I got rid of Internet at home, and I quit my job which, let's face it, is where I did all my blogging, so here I am, trying to type on an iPhone, and my friends? IT IS NOT GOING WELL.
I'm escaping reality for a few days, going camping up north with Daylow, the man I blame for my new obsession with snakes.
I will return to blogging soon, but I cannot guarantee I will be funny. Something about my shortage of vodka and my abundance of dogs seems to have sucked the hilarity right out of me.
Although... I DO have a few new epic poop stories.
Some are even about the dogs.
Get Boned.
Showing posts with label Poop Chute-a-Rootie. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poop Chute-a-Rootie. Show all posts
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Color Purple. It Sucks.
You have to be fucking kidding me, Universe.
It wasn't enough that there was a K-9 shit explosion in our bedroom this morning, one that required removing the bed skirt and scrubbing down a dresser.
Then our little dog ate a shit-ton of chocolate and had to be force-fed hydrogen peroxide so that she would vomit uncontrollably into the bathtub and threaten more K-9 shit explosions for the next two days.
Neither Gray or I was having a bad enough Tuesday, so you gave him a roaring headache and roiling nausea, then you decided to TURN MY MOTHERFUCKING HAND PURPLE. So purple was my hand that co-workers insisted I visit the company's EMT, who insisted I call my doctor's nurses' line, by whom I was told to go immediately to the emergency room, to which I was transported by a kind security officer, where I was stripped of my shirt and solemnly told I might have a blood clot...all while I shook my head and laughed and said, "This is ridiculous."
Gray raced to my side so that he could sit with me in the same ultrasound room where, in 2008, we learned that our little, tiny fetus wasn't visible on the screen. He sat there next to me as the vascular ultrasound technician squirted my neck and armpit and forearm with blue lube. He tolerated my bad jokes about armpit fetishes.
And then, Universe, you fucking asshole, you decided that there was nothing wrong with me. Literally. The emergency room doctor said his diagnosis is, "::shoulder shrug:: I dunno." He said he's been a doctor for 25 years and never seen anything like my purple hand and no blood clots. He said it might go away on its own but that I should return if it does not.
WHAT THE MOTHER FUCKING FUCK FUCK. This was supposed to be MY year. You know...the one where I didn't have to go to the emergency room for any reason? No miscarriages? No broken arms? No skull fractures? THAT is the year I ordered up.
And I didn't make it even a fucking month before I returned for a pointless trip to the emergency room. A very EXPENSIVE and pointless trip.
Sure, it's true that now I know I'm not going to die from a blood clot. The kicker is that I'd consider that option right now.
It wasn't enough that there was a K-9 shit explosion in our bedroom this morning, one that required removing the bed skirt and scrubbing down a dresser.
Then our little dog ate a shit-ton of chocolate and had to be force-fed hydrogen peroxide so that she would vomit uncontrollably into the bathtub and threaten more K-9 shit explosions for the next two days.
Neither Gray or I was having a bad enough Tuesday, so you gave him a roaring headache and roiling nausea, then you decided to TURN MY MOTHERFUCKING HAND PURPLE. So purple was my hand that co-workers insisted I visit the company's EMT, who insisted I call my doctor's nurses' line, by whom I was told to go immediately to the emergency room, to which I was transported by a kind security officer, where I was stripped of my shirt and solemnly told I might have a blood clot...all while I shook my head and laughed and said, "This is ridiculous."
Gray raced to my side so that he could sit with me in the same ultrasound room where, in 2008, we learned that our little, tiny fetus wasn't visible on the screen. He sat there next to me as the vascular ultrasound technician squirted my neck and armpit and forearm with blue lube. He tolerated my bad jokes about armpit fetishes.
And then, Universe, you fucking asshole, you decided that there was nothing wrong with me. Literally. The emergency room doctor said his diagnosis is, "::shoulder shrug:: I dunno." He said he's been a doctor for 25 years and never seen anything like my purple hand and no blood clots. He said it might go away on its own but that I should return if it does not.
WHAT THE MOTHER FUCKING FUCK FUCK. This was supposed to be MY year. You know...the one where I didn't have to go to the emergency room for any reason? No miscarriages? No broken arms? No skull fractures? THAT is the year I ordered up.
And I didn't make it even a fucking month before I returned for a pointless trip to the emergency room. A very EXPENSIVE and pointless trip.
Sure, it's true that now I know I'm not going to die from a blood clot. The kicker is that I'd consider that option right now.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Coulda Used the Camera for That One
So we're back from (rainy-ass) California and I have a slew of awesome mediocre photos to show you, but I haven't gotten around to downloading them onto Landers yet. I planned to spend the day Sunday doing laundry and unpacking and moving pictures from camera to hard drive. I slept instead.
Apparently travel is hard on the brain.
Monday and Tuesday after work I raced home and went promptly to sleep again for a few hours before bedtime. Right now I'm wishing I were curled up under my desk and snoring and/or farting happily away, but no such luck. While it's true there's a door I could close, my friends here know me too well to let me get by with office fart naps. At least without filmed documentation, and you know how I always forget to wear panties.
