No news is...super confusing

So I'm not pregnant. Except that I'm also not-NOT pregnant.

I'm exactly where I've been for the past two weeks which is the frustrating space of not knowing if I'm between Ovulation and Conception or Ovulation and Shedding Uterus, depending on how the whole Operation: Baby strike went the first go-round.

What I'm trying to say that is I still have no fucking clue what is going on.

On Friday, I was completely convinced that I am not pregnant and I was happily resigned to knowing we'd have to try again this month. When we have out of state visitor's sleeping 10 feet away. When I'm tired from hosting out of state visitors.

On Saturday, when my period declined it's standard invitation (VERY UNUSUAL FOR ME), my happy resignation turned into frantic peeing on sticks, but all the pee tests are negative (even the early detection tests taken two days after my period was due), so basically my body is messing with me for shoots and googles, and it serves me right for obsessing, right?

This is exactly like not being able to buy Season 6 of How I Met Your Mother - even though I'm dying to watch it - because Season 6 is, like, not over yet, and stuff.

The other minor symptoms I'm experiencing could be early pregnancy symptoms OR they could be in my head and NOT ACTUALLY HAPPENING AT ALL.

I've been talking to my uterus all weekend, saying stuff like, "Either be pregnant or be empty. It's your call, but fucking pick one already," and "BLEED, MOTHERFUCKER!"

The lack of finality is making me all question-y , and the only other explanation I can come up with for my late period is stress, which seems like a given when you've met me before, but I'm not actually very stressed out right now. I'm ready to know if I'm pregnant, I'm ready to BE pregnant, but I'm also enjoying my time at home with the dogs and the hubby and watching our very own fat robin who is nesting next door and plotting the deaths of the legion of dandelions in our yard and replacing worn out breaker switches and hosting dinner parties. I'm busy, but it's all very FUN, lazy business.

So is my insomnia + shingles outbreak + late period all a sign of my secret stress?

Or am I knocked up with the world's strangest spawn?

Is my giant, flappy labia involved in this mess? Do my boobs hurt because I keep squeezing them to see if they hurt? Or do they just hurt when I squeeze them because they hurt?

It's all very confusing.


Oh, and also - Lily wants to live in the trunk of my car. Or underneath the deck. I haven't decided which she'd prefer, but she's almost gotten locked in/stuck in both places this week, so it's kind of a toss up.

I'm also scheduled for a fasting cholesterol test. I cannot possibly be old enough for that.

Tomorrow is the Big Day.

Gray and I are returning, not triumphantly, but at least happily, to the OBGYN where we went for our first lost pregnancy, this time to do a preconception check-up and catch up with the very best vag doc in the entire world, who Gray loves (in a strictly-hetero way) because of their mutual love of vintage Metallica.

Do you understand what I'm saying? Because I don't think you do. You don't seem nearly excited enough.

WE CAN HAZ BABIEZ MAKING.

I've literally run out of preconception topics to google. There is nothing left to learn, aside from the scheduled post-brain injury implications during pregnancy, labor and delivery. Otherwise, I've been taking a prenatal vitamin since January, I stopped birth control at the same time, I've been off the dangerous seizure medication for three of the neurologist-advised "two-and-a-half to three" months. I'm cutting back on coffee. I'm getting more exercise. Gray is eating better and losing some weight to prepare for chasing around toddlers. And, you know, SEX.

Aside from stocking up on lube, there isn't much left to do now but wait for my ovulation window to slide itself right on open so we can shove our spawn through the crack.

I AM NOT A PATIENT PERSON (yes, the implications of impatience for motherhood have been brought to my attention, thank you for reminding me, asshole) and yet I've been waiting. Nay, WE have been waiting. We've been waiting for three years, both by chance and by choice, and I can assure you that we are both capital-R ready.

Now that we're closing in on the prospect of having children, I must begin the process of trying to calm the fuck down, for the love of god talk about something besides cervical mucus already, stop wasting all the pregnancy tests because we just had sex 30 MINUTES AGO, and I should probably stop buying newborn onesies with adult slangs on them, but that's mostly because of child protective services and stuff.

We're also terrified about losing another pregnancy, but as per our ::totally calm and coherent:: discussions last time, we wanted to wait to try again until I was prepared to face the idea that another miscarriage is possible. It's not likely, it's not a given, it's not even a particularly high risk, but it's possible.

