I loathe running with every sense of my being. I don't get it. I have tried and tried but I never get that Oprah "Aha!" moment where I think, "Damn! Why haven't I tried this before?? This is fun as HELL!"
Nope. Instead every time I try to run I get the horrible burning in my lungs as if I smoked a pack of unfiltered Camels last night. (I didn't.) My legs feel like they weigh 300 lbs. each. My hips begin to ache and I already know the SHORT amount of time I have committed will make me so tense in my lower extremities tomorrow I will walk like I had a double hip replacement. And then there's the side cramps. And the inevitable "holy-shit-I-really-hope-I-don't-yack-my-shit-all-over-this-treadmill" sensation.
Fuck running.
I've heard the "I'm an adrenaline junkie!" Or the "It's SOOOO good for you!" Or "It feels so great! I could go all day!"
Shut your God damn, lightweight, overpriced Nike track shoe-wearing pie holes. I like the adrenaline I get when I ride a roller coaster. Or see a scary movie. Or before I go onstage. Running "adrenaline" is my body's way of saying, "Slow the hell down, bitch! Those tits are WAY too big to move like that!!" And let me add that to my long list of anti-running reasons. Big boobs and feet slapping on the pavement while your body bounces up and down can only lead to a few things: bad back, nipple erection/tig ol' bitty wardrobe malfunction, or black eyes. I will power walk ANY day to save my tits from beating the shit out of myself.
Running is good for me? So is a colon cleanse but I sure as shit can't do that every day. I will choose things that are good for me and make me GOOD to be around. Like copious amounts of caffeine, new shoes, and vacations to tropical islands. Run next to me and you will hear me whine more than Demi Lovato at eating disorder camp. Not cool.
You know what feels great? Taking a good shit every morning. Or sleeping through the night without insomnia. Or wearing your skinny jeans and being able to zip them up without sweating. Running does not feel good. I imagine getting ass-raped by an elephant would be more soothing.
I've tried the treadmill, I've tried a track, I've tried the sidewalk and the street. Unless I can run and use someone else's body to get the same energetic bullshit adrenaline crackhead results, it will not be happening. I am not signing up for any "short little 5K's" or plan on training by running and walking with you. I will run for only a few reasons: if I am about to shit my pants, if I am on fire, if anyone is trying to fuck with my kids, or if there is an All You Can Carry Jimmy Choos For $10 Sale. Other than that, yes, the treadmill I am standing next to is free. Enjoy your torture, you masochistic freak.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Lazy Fucking People
I really am annoyed at the complete lazy nature of people I encounter these days. It is occasionally because they are grossly overweight but not always. You know how irritated I can be if you are obese AND lazy. Sheeeeiiiiit....
I cannot stand it when I go to my car after spending way too long at the dreaded grocery store only to find some douche cock has neglected to walk the 2 extra car lengths to the cart corral to put their cart away. Instead they find it perfectly acceptable to rest it on the bumper of the front of my car. I don't give a shit if it's a monsoon and I have a sick kid in the car, I ALWAYS put my damn cart away. And a friend pointed out sometimes these lazy mother fuckers have the gall to leave the cart in a HANDICAPPED space. I think many of the people who do this are not just lazy but self-entitled as well. They are too good to have to "clean up after themselves". If you able to shop for your own Polish deli ham and generic Fruit Loops with an envelope of coupons then you are not a diva. You are thrifty and lazy.
As we enter this pre-spring ugliness I am noticing a few things. One, the brown dead landscape is enough to make me want to go into a Xanax/Zoloft/Wellbutrin coma. I need something to make me happy and the dead-ass nature spread ain't cutting it. Two, to top off the complete lack of greenery as the snow is now gone I am noticing everyone in the city has decided it is suddenly PC to toss any and all trash from their cars, especially as they drive past my subdivision. I will occasionally throw a banana peel or an apple core out my window but only if we are near woods or a corn field. Some animal might eat it and also it is biodegradable. I'll tell you what is NOT biodegradable--a smelly Pampers diaper full of your two year-old's dookie, that's what. Neither is an empty case, bottles and all, of Coors Light. I'd like to shove those 12 empties of silver bullets right up your ass, you fucktard. I see entire bags from McDonald's, coffee cups, plastic bottles, even a pile of old clothes someone was too fucking lazy to drop off at Goodwill. As far as I know we do not have some scavenger refuge in the woods whose inhabitants create artwork or building materials out of your trash so kindly wait until you get to your own fucking house and throw it in the TRASH. If I see you toss a diaper steamer I am going to buy one of those metal grabber tools people use to reach things, carry that turd bomb to your house, carefully open it, and spell out "SHADOOBIE BRIGADE" with your toddler's feces on your car.