Last night, I sat down to finally transfer pictures onto Landers and my motherfucking camera battery was dead. Stupid thing hasn't been charged in 15 years and suddenly it's all worn out or something. That little battery fucker sleeps ALL THE TIME and he can't be ready for a quick download session. Asshole.
By the time he'd charged enough to use, I was asleep again.
Asleep, that is, until Gray sat bolt upright in bed and bellowed, "Jesus, did he fart?!!"
I thought Gray meant my camera battery and I began to silently tally the un-thought of uses for a farting camera battery. Then Gray, mumbling about stinky dog farts, stumbled around the bed and discovered Bampa sleeping soundly.
Along side his giant pile of shit.
That's right, our dog is deaf AND incontinent.
The best part? Though Gray was gagging and racing around, opening windows...I. SMELLED. NOTHING.
Apparently travel is hard on the brain.
Monday and Tuesday after work I raced home and went promptly to sleep again for a few hours before bedtime. Right now I'm wishing I were curled up under my desk and snoring and/or farting happily away, but no such luck. While it's true there's a door I could close, my friends here know me too well to let me get by with office fart naps. At least without filmed documentation, and you know how I always forget to wear panties.
Last night, I sat down to finally transfer pictures onto Landers and my motherfucking camera battery was dead. Stupid thing hasn't been charged in 15 years and suddenly it's all worn out or something. That little battery fucker sleeps ALL THE TIME and he can't be ready for a quick download session. Asshole.
By the time he'd charged enough to use, I was asleep again.
Asleep, that is, until Gray sat bolt upright in bed and bellowed, "Jesus, did he fart?!!"
I thought Gray meant my camera battery and I began to silently tally the un-thought of uses for a farting camera battery. Then Gray, mumbling about stinky dog farts, stumbled around the bed and discovered Bampa sleeping soundly.
Along side his giant pile of shit.
That's right, our dog is deaf AND incontinent.
The best part? Though Gray was gagging and racing around, opening windows...I. SMELLED. NOTHING.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Anal Fissures Just Sounds...Geriatric
My intestinal workings have been...muddled since I took a tumble, mostly due to pain killers and odd dietary restrictions. While in the hospital, I ate almost nothing and sloughed off enough weight so that I was below my wedding day number, even though at the time of my wedding I was completely unable to lose another quarter pound despite hardly eating at all.
After the hospital, my family basically force-fed me, which was probably good because I couldn't exactly stand on my stork legs (still had the belly bulge, though - that thing will not DIE), and so I eventually gained all of the weight back (and a hell of a lot more). After about a week of eating five meals a day and laying either in bed or on the couch all of the time, I realized I hadn't yet felt the slightest need to take a shit.
Me? NOT SHIT? That was absurd.
I was already taking colace and Senekot to combat the poop-related effects of the pain killers, but still. Nothing. Not prune juice, not fruit, not laxatives.
Finally, after nearly two weeks, I felt something simmering in the lower furnace and I hustled (be it slowly, and with family chiding, "Where are you going? I can get it for you!" in the background) to the toilet, bore down with all of my might, and popped out several minuscule pellets of shit. Like a rabbit, I was.
That continued until I finally upped the doses of stool softener (every moment expecting to feel the tickle of a human-height turd tickle the back of my throat, hell-bent on escape however necessary) and the shower of pebbles increased until they almost made up the quantity of a normal Cat poop.
Eventually, my bowel movements were the talk of the household. Each time I emerged victorious from the loo, I'd raise my hands in victory and declare, "I WENT!" to the exclamations of my father, step-mom, and husband. And probably dog. It's hard to tell with him.
When the day came that a normal, non-rabbit shaped poop emerged like the sweet, sweet result of a love affair between a banana and a piece of granite, there were tears in my eyes.
No really. It hurt fucking bad, and it cracked open my ass, too. Fissures, if you please.
Eventually, things got back to normal (in the poop department)((mostly)) and I'm happy to report that I have ceased to bleed from every orifice of my body. (Did I mention I no longer ovulate? Yeah, apparently that's thanks to trauma. I'm hoping that comes back, too, so that we can. YOU KNOW. Have a family.)
Until the other night.
I was driving home when the sudden, unexpected urge to POOP! overcame me, and try as I might, I knew I could not resist the call of nature long enough to make it all the way home, so I detoured to a gas station, where I delivered what felt like a watermelon through my ass and into the toilet bowl, leaving more blood behind, and although I flushed, the turd remained.
It remained because it was positioned like the world's most horrifying bridge over the opening in the toilet and it wouldn't move despite repeated swearing and flushing maneuvers.
Terrified of leaving a Barbie-sized shit bridge for someone else to take care of (actually, I was worried I'd open the door and someone would be waiting to use the restroom, thereby KNOWING it was me who'd left the chocolate melon in my wake), I decided to take action.
I reached in and re-positioned my own shit. With my hand.
Now if that isn't taking charge of my life...then thank fucking god because I never want to do that again so long as I live.
Or so long as I'm sober.