I wasn't prepared for that idea the first time, but now I hope I am.

I think I am.

And also SCREEEEEEE FOR BABY MAKING WINDOWS!

I hope this blog will soon return to its original purpose, which was to chronicle the ooey and the gooey parts my of pregnancy.

Don't worry - I'll still be a fucking badass.

I'll just have bigger tits.

Heat on, in heat, no difference really

Well, the heat is back on at our house. Turns out it was this exhaustingly complicated process of replacing a tiny purple fuse inside the furnace. Thank fucking GOD there are trained professionals who know how to handle this type of futuristic machinery. I thought the rapture was upon us.

Fuck.

I learned how to replace the tiny purple fuse in our furnace. I even flashed my tits at the HVAC guy so he'd leave me a spare fuse. Then he showed me how to remove the heat sensor stick thingy and give it a good "polish" - we're pretty sure the accumulated dirt on that stick is what started the problems with the furnace. What a dirty, dirty stick.

The good news is that I can stop wrapping my feet with sheets of insulation every time I get up to pee in the night. The bad news is that we're supposed to hit 55 degrees (Fahrenheit, you Canadian morons) today, which means that we're unlikely to take full advantage of our gas-powered capabilities.

But don't worry - I will fart as per usual, so at least THAT gas-power won't go to waste.

In other news, we're pretty sure that our little Scary monster thinks she is pregnant. With ghost puppies, apparently. She's doing a cave dweller's variation of the standard Dog Nesting Procedure where she hides in the smallest possible nook of the room before digging fruitlessly into the un-dig-able floor coverings. Then she licks her belly until (what I'm pretty sure is) fluid leaks from her boobies.

She (out of the blue) started getting up twice in the night for a drink of water and to pee. She has begun carring around her tiny squeaky babies in her mouth.

Now...I'm no dog expert, but I'm relatively certain that the combination of vet-issued spay certification paperwork and hideous belly surgery scars are enough to rule out the possibility of ACTUAL pregnancy, but who knows. Perhaps Scary is the next Mother Theresa.

Wait, that's not right. Help me out, Catholics...Mother Goose?

In any case, she DID come from a puppy mill in Kansas where she spent her life in a cage, giving birth to litter after litter of scary little babies, and so perhaps this is her "time of the month" or something. We're not quite clear on that point.

What I DO know is we could have saved a fortune on the furnace if she'd done us the courtesy of telling us she was already in heat.

Poor guy will probably end up burning himself at the stake

It's Valentine's Day, a holiday with suspicious beginnings (who's your baby daddy, V-day? NOBODY KNOWS) and guilt trips induced in the name of sentimentality and blow jobs.

I love Valentine's Day, but mostly because it gives me an excuse to dress all in pink and red without having to give a shit either A) about heart health or B) breast cancer, the two leading causes of stress and alcoholism in women named Lolita Razzle Dazzle.

Typically, Gray and I celebrate this lovers' holiday by eating Chinese food from the floor (he and I on the floor, not the food, although Gray's chopstick skills DO need some improvement), watching movies all night long, and having illicit living room relations.

Tonight, though...tonight is a Monday night, which means we both work tomorrow, and our furnace is no longer functioning, which means that sleeping in our 96-year-old-house feels a lot like Bella and Edward in the tent before Jacob showed up, and simultaneously our checking account is overdrawn so that calling the HVAC guy is completely out of the question until next payday, which means Gray and I will likely spend this Valentine's Day eating crumbs from the floor (literally)((I think I saw a jelly bean under the couch))(((I CALL DIBS))) and going to bed at a reasonable 9:30 p.m. after flossing our teeth and packing our lunches for tomorrow.

I know, I know - we're really not taking advantage of the holiday. It is our first MARRIED Valentine's Day, so it's really my premier opportunity to implement Operation: Wife Guilt, but the truth is I'll kill him with my bare hands if he charges another penny to our account, plus I totally don't feel like shaving today.

No, not even there.

So tonight will be one of those regular nights, except we'll probably make a few more inappropriate boob jokes than usual and, if my period doesn't start before bed time, maybe Gray will get lucky. MAYBE.

On the other hand, I'm beginning pre-conception preparations for Operation: Knock Me Up (coming to theaters in May), so it's possible I'll decide I'm too tired for marital relations and I'll tell Gray he has to save his sperm until this spring.

