them. Rinse them. Or I might break them over your head in your sleep.
-if I have to remind you to do something you should have done, do not say "I forgot", "I was going to do that", or "I didn't know". All stupid lies and empty talk. You have lived in this house a long time. You speak English. I am not wearing a maid uniform and leave at the end of the day to go home to my real family. Clean up your own shit.
-if I want you to help me, do not say, "I have to get to this next level on my game first". I will seriously take your phone and shove it up your ass.
-no eye rolling, yelling, blaming, screaming, shoving, door slamming, rage disorder, temper tantrums, "I did it last time"....This applies to all members of this house, please. For one day.
All I want is for my family to be thoughtFUL, not thoughtLESS. Do something you know I do without asking, without prodding, without me asking you 10 times and then me flipping my shit because it's 10 o'clock and my migraine is about to make me cry. Dishwasher, trash, laundry, cat litter, dogs, messes, spills, shoes, dirty underwear, dog turds. I guarantee if you all pitched in and did all the things I do in my day "just being a mom", you would get it. Now go be nice to MOM to today because she deserves it. And don't be a FUCKING ASSHOLE. I'm going to have a mimosa now.....
Mother's Day is MY day. The one day to celebrate ME for all the utter hell I go through being a mom. There are days I do look at my kids in awe and wonder, amazed at how they became such wonderful children. This is mostly when they are asleep or I see a kick-ass report card. Lately there have been less and less kumbaya moments and more "where-did-I-sign-in-blood-for-this-bullshit-motherhood-glutton-for-punishment-gig" moments. I have reached the brink many times recently. It has surpassed the yelling/screaming/swearing level and gone directly into the numb/dazed/blinking back tears mode. No matter what people say, being a mom is a hard-ass job.
Here are some fun facts they DON'T tell you about being a mom:
1) Stretch marks are NOT sexy or "tiger stripes". If your mom had them and you have a baby bigger than a potato, you will get them. There are zero creams or potions that will make them go away. They are ugly and unless you have a plastic surgeon cut them off you, deal with it. I am sporting some on my belly, hips, and boobs. Think of it as middle age tie dye for your skin.
2) Kids are really, really mean and they do not care about your feelings. When our children are infants, they are helpless little screaming blobs that eat and shit and rarely sleep. When they are toddlers they are unreasonable and say NO often and throw massive fits in public. This is my LEAST favorite stage of parenting. Teenagers have raging hormones which gives them this assumed license to be total dicks and blame it on being a teen. When teens do not like what they hear from you they will slam doors, sigh loudly, mumble profanity just unclear enough for you to say, "HEY!!! What did you just say about me?!"You are supremely uncool and cannot say, wear, do, speak, or suggest anything cool/normal/awesome. You will ground them often and they will hate it but repeat same behaviors two days later. It's like Groundhog Day up in my house----every single day the same teen drama recreates itself.
3) No one really ever wants to help out in the daily things moms do. The chores aren't glamorous, you don't get paid jack squat, and mom will always do it faster and better so why bother? Guess what? I don't like doing them either!!!! This year I plan on creating a sort of "This is Mom's Superglam Life Activity" scavenger hunt. Various stations will be in their usual places in the house. My family will have to figure out the order in which I do these things and then perhaps they will wager on how long each will take to finish. Great fun for all! I will sit back with a giant martini in hand and a timer.
4) Being a mom makes you dog-ass tired. I get up before anyone in my house. I am always the last one to go to bed. I have to think of things and remember details no one else will. For Mother's Day, even if it seems like something that doesn't matter to you, it matters to me so please don't be a FUCKING ASSHOLE.....
These are things I consider FUCKING ASSHOLE behavior in my house:
-keep putting trash in the trash can when it has reached the top of the bag and is now getting jammed when you close it. Change the damn bag and put the trash in the garage.
-if you are going upstairs or downstairs and you see any of your own shit that belongs to YOU, take it with you. Every. Single. Time. Shoes, bags, mail, boxes. If I see something that has been sitting there too long and you don't care, Goodwill is right down the street.
-pick up your god damn laundry. Do not leave underwear on bathroom floor, jeans flung onto nightstand, wet towels on carpet, or outfits from days prior shoved into corner where you think I won't see it. I will. There are laundry hampers very close. You can also FOLD your clothes and put them back in your closet/dresser. Again, Goodwill is very close in case you didn't want those Hollister jeans.
-empty your suitcase. If it has been two days since you have returned, you have had plenty of time. If there are two or more suitcase piled up they will be placed under the deck and I will place skunk treats nearby.
-if the dishwasher appears to be full and clean, empty it. Do not pile more dirty plates and utensils in the sink. And do not put extra dirty plates in CLEAN dishwasher because you "didn't know". It's not rocket science.
-take the dogs out JUST BECAUSE IT'S NICE OF YOU. Do not wait until they whine. Do not argue about "I did it last time" or "I always do it". No, you do not fucking "always do it". There are two litterboxes in this house, scoop one. Play with the dogs just because it's nice and you can actually stop playing Candy Crush or Snapchatting for 15 minutes. That stupid duck face you make is getting old.
-if there is cat vomit, or dog pee or poop do not exclaim "There's shit/pee/puke on the floor!", point to it, and then step over it. No one enjoys cleaning it up. You have two arms, know where paper towels and spray cleaner are, fucking help out.