After the hospital, my family basically force-fed me, which was probably good because I couldn't exactly stand on my stork legs (still had the belly bulge, though - that thing will not DIE), and so I eventually gained all of the weight back (and a hell of a lot more). After about a week of eating five meals a day and laying either in bed or on the couch all of the time, I realized I hadn't yet felt the slightest need to take a shit.
Me? NOT SHIT? That was absurd.
I was already taking colace and Senekot to combat the poop-related effects of the pain killers, but still. Nothing. Not prune juice, not fruit, not laxatives.
Finally, after nearly two weeks, I felt something simmering in the lower furnace and I hustled (be it slowly, and with family chiding, "Where are you going? I can get it for you!" in the background) to the toilet, bore down with all of my might, and popped out several minuscule pellets of shit. Like a rabbit, I was.
That continued until I finally upped the doses of stool softener (every moment expecting to feel the tickle of a human-height turd tickle the back of my throat, hell-bent on escape however necessary) and the shower of pebbles increased until they almost made up the quantity of a normal Cat poop.
Eventually, my bowel movements were the talk of the household. Each time I emerged victorious from the loo, I'd raise my hands in victory and declare, "I WENT!" to the exclamations of my father, step-mom, and husband. And probably dog. It's hard to tell with him.
When the day came that a normal, non-rabbit shaped poop emerged like the sweet, sweet result of a love affair between a banana and a piece of granite, there were tears in my eyes.
No really. It hurt fucking bad, and it cracked open my ass, too. Fissures, if you please.
Eventually, things got back to normal (in the poop department)((mostly)) and I'm happy to report that I have ceased to bleed from every orifice of my body. (Did I mention I no longer ovulate? Yeah, apparently that's thanks to trauma. I'm hoping that comes back, too, so that we can. YOU KNOW. Have a family.)
Until the other night.
I was driving home when the sudden, unexpected urge to POOP! overcame me, and try as I might, I knew I could not resist the call of nature long enough to make it all the way home, so I detoured to a gas station, where I delivered what felt like a watermelon through my ass and into the toilet bowl, leaving more blood behind, and although I flushed, the turd remained.
It remained because it was positioned like the world's most horrifying bridge over the opening in the toilet and it wouldn't move despite repeated swearing and flushing maneuvers.
Terrified of leaving a Barbie-sized shit bridge for someone else to take care of (actually, I was worried I'd open the door and someone would be waiting to use the restroom, thereby KNOWING it was me who'd left the chocolate melon in my wake), I decided to take action.
I reached in and re-positioned my own shit. With my hand.
Now if that isn't taking charge of my life...then thank fucking god because I never want to do that again so long as I live.
Or so long as I'm sober.
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Your Breath. That's on the Pro Side.
The longest-lasting and possibly permanent damage as a result of my recent tumble (besides a possibility of high-risk pregnancy and dangerously high intracranial brain pressure during birth) is this thing called anosmia.
Anosmia is the complete loss of the sense of smell which subsequently causes a near-total loss of the sense of taste, because our tongues are only able to detect four things: salty, sweet, sour and bitter.
What this means for me is that everything is fucking WEIRD. I can't smell anything. I can't taste anything. I can feel food, but that's not exactly what I'd consider necessary for excellent holiday noshing. In the afternoons I'll think, "Hmmm what should I make for dinner?" and the answer is always, "Who fucking cares, I could drink tap water sprinkled with sea salt and it's going to be the same experience as the finest chowder in the universe" because FUUUUUCK. I can't taste anything.
This anosmia is also a detriment to my cooking skills because I refuse to follow recipes. I prefer to add "dashes" of shit and then taste it to be sure I'm comfortable feeding my concoction to another person (who didn't come to me with a death wish). Garlic used to be my closest friend. I kept a clove in my pillow and whispered my secrets to it every night. Sometimes I used it when my vibrator battery died and I didn't have a replacement.
Now I'm terrified of garlic because is it too much? Too little? What if I drop a piece on the floor and don't notice when I'm cleaning up because I don't smell the lingering garlic, what if my dog eats it and DIES?
Does my sauce need more salt? You'd think I could figure that out since salt is one of the things I can detect, but unfortunately because it's ALL I can detect, I nearly threw out a pot of cooked spaghetti because it seemed so salty I thought I was hallucinating Hawaii again. It was perfectly good, not overly-salty spaghetti, I've just lost my ability to taste what others around me are tasting.
I don't have kids yet, but when I do, my method of detecting a poopy pant will either be constant diaper checks or it will be shit-squirting alerts. I may never bake my own bread again. What's the point?
WILL I NEVER SMELL A BABY'S HEAD AGAIN?!?!?!
There are other, slightly more dangerous problems with anosmia, like the inability to detect gas leaks in your home, spoiled food in your fridge and giant turds in your toilet. That aren't yours. Smoke in your house or neighborhood. Many people end up over-eating to compensate for a lack of food-related enjoyment while others stop eating because, again, what's the fucking point? Loss of libido, depression, all kinds of crap has been blamed on the disorder as well.