Or maybe we'll just masturbate together.

Kind of depends on how warm the house is.

The Only Downside: Having to Watch Jackyl Play ::Updated::

Gray and I.

We are allofasudden totally hooked on some television that never piqued our interest previously. Unfortunately, the new shows don't say many good things about either us as a mentally stable couple or as intellectually ripened individuals. Don't get me wrong...I realize it's too late for ME to be sane. It's just that I was clinging to the hope that Gray would pass some genetic stability on to whatever future children (or demons) we may produce.

I'm afraid that is no longer a viable hope.

First came Full Throttle Saloon. Thanks a lot, Dad, for getting us hooked on this reality show about life behind the scenes at a Sturgis bar. Tits and ass and generous helpings of them both. Dred locks. Mullets. Midgets. A terribly disgusting fajita "chef". Hookers and pole dancers and painted ladies and mediocre rock stars and beer bellies. CHICK beer bellies.

Full Throttle Saloon is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Unless you count the boxes of Dots I've consumed while watching it.

The other obsession started some time ago for me, but last night I forced it upon my ailing husband (he has the flu and you would think he has stage four penis cancer with the way he's moaning and sweating), who was promptly sucked in as well, a fact I determined after he demanded more than once that I rewind so that he could re-watch funny moments or re-assess what the characters had said.

 The Millionaire Matchmaker features one of the world's awesomest (she yells at people, has giant breasts, and swears at rich bitches) Jewish relationship gurus setting up helpless, pathetic, yet financially successfully men and women with a bevvy of potential matches.

There is nothing more fascinating than watching fully-grown rich motherfuckers hem and haw about which supermodel is most worthy of their condescension. And money. In the episode we watched last night, a plus-sized millionairess (with the biggest fucking gums I have ever seen) decided it would be fun to impress her potential suitors by drinking wine from a straw and discussing her 100% PINK apartment and herobsession with Hello Kitty.

These shows. They are what is getting my seasonally-depressed and brain-damaged ass through the season of fire and brimstone (also known as the Minnesota winter) without sticking my head in the fish bowl.

Well, these shows and the thought of drowning in goldfish feces.

:: Some of my more brilliant readers have requested info on when these shows air and on which television station. FTS is on TruTV on Wednesday nights and Milly-Match is on Bravo all the damn time. I just set my DVR and the episodes appear as if from nowhere. Patti is a magical Jew. ::

In Which I Delay Doing Anything Useful. *UPDATED

I just wrote an entire paragraph here and then I deleted it because IT FUCKING SUCKED. You'll have to forgive me, I haven't had a drink yet this morning and the thunder kept me awake all night, and no, that is not a euphamism for Gray's schlong, although if he asks you, tell him it is. You'll never have to buy him another birthday gift, although he may ask you to put it in writing first.

Speaking of putting things into writing, I just realized that today is my submission deadline for my October column so I should probably get around to, you know, WRITING IT, and stuff. I can always count on a deadline for school to strink sudden inspiration into my blog life, and a blog deadline to inspire in me a expansive/pointless craft project and the threat of a looming deadline like, oh I don't know, HAVING TO PACK OUR ENTIRE HOUSE SO WE CAN MOVE IN FIFTEEN DAYS, to make me realize that I haven't been doing nearly enough sock drawer organizing lately.

It's bizarre, living in the mind of an anal-retentive procrastinator, because I want everything to be exactly perfect all the time, but I don't want it to be exactly perfect right now, tomorrow should be soon enough, except that in the meantime I'd like to develop ulcers over that pile of unwashed laundry in the corner that I'll have plenty of time to do next weekend.

I have decorated every square inch of our new home in my head - it's keeping me up at night - literally down to the new house numbers on the new mailbox, but I haven't yet joined one cardboard box with one crumpled newspaper with one piece of our worldy possessions. This seat-of-my-pants packing schedule makes me realize that a part of me must believe A) all my shit will magically appear at the new place and put itself away like this is some kind of episode of Sleeping Beauty except my fairy godmothers are all red-headed and well-accessorized and B) that upon arrival at the new place, all said shit will magically transform itself into a bunch of shiny NEW shit that coordinates with each other and gives the illusion that I'm this masterful decorator, yet all the while I'll be dancing naked around my house singing the soundtracke to Anne into an empty chapagne bottle and stopping only to make ill-advised, online furniture purchases.