People who take up 1 1/2 car spaces in the lot also make me want to swear a lot. What makes your car that much more special than mine? Nothing. And when my kids cannot get in because they don't want to scratch your car and they have a backpack and a school project and it's pouring rain, then a big fat FUCK YOU to you, kind sir or madam. It's not a Ferrari you are driving, it's a God damn Explorer. I recall being 7 months pregnant with Sophie when I came from my OB appointment at Northwestern Hospital only to find someone has parked a mere inches from my little car. I physically could NOT get in. After yelling, swearing, and eventually crying a bit, I keyed the shit out of Mr. Close Parker's car and had to climb through the passenger side to fit my fat ass in. If I had a freshly laid diaper bomb you can bet they would have gotten that as a gift also.
Another behavior I will qualify as lazy is when you are behind someone who has been standing in line at a restaurant for a lengthy amount of time like yourself and they get to the front and HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT THEY WANT. You have had fifteen minutes to peruse the 10-foot menu board, at least have an IDEA of what might please your palate for lunch. Do you have random amnesia and forgot you were hungry? Did you forget your wallet and are trying to come up with ways to beg for free food? Are you trying to clench your butt cheeks because you have spastic colon problems and are trying not to shit your skinny jeans? Let me help you out, she'll have the Pick Two---a bowl of fucktard soup with an asshole baguette and a douche bag sandwich with extra dipshit sauce.
I cannot stand it when I go to my car after spending way too long at the dreaded grocery store only to find some douche cock has neglected to walk the 2 extra car lengths to the cart corral to put their cart away. Instead they find it perfectly acceptable to rest it on the bumper of the front of my car. I don't give a shit if it's a monsoon and I have a sick kid in the car, I ALWAYS put my damn cart away. And a friend pointed out sometimes these lazy mother fuckers have the gall to leave the cart in a HANDICAPPED space. I think many of the people who do this are not just lazy but self-entitled as well. They are too good to have to "clean up after themselves". If you able to shop for your own Polish deli ham and generic Fruit Loops with an envelope of coupons then you are not a diva. You are thrifty and lazy.
As we enter this pre-spring ugliness I am noticing a few things. One, the brown dead landscape is enough to make me want to go into a Xanax/Zoloft/Wellbutrin coma. I need something to make me happy and the dead-ass nature spread ain't cutting it. Two, to top off the complete lack of greenery as the snow is now gone I am noticing everyone in the city has decided it is suddenly PC to toss any and all trash from their cars, especially as they drive past my subdivision. I will occasionally throw a banana peel or an apple core out my window but only if we are near woods or a corn field. Some animal might eat it and also it is biodegradable. I'll tell you what is NOT biodegradable--a smelly Pampers diaper full of your two year-old's dookie, that's what. Neither is an empty case, bottles and all, of Coors Light. I'd like to shove those 12 empties of silver bullets right up your ass, you fucktard. I see entire bags from McDonald's, coffee cups, plastic bottles, even a pile of old clothes someone was too fucking lazy to drop off at Goodwill. As far as I know we do not have some scavenger refuge in the woods whose inhabitants create artwork or building materials out of your trash so kindly wait until you get to your own fucking house and throw it in the TRASH. If I see you toss a diaper steamer I am going to buy one of those metal grabber tools people use to reach things, carry that turd bomb to your house, carefully open it, and spell out "SHADOOBIE BRIGADE" with your toddler's feces on your car.
People who take up 1 1/2 car spaces in the lot also make me want to swear a lot. What makes your car that much more special than mine? Nothing. And when my kids cannot get in because they don't want to scratch your car and they have a backpack and a school project and it's pouring rain, then a big fat FUCK YOU to you, kind sir or madam. It's not a Ferrari you are driving, it's a God damn Explorer. I recall being 7 months pregnant with Sophie when I came from my OB appointment at Northwestern Hospital only to find someone has parked a mere inches from my little car. I physically could NOT get in. After yelling, swearing, and eventually crying a bit, I keyed the shit out of Mr. Close Parker's car and had to climb through the passenger side to fit my fat ass in. If I had a freshly laid diaper bomb you can bet they would have gotten that as a gift also.