On the up-side, because you know I'm such an optimist, there's the fact that blow jobs will now be odorless, I can sit next to my husband and we can both fart away without my noticing any consequence (I just chalk the look on his face up to that awful Mountain Dew shit he drinks) I may some day be able to eat sea food without being reminded of diseased genitalia.
Oh, and alcohol QUALITY hardly seems important now.
Anosmia is the complete loss of the sense of smell which subsequently causes a near-total loss of the sense of taste, because our tongues are only able to detect four things: salty, sweet, sour and bitter.
What this means for me is that everything is fucking WEIRD. I can't smell anything. I can't taste anything. I can feel food, but that's not exactly what I'd consider necessary for excellent holiday noshing. In the afternoons I'll think, "Hmmm what should I make for dinner?" and the answer is always, "Who fucking cares, I could drink tap water sprinkled with sea salt and it's going to be the same experience as the finest chowder in the universe" because FUUUUUCK. I can't taste anything.
This anosmia is also a detriment to my cooking skills because I refuse to follow recipes. I prefer to add "dashes" of shit and then taste it to be sure I'm comfortable feeding my concoction to another person (who didn't come to me with a death wish). Garlic used to be my closest friend. I kept a clove in my pillow and whispered my secrets to it every night. Sometimes I used it when my vibrator battery died and I didn't have a replacement.
Now I'm terrified of garlic because is it too much? Too little? What if I drop a piece on the floor and don't notice when I'm cleaning up because I don't smell the lingering garlic, what if my dog eats it and DIES?
Does my sauce need more salt? You'd think I could figure that out since salt is one of the things I can detect, but unfortunately because it's ALL I can detect, I nearly threw out a pot of cooked spaghetti because it seemed so salty I thought I was hallucinating Hawaii again. It was perfectly good, not overly-salty spaghetti, I've just lost my ability to taste what others around me are tasting.
I don't have kids yet, but when I do, my method of detecting a poopy pant will either be constant diaper checks or it will be shit-squirting alerts. I may never bake my own bread again. What's the point?
WILL I NEVER SMELL A BABY'S HEAD AGAIN?!?!?!
There are other, slightly more dangerous problems with anosmia, like the inability to detect gas leaks in your home, spoiled food in your fridge and giant turds in your toilet. That aren't yours. Smoke in your house or neighborhood. Many people end up over-eating to compensate for a lack of food-related enjoyment while others stop eating because, again, what's the fucking point? Loss of libido, depression, all kinds of crap has been blamed on the disorder as well.
On the up-side, because you know I'm such an optimist, there's the fact that blow jobs will now be odorless, I can sit next to my husband and we can both fart away without my noticing any consequence (I just chalk the look on his face up to that awful Mountain Dew shit he drinks) I may some day be able to eat sea food without being reminded of diseased genitalia.
Oh, and alcohol QUALITY hardly seems important now.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Upside is My Shit Don't Stink
Um, yeah. So. Despite my best intentions to write here...you know, GET BACK AT IT, and stuff...it seems my concentration has been compromised and I"m much less likely to post to my blog than I am to take a nap or eat another Tootsie Roll.
I often complain, "Why am I so tired? Why do I sleep so much?" to which Gray responds, "I don't know, but that's what you're supposed to do. That's what the doctor's told you to do," to which I respond, "I hate the doctors."
Because really? REALLY? Sleeping 12 hours and then needing a 3 hour nap? And I don't mean just because I'm at home with nothing to do (although now I'm allowed to go online or read books or watch movies, whereas the first 4 weeks were "rest only" orders). If I get up and take a 10 minute shower, it means I will inevitably need either to hit the sack for the night or a really long nap. FROM TAKING A SHOWER. It's physically exhausting, just taking clothes off and putting them back on, standing in the water (now that I've outgrown the shower chair, that is), brushing my teeth.
So while I'm reading like my life depends upon it, and I'm doing all kinds of junior-high level cognitive worksheets (like, there's a map where all the streets are numbered and you have to name the streets based on vague clues), I'm having a hard time writing. Being creative in general, really.
I really hope it comes back, because I am noticing other subtle changes in myself that I do NOT approve of.
For example, Gray came running out of the bathroom yesterday exclaiming that he had a poop story that I would love, and he told me that his very own giant poop had clogged the toilet, but he was unable to bring himself to plunge because of the turds which remained in the bowl (it was "gross" he said, as if the plunger would otherwise be a showpiece), so he grabbed a doggie poo bag, two of them actually, and plucked his own shit from the bowl, disposing of it as he does Bampa's waste - it the outdoor garbage can. THEN he plunged.
The whole time he told the story, I was cringing away from him in disgust, adamantly wondering, "DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS?!" and wishing he hadn't told me. (After he left for work, I had to go and scrub the damn thing down.) He responded that "of course" he washed his hands, and sulked away saying he thought I'd love a good poop story, which normally I would. Like this one.
Minutes later I couldn't resist warning him, "I'm going to have to blog about that."
"I figured you would," was his reply.
