If It Taint Broke, Don't Fix It

It is getting close to the time of year for my annual check-up. You know, ladies: the cold duck bill, legs in stirrups, "where-the-hell-is-my-martini-before-you-do-that-to-me?" visit. I do not enjoy this visit, the mere thought causes me to cramp up and have to use the bathroom. I do not mind the chest groping. My boobs are so melon-tastic that my kids find it frequently entertaining to poke them, punch them, head butt them, or "accidentally" bump into them. They are kind of hard to miss so I get it... I DO however mind the crotch probing that occurs at said annual visit. For the guys, imagine getting a tiny mascara brush shoved inside the tip of your penis. It is not "a little tickle". It fucking hurts.

My apprehension is double this year due to my experience with a different OB/GYN last year. I've never had a male doctor, not that I find it unnerving or creepy. I just have always had women. This guy walks in an immediately starts cracking jokes and swearing. I immediately like him because a doctor who can say "shit" in front of a patient is cool in my book. I assume the position in the stirrups. Ugh. I hate this part.. Upon cold duck bill insertion, I hear an audible, "Hhhmm.." Not good. I know I trimmed up my lady business so he can't possibly be having a hard time in the would-be jungle of my hairless poonani.
"Did you know you have an uneven vagina?"
"Huh?.."
I assume my ears are not functioning due to the anxiety attack I am having.
"Did you have an episiotomy or tear at all when you had your babies?"
"Well yes, both, actually."
"Well whoever did it did not do a very good job or stitching you up.... Or you just didn't heal well."
Great, just when I am feeling most vulnerable about having my tuna taco 6 inches from a new male doctor's face, he rips on my pussy symmetry. Looks like my days as a vagina model are over. Fuck me.

"Well there are things we can do to fix it. You can have surgery to cut out the uneven scar, then it will be even and tighter."
"Ohhh..." I think pensively for a moment.
..Hold up here, you are saying the tiny little scar that is a battle wound from two nearly 9-pound babies ripping me in two is unattractive? Well who the hell really gives a shit anyways?! You want me to go under the knife, essentially giving me ANOTHER episiotomy with no baby about to shoot out? I am not flashing my taint to the world, screaming, "Look at how even my scar is!! Aren't you jealous?!" Really now..
"Won't that be painful?" I ask.
"Not really, you just have to lay off activities for about 6 weeks."
"You mean my husband has to lay off for 6 weeks.."
"Well there are other things you can do.."
Listen here, Doctor Pussy 90210, I am not getting plastic surgery on my cooch, I am not giving my husband blow jobs for 6 weeks, and I am not modeling for Taint-Tastic MILFS Magazine. If it taint broke.......

Check Out My Ride

What kind of car you drive can be indicative of a lot in a person. Maybe I'm being stereotypical here but if you drive a mini van, you have kids. Some dads drive them, sure, but probably not out of choice. Jeeps are fun and free-spirited--if you drive one chances are you like the outdoors, bugs, camping, and four-wheeling. And smoking weed out of an apple. Two-seater convertibles are for high maintenance individuals who have neither the room nor the desire for fat people, children, or furniture from Ikea in their lives. And if it's a Miata then you might be a pickle smoker, too. But that's all good. I love me some gay men. But my ass is probably too wide for your Miata.

Today I saw two separate ads for the Honda Odyssey minivan. The way they tried to portray these cock-blockers on wheels was downright HIGH-LAR-EE-US. The female savvy version had a man and woman approaching the vehicle. The automatic door slid open slowly to a cascade of rose petals. The trunk pops up and there's a giant oyster shell which then itself pops open to reveal a multitude of smaller oyster shells which open to reveal pearls. The couple holds hands, revealing her big diamond ring to signify a blissful marriage. The blinding aura that surrounds the couple I can only compare to the Radio City Music Hall Rockette's Christmas Spectacular when the baby Jesus is revealed. The power of advertising, when exposed to the right individual, is an amazing force.