-do not leave your crusty ass granola, mustard, or egg yolk dishes in sink dry to turn into cement so I have to clean them. Rinse them. Or I might break them over your head in your sleep.
-if I have to remind you to do something you should have done, do not say "I forgot", "I was going to do that", or "I didn't know". All stupid lies and empty talk. You have lived in this house a long time. You speak English. I am not wearing a maid uniform and leave at the end of the day to go home to my real family. Clean up your own shit.
-if I want you to help me, do not say, "I have to get to this next level on my game first". I will seriously take your phone and shove it up your ass.
-no eye rolling, yelling, blaming, screaming, shoving, door slamming, rage disorder, temper tantrums, "I did it last time"....This applies to all members of this house, please. For one day.
All I want is for my family to be thoughtFUL, not thoughtLESS. Do something you know I do without asking, without prodding, without me asking you 10 times and then me flipping my shit because it's 10 o'clock and my migraine is about to make me cry. Dishwasher, trash, laundry, cat litter, dogs, messes, spills, shoes, dirty underwear, dog turds. I guarantee if you all pitched in and did all the things I do in my day "just being a mom", you would get it. Now go be nice to MOM to today because she deserves it. And don't be a FUCKING ASSHOLE. I'm going to have a mimosa now.....
Monday, October 22, 2012
Hoarding
I love to buy new shit. I love to go shopping. I love new shoes, new clothes, new purses, new makeup, new seasonal mats for my doorstep, new crafts..... You get the gist. But along with the joy of purchasing new items comes the assumed task of ridding oneself of some older wares in the house. Certain folks have an easy time managing both responsibilities. Other people cannot balance both jobs and thus a resulting problem ensues: HOARDING.
I used to be a hoarder. I love to shop, as I said, but I used to just see the stuff accumulating and not really know what to do with the old stuff. So the piles just got bigger, my crap got out of control, and suddenly I had mountains of shoes and laundry and cat toys and panties and....Jesus, I can't even go on because it makes me break out in hives. I am better. I did not need a 12-step program. I simply went through moving from my house I lived in for 9 years into a new one. Having to pack all your bullshit into boxes and take it to a new, nicer, bigger place really makes you prioritize. I asked myself, "Do I really need this box of mix tapes from 1987?" Between a giant dumpster to toss crap (yes, we really did rent one..) and about 15 trips to Goodwill, our move was manageable. How did I get so much SHIT???
I happen to be married to a hoarder. I use this term with affection because we are certainly not living in the squalor of those poor people on the TLC show who actually cannot throw out old food containers and need to pee in their sinks because their toilet is covered with garage sale finds. But I will say that my husband loves to buy new stuff but also hates to get rid of anything old. "But I LIKE that shirt! It's a perfectly good pair of pants. Those shoes can be worn when I wash my car. That hard drive can be used for something." To this I say FUCK THAT SHIT. Just because a shirt has two armholes and a neck does not mean it should be seen in public. Sometimes food stains, pit stains, good ol' fashion sense, evolving technology, even damn common sense should outweigh the urge to hold on to old things. Throw it the hell out already.
I did some closet sorting this evening. I will clearly label all the items I have neatly folded and there will be rules. If the rules are not followed I will not be happy. If I am not happy... let's not go there. There is a pile of solid colored t-shirts. There are some t-shirts I will call "fashionable" meaning they would be acceptable to be worn out in public. There are long-sleeved shirts, sweatshirts, athletic clothing, and pajamas. There is a pile of at least 60 polo shirts. (By the way if anyone has the urge to buy him a polo shirt for his birthday or Father's Day, please stop yourself. I beg you.) And then there's the pile I shall refer to as "Not Allowed in Public" shirts. This includes various Star Wars t-shirts, Xbox t-shirts, Borat photos, old sports t-shirts, and shirts that say things like "Warning: Giant Penis". Not sure what inspired the purchase of that shirt because there is literally nowhere I would fucking allow that shit to be seen. It's funny, it's clever, it's something you take a pic of with your phone, send to your wife, then put it right back on the shelf. But I cannot get rid of the Giant Penis t-shirt because they certainly will not sell that at Goodwill. There is no Spencer's Gifts resale shop that I am aware of. And though my dear hubby would probably be unaware of me getting rid of many of his old things because the quantity of new stuff is so vast, an MIA report on the shirt referring to this massive dick would most certainly be issued. I have to run. I am going to put on my "Warning: Giant Bitch if You Think You'll Ever Get Some Wearing THAT" poncho.
P.S. Love you, honey.....
I used to be a hoarder. I love to shop, as I said, but I used to just see the stuff accumulating and not really know what to do with the old stuff. So the piles just got bigger, my crap got out of control, and suddenly I had mountains of shoes and laundry and cat toys and panties and....Jesus, I can't even go on because it makes me break out in hives. I am better. I did not need a 12-step program. I simply went through moving from my house I lived in for 9 years into a new one. Having to pack all your bullshit into boxes and take it to a new, nicer, bigger place really makes you prioritize. I asked myself, "Do I really need this box of mix tapes from 1987?" Between a giant dumpster to toss crap (yes, we really did rent one..) and about 15 trips to Goodwill, our move was manageable. How did I get so much SHIT???