It appears that my injury has inflicted at least a temporary aversion to poop stories. ON ME! It's bad enough I can't tell a banana from a sirloin, a bottle of water from a bottle of Ensure. It's unjust that I can't enjoy so much as a glass of wine until next summer (which means it's a perfect time to get pregnant) but I also can't safely conceive while I'm on the medication I'm taking to help my brain recover, plus I couldn't taste the damn wine anyway!
There's something horrifying about the idea that I've literally knocked the love of a really good poop story right out of myself, and I hope desperately that it doesn't extend to my love of writing and blogging and making threatening phone calls to nursing homes...erm, forget that last part.
What I'm saying is SHIT.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go lay down.
I often complain, "Why am I so tired? Why do I sleep so much?" to which Gray responds, "I don't know, but that's what you're supposed to do. That's what the doctor's told you to do," to which I respond, "I hate the doctors."
Because really? REALLY? Sleeping 12 hours and then needing a 3 hour nap? And I don't mean just because I'm at home with nothing to do (although now I'm allowed to go online or read books or watch movies, whereas the first 4 weeks were "rest only" orders). If I get up and take a 10 minute shower, it means I will inevitably need either to hit the sack for the night or a really long nap. FROM TAKING A SHOWER. It's physically exhausting, just taking clothes off and putting them back on, standing in the water (now that I've outgrown the shower chair, that is), brushing my teeth.
So while I'm reading like my life depends upon it, and I'm doing all kinds of junior-high level cognitive worksheets (like, there's a map where all the streets are numbered and you have to name the streets based on vague clues), I'm having a hard time writing. Being creative in general, really.
I really hope it comes back, because I am noticing other subtle changes in myself that I do NOT approve of.
For example, Gray came running out of the bathroom yesterday exclaiming that he had a poop story that I would love, and he told me that his very own giant poop had clogged the toilet, but he was unable to bring himself to plunge because of the turds which remained in the bowl (it was "gross" he said, as if the plunger would otherwise be a showpiece), so he grabbed a doggie poo bag, two of them actually, and plucked his own shit from the bowl, disposing of it as he does Bampa's waste - it the outdoor garbage can. THEN he plunged.
The whole time he told the story, I was cringing away from him in disgust, adamantly wondering, "DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS?!" and wishing he hadn't told me. (After he left for work, I had to go and scrub the damn thing down.) He responded that "of course" he washed his hands, and sulked away saying he thought I'd love a good poop story, which normally I would. Like this one.
Minutes later I couldn't resist warning him, "I'm going to have to blog about that."
"I figured you would," was his reply.
It appears that my injury has inflicted at least a temporary aversion to poop stories. ON ME! It's bad enough I can't tell a banana from a sirloin, a bottle of water from a bottle of Ensure. It's unjust that I can't enjoy so much as a glass of wine until next summer (which means it's a perfect time to get pregnant) but I also can't safely conceive while I'm on the medication I'm taking to help my brain recover, plus I couldn't taste the damn wine anyway!
There's something horrifying about the idea that I've literally knocked the love of a really good poop story right out of myself, and I hope desperately that it doesn't extend to my love of writing and blogging and making threatening phone calls to nursing homes...erm, forget that last part.
What I'm saying is SHIT.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go lay down.
Thursday, September 09, 2010
You Know It's Good Journalism When It Makes Me Sound Important.
My friend Randi (you'll remember her as the wedding flutist)((or as my doppelganger, although the more I get to know her, the more I realize she's WAY more stable than I am)) wrote this really awesome and deceptively intriguing article about me in the university newspaper. You should go read it and then come straight back here so that any illusion of writer-ly-ness I may have pulled over your eyeballs can be removed when I inevitably say the word "shart".
Speaking of which, I totally sharted all over myself last week, and I'm talking throw-your-underwears-in-the-garbage, walk-around-all-day-going-commando, belatedly-realize-your-cooter-hair-is-protruding-directly-through-the-front-of-your-pants. AT WORK. Kind of shart. It was awesome.
I also realized that I had a very similar incident almost exactly one year ago, which leads me to believe that I eat too much Mexican food in August, and also that September is extra scary.
That's right, I forgot. It totally IS scarier. Thanks Gray.
PS - Welcome, Metro State Metropolitan newspaper readers! I'm so glad you're here for me to horrify!
PPS - Try AJAX. It seems to be the most effective at removing this blog from your mind. And poop from underwear, now that I think about it.
Speaking of which, I totally sharted all over myself last week, and I'm talking throw-your-underwears-in-the-garbage, walk-around-all-day-going-commando, belatedly-realize-your-cooter-hair-is-protruding-directly-through-the-front-of-your-pants. AT WORK. Kind of shart. It was awesome.
I also realized that I had a very similar incident almost exactly one year ago, which leads me to believe that I eat too much Mexican food in August, and also that September is extra scary.
That's right, I forgot. It totally IS scarier. Thanks Gray.
PS - Welcome, Metro State Metropolitan newspaper readers! I'm so glad you're here for me to horrify!