The male version of the commercial has a man exiting a grocery store with a single bag of groceries and a gallon of milk. He sees his minivan, resting all bad-ass on the slick, black streets (of the fucking suburbs..) with giant FLAMES shooting up from either side of the mom-mobile. He drops that milk and it pours out because this dude has a huge boner---for a mini van. There is a giant amplifier blasting hard rock music in the back, two high def screens playing a rock video with a long-haired guitarist motioning for him to come hither. I'd say the people at Honda are slightly ambitious in their interpretation of the desires of a man or woman to want to buy this car. Or high out of their fucking minds.

Let me tell you something about truth in advertising. It is a mini van. It screams "MOM CAR" no matter how you pimp it out with your Duran Duran bumper stickers or "26.2" decals. I am impressed you ran a marathon but your car sucks balls. I was a mini van driver for several years. The only, and I mean ONLY amenity I was fond of was the automatic door function which was conveniently operated from my car remote when the kids needed immediate entry. Other than that it was an olive green school bus that was like parking the Oscar Meyer Wiener Mobile.

Purchasing a min van was not my ultimate decision. In the initial throes of family planning, when we thought we'd definitely have three kids and then if they were all the same gender, we'd go for a fourth. And Lord knows with 3 or four kids, you HAVE to buy a mini van! Plans went down the shitter when The Princess turned 18 months. I had a triple-strength birth control pump surgically implanted into my uterus to ensure my ovaries would bitch slap any errant sperm who tried to "sneak into the party" harder than Lindsay Lohan's parole officer. So when I went away for a fun little girls' 30th birthday weekend, I was told there was "a big surprise" in the garage upon my return. A puppy is a surprise. A little blue box from Tiffany's is a surprise. Two tickets to Paris are a surprise. An olive green Ford Windstar sitting in the exact spot my Explorer once resided is not a surprise. The only thing that would have surprised me more would have been if he adopted a Guatemalan pygmy tribe and had them making jeans for the Gap in my new garage sweatshop.
"But honey, we DISCUSSED this! We wanted a mini van. Remember?"
I remember talking babies, I remember seeing mini vans on the road. I do not recall the "I want a mom mobile more than all the shoes at Nordstrom" conversation.

If I were to make a commercial to entice new car buyers, I would change a few things. Fuck the flames, fuck the rose petals and pearls. Fuck the mini van. I'd have a sleek, sexy ass car with plenty of trunk space for Ikea furniture or my amplifier or a dead body. It would sit higher than any other car on the road as if to thumb my nose at all the other lowly vehicles out there. It would come if fun fucking colors like electric lime, hot pink, and sparkly disco ball silver. There would be a holographic live concert playing of either Maroon 5, Pink, or the Black Eyed Peas. A tiny, pot-bellied pig with it's bladder removed would run around the car to pick up stray crumbs from the kids who would sit in the fourth row, behind the caged wall. There would be no country stations on the radio, seat warmers, seat coolers, a mini fridge stocked with Fresca, hummus, and Stacy's Multigrain pita chips. And maybe a bottle of Patron just for fun. There would also be a medicine cabinet with duct tape, Benadryl, and a gag ball for mouth kids who choose to scream, talk back, or ruin my live Pink concert by asking me asshole questions like, "How much further is it?!"

But that's just MY fantasy car commercial world. By the way, nice Miata...

New Store

If I had the entrepreneurial skills, the money, and the motivation, I would open a clothing store for women who are somewhere in between keg stands and menopause. I have touched on this topic before. It befuddles me where in the hell I am supposed to shop for clothing. I really have no business shopping in clothing stores that carry juniors' sizes. I cannot bring myself to walk into Coldwater Creek or fucking Chico's because the clothes...well, they just plain suck. (If you enjoy dressing like a lesbian horse trainer from Appalachia, then you go girl!!) I am toying with some ideas for the name of my store....
"Call Me Ma'am Once More and I'll Kick Your Ass"
"M.N.D.--Mature, Not Dead"
"SABB--Sexy Ass Bitches Boutique"
"Who The Fuck Wants to be FOREVER 21?!"
"House of MILF Shakes"
"Cougar Den"

I hate looking like a mom. By this, see photo. Butch bob, nipple-high waist faded denim jeans, sensible mock turtleneck. I am aware I am a mother, I have given birth to two kids. I hate that look though. Does that make me in denial? Or fashionable? Should I be on the look-out for Stacy and Clinton from "What Not to Wear" to make fun of me as they have secretly taped me walking the dog in my Victoria's Secret PINK sweat pants, tank top, and no bra? I am at a loss. Anyone have any tips for me?