I happen to be married to a hoarder. I use this term with affection because we are certainly not living in the squalor of those poor people on the TLC show who actually cannot throw out old food containers and need to pee in their sinks because their toilet is covered with garage sale finds. But I will say that my husband loves to buy new stuff but also hates to get rid of anything old. "But I LIKE that shirt! It's a perfectly good pair of pants. Those shoes can be worn when I wash my car. That hard drive can be used for something." To this I say FUCK THAT SHIT. Just because a shirt has two armholes and a neck does not mean it should be seen in public. Sometimes food stains, pit stains, good ol' fashion sense, evolving technology, even damn common sense should outweigh the urge to hold on to old things. Throw it the hell out already.
I did some closet sorting this evening. I will clearly label all the items I have neatly folded and there will be rules. If the rules are not followed I will not be happy. If I am not happy... let's not go there. There is a pile of solid colored t-shirts. There are some t-shirts I will call "fashionable" meaning they would be acceptable to be worn out in public. There are long-sleeved shirts, sweatshirts, athletic clothing, and pajamas. There is a pile of at least 60 polo shirts. (By the way if anyone has the urge to buy him a polo shirt for his birthday or Father's Day, please stop yourself. I beg you.) And then there's the pile I shall refer to as "Not Allowed in Public" shirts. This includes various Star Wars t-shirts, Xbox t-shirts, Borat photos, old sports t-shirts, and shirts that say things like "Warning: Giant Penis". Not sure what inspired the purchase of that shirt because there is literally nowhere I would fucking allow that shit to be seen. It's funny, it's clever, it's something you take a pic of with your phone, send to your wife, then put it right back on the shelf. But I cannot get rid of the Giant Penis t-shirt because they certainly will not sell that at Goodwill. There is no Spencer's Gifts resale shop that I am aware of. And though my dear hubby would probably be unaware of me getting rid of many of his old things because the quantity of new stuff is so vast, an MIA report on the shirt referring to this massive dick would most certainly be issued. I have to run. I am going to put on my "Warning: Giant Bitch if You Think You'll Ever Get Some Wearing THAT" poncho.
P.S. Love you, honey.....
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Deucing It Up
Why is taking a crap made to feel like such an awkward social gesture??? I mean, we ALL have to drop the kids at the pool every day, if we're lucky. It is an element of God-given body waste removal that is a necessity to live. It is not pleasant, it does not smell like a bouquet of roses, plain and simple--shit happens. So why is it always such a public taboo?!! And why can't people recognize your imminent need for privacy when aforementioned launch needs to happen?....
I experienced a terribly uncomfortable moment the other day involving a poo-mergency. Though my preferred place to take care of business like this is at my own home, I happened to be en route to the gym and knew once I swiped my membership card at the door, I needed to high tail it to the john. Upon exiting my car, I encountered my instructor for the class I was taking in 45 minutes also heading in. I tried to slow my pace as to avoid her but she spotted me. Damn. She is very friendly and chatty to the degree of a Capuchin monkey on crystal meth. I knew my shit-tastic adventure would have to be put on hold for a bit. I don't know if she noticed the beads of sweat glistening on my upper lip and the gurgling of my spastic colon but it was not enough to deter her from her banter. We walked side by side towards the lockers, her with a skip in her step from eating her breakfast of flax and crack-flavored corn flakes, and me with clenched butt cheeks and a skitterish shuffle. FINALLY she veered off towards the employee entrance and I to the women's locker room. As I tossed my junk into the locker, lo and behold, there she fucking was AGAIN!!! I was in such awe that I was barely speaking and she took this cue to go into the bathroom to assumably pee. She came out, resumed her conversation with me. Sigh. I wandered as fake-leisurely as I could over to check out stall availability. Jackpot! All clear. I ceased conversation and proceeded to violate the hell out of that poor stall. I needed a Hazmat suit and about 6 Yankee candles. I flushed, was ready to abandon scene, opened my stall door, and who was waiting outside my stall, CRACK PIPE CARDIO TEACHER!!!! Of ALL the stalls she had to go into, why in God's name did she insist on following my pipe-laying gig?? And didn't she just pee like 10 seconds ago? I ran like a bat out of hell and headed upstairs. There was no possible way to avoid what happened, of course she knew it was me who made her gag reflexes kick in. I'm surprised she did not approach me privately and ask if I was sick...
I stood in line with my other fitness buff friends waiting for the studio to open. The instructor normally takes this time to chat with everyone in line, ask them how their week has been going, see if they have any questions about the class. Her Close Encounter of the Turd Kind with me had rendered me a social pariah. No eye contact was made, no acknowledgement I was attending her class, I might as well have been a cardboard Jared sign at Subway--she was not going to go there. Throughout the entire class when she is a Mexican jumping bean (who can lift a shit pot of weight, might I add) she did not ONCE glance my way. Should I have been ashamed of my bathroom needs? Should I have been annoyed that out of 4 other open stalls she chose the one clearly recently annihilated by someone?? Doesn't she ever have to take a crap?? I have since seen this instructor, eye contact has resumed, chattiness back to normal. But I know that forever etched in her mind and most likely her sinuses will be the haunting memory of my Dysentery Shit that fatal morning.