In other words, it's probably not going to be all that different after all.

*Go here. Then it will seem like I did something.*

Services Rendered

So I've started my new career as a newspaper columnist / slash / professional dog walker, and I have to say that it's awesome so far. Of course, I've only written one column for the University's paper and I've only walked one dog. One time. But still, I couldn't help but day dream last night as Libby and I strolled through the darkening SE Minneapolis streets...I could walk dogs all day long and maybe write a little in between "clients". That would be the life.

I believe I mentioned we're broke. I believe you'll remember that we started doing the TOTAL! MONEY! MAKEOVER! thing with Dave Ramsey and that it worked pretty fucking well (I paid off a small fortune in about nine months), but then we got engaged and every last cent *plus some cents we didn't have* went into paying for the wedding and associated festivities.  Then there was BlogHer. Did I mention shit is expensive in Manhattan? Plus there was luggage to check ($20/bag) and airport bars to support ($9.99/bloody fucking mary) and now we're just flat out broke as a couple of Summer's foot bones.

Here we are, post-expensive occasions and stuff, and I'm frantically trying to pull money out of my ass so we can get back on track with our budgeting and debt-paying and, oh you know, EATING.

Enter The Metropolitan. It just so happens that the editor of the paper is a member of my writing group and the production manager was the flutist in our wedding, and they were interested in adding a student lifestyle column, and what was that? I can make $30 an issue, you say? I'M IN.

Then I realized they were also in need of a business manager to do some paperwork for a total of two hours per week and I basically knocked over anyone standing in my way and demanded that I be given that position as well because A) I FUCKING LOVE PAPERWORK and B) bigger stipend, so here I find myself as the new business manager and contributing staff writer for The Metropolitan, student newspaper for Metropolitan State University. My first paid writing gig.

It just so happened that on the same day I heard about the newspaper gig (I totally just typed "jewspaper"...must be thinking of Jessica Bern today...), I also placed an ad on Craigslist for my dog-walking services, thinking if I could find one or two clients who needed me to walk their pups a few times per week, it would be a great way to make a little extra money AND get some exercise, especially while the weather is still warm and sunny.

Yesterday, I met my first client: Libby, the Australian shepherd mix. Her person works overnights and has a long commute, so Libby needs to be let out and walked between 7:00 and 10:00pm several times per week. She is super adorable and teeny tiny, but has some socialization issues and isn't very friendly with new people so her person tells strangers to stay away because she bites (which she doesn't), so I actually am getting paid to scare children and play with dogs.
 
Since I think I would love walking dogs full-time, I wondered what it would take to quit my job and walk dogs full-time like Jennifer Lopez in Monster In-Law, except my apartment will always be organized and mothers-in-law love me, except when I divorce their sons. Don't worry Sharon, your son is too awesome. So far.

I calculated would need to walk fifteen dogs every day to make the equivalent of my current hourly wages, not to mention I'd have to pay for private health and dental insurance. But then again, I wouldn't have to pay taxes, which is awesome in and of itself, and even if I get audited it would be like Will Ferrell and Maggie Gyllenhaal in Stranger than Fiction and my auditor would end up falling in love with my bra-less boobies and my incredible home baked goods. I would have to pick up a whole lot of dog shit, but I'd also be able to drink all day long because I could just ride my bike around from house to house.

Plus, I could steal enough dog treats for Bampa that we'd never have to buy them again.

It's like I'm scamming The Universe.

I Think She Likes Me, Too.

Nothing makes me happier than making other people uncomfortable (except marinating cats in the trunk of my car) so hanging out with Susan at BlogHer last weekend may very well be one of the best things that has ever happened to me (besides the cat marinade recipe).

Susan does things like start up a totally inappropriate conversation just as a complete stranger gets onto the elevator she's riding. It's like she does it just to see if they'll change their mind about which floor they reaaaaaally want to stop on. "OH MY GOD that woman is talking about ANAL PLUGS?!?! I'll take the stairs." *exit stage door*

Saturday night, Susan, Summer and I were on our way down to the lobby from a sex party hosted by Eden Fantasys up on the 31st floor of the Warwick Hotel, and Susan told a guy in the elevator (and his WOMAN) that even though we'd just come from a sex party, the only way Susan would be interested in him at that moment was if he was hiding a pizza under his shirt because she was starving.