I enjoy working out. My motivation for hitting the gym 5 days a week is this---to negate the calories I get tremendous enjoyment from consuming. I do not want to drink wheat grass. I like dairy and sweets and carbohydrates. I will eat the occasional vegetable, especially if someone ELSE shops for, chops, and prepares them. Fruits are no problem. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I can totally commit to a regimented exercise program. I CANNOT commit to restrictive eating habits. I have tried denying myself many things and it always comes back with a raging binge of the item(s) I was not allowing myself. And this, my friends, is why I will never, ever be smaller than a size 8. Unless my thyroid gives me the big middle finger or they find out cocaine has vitamins and organic protein, my metabolism is what it is.

I am a fun woman, a fun mom, a fun, and I'd like to think still pretty attractive, wife. I love traveling. I love going to dance clubs. I do NOT love feeling old. And big and blubbery. Now any of you who are bigger than me, I am not calling you Fatty Boom-Ba-Latty. I just have some hyper critical tendencies when it comes to body image thanks to my involvement with the ballet world. I also have some pretty skinny friends. It's tough hanging at the pool next to someone whose stomach is a washboard. Or whose thighs do not touch at the top. Or who have actual tricep muscles that are defined, not the Oprah Jiggle Wings I have if I don't remember to flex while I applaud anything.

I think that freaky Dr. Rey, a.k.a. Dr. 90210, should come up with some sort of full-body Spanx-type unitard. Flesh colored with air-brushed muscle tone!! Subtle enough to wear and expose your midriff or if people around the pool are drunk enough, with a swimsuit. I would pay top dollar for that little number. It would suction everything down flat in all the right places. I know a whole lot of ladies who would buy that from my store. Especially if it came with a "Fuck Wheatgrass!" t-shirt and a package of frosted brownies...

Wanna Buy My Shit?

When the fuck did schools and kids' organizations become a festering pool of fundraising hell?? I was a Girl Scout, I had to sell cookies. But I'll be God-damned if there's not another order form or prize brochure or "permission to sell" document I'm supposed to sign every week. I am not exactly shitting out money but we are doing okay for ourselves. If you need some funds for PTA or Girl Scouts or field trips, just ask me for the fucking twenty or fifty bucks you REALLY need instead of dragging me through this cluster fuck?!

The number one problem I have with this process is the luring of the young children with an assembly. For the school fundraiser, the kids are shown how they can win an Ipod, a flat-screen TV, hell, even an electric guitar!!!!! Do you know how much shit you have to sell to earn an ELECTRIC GUITAR?! About $2000 in wrapping paper, folks. Santa doesn't need that much fucking wrapping paper. And the merchandise is mediocre candy in small cardboard "tins", shitty jewelry made in China, paperback crock pot cook books, random kitchen gadgetry I have seen at the dollar store, and oodles, and OODLES of gift wrap. For every 5 items your kid sells, they get this little rubber duckie on a lanyard necklace. The ducks are all different and like Silly Bands, are like CRACK when your child in jonesing for one. I have two children and several other things I am REQUIRED to sell through scouts and dance. So school fundraiser--suck my hairy stink star.

I also am selling Yankee Candles for my older daughter's outdoor education field trip in the spring.. The actual cost of the field trip is $35. So let me get this straight, I have to sell these giant candles for $23 bucks apiece and then deliver them? Awesome. Here's thirty five dollars. It's all in pennies because I saved them from my couches from our move. Bite me, Yankee Candle.

Pretty soon I need to sell cookie dough for BOTH of my daughters, who have made their competitive dance team. Yippee fucking skippy. It's yummy, it's even good raw from the tub. It does make great cookies. But my kids are pretty busy, between school, hip hop, jazz, ballet, two dance company classes, religious education, AND Girl Scouts. This leaves the "selling" part up to me. My family does not live close by. I cannot mail raw cookie dough. My chest freezer can only hold so much dough. Every other kid involved in dance in the state is selling cookie dough. Am I going to come to your front door and do the splits to buy some of mine? Hell to the no. Facebook will be my selling tool. If you like cookie dough, you know where to find me.