There is a handful of other gym poppers I recognize by their sneakers. I know them every single day by the way their feet are sprawled out sideways, pants fully dropped to the floor in pools around their ankles, that recognizable spinning on the toilet paper roll as it cascades ripples and ribbons of sheets to wad and wipe with. I typically make it as mission now to ONLY pee so I sense the awkward silence as they sit in the stall next to me, waiting for me to flush to cover the ricochet of their after splash. It is not the optimum place to have to do this. We would all much rather be at home, with nobody else there, no phone ringing, no dog whining to go out, just you, the toilet, plenty of TP, and perhaps a good cool cloth to douse your brow as your exertion plays out. Even an assortment of magazines make as pleasant of an experience as humanly possible . No matter how you try to disguise it and make it incognito, you are taking a shit at the gym.
I experienced a terribly uncomfortable moment the other day involving a poo-mergency. Though my preferred place to take care of business like this is at my own home, I happened to be en route to the gym and knew once I swiped my membership card at the door, I needed to high tail it to the john. Upon exiting my car, I encountered my instructor for the class I was taking in 45 minutes also heading in. I tried to slow my pace as to avoid her but she spotted me. Damn. She is very friendly and chatty to the degree of a Capuchin monkey on crystal meth. I knew my shit-tastic adventure would have to be put on hold for a bit. I don't know if she noticed the beads of sweat glistening on my upper lip and the gurgling of my spastic colon but it was not enough to deter her from her banter. We walked side by side towards the lockers, her with a skip in her step from eating her breakfast of flax and crack-flavored corn flakes, and me with clenched butt cheeks and a skitterish shuffle. FINALLY she veered off towards the employee entrance and I to the women's locker room. As I tossed my junk into the locker, lo and behold, there she fucking was AGAIN!!! I was in such awe that I was barely speaking and she took this cue to go into the bathroom to assumably pee. She came out, resumed her conversation with me. Sigh. I wandered as fake-leisurely as I could over to check out stall availability. Jackpot! All clear. I ceased conversation and proceeded to violate the hell out of that poor stall. I needed a Hazmat suit and about 6 Yankee candles. I flushed, was ready to abandon scene, opened my stall door, and who was waiting outside my stall, CRACK PIPE CARDIO TEACHER!!!! Of ALL the stalls she had to go into, why in God's name did she insist on following my pipe-laying gig?? And didn't she just pee like 10 seconds ago? I ran like a bat out of hell and headed upstairs. There was no possible way to avoid what happened, of course she knew it was me who made her gag reflexes kick in. I'm surprised she did not approach me privately and ask if I was sick...
I stood in line with my other fitness buff friends waiting for the studio to open. The instructor normally takes this time to chat with everyone in line, ask them how their week has been going, see if they have any questions about the class. Her Close Encounter of the Turd Kind with me had rendered me a social pariah. No eye contact was made, no acknowledgement I was attending her class, I might as well have been a cardboard Jared sign at Subway--she was not going to go there. Throughout the entire class when she is a Mexican jumping bean (who can lift a shit pot of weight, might I add) she did not ONCE glance my way. Should I have been ashamed of my bathroom needs? Should I have been annoyed that out of 4 other open stalls she chose the one clearly recently annihilated by someone?? Doesn't she ever have to take a crap?? I have since seen this instructor, eye contact has resumed, chattiness back to normal. But I know that forever etched in her mind and most likely her sinuses will be the haunting memory of my Dysentery Shit that fatal morning.
There is a handful of other gym poppers I recognize by their sneakers. I know them every single day by the way their feet are sprawled out sideways, pants fully dropped to the floor in pools around their ankles, that recognizable spinning on the toilet paper roll as it cascades ripples and ribbons of sheets to wad and wipe with. I typically make it as mission now to ONLY pee so I sense the awkward silence as they sit in the stall next to me, waiting for me to flush to cover the ricochet of their after splash. It is not the optimum place to have to do this. We would all much rather be at home, with nobody else there, no phone ringing, no dog whining to go out, just you, the toilet, plenty of TP, and perhaps a good cool cloth to douse your brow as your exertion plays out. Even an assortment of magazines make as pleasant of an experience as humanly possible . No matter how you try to disguise it and make it incognito, you are taking a shit at the gym.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Scooter Squirrel
I do not, however, feel an ounce of affection towards the fat bastard squirrel(s) who make my festive fall pumpkin decor their annual snack buffet. The first year we moved into our house the pumpkin massacre was quite brutal. Orange stringy shrapnel was strewn all over my front steps like a post-Halloween apocalypse. I truly thought the culprit was a large animal, perhaps a raccoon or even a fox. Judging by the size of the bite marks, these were clearly the chompers of a big, hungry son of a bitch. Until I saw him. The teeth were big alright. They had to be to keep up with the the caloric intake necessary to maintain the ass girth of this fluffy-tailed mother fucker. He literally looked at me as my jaw dropped and eyes bugged out of my head and then proceeded to go back to snarfing my pumpkin. If I'm not mistaken he may have flashed me a tiny squirrel middle finger. What a dick.
I moved my pumpkins from my front steps up onto my decorative front porch chairs thinking a couple of feet would deter Fatty McNutsack from gorging himself. Much to my dismay when I glanced out my front door the following day he had not only manage to hoist his fat hairy ass up there but now I had created seating arrangement for him to enjoy his feast. Perhaps he rode a miniature electric stair lift slowly up to claim his treasure. If he was a squirrel at Disneyworld he would definitely be riding a scooter to haul his butt around. Not sure how many Weight Watchers points there are in a medium pumpkin but I think Scooter Squirrel was over his quota.