And then she asked him if he was hiding a pizza under his shirt.

And then she asked if it was inappropriate to ask him if he was hiding a pizza under his shirt.

My answer is that it's never inappropriate to ask for pizza.

One of my favorite lines lately is to tell people I just spontaneously ovulated because their baby is so cute of that stranger's baby is so cute, or because it smells like baby powder or because somebody mentioned babies or possibly because I just saw a woman with a super big rack. "I'm squirting eggs all over the place!" usually gets a chuckle (or horrified gape) out of most women, so I tend to pull that out when I'm at a loss.

I should warn you now that A) your baby just made me ovulate and B) Susan never posts to her blog. Your best bet would be to google "puppy in my pants" and scroll down to the hottest old broad you can find.

Oh my god, I did not just say that.

PS - She's taken, assholes. Put it back in your panties.

School's Out

I've been doing a lot of reading in the last two weeks, which in turn has let to my doing a lot of Couch Cocktail Sipping, only augmented by the fact that it's been coldish and raining for a couple of weeks, so the fireplace is oh so very delightful, and what else would one do by the fire besides drink and read? Nothing, that's what I thought. In the process of vegging out so hard that my brains have melted entirely and drained out of my rectum and onto the furniture, my Muse has filed for divorce citing, "Smells Like Brain Farts".

I have five books going at the moment, all of them piled haphazardly around my house and car along with ten other books I haven't begun but must return to the library in a week, bobby pins and crossword puzzled shoved in as place holders, all of them are equally wonderful in their own special ways, but mostly they're wonderful because I don't HAVE to read any of them. Which is not to say that I did not enjoy basically everything I did have to read this semester, it's just that the berries which ripen on the Pleasure Tree are ever so much juicer than their Required Tree counterparts, if only because nobody is telling me to pick and eat them.

Well, that, and that I don't have to analyze their juiciness until my head explodes.

I had my first true English major experience yesterday. I was reading an achingly beautiful memoir by Joan Didion (only because I happened to pick up that book on my way out the door, else I might have been devouring a juvenile book about wilderness survival or the end of civilization and a teenager's decision to repopulate the planet) when someone commented, "Joan Didion. That's kind of...high brow, isn't it?" As I was completely unprepared for this question about the level of brow-iness of Didion's book, my only possible response was, "Yeah, well. I'm an English major," as if somehow the fact that I am majoring in English would explain the writer's pomposity. My next inclination was to confess that I also read Penthouse, but somehow (after all, this was my gynecologist I was speaking with) I was able to keep that tidbit to myself.

My dad asked me not long ago what I was reading, and I ran down a laundry list of titles and authors, none of whom he seemed to recognize, then he inquired about whether I'd read any Vince Flynn lately. The answer to that, as it has always been, was "no". I told him I'd picked of Middlemarch because I have chosen to use two different quotes by George Eliot in my wedding ceremony, and I figured I owed it to the author to see what other brilliance he'd written. Of course, I explain to my dad, this was before I realized that he was actually a Victorian she, writing under a male name because that was the loophole women found when they wanted to be taken seriously in that time. I am glad that I am alive now, in a time when I'm just as unlikely to be taken seriously whether man or woman, especially since I have small tits.

I am, as I said, devouring literature like I devour BLT's or Skittles or K-Y strawberry lubricant. At first, I found it unfortunate that the trade off for such bliss seemed to be that I could no longer write. And I don't just mean that I couldn't write anything decent, I mean that I literally was afraid to open my Blogger dashboard because of the sound of violence of the Nothing that would happen. My fingers seem to quiver in fear. My brain remains filled with ideas and words and dreamy images and IDEAS but I am physically incapable of translating them from the existential mush they are into actual keys and letters and words, etc.

I've also begun listening on tape to Anne Lamott's instructional Bird by Bird multiple times in a row, and now I'm piling inspiration and drive on top of my ideas and characters and words, so that the whole lot of them are squishing my attention span into the floorboards of my car, and still I'm unable to do anything about it. For now. It's like everything is organizing itself into piles in my brain - the Funny pile and the Heavy pile and the Characters with Small Penises pile - and once they've been sorted and the floor has been swept, then the tiny OCD Muse who lives in my brain will appear with a tiny desk and a rusty typewriter and then she will begin to work again.