Girl Scout cookie season is also almost upon us, beginning in November. Again, let me remind you, I have TWO Girl Scouts. That's double the Do-si-dos and Thin Mints. We often get relegated into the Loser Cookie Sales Hall of Fame--with so few options to sell to, so many fundraisers, and so little time, it is a miracle if each kid sells 50 boxes. Moms should get a God damn badge for selling. Or at least a martini. I love me some Girl Scout cookies but holy shit, I can only freeze and pack my face with so many a year. And Isabella's troop is required to sell "fall product" which translates into, oh goody gumdrops, magazine subscriptions and MORE candy!!! Please someone just hit me over the head when this bullshit is over. And if you need Christmas ideas, a shitty rubber duck on a lanyard will be a big hit.

Denim Distress

My very first blog post, "Put On Your Mom Jeans" inspired me to write on this topic again. Because although a few years have passed since I began writing, I still remain traumatized and angry at the thought of shopping for jeans. I would rather try on 50 bikinis than have to deal with finding "the perfect jeans". There ARE no perfect jeans for me. If you are blessed to be a small, single digit size 6 or smaller, finding jeans and pants in general I would wager is an easy task. Pop in to the store, grab an armful of teeny pants, not bother trying them on, and maybe only have to return one pair because "they just run way too big". I say FUCK YOU out of sheer jealousy. I have lots of friends who are tiny, skinny little things, several of whom have had babies. I was pretty thin once upon a time. But now I am 37 3/4 years-old, have had two kids, and don't quite have the metabolism I did when I was 22. God damn fucking aging process.

Don't get me wrong, I wear my muffin top and stretch marks with pride. I gained plenty of pounds with both pregnancies. I love my kids and am glad I was able to give birth to them. It's a messy miracle to bring a baby into the world and most women's bodies have some "battle wounds" in the form of loose scrotum belly and floppy tits. Those teensy little 20-somethings who walk on the treadmill maybe once a month and can chug beer and scarf pizza at 2am will get theirs. A few of them might still be able to fit into juniors' sizes after kids and ten or so years of marriage but most of them will be just like me--jiggly and coping on a day-to-day basis. It's all good. Just don't expect to find any hot, non-mom jeans for your flab-o-licious booty with ease. And no, you cannot shop at Forever 21 for jeans anymore.

In their heydays, department stores like Mashall Field's (RIP) and Macy's had amazing customer service, sales people at every turn. Nowadays finding a living, breathing person to help you who is not simply trained to ring up sales transactions like a robot is a challenge. Though the dressing room signs have posted "Not more than 6 items at a time per fitting room", who the hell is going to stop me? I peruse the racks, noticing a surplus of XXS and size 25 jeans abound. Well goody fuckin' two shoes for those waifs. I pile as many pairs of jeans I can possibly carry (and locate in my size) without toppling over onto my forearm before entering Fitting Room Hell. Because I know once I am in, any other options I desire must be sought on my own. The lone sales lady is working 4 departments away in the suit department, is not on commission, and does not give a shit about me.

I try not to glance into the three mirrors and the florescent light that is so bright I could perform a spinal surgery in there. I disrobe and grab the first pair of denim on my pile. I can tell by merely pulling the jeans up to my knees if they are going to be workable. By this I mean I have an awareness that they should be fairly tight when I buy them, as they will loosen with wear. This does not mean I should have to actually shove my overflowing back fat, muffin tops, and some mound of flab that is erupting like Mt. St. Helens from my belly into the waistband with a spatula and some spray butter. I should be able to button them without lying down and using industrial pliers. And most importantly, being able to breathe in them would be nice. Pair after pair I discard in disgust. I sigh as I realize the last pair was in the category of "I really HOPE this pair is mislabeled and fits me because they're cute as shit". They are labeled correctly. And do not fit. I trudge from the dressing room, put my jeans back because I am nice like that. I am feeling defeated and moist with boob sweat.