The following year I decided to ban the use of pumpkins in my fall display. It was hard, I mean what do you see as the quintessential autumnal harvest vegetable but a damn PUMPKIN?? I tried the fake ones. They look ghetto and blow away with a strong wind. I settled with a boring assortment of mums and just resigned myself to the fact that my house was too darn close to the woods to take the risk of purchasing any. I think this mediocre fall holiday representation of my crafting and decorating skills led me to WAY overcompensate and go bat-shit crazy decorating for Christmas. But I will discuss my growing collection of Nutrackers and garland obsession in another post....
This year I felt like Jeff Probst. I was going to outplay, outwit, outlast those sons of bitches. I was going to find a way to decorate with a fall display that was worthy of my Martha Stewart-ness. I was going back to my old school, REAL pumpkin roots. I started small, I built a small pumpkin topiary using the flat, Cinderella pumpkins. I glazed them with Mod Podge and sparkled them with glitter. Stacked on top of a flower pot with a bow on top. I felt pretty bad ass. Then I went to a pumpkin farm with my kids where there were MOUNTAINS of pumpkins in every size, shape, color. It was a pumpkin orgy. Green ones, white ones, oval ones, flat ones, tall ones, even freaky ones with long-ass necks that looked like geese. I thought my head was going to explode. I filled my wheelbarrow with as much as I could carry and $62 later I was headed home. Someone told me the Cinderella or ghost pumpkins are actually squash so the squirrels will not want to eat these as much as the sweet orange pumpkins. Because I am a dumb-ass blonde this sounded pretty logical.
For the past week, my array of 6 additional sassy pumpkins has remained untouched. Until today. I'll be God-damned if there weren't giant bite marks and chunks missing from 4 of my beautiful fall orbs. Obviously my goods were newly discovered. Perhaps I has been written off after last year like a Jehovah's house on Halloween with the lights off and a mean sign on the door that says "NO CANDY HERE". But they were on to me. They knew I was back, baby. And I had gone whole hog with my pumpkins. I bet those squirrels were juicing up their little miniature scooters to hit me up like ShuffledBoard Friday Happy Hour at the old folks' home. But they had made one grievous error. See I know their game. I know it might start with a nibble. And so far that's all they managed to score. Checkmate, mother fuckers.
I hauled my ice-cold pumpkins back into my house and came up with a concoction no rodent, even a hungry fat-ass one, would want to sink his teeth into. I was a mad scientist with my Mod Podge, glitter glue, metallic paint, spray adhesive, sprinkle glitter, and Diamond Dust (which is actually ground up glass). I have turned as crazy as Bill Murray in Caddyshack. My fall display is extra sparkly, extra shiny, probably extra appealing. I sincerely hope these assholes are tempted by my craft magic. Because if they take a few nibbles they will chip those giant buck teeth, perhaps gag and be poisoned by my "craft potion", and hopeful slowly bleed out and die at the hands of this vengeful, temperamental animal lover. My middle finger is bigger than yours and don't think I'm not watching you. I think a squirrel tail would make a lovely tree topper this holiday season.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Who Gives a Shit??
Mainstream media has a way of pounding certain stories into the ground until it's all we can do to not bang our head against a wall when hearing about them for the 857th time. Here are some things I am really, really fucking sick of hearing about:
Jennifer Aniston's love life.
I do not give a shit that she was married to Brad Pitt nor that she has had a string of poor relationships. I do not care that she is engaged nor do I think impending nuptials will be worthy of the tittle "Wedding of the Century. Seriously?? She is a lousy actress who had a rich daddy who kindly got her a nose job as a teen. She has great legs, the same hairstyle since she was Rachel on Friends, and a whiney tone when she talks. Moving on..
Taylor Swift.
I DID feel sorry for her when Kanye swooped in to steal her moment of glory at the Grammy's. But now I think she is a bit of a whore. She is 20, dating an 18 year-old KENNEDY. I'm sure it is out of love and affection, not at all for publicity and money. She has dated everyone and then when it doesn't work out (I suspect she is cray-cray), she writes mean and/or melancholy tunes about her exes we are all supposed to listen to and thus feel sorry for her. Not buying it, you twanging tramp. P.S.--I hate country music.
Alec Baldwin and his new 20-something wife, the yoga instructor.
Alec Baldwin's prime was when he did the movie, The Marrying Man in 1991, and was married to Kim Basinger. The relationship fizzled, he became a bloated, booze-guzzling fatty, and then was lucky enough to score a spot on 30 Rock. Because he is Hollywood royalty (and rich), he scores a hot piece of much younger ass who inspires him to cut out sugar from his diet and lose 50 pounds. Let's face it, he's tapping that ass 5 times a day and is smart enough to know this chick, Hilaria (yes, her real name), is the key to bringing his image back. I give their "true love" relationship two years before she moves on to someone younger and with fewer vices.
Kanye and Kim Kardashian.
I cannot believe I am even dedicating a small paragraph to these two assholes. Who gives a fuck if they are dating? She is the hugest Hollywood media whore and people think this relationship is REAL??? C'mon, folks. Her multi-million dollar marriage lasted a blink of an eye. Soon enough Kanye will cheat on her or beat her or get a DUI. Or Kim will have a video leaked of her blowing the entire Miami Heat team. I give this relationship 7 months. Then she will be clamoring on some other rich, black dick. Just wait.