Another behavior I will qualify as lazy is when you are behind someone who has been standing in line at a restaurant for a lengthy amount of time like yourself and they get to the front and HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT THEY WANT. You have had fifteen minutes to peruse the 10-foot menu board, at least have an IDEA of what might please your palate for lunch. Do you have random amnesia and forgot you were hungry? Did you forget your wallet and are trying to come up with ways to beg for free food? Are you trying to clench your butt cheeks because you have spastic colon problems and are trying not to shit your skinny jeans? Let me help you out, she'll have the Pick Two---a bowl of fucktard soup with an asshole baguette and a douche bag sandwich with extra dipshit sauce.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Suck My Bad Mood, Bitches
Today is our first day back to our "normal routines" after Christmas break. My mood is mopey, crabby, and pissy with a dash of melancholy. If you don't like it, are having a zippity-doo-dah kind of fucking day, or don't feel like reading words that take the name of your lord in vain, kindly go read some Bible verses and shut it. Although it does bug the flying shit out of me how everything is all "Winter Festival" at public schools, even though we would never have two weeks off if it weren't for Baby Jesus' birthday. Just pointing that out.
I am not having a good day. I am first of all really, really tired. Not just ordinary tired. I am too much caffeine after 4pm, racing thoughts of my inadequacies as a choreographer, flipping my shit and screaming at my kids 3 times today, skipping going to the grocery store with only one rotten orange left in my fridge, kind of tired. I dropped my kids off at school, came home, and slept on my couch for an hour and a half. I woke up feeling neither guilty nor rejuvenated. Which exacerbated my mood even more.
My husband is traveling this week. I hate it when he travels. The knowledge of his impending 4:30am alarm clock prevented restful slumber. Once he was up, though I could have slept another hour, I told myself fuck it and got up. I had an unsuccessful bathroom session during which I somehow chose to read an article on mother fucking serial killers. Because there's nothing better than paranoia, exhaustion, and flashing thoughts of getting strangled and dismembered as I have to walk my 10-pound dog in the pitch blackness of my neighborhood at 6am. But even the fear and my brisk pace were enough to make me shit. God damn it.
My Internet seems to always go out completely when my husband walks out the door for a week. I have done all the trouble-shooting I am physically capable of doing. Nothing. I have no job that requires my direct access to the internet. But I have a pitiful existence (not all the time, just currently..) and my lame obsession with checking emails and Facebook is a sad way to fill my time. Make fun of me as you will. A week without internet is a sad, bad thing for me. I am currently draining my phone battery typing this little post. Cocksucking Internet.
I stood in line behind a bizarre Indian man buying a single bag of candy at Target.
He lectured me about how I needed to make sure the bar code was visible because that's how the cashier needed to ring up my giant Rubbermaid containers. Because this is the very first time I've ever been shopping at a store
before. Thanks for the update, Professor Tikki Masala. Wanted to punch him
because that's just the sort of day it's been.
I came home and attempted one last, futile time to plug some hard line or hard-on fucking cable into my computer. I have rebooted my computer more times than Naomi Campbell has bitch-slapped her personal assistants for bringing her a
lukewarm cafe Americano. Surprise, surprise, it did not work. And as I stood from
the floor where the impossibly short cable connected my computer to electrical
nothingness, I jacked my fucking lower back. This is an indirect result of yet
another thing I will bitch about... Sick of listening to my rant yet? Almost done, hold
onto your thongs..
I am an on again/off again workout whore. Right now I'm off duty. As in not motivated, don't give an iota of shit, rat's ass, or flying fuck. I am off the wagon.
The wagon has left town and is in another time zone. I'm not worried, that ol'
wagon will circle back and may need reinforced shocks to drag me back to the
gym. But it's made this trek before, the wagon and me will survive. In the mean
time, my lack of engaging any abdominal activity other than to laugh or force a fart
consequently renders my back weak. Thus doing something as ridiculous as
STANDING upright causes me to have jarring, muscle spasming pain in my lower back. Nothing a little reclining, Alleve, and Oprah while folding laundry won't cure.
So....,
Until I can wake up with abundant energy, motivation to care about fitness, and the ability to have a healthy bowel situation, just nod your head in acknowledgement when you pass me. Wouldn't want to add to my list of grievances, Miss Zippity Doo Dah.