I did finally receive some DAMN good customer service at The Buckle. I had three, count 'em, THREE sale people helping me with cheerleader-esque enthusiasm. It was insane but really, really nice. No one was waif thin. No one gasped when I told them what size I needed or when I needed to size up. They brought me boots to show me different lengths. They didn't try to upsell me to $200 pairs I did not want to blow money on. I don't know if they worked on commission but they all deserved a cut. I found some jeans. It was not painful. I wasn't even sweating. I was SMILING. I think I clicked my heels like the finale in Riverdance when I left. I just might wander back there just so I can socialize with those nice people who don't abandon me in my fitting room like that weird uncle no one wants to talk to. You just lost a sale, Macy's, because your sales people are more in tune with when their next smoke break is than SELLING. I hope you get pregnant with quads so you can deal with scrotum belly and we'll see how smooth those size 25's slide over your hips then. Here's your spatula and spray butter. No worries, it's on me.

You Fucking Stink

Ever notice that the aroma of certain places or things can make your stomach turn? I just go my car washed, full service style. I was asked what scent I wanted in the car. Scent? I'd just like it to smell CLEAN. I decided on lemon but was told there was also jasmine or baby powder. Double yuck. Jasmine reminds me of crappy drugstore cologne that comes in a gift set with a free loofah. And baby powder makes me think of well--- damn babies. In case you aren't aware, my uterus has a sign that reads "Closed for business". I merely hear that blood curdling scream of a newborn and do not feel the urge to lactate or swaddle or coo. I want to get my period right then and there so I am sure another month has gone by where I have avoided getting knocked up by potential demon spawn. Yup, all that from the suggestion of some air freshener.

I stood in line for a class at my gym today for 25 damn minutes. It is a crowded class and one that requires setting up a mountain of equipment. Trouble is, a yoga class was running before it. When the last sun salutation and downward dog was done, we filed in like cattle. The odor in the air was a mélange of vomit, toe jam, and open bed sores. My eyes were burning like I had been maced. We tried to prop open the doors in hopes the fermented panty cheese tangy air might waft out. The culprit? Those bitches finding their inner chakra who apparently bathe their feet in dirty ass juice before taking their socks off to use the yoga mats. The same mats, might I add, that we are required to drape over our bench and do push ups on. Can you get athlete's foot on your palms?


Another scent I loathe more than country music and "c" words spelled on purpose with a "k" is the smell of canned tuna. Try as I may, I just can't get past it. I love tuna sashimi or even grilled tuna. So what in the hell happens between catching that tuna from the ocean, cooking it, chopping it into pieces, and putting it into a can that makes it smell like a fish mongers socks??? I don't get it. But what I get even less is how everyone, my kids and husband included, can pop open a can and eat it straight up without batting an eye. Do you not SMELL that? I think a homeless person just sat on your sandwich. You might want to pass on that one.

When it comes to malodorous situations, nothing is as potentially offensive as dropping ass. But farting is natural. Yes, it stinks. Yes, it is sometimes loud. And yes, you have the occasional shart to "spice things up" and cause you to itch if you don't have access to some Wet Wipes. I personally get the giggles over farts. I think people who are so damn serious that cringe at the mere mention of bodily gas need to pull my finger. Chill out, Tanya Tight-Ass. Quit taking your Beano like jelly beans and let nature take over. If you are stuck in a car or under the blankets when someone Dutch ovens you, that's not so funny. But generally tooting is pretty damn hilarious. (Unless my dad does it and the woman at the drive-through window at Walgreen's can hear it and gags..)

Lastly, I would like to address B.O.. This is the stench that arises once you have hit puberty for both girls and boys. Initially it emanates from the armpit region but can easily be secreted by folds in your gut, neck, back fat, etc. My daughters, though both fairly young, have had their own deodorant for a few years. Once I got an "I love you, mom" hug complete with that oniony aroma, we made a little drugstore run for some Ladies' Secret. I take great issue with people who refuse to acknowledge their own aroma. If you tell me, "But I don't smell! I have never worn deodorant!" or "I use that special crystal they sell at Whole Foods because it's all-natural. The body doesn't NEED deodorant." I'll tell you what, French onion soup pits, I stand behind you in class at the gym. Every time you do an overhead press I am blinded by tears that typically only arise if I am actually CUTTING ONIONS. If you tend to sit alone on the bus or lunch table or even at a cocktail party, I suggest you drop the hemp necklace and belly up to the anti-stank section of your grocery store. Fuck Whole Foods deodorant. They make great exorbitantly priced deli salads but their organic, all-natural health and beauty stuff blows. And for Christ's sake light a match, something reeks and I can't tell if it's your ass, feet, or FUPA.