The war of words between Elton John and Madonna.
Elton, you are a porky queen who is jealous because no one asks you to show up in a leotard and play the piano with your feather boa anymore. Madonna, you are a mega-entertainer whose glory days have long since passed but you are desperately clinging to your ego with releases of really awful music and news of you dating embarrassingly young back-up dancers. Guess what? No one gives a shit about EITHER of you besides the older gays of our community. Hug it our bitches, I bet you could find some common ground in your Spandex bedazzled frocks gathering dust in your closets.
Chik-Fil-A.
I personally have never understood the obsession with this place but I know I have friends who are avid consumers of their chicken. Who doesn't love a great chicken sandwich? I also love me some gays and lesbians. But I do not expect them to try to go and hold a religious commitment ceremony next to the nugget fryer in this restaurant. So if this owner wants to let people know what he personally believes is true for him, let him do it. This is America where THANK GOD we have the freedom to believe whatever we want. If it bothers you that much, go eat a chicken sandwich from Burger King. And then hang your rainbow flag and move on. People take way too much fucking issue with every little things these days. Settle down already. And pass the BBQ sauce..
Jennifer Lopez and her back-up dancer boyfriend.
It is sad when a marriage involving children ends but Marc Anthony was an ugly-ass bobble head. Yeah, I said it. Jennifer Lopez traded down--way down--when she married him. But now she is divorced and dating her 18-years younger boyfriend who is one of her lead backup dancers. Because that's ALWAYS a good idea. (Hello, Chris Judd?????) He's smart for seducing her, she's dumb for believing this can work, I'm just going to sit back and watch this one play out. Good times.
Lindsay Lohan.
She is a ticking time bomb, folks. I don't want to hear about her temper tantrums on the set, her partying ways, her poor choices in swimwear that don't support her ridonk implants, or her horrid plastic surgery and injections in her face. She is mediocre talent. She is an entitled bitch with too much money. She's going to go all Whitney, just give it a few years. Bathtub, sleeping pills, blonde weave clogging the drain. It'll happen. ( Call me cruel or insensitive, I call it being realistic. Deal with it.)
Katie, Tom, and Suri.
That marriage/cult contract was a disaster from the get-go. Does anyone honestly think their relationship was based on love??? No offense against Scientology (though even saying the word makes me think of the scene from Airplane where all those religious freaks are approaching that guy and he's having to fend them off---"Scientolo-geeeeeeeee!!!!!!), but it is a weird-ass secretive "faith". All the crazy reports of what Katie was expected to do and believe and raise her child in. The fact she lasted 5 years blew my mind. Good for her for walking out. And "poor Tom" my ass. He's rich as dirt, crazy, and I think slightly repressed homosexual. But this is coming from a suburban mom in the midwest, what do I know about Hollywood celebrities and their lives....
William and Kate.
I was one of the ones who woke my kids up to watch their wedding live on TV. I think they are charming. I think she has a smoking bod and he at least looks mostly like his mom. But can we leave them alone already? Let them have a moment's peace. If they want to have a baby, trust me, I think they'll let us know. I don't need to have a recap of everything they did at the Olympics from clapping to cheering to wiping their ass. I like Kate's style but I am not running out to buy the exact shoes and pantyhose she wears. Chill the fuck out, crazy royal obsessors.
Carlie Rae Jepsen.
If I hear that God damn "Call Me Maybe" song one more time I will punch the closest living thing next to me in the crotch. I don't give a shit if the Harvard baseball team lip-synced it, I don't care if the Olympic swim team lip-synced it, I don't care if they taught a troop or paraplegic monkeys to lip-sync it, I do NOT want to hear this jam anymore. And what's up with everyone in Hollywood having three names?? Let's start a new trend, let's call you by the first thing that pops into my head when I see you... FUCKTARD.
I'll catch you later, I have to go catch up on Adele's love life and who Katy Perry is banging this week via TMZ....
Jennifer Aniston's love life.
I do not give a shit that she was married to Brad Pitt nor that she has had a string of poor relationships. I do not care that she is engaged nor do I think impending nuptials will be worthy of the tittle "Wedding of the Century. Seriously?? She is a lousy actress who had a rich daddy who kindly got her a nose job as a teen. She has great legs, the same hairstyle since she was Rachel on Friends, and a whiney tone when she talks. Moving on..
Taylor Swift.
I DID feel sorry for her when Kanye swooped in to steal her moment of glory at the Grammy's. But now I think she is a bit of a whore. She is 20, dating an 18 year-old KENNEDY. I'm sure it is out of love and affection, not at all for publicity and money. She has dated everyone and then when it doesn't work out (I suspect she is cray-cray), she writes mean and/or melancholy tunes about her exes we are all supposed to listen to and thus feel sorry for her. Not buying it, you twanging tramp. P.S.--I hate country music.
Alec Baldwin and his new 20-something wife, the yoga instructor.
Alec Baldwin's prime was when he did the movie, The Marrying Man in 1991, and was married to Kim Basinger. The relationship fizzled, he became a bloated, booze-guzzling fatty, and then was lucky enough to score a spot on 30 Rock. Because he is Hollywood royalty (and rich), he scores a hot piece of much younger ass who inspires him to cut out sugar from his diet and lose 50 pounds. Let's face it, he's tapping that ass 5 times a day and is smart enough to know this chick, Hilaria (yes, her real name), is the key to bringing his image back. I give their "true love" relationship two years before she moves on to someone younger and with fewer vices.