Perhaps it's my spirit's version of spring cleaning. Perhaps it's just the same old fucking procrastination I perfected in high school. It's definitely not the first time this has happened, and it certainly won't be the last. What it feel like this time, though, isn't so much like a well running dry as a runner stretching, lining up in a row across the track, preparing to take her mark.

She is preparing to Go.

Makes Perfect Sense

Well, then. I seem to have discovered that the way I react to stress is to voluntarily pile on additional stresses by choice, apparently in an effort to trick my brain into believing that it's called FUN! not ugh. And I really am having fun, that's the odd thing, and I'm not really THAT busy, which I know because I somehow found the time to watch Dancing With the Stars the other night. Except...wait. NO I DIDN'T. Because it was "bumped" from the DVR by RAW and Two and a Half Men. And probably TNA wrestling. I can't ever remember which night that is on. Speaking of which, has anyone else - all four of you who know what TNA is - ever thought it was odd that they decided to name a tough-guy wrestling show "T-N-A"? Tits and ass? What the fuck, TNA? That's super confusing to me because Gray will be all, "Hey, do you mind if I watch some TNA?" and I'm like, "GO FOR IT!" because while he's distracted by porn I can sneak down to the basement and make out with my bottle of vodka that I keep hidden in the dryer because he never looks there. Everyone knows that porn is the most distracting of distractants, probably because of all the animal noises and definitely because of the nipples, and he won't be able to tell if I'm drunk again on a work night or if I'm just like that all the time and he never really thought about it before. He'll be too busy watching TNA to remember. But then I hear a bunch of Nickelback songs coming from the TV and I realize he means TNA wrestling, and I'm all, "Oh man! Can't you just watch some PORN already?" because isn't it better if your fiance wants to look at a bunch of naked women than if he wants to watch a bunch of guys in spandex wiggle around to Nickelback? I think it's better, not only because of the homoerotic implications, but also because after he watches porn, he wants to get laid, but after he watches wrestling, he wants to spend the next hour reenacting the Undertaker's entrance and trying to pin me to the bed for a three-count and he won't let me go to sleep until he beats me for the Pretend Bedroom World Heavyweight title, but I can't just LET him win even when I want to because it turns out that pulling your shoulder up at the last second is kind of a reflex.

Atypical Antipsychotics: Keeping People Like Me Out On The Streets

I don't give a flying fuck about football except so far as it effects me, which generally is never, unless the Vikings are in the playoffs which generally is never, but today I can say that I am smack-my-ass thrilled with the Minnesota victory over Dallas yesterday.

Because this means my life, for the next week anyway, will be just *that* much better. Co-workers will be cheery and helpful. Strangers will be more polite and friendly. Most importantly, Gray will not spend the week moping, which means I'm off-duty so far as the Must Distract Distraught Boyfriend With Pity Sex sex goes.

The downside to having the Vikings in the playoffs is that Gray takes every Sunday off of work to sit in his newly-dubbed Man Cave and watch the game. And every other football game. Ever. All of them. All the time. He's keeps to himself down there in the basement, it's just that I'm used to having Sundays all to myself for homework and masturbating and stuff. He's distracting.

I caught bits and pieces of the action yesterday and all those beer commercials gave me an idea that is both practical and entrepreneurial. (I cannot even explain the extent to which I just had to spellcheck "entrepreneurial.")

I am going to get companies to sponsor me for just living my life.

Can't you just see it?

"This blow job brought to you in party by Bounty. Bounty, the quilted quicker picker upper."

"Making dinner: sponsored by Charles Shaw Cabernet."

"This episode of getting out of bed in the morning was made possible by Celexa."

I could make a fucking killing just by walking around doing my thing. And if "my thing" changes from one day to the next, all the better! More sponsors! More money! And I'd raking in the royalties because I'd have to get a slice of the pie every time anyone else did any of those things.

I could get paid for other people taking shits.

Paint my car like a vagina and I'll be a mobile advertisement for K-Y. Have some custom Red Dog beer unitards whipped up and I'll be a walking advertisement for teenage pregnancy. My shoes could sell Karate lessons. My boobs could be a "before" shot for a plastic surgeon. Every time I fart, I could do a 30 second spot for Beano. Or Taco Bell.

I might as well be MADE of money.