PPS - Try AJAX. It seems to be the most effective at removing this blog from your mind. And poop from underwear, now that I think about it.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Your Tan Looks Streaky. Wait, That's Just...Never Mind.
I'm busy with some things (BIG THINGS!!!), so you'll have to forgive this post which is apropos of nothing, but I just remembered a story I once heard, and by writing about that story here, I'm saving myself the trouble of thinking of something on my own. This is what they call "efficiency". And also plagiarism, except this story has never been written down before, so I'm good.
My sister and her boyfriend just opened up their very own tanning salon and I'm super excited for them and also I'm wondering how they're ever going to be open every day of the week because my sister is kind of famous for her ability to SLEEP FOREVER, never waking up except to sleep some more, and I'm guessing this whole 7 Days a Week thing is going to seriously impede on her naps. Although she has been working several jobs at a time, so really she's probably used to never sleeping, especially since her daughter is three (which is the same thing as on crack), so maybe I'll just take everything back that I just said. But really, my sister is a champion sleeper. Just don't fall asleep in the tanning bed, girl.
Anyway, back in the days when I tanned regularly (before I was afraid of death and cancer and cold sores) I used to frequent a salon near my rental house. The place was great, but I noticed they didn't keep garbage cans in the rooms so I always had to carry out my paper towels, baby wipes, etc and ask to use the trash behind the front counter. It was weird, like they wanted to inspect our garbage before we disposed of it just to be sure we hadn't used excessive amounts of paper products or something.
Eventually I asked about the missing garbage cans and the (incredibly, unhealthily opaquely bronzed) salon employee explained that the owner decided to remove the cans after one too many customers opted to use them as TOILETS.
Now, I'm a shower pee-er, and proud of it. I'll pee in a lake, a pool (NEVER INVITE ME TO YOUR HOUSE), the woods, on the side of the road, in a urinal...anywhere, basically. But I will not pee in a diaper and I will certainly never pee into a tiny little trash can. Especially when the establishment offers perfectly lovely restroom accomodations at the end of the hall.
I expressed my surprise to the salon employee, who assured me that urine was not the problem. Poopers. People were consistently pooping in the garbage cans.
There's really no good way to end a story like that.
My sister and her boyfriend just opened up their very own tanning salon and I'm super excited for them and also I'm wondering how they're ever going to be open every day of the week because my sister is kind of famous for her ability to SLEEP FOREVER, never waking up except to sleep some more, and I'm guessing this whole 7 Days a Week thing is going to seriously impede on her naps. Although she has been working several jobs at a time, so really she's probably used to never sleeping, especially since her daughter is three (which is the same thing as on crack), so maybe I'll just take everything back that I just said. But really, my sister is a champion sleeper. Just don't fall asleep in the tanning bed, girl.
Anyway, back in the days when I tanned regularly (before I was afraid of death and cancer and cold sores) I used to frequent a salon near my rental house. The place was great, but I noticed they didn't keep garbage cans in the rooms so I always had to carry out my paper towels, baby wipes, etc and ask to use the trash behind the front counter. It was weird, like they wanted to inspect our garbage before we disposed of it just to be sure we hadn't used excessive amounts of paper products or something.
Eventually I asked about the missing garbage cans and the (incredibly, unhealthily opaquely bronzed) salon employee explained that the owner decided to remove the cans after one too many customers opted to use them as TOILETS.
Now, I'm a shower pee-er, and proud of it. I'll pee in a lake, a pool (NEVER INVITE ME TO YOUR HOUSE), the woods, on the side of the road, in a urinal...anywhere, basically. But I will not pee in a diaper and I will certainly never pee into a tiny little trash can. Especially when the establishment offers perfectly lovely restroom accomodations at the end of the hall.
I expressed my surprise to the salon employee, who assured me that urine was not the problem. Poopers. People were consistently pooping in the garbage cans.
There's really no good way to end a story like that.
Monday, August 16, 2010
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 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.
Monday, April 05, 2010
I Love People Who Love Poop Stories
I have GOT to start writing shit down when I think of it. I had all kinds of fun things to divulge to you freaks, but then I drank half a bottle of Cabernet and ate my weight in lemonade jelly beans. And watched District 9. That is a fucked up movie, but then again, ANY movie that makes me want to cuddle a cockroach-shrimp hybrid is a fucked up movie.
So, in short, I forgot.
What I DO know is that there are big things happening in the Zipbag household, and no, I'm not pregnant, not yet anyway, because once we say "I do," I've got about 100,000 eggs all prepped and waiting. I might literally jump Gray's bones on the altar.
I think, because he loves the little children, that Jesus would approve.
No, our big things have more to do with buying a house. But I'm not at liberty to disclose those things yet, so you'll have to wait for the exciting news. This is a total secret. Now please excuse me while I go make an offer on a property. But don't ask any questions because I WON'T TELL YOU THE SECRET.
So Gray and I met a friend of ours in St. Paul at The Nook on Friday night. And by "friend," I mean this hairy guy from my British literature class last fall who didn't even remember who I was because he sat in the front row, which he did because it meant he didn't have to remember anyone from class.