I am not having a good day. I am first of all really, really tired. Not just ordinary tired. I am too much caffeine after 4pm, racing thoughts of my inadequacies as a choreographer, flipping my shit and screaming at my kids 3 times today, skipping going to the grocery store with only one rotten orange left in my fridge, kind of tired. I dropped my kids off at school, came home, and slept on my couch for an hour and a half. I woke up feeling neither guilty nor rejuvenated. Which exacerbated my mood even more.
My husband is traveling this week. I hate it when he travels. The knowledge of his impending 4:30am alarm clock prevented restful slumber. Once he was up, though I could have slept another hour, I told myself fuck it and got up. I had an unsuccessful bathroom session during which I somehow chose to read an article on mother fucking serial killers. Because there's nothing better than paranoia, exhaustion, and flashing thoughts of getting strangled and dismembered as I have to walk my 10-pound dog in the pitch blackness of my neighborhood at 6am. But even the fear and my brisk pace were enough to make me shit. God damn it.
My Internet seems to always go out completely when my husband walks out the door for a week. I have done all the trouble-shooting I am physically capable of doing. Nothing. I have no job that requires my direct access to the internet. But I have a pitiful existence (not all the time, just currently..) and my lame obsession with checking emails and Facebook is a sad way to fill my time. Make fun of me as you will. A week without internet is a sad, bad thing for me. I am currently draining my phone battery typing this little post. Cocksucking Internet.
I stood in line behind a bizarre Indian man buying a single bag of candy at Target.
He lectured me about how I needed to make sure the bar code was visible because that's how the cashier needed to ring up my giant Rubbermaid containers. Because this is the very first time I've ever been shopping at a store
before. Thanks for the update, Professor Tikki Masala. Wanted to punch him
because that's just the sort of day it's been.
I came home and attempted one last, futile time to plug some hard line or hard-on fucking cable into my computer. I have rebooted my computer more times than Naomi Campbell has bitch-slapped her personal assistants for bringing her a
lukewarm cafe Americano. Surprise, surprise, it did not work. And as I stood from
the floor where the impossibly short cable connected my computer to electrical
nothingness, I jacked my fucking lower back. This is an indirect result of yet
another thing I will bitch about... Sick of listening to my rant yet? Almost done, hold
onto your thongs..
I am an on again/off again workout whore. Right now I'm off duty. As in not motivated, don't give an iota of shit, rat's ass, or flying fuck. I am off the wagon.
The wagon has left town and is in another time zone. I'm not worried, that ol'
wagon will circle back and may need reinforced shocks to drag me back to the
gym. But it's made this trek before, the wagon and me will survive. In the mean
time, my lack of engaging any abdominal activity other than to laugh or force a fart
consequently renders my back weak. Thus doing something as ridiculous as
STANDING upright causes me to have jarring, muscle spasming pain in my lower back. Nothing a little reclining, Alleve, and Oprah while folding laundry won't cure.
So....,
Until I can wake up with abundant energy, motivation to care about fitness, and the ability to have a healthy bowel situation, just nod your head in acknowledgement when you pass me. Wouldn't want to add to my list of grievances, Miss Zippity Doo Dah.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Deadly Sin
Gluttony. It is a trait that is not attractive, not ladylike, not morally sound. And I'm pretty sure it is a sin, depending on how you look at it. The holidays have come and gone. We have gorged ourselves with Christmas fanfare in the form of parties, treat bags, cookie exchanges, alcohol consumption, socializing, over shopping, over wrapping, over giving, and most of all, over eating. I plead guilty on all counts. What will my sentencing entail???
Every year I try as I may to rebuke the temptations like a born-again Christian denounces the booze, hookers, and pills and replaces the addictions with a love for Jesus, I fail miserably. I have hosted a big party and attended a few, all of which had more tables laden with more fattening foods than a National Mayonnaise Festival. Good Christ there was some yummy shit. And then there are the drinks. It adds up like a really bad statistics equation that makes no fucking sense but causes even your fat pants to give you camel toe. That sucks.
I read all these do-gooder athletic coaches quotes, "Don't have too much to drink!" or "Add some soda water to your glass of wine and it will last longer and keep you hydrated!" or "Munch on those carrot sticks and avoid the dips!" Excuse me but I do not know what planet these bitches live on. Want me to do walking lunges around the buffet table, too? Are they drugged to keep this willpower strong?? And if so please spread that little pill around. And don't fucking tell me it's only available in Mexico on a shelf next to your HGH hormone that is keeping your body fat below 3% but is causing you to grow a SLIGHT penis.