Kanye and Kim Kardashian.
I cannot believe I am even dedicating a small paragraph to these two assholes. Who gives a fuck if they are dating? She is the hugest Hollywood media whore and people think this relationship is REAL??? C'mon, folks. Her multi-million dollar marriage lasted a blink of an eye. Soon enough Kanye will cheat on her or beat her or get a DUI. Or Kim will have a video leaked of her blowing the entire Miami Heat team. I give this relationship 7 months. Then she will be clamoring on some other rich, black dick. Just wait.
The war of words between Elton John and Madonna.
Elton, you are a porky queen who is jealous because no one asks you to show up in a leotard and play the piano with your feather boa anymore. Madonna, you are a mega-entertainer whose glory days have long since passed but you are desperately clinging to your ego with releases of really awful music and news of you dating embarrassingly young back-up dancers. Guess what? No one gives a shit about EITHER of you besides the older gays of our community. Hug it our bitches, I bet you could find some common ground in your Spandex bedazzled frocks gathering dust in your closets.
Chik-Fil-A.
I personally have never understood the obsession with this place but I know I have friends who are avid consumers of their chicken. Who doesn't love a great chicken sandwich? I also love me some gays and lesbians. But I do not expect them to try to go and hold a religious commitment ceremony next to the nugget fryer in this restaurant. So if this owner wants to let people know what he personally believes is true for him, let him do it. This is America where THANK GOD we have the freedom to believe whatever we want. If it bothers you that much, go eat a chicken sandwich from Burger King. And then hang your rainbow flag and move on. People take way too much fucking issue with every little things these days. Settle down already. And pass the BBQ sauce..
Jennifer Lopez and her back-up dancer boyfriend.
It is sad when a marriage involving children ends but Marc Anthony was an ugly-ass bobble head. Yeah, I said it. Jennifer Lopez traded down--way down--when she married him. But now she is divorced and dating her 18-years younger boyfriend who is one of her lead backup dancers. Because that's ALWAYS a good idea. (Hello, Chris Judd?????) He's smart for seducing her, she's dumb for believing this can work, I'm just going to sit back and watch this one play out. Good times.
Lindsay Lohan.
She is a ticking time bomb, folks. I don't want to hear about her temper tantrums on the set, her partying ways, her poor choices in swimwear that don't support her ridonk implants, or her horrid plastic surgery and injections in her face. She is mediocre talent. She is an entitled bitch with too much money. She's going to go all Whitney, just give it a few years. Bathtub, sleeping pills, blonde weave clogging the drain. It'll happen. ( Call me cruel or insensitive, I call it being realistic. Deal with it.)
Katie, Tom, and Suri.
That marriage/cult contract was a disaster from the get-go. Does anyone honestly think their relationship was based on love??? No offense against Scientology (though even saying the word makes me think of the scene from Airplane where all those religious freaks are approaching that guy and he's having to fend them off---"Scientolo-geeeeeeeee!!!!!!), but it is a weird-ass secretive "faith". All the crazy reports of what Katie was expected to do and believe and raise her child in. The fact she lasted 5 years blew my mind. Good for her for walking out. And "poor Tom" my ass. He's rich as dirt, crazy, and I think slightly repressed homosexual. But this is coming from a suburban mom in the midwest, what do I know about Hollywood celebrities and their lives....
William and Kate.
I was one of the ones who woke my kids up to watch their wedding live on TV. I think they are charming. I think she has a smoking bod and he at least looks mostly like his mom. But can we leave them alone already? Let them have a moment's peace. If they want to have a baby, trust me, I think they'll let us know. I don't need to have a recap of everything they did at the Olympics from clapping to cheering to wiping their ass. I like Kate's style but I am not running out to buy the exact shoes and pantyhose she wears. Chill the fuck out, crazy royal obsessors.
Carlie Rae Jepsen.
If I hear that God damn "Call Me Maybe" song one more time I will punch the closest living thing next to me in the crotch. I don't give a shit if the Harvard baseball team lip-synced it, I don't care if the Olympic swim team lip-synced it, I don't care if they taught a troop or paraplegic monkeys to lip-sync it, I do NOT want to hear this jam anymore. And what's up with everyone in Hollywood having three names?? Let's start a new trend, let's call you by the first thing that pops into my head when I see you... FUCKTARD.
I'll catch you later, I have to go catch up on Adele's love life and who Katy Perry is banging this week via TMZ....
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Suck It, Summer
The onset of the school year and end of summer are significant for several reasons. The bickering and noise level will decrease exponentially in my house. The begging for mid-week sleepovers and subsequent "sleepover hangovers" (aka "The Pre-Teen Bitch Wagon Excuse) will be gone. A regular schedule of sleeping and eating will resume and it will force me to go back to the gym immediately after kicking my youngest to the curb at elementary school at 8:50am. But most importantly, this means the cooling of temperatures and (hopefully) immediate cessation of the Slip and Slide's worth of inner thigh sweat I have been self-lubricating my body with since about April.