I think he might be brilliant, and because this next bit of information has everything to do with this hairy yet brilliant "friend," I'm going to have to give him a pseudonym. Let's call him Moe.
Hi Moe! I know you're out there waiting to read about yourself! Thanks again for dinner!
Ok, so within 15 minutes of arriving at the restaurant, Moe told us The Best Poop Story EVAH, which means he invoked the power of Awesomeness and anointed himself with...well, let's not extrapolate on what he may have used to anoint himself, but I do know that he ensured my undying loyalty (which sounds awesome, but as he'll learn, really it means I'll require him to ditch his daughters with the snap of my fingers in exchange for some Cat Gossip Time)((about him))(((while he's wearing a tutu and pouring my vodka))).
And Skittles. I will require Skittles. In bulk.
Moe began his story by telling us that his apartment or house or whatever he lived in (I wasn't really listening at that point because I was distracted by the bartender, who was wearing a t-shirt which said "nookie" in numerous locations, and who was pouring my Guiness which = me not paying appention, not even if you're naked) had one bathroom upstairs and a solitary shower stall in the basement.
Shortly upon moving into the rental, Moe woke to an incredibly urgent Poop Situation, but unfortunately, he discovered that the (one and only) toilet was occupied. By someone else. Who was not Moe.
Apparently, Moe's Poop Situation was such that he had to conceive an alternate Poop Station, and he decided (BRILLIANTLY!) that because he needed to shower anyway, he might as well try to "work something out" in there. That's what he actually said, "work something out," and I don't even think he was punning on purpose, it just came out naturally. (My pun trumps his pun.)
So Moe settles on a plan: He'll poop in the shower, near the drain, and he'll mush it through the tiny-holed drain with his feet, and then he'll pretend like it never even happened like, Poop? What poop? I don't poop, I'm a musician.
And so that's what he did. He shit, he smashed, he moved on. And he thought he'd gotten away with his little makeshift potty fiasco.
That was, of course, until one of his roomies asked him, "Dude. Did you shit in the shower?"
To which, of course, he replied, "What the fuck? Who would DO such a thing? No, dude. It wasn't me."
After which he was informed by the roomie that there was a trail of evidence, so to speak, which would (begging Moe's pardon) seem to indicate that he DID poop in the shower.
It turns out that the basement shower stall was not directly connected to the home's drainage system, but instead drained through a short portion of your standard variety garden hose, which emptied NEAR the floor drain, but not above it.
You see where this is going...
...the roomie had unwittingly stumbled across a streak of wet, mushy shit which led to a pile of wet mushy shit, all of which lay in a wet, shitty pile on the floor of the basement.
"Did you get busted?" I asked him, once I'd hoisted my oozing jaw up off the floor where it lay next to my purse.
"They knew," he replied. "I lied, but they knew."
So, in short, I forgot.
What I DO know is that there are big things happening in the Zipbag household, and no, I'm not pregnant, not yet anyway, because once we say "I do," I've got about 100,000 eggs all prepped and waiting. I might literally jump Gray's bones on the altar.
I think, because he loves the little children, that Jesus would approve.
No, our big things have more to do with buying a house. But I'm not at liberty to disclose those things yet, so you'll have to wait for the exciting news. This is a total secret. Now please excuse me while I go make an offer on a property. But don't ask any questions because I WON'T TELL YOU THE SECRET.
So Gray and I met a friend of ours in St. Paul at The Nook on Friday night. And by "friend," I mean this hairy guy from my British literature class last fall who didn't even remember who I was because he sat in the front row, which he did because it meant he didn't have to remember anyone from class.
I think he might be brilliant, and because this next bit of information has everything to do with this hairy yet brilliant "friend," I'm going to have to give him a pseudonym. Let's call him Moe.
Hi Moe! I know you're out there waiting to read about yourself! Thanks again for dinner!
Ok, so within 15 minutes of arriving at the restaurant, Moe told us The Best Poop Story EVAH, which means he invoked the power of Awesomeness and anointed himself with...well, let's not extrapolate on what he may have used to anoint himself, but I do know that he ensured my undying loyalty (which sounds awesome, but as he'll learn, really it means I'll require him to ditch his daughters with the snap of my fingers in exchange for some Cat Gossip Time)((about him))(((while he's wearing a tutu and pouring my vodka))).
And Skittles. I will require Skittles. In bulk.
Moe began his story by telling us that his apartment or house or whatever he lived in (I wasn't really listening at that point because I was distracted by the bartender, who was wearing a t-shirt which said "nookie" in numerous locations, and who was pouring my Guiness which = me not paying appention, not even if you're naked) had one bathroom upstairs and a solitary shower stall in the basement.
Shortly upon moving into the rental, Moe woke to an incredibly urgent Poop Situation, but unfortunately, he discovered that the (one and only) toilet was occupied. By someone else. Who was not Moe.
Apparently, Moe's Poop Situation was such that he had to conceive an alternate Poop Station, and he decided (BRILLIANTLY!) that because he needed to shower anyway, he might as well try to "work something out" in there. That's what he actually said, "work something out," and I don't even think he was punning on purpose, it just came out naturally. (My pun trumps his pun.)