I have bought the diet pills. Nothing legal over-the-counter here in the states will do much more for you than make your heart feel like you drank three cups of Starbucks. Whoop dee shit. I have done Weight Watchers. It did work but I have led a lifelong battle with mindless snacking so unless one of those coaches moves into my house and sets up a tent next to my pantry,it will never come naturally to portion control and not eat Stacy's Pita Chips straight from the bag. So sue me. I guess I will live with my bad eating habits until Jennifer Hudson moves next door and becomes my singing, sista' Weight Watchers coach.
Things could be worse. I could be so fat that my gelatinous ass is completely bed-ridden and they have to saw a chunk of my bedroom wall out to hoist my beached whale booty out into daylight. I could be one of those Freaky Eaters who consumes Comet, only French fries, raw meat, or even toilet paper. Or who only talks to others through her ventriloquism and puppets. I suppose these are real problems but I cannot even comprehend this shit. I almost think it's fake but then the crazy Comet cleanser-snarfing bitch is in denial until her dentist tells her she has to pull all her upper teeth. Bummer. If some freak-ass loser came up to me and started talking to me without her lips moving and a giant rag doll with yellow yarn hair, I'd first slap myself to make sure no one slipped LSD in my Vitamin Water. Then I would slap her for being a such a raging bag of dork shit. Then I'd rip the head off her doll and shit down its neck. Or I could be a hoarder, either of trash, knick knacks, or even pets. My family could disown me for having mountains of unsorted Christmas decorations piled so high you need to repel to find my kitchen. Or 67 cats running rampant and the ammonia smell of piss so strong it masks the odor of dead kitty carcasses under my turd-covered couch.
Glad I'm normal. At least I don't watch too much TV....
Every year I try as I may to rebuke the temptations like a born-again Christian denounces the booze, hookers, and pills and replaces the addictions with a love for Jesus, I fail miserably. I have hosted a big party and attended a few, all of which had more tables laden with more fattening foods than a National Mayonnaise Festival. Good Christ there was some yummy shit. And then there are the drinks. It adds up like a really bad statistics equation that makes no fucking sense but causes even your fat pants to give you camel toe. That sucks.
I read all these do-gooder athletic coaches quotes, "Don't have too much to drink!" or "Add some soda water to your glass of wine and it will last longer and keep you hydrated!" or "Munch on those carrot sticks and avoid the dips!" Excuse me but I do not know what planet these bitches live on. Want me to do walking lunges around the buffet table, too? Are they drugged to keep this willpower strong?? And if so please spread that little pill around. And don't fucking tell me it's only available in Mexico on a shelf next to your HGH hormone that is keeping your body fat below 3% but is causing you to grow a SLIGHT penis.
I have bought the diet pills. Nothing legal over-the-counter here in the states will do much more for you than make your heart feel like you drank three cups of Starbucks. Whoop dee shit. I have done Weight Watchers. It did work but I have led a lifelong battle with mindless snacking so unless one of those coaches moves into my house and sets up a tent next to my pantry,it will never come naturally to portion control and not eat Stacy's Pita Chips straight from the bag. So sue me. I guess I will live with my bad eating habits until Jennifer Hudson moves next door and becomes my singing, sista' Weight Watchers coach.
Things could be worse. I could be so fat that my gelatinous ass is completely bed-ridden and they have to saw a chunk of my bedroom wall out to hoist my beached whale booty out into daylight. I could be one of those Freaky Eaters who consumes Comet, only French fries, raw meat, or even toilet paper. Or who only talks to others through her ventriloquism and puppets. I suppose these are real problems but I cannot even comprehend this shit. I almost think it's fake but then the crazy Comet cleanser-snarfing bitch is in denial until her dentist tells her she has to pull all her upper teeth. Bummer. If some freak-ass loser came up to me and started talking to me without her lips moving and a giant rag doll with yellow yarn hair, I'd first slap myself to make sure no one slipped LSD in my Vitamin Water. Then I would slap her for being a such a raging bag of dork shit. Then I'd rip the head off her doll and shit down its neck. Or I could be a hoarder, either of trash, knick knacks, or even pets. My family could disown me for having mountains of unsorted Christmas decorations piled so high you need to repel to find my kitchen. Or 67 cats running rampant and the ammonia smell of piss so strong it masks the odor of dead kitty carcasses under my turd-covered couch.
Glad I'm normal. At least I don't watch too much TV....
Friday, October 22, 2010
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.......
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.......
Monday, October 11, 2010
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...
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...
Sunday, October 3, 2010
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...
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