Traditionally summer is my most favorite season. I love a good tan, I adore vacation, I sleep in with abandon. This year, however, I feel that with a few teaser days of high temps even as far back as March, it has been summer hot for far too fucking long. I have been sweating like a French whore for months on end and I am over it. Anyone else? This is not to say I am craving bitter cold temps, chapped hands, or salt encrusting my boots and entryway. I would just enjoy a moment of wearing jeans, that's all.
There are different levels of sweating. There is sweating when you are engaged in a good workout. There is sweating when you are cooking in a hot kitchen. There is sweating when you are practicing self-control to not beat the shit out of your kids when they are acting like crackheads, wrestling and whining at the store. And there is the kind of sweat that happens when it has been The Summer of Death Heat for 5 months. This type of sweat is different than any other. It is lethal, it will cause ladies to perspire heavily in areas that are not very ladylike. It will cause wives to use their husband's deodorant because "lady strength" antiperspirants have pretty much said "Up yours!!" and ceased working, rendering your pits stinkier than an onion festival run by hippies who live in tents. But most importantly, it is the kind of sweat that makes your inner thighs slipperier than a jello wrestling contest.
I don't consider myself the sweatiest person in the world. There are no embarrassing photos of me pitting out with dark stains creeping from my armpits I try to hide from view at the holidays. I don't need to wear a bandanna or John McEnroe-style sweatband on my forehead to prevent sweat from blinding me while I workout (this could also signify laziness but I digress..). But when it is really, really hot, I sweat between my thighs. Call it TMI, just being real. And I know many of you ladies share this plight.
While on vacation recently, our family spent a LOT of time walking with no chance to cool off in a pool or air conditioning. We're talking like 6 hours in the peak heat (95-100 degrees in the blaring sun) walking. I would sit down for lunch (outside of course) and by the end of the meal the crease at my hips and the spot between my ass cheeks looked like I had been humping a wet sponge. WTF?? My inner thighs were so hot and wet it was all I could do not to buy a roll of paper towels and straddle it. Clearly the hand dryers in the bathroom were too high to hoist my glistening ass up to air out so I had to let the wind and time take its course. Back at the hotel room I knelt down to put some water bottles in our mini fridge and the profuse smell of onions blasted me in the face. I immediately thought the fridge was malfunctioning until I realized it was my inner thigh/vagina sweat situation which was causing said stench. The heat of this trip caused me to have to attend to my lady bits several times a day. For all the years I made fun of those Massengill Douche commercials and that "not so fresh feeling", I had officially become a bad cliche 80's commercial.
So summer, though it has been nice seeing you again, you have overstayed your welcome. I say to you in the kindest way, please fuck off already. I have run out of patience, paper towels, and underwear.
Traditionally summer is my most favorite season. I love a good tan, I adore vacation, I sleep in with abandon. This year, however, I feel that with a few teaser days of high temps even as far back as March, it has been summer hot for far too fucking long. I have been sweating like a French whore for months on end and I am over it. Anyone else? This is not to say I am craving bitter cold temps, chapped hands, or salt encrusting my boots and entryway. I would just enjoy a moment of wearing jeans, that's all.
There are different levels of sweating. There is sweating when you are engaged in a good workout. There is sweating when you are cooking in a hot kitchen. There is sweating when you are practicing self-control to not beat the shit out of your kids when they are acting like crackheads, wrestling and whining at the store. And there is the kind of sweat that happens when it has been The Summer of Death Heat for 5 months. This type of sweat is different than any other. It is lethal, it will cause ladies to perspire heavily in areas that are not very ladylike. It will cause wives to use their husband's deodorant because "lady strength" antiperspirants have pretty much said "Up yours!!" and ceased working, rendering your pits stinkier than an onion festival run by hippies who live in tents. But most importantly, it is the kind of sweat that makes your inner thighs slipperier than a jello wrestling contest.
I don't consider myself the sweatiest person in the world. There are no embarrassing photos of me pitting out with dark stains creeping from my armpits I try to hide from view at the holidays. I don't need to wear a bandanna or John McEnroe-style sweatband on my forehead to prevent sweat from blinding me while I workout (this could also signify laziness but I digress..). But when it is really, really hot, I sweat between my thighs. Call it TMI, just being real. And I know many of you ladies share this plight.
While on vacation recently, our family spent a LOT of time walking with no chance to cool off in a pool or air conditioning. We're talking like 6 hours in the peak heat (95-100 degrees in the blaring sun) walking. I would sit down for lunch (outside of course) and by the end of the meal the crease at my hips and the spot between my ass cheeks looked like I had been humping a wet sponge. WTF?? My inner thighs were so hot and wet it was all I could do not to buy a roll of paper towels and straddle it. Clearly the hand dryers in the bathroom were too high to hoist my glistening ass up to air out so I had to let the wind and time take its course. Back at the hotel room I knelt down to put some water bottles in our mini fridge and the profuse smell of onions blasted me in the face. I immediately thought the fridge was malfunctioning until I realized it was my inner thigh/vagina sweat situation which was causing said stench. The heat of this trip caused me to have to attend to my lady bits several times a day. For all the years I made fun of those Massengill Douche commercials and that "not so fresh feeling", I had officially become a bad cliche 80's commercial.
So summer, though it has been nice seeing you again, you have overstayed your welcome. I say to you in the kindest way, please fuck off already. I have run out of patience, paper towels, and underwear.
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