And if Wal-Mart tattoos it's logo up my thigh? Well, then of course I'd have to cut off my leg. But think of the revenue possibilities doing Rascal ads!

Time To Switch Back To Straight Porn

There was a decidedly Gay theme to my weekend. And I don't mean that in a festive, holiday way. I mean gay. Like in the "Insert Tab B into...maybe just rub it up against another Tab B, but keep it decidedly away from Slot A," kind of way.

On Friday night, I had a hot date with a younger chick and I totally scored. Except not really. But we did discuss our most intimate secrets. Like that I HATE bras and I fling mine across the room the moment I get home, but that means I have to hold my boobs when I run up or down the stairs. Not because my boobs are big ::hysterical laughter and shedding of half-amused/half-sad tears:: but it makes them feel better about themselves when I fondle them on the way to the sock drawer. Plus, the slight movement might cause chest wrinkles.

And then she shared with me that I was scaring her.

Saturday, Gray and I spent the evening with our gay friend over at our tall friend's house for his annual Christmas party during which we fondled small dogs, corrupted young children, and made fun of retards. And then I gave our gay friend the applesauce cinnamon cock and balls (complete with veins and...um..."head" lines) that I made for him. For Hanukkah.

And then today, I attended the Twin Cities Women's Choir's annual "Illuminations" concert, which was really fun because they sang the exact same arrangement of "Go Where I Send Thee" that we sang in my high school, choir, which meant got to sing along, which meant that everyone sitting near me inched further in the other direction, which meant I had room to let go of the Chipotle Gas without being implicated.

And also, this concert is like a regional lesbian conference. Nothing says, "Happy Holidays" like a church full of high-waisted jeans and pixie cuts. So again with the gay.

After a weekend full of homo action I decided to get back to my straight roots and study a little for my Shakespeare final on Wednesday. Fortunately, reading Shakespeare isn't gay for me because I'm a chick.

Except that Desdomona...she makes me feel all tingly inside.

Coulda Been Worse. Coulda Involved Donkeys.

My friend and I were swapping "awkward sex encounters" the other day. Mind you, I've got almost zero sex encounters in total, unless you count the 8 years with the ex, but to call those "encounters" might even be pushing it a bit.

Anyway, right around the time my divorce was getting under way but before Gray and I were technically a couple, I flew to California with my sister and her newborn to visit family. I had met a guy through work who offered to get us free tickets to Disneyland and California Adventure, so of course we took him up on it. Trouble was, he wanted to go with us. And not only go with us, but meet us in Anaheim the night before and stay in a hotel near the park.

My sister, crazy new breastfeeding mother that she was, opted out, but I agreed because he and I had been on a couple dates and got along pretty well. And I really wanted to go to Disneyland.

Here's where it starts to get awkward. The plan was for me to go stay the night with this guy AT A HOTEL, and then my DAD would bring my sister to meet us in the morning.

I know. But it made perfect sense at the time.

Having never been with anyone other than the ex, I was bound and determined to have a good time. Except it turned out that this guy was a Flipper Face. And by "Flipper Face", I mean that I may as well have been making out with a dolphin. It was AWFUL.

He was a very nice guy, and generous, don't get me wrong. But that just meant that I was a prostitute, not that I was into him. Right?

Ok, so the next morning, my poor horrified father (what must he have been thinking?!) dropped off my sister at the hotel and left to go home and babysit his new grand daughter.

The three of us walked uncomfortably around the theme park until around lunch time (my sister is the type to GIVE ME SHIT, so you can imagine what I heard that day despite how very hard I was trying to forget the events of the previous evening). We decided to hit up one last ride - Pirates of the Caribbean - before heading over to California Adventure for lunch where the only booze on the property was sold.

Did I mention he was a little...husky? When he went to sit in the rear of the little Pirate gondola, it literally went under water and sloshed about 40 gallons of god knows what up into the boat. He was soaked from the waist down, but my sister and I managed to ride the entire thing without putting our asses in the trough behind us, probably thanks to a lifetime of public toilet hovering.

Now we were uncomfortable, HE was uncomfortable, and it didn't take long before he began to complain that his wet denim shorts were chaffing his thighs. Great. Even better.