Timesucker

I have a love/hate relationship. It is with a little social bitch named Facebook. If I had to give it a gender, I envision it as a nerdy dude in too short corduroy pants, an old Atari t-shirt with pit stains, greasy unwashed hair, and a smattering of acne on it's pasty white face. But it is fucking genius because it has become a lifeline, an addiction, an obsession. It is my "go to" activity whenever I wake up, am bored, or want to communicate with my friends. It given me connectivity with relatives and friends near and far. I can chat with grade school pals I have not spoken to nor seen since 1987.

I feel like I need Facebook rehab sometimes. Yesterday there was some glitch that caused all of Facebook to crash for some time. I started panicking, becoming borderline frantic. My mind was racing with possibilities. Was it possibly just MY computer? What if that Zuckerberg dude decided to say, "Fuck it!" and put the kibosh on the whole thing. What if he decided, "You know, I am a billionaire. I am donating $100 million to the New Jersey school system and then I'm out. Those cocksuckers who made that new movie made me look like a douche bag. I'll show THEM who wears the pants in this little relationship!" Oh God, please, Mr. Zuckerberg, please don't do that. Then I looked at my beady eyes in the mirror and realized I was a social network crackhead asshole.

Just like with anything else, what did I do before I had luxuries like email? The internet? A cell phone? Tivo???? I dealt with life, as boring and non-technological as it was. But when you have a taste of the good life, it is so very hard to imagine life without it. Though I joke about it often, is THIS what it feels like to be hooked on crack the first time you try it? Well someone better get Dr. Drew on the horn because this bitch is getting the shakes, the shits, and pretty soon will need some God damn methadone to down off this monster buzz. I am acting as if life without Facebook would render me medieval, as rustic and rural as if I had no electricity and had to pump my own water from the well.

Facebook can cause problems other than total social dependency. The status updates we put up on our profiles can wreak havoc on our psyches, emotions, and self esteem. Is what she just wrote about ME? Why the hell did that moron like her OWN status? Look at those pictures from that party I was clearly NOT invited to? Guess that whore is off my Christmas card list this year. And then WHO should you accept friendship from? Your students? Your kids' friends? Ex-girlfriends and boyfriends? In-laws? It's a crap shoot, people, because if you are like me, the urgency to curse and make sexual innuendos is strong. And if the wrong person reads your post, they think you are highly classless for cursing, alluding to stinky crotch, or hairy nut sacks. I have not unfriended anyone because they have told me that I am offensive. I am not holding a gun to their head to read it. You don't have to press "Like" when I say my cooch smells like Funyuns after working out. I respect you if you want to unfriend me because it violates your own (fucking stupid) code of ethics. Or if your kids shouldn't read my shit--that I get.

Another downfall to Facebook is the opportunity to share photos from events. Sometimes when you have been hitting the sauce for a few hours with friends, you have a tendency to do really stupid stuff. Like doing the splits in the door. Or pretending you are muff diving up your BFF's jean skirt. Or flashing body parts and I'm not talking your elbow. There is often a Facebook Code before parties where whore galore pictures might be taken. There is the "Facebook photo appropriate" time frame of the party. Then there is the "Put that fucking camera away so my mother-in-law does not see my beaver" portion of the evening. You just have to be sure you don't piss off the wrong people at the party or all the untagging in the world will not make you get your job back. (Giving a BJ on the office copier at the holiday party probably wasn't a great idea...or those 8 rum and Cokes you chugged.)

So even though Facebook is highly addictive, causes me to neglect my children, grocery shopping, and feeding my dog, and will guarantee I will never, ever have a job in politics, don't expect me to quit it anytime soon. Am I in denial? Fuck yeah. Do I need some 12-step program to help me "get off the junk"? Probably, but since no one else wants to quit this euphoric social acid trip, don't try to trick me into meeting up at your Jesus freak church for "social hour" and then try to have some fucktard intervention over this. I can quit any time. I swear. And if you tell me otherwise, I will unfriend your as faster than you can say "superpoke".