So we had a really expensive, marginally edible meal over at CA. AD. and a few of their million dollar keg beers before he announced that he wasn't feeling well and disappeared into one of the park's bathrooms for, like, 30 minutes or so. Time enough for my sister to go shopping and come back. THAT'S HOW LONG HE WAS IN THERE.

Then we had to buy sunscreen for him to slather on his thighs.

You know...from all the chaffing.

Then he bought us an expensive dinner, took us home, and drove to San Diego (not a short drive, if you're wondering). I nearly DIED when I realized I'd left one of my shoes in his trunk. This meant further contact was unavoidable. I could live without the shoe, but I knew he would use it as an excuse to see me next time he flew into MN.

Which he did. And then we had the horrible conversation about "what went wrong".

The End.

Wow, was that as awful for you as it was for me? Ok, so back to my original point - my friend was telling me about HER most awkward sexual experience, and it was so awesome that I asked if I could share it with you people. And she agreed, because she was drunk. Or something.

So there was this guy she knew in high school who always had a huge crush on her but never made a move because she was dating his best friend. (Ah, high school politics). They happened to run into each other years later as adults and I can't remember if she said they went on a date, but he still had a crush on her and she wasn't sure if she liked him.

He convinced her to come watch movies at his house which, of course, translates to "let's make out and maybe I'll be able to slip you a little...well, we'll just see how it goes with the making out", but it didn't take long for her to realize that he was a Hoover Face.

Her entire mouth/lip/chin area was in his mouth AT ALL TIMES. She said it was so bad that when he turned to take a drink of his beer, she pretended to fall asleep. In less than 5 seconds. And she continued to pretend to be asleep for, like, over an hour.

But he wasn't giving up.

So eventually, somehow, she decides to just leave but he really wants to get freaky, so she jokingly tells him that she'll have sex with him if he puts on her bra and panties. Mind you, she thought it would be a deal breaker for him and he'd send her on her merry way.

Except he does it. HE FUCKING DOES IT. And he's standing there in her underwear and she politely asks for it all back and she gets dressed and she leaves.

Now...I might be wrong, but he was either into lingerie or he was fucking desperate to get laid.

Anyhow, I would LOVE to hear your awkward sex stories if you got 'em. Who are you kidding, I KNOW you freaks have 'em! Lay 'em on me! Help wash the taste of Flipper out of my mouth!!

Midget? No. Quitter? Oh Yeah.

I know I'm totally ruining the "illusion" for many of you, but it's time I put myself out there. I'm a person just like you, at least until the lights go out, and we're all in this together.

I don't really know what that means, so here - watch this:

My Apologies For the Retinal Scarring

Meet: Jane Fonda and her NASCAR-lovin' boy toy, Jed.

Blurry? Check! Inappropriate posture? Check! Way too much lemon vodka? CHECK! Nothing says Happy Halloween like Sing Star, venison and ass-smack circles.

Also, my bra is stuffed with socks and the bottom of my leotard is a bathing suit that I butchered for the occasion. And my hair is one gallon of Aqua Net. Still isn't moving.

I woke up today. VOLUNTARILY. This is something I wasn't sure would ever happen again, not after Saturday night. As much as I love kids, it was probably best I don't have any right now. I would have neglected the shit out of them on Sunday. I didn't even clean my ears with a Q-tip, that's how bad it was.

But this morning, I'm off to assist with the local chapter of Kids Vote! (the exclamation point is literally right there in the name) and I have to be at the Methodist church to set up by 6:45. I know that sounds early, but I'm normally at work by 7:00, so it's no stretch for me. I usually roll out of bed between 5:00 and 5:45 - RELUCTANTLY - to get ready for work.

Today, I woke up at 4:30. A.M.! I realize I can thank the disappearance of Daylight Savings Time (also, remind me to thank you for the darkness to and from work every morning and night for the next six months, motherfucker) but I feel like a warrior princess or something. I literally do not get out of bed voluntarily, EVER.

I either need to buy a lotto ticket or double check my medication.

"I Can't Turn It Off, This Is Who I AM"

Go ahead and watch this clip of Modern Family, starting at the 15 minute mark.

Or, you know, from the beginning if you have the time because the whole thing is pretty funny, but right around minute 18, I was laughing so hard that I almost rolled off the damn couch.

"Isn't she going to have trouble pronouncing that?" Oh my god, that totally slayed me.

(ABC, please mail your check to Zipbag Of Bones.)((That's tax-free, right?))