So Moe settles on a plan: He'll poop in the shower, near the drain, and he'll mush it through the tiny-holed drain with his feet, and then he'll pretend like it never even happened like, Poop? What poop? I don't poop, I'm a musician.
And so that's what he did. He shit, he smashed, he moved on. And he thought he'd gotten away with his little makeshift potty fiasco.
That was, of course, until one of his roomies asked him, "Dude. Did you shit in the shower?"
To which, of course, he replied, "What the fuck? Who would DO such a thing? No, dude. It wasn't me."
After which he was informed by the roomie that there was a trail of evidence, so to speak, which would (begging Moe's pardon) seem to indicate that he DID poop in the shower.
It turns out that the basement shower stall was not directly connected to the home's drainage system, but instead drained through a short portion of your standard variety garden hose, which emptied NEAR the floor drain, but not above it.
You see where this is going...
...the roomie had unwittingly stumbled across a streak of wet, mushy shit which led to a pile of wet mushy shit, all of which lay in a wet, shitty pile on the floor of the basement.
"Did you get busted?" I asked him, once I'd hoisted my oozing jaw up off the floor where it lay next to my purse.
"They knew," he replied. "I lied, but they knew."
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Maybe If I Shove a Habanera In My Ear *Updated*
It fucking figures that the second I register for a conference for bloggers that costs hundreds of dollars (the conference, not the bloggers, we're all cheap) and puts me Out There on that limb named "Calling Yourself a 'Writer' In Public" ...as soon as I take that giant step forward, I stop writing. I stop blogging. It motherfucking figures.
I haven't stopped blogging so much as my brain is constipated, which means that not only is Zipbag of Bones nothing put a zip bag of SHIT at the moment, but also that my creative non-fiction writing class isn't going too hawt, if you know what I'm saying. I'm SO constipated that I'm frantically trying to decide if I can somehow pass off my "Summer Vacation" essay from the 5th grade as my 10 page memoir essay that's due on April 8th.
QUICK! How do I say "threw up on the carpet while watching Honey, I Shrunk the Kids" in a way that makes it sound now-ish?
It's not like I don't have anything going on, what with the wedding in 109 days and the other big things I'm working on, plus my voluntary torture (school), personal dramas, and never ending love affair with the bottle...Let's just say I am NOT lacking brain shit. It's just that all my brain shit is backed up in there, somewhere around my duodenum...wait, or is it pons...and it WON'T COME OUT. Meanwhile, my brain intestines keep leaching fluid out of the brain shit so now it's hard as a rock and won't be passed through the brainus and into my fingers without hella pain killers and probably some stitches.
Every once in a while, I squeeze a little brain pebble into these fingers and it splashes softly on this blog...things like the fact that I saw a mattress and a box spring go magnificently flying out of the bed of a truck on the freeway yesterday and a bunch of cars had to swerve to avoid getting smacked by what amounts to a giant, flying pancake and the driver of the truck didn't even notice at first, but when he finally pulled over and I passed him, his head was buried in his hands and you know he was thinking that now he'd have to live on the freeway.
If that were me, I would have kept right on driving. Nobody wants to sleep on a freeway.
Although, it might have been better than the motel in which I stayed Thursday and Friday nights when I met my little sister and Angel Butt and my mom in Des Moines for a weekend of shopping and, apparently, ulcer irritation-ing. The hotel itself wasn't bad, but they didn't exactly have what you might call, oh, LOCKS ON THE FUCKING DOORS. And the overnight desk clerk reminded me of Charles Manson.
Speaking of look-a-likes, we went to dinner at a hibachi place on Friday night and the family we sat with was the great-grandparents, the ten-year-old grandson, grandma, and finally the lesbian aunt who looked EXACTLY like Marshall Mathers. I am not even shitting you. If you took a picture of Eminem and you put a fedora on his head and an extra 50lbs on his ass, THAT'S what the lesbian aunt looked like (and this is a perfect example of why I fucking need photoshop). She was amazing. I almost asked for her autograph, but I was afraid she'd think I wanted it because she's a lesbian, not because she looks like a rapper, and I don't want to be mistaken for somebody who stereotypes lesbians. They would all kick my ass and hang me in a tree by their flannel shirts.
So the Japanese waiters sang a Chinese birthday song (I know, I was confused, too) to a little girl at another table, which was apparently inspirational because Angel Butt decided that we needed to sing Happy Birthday at our table, too, except it wasn't anyone's birthday. The grandma said that it was their friend Niko's birthday, except he wasn't at the restaurant, but that didn't matter at all, and Angel Butt lead us all - the ENTIRE table, even Eminem - in a lovely rendition of Happy Birthday to Niko (to which my mom harmonized) and even though Niko is a complete stranger and a 2-year-old and he lives in North Dakota, I think he knew.
And then my sister and I went back to the motel lounge and got drunk with the bartender and a girl whom he likes and whom likes him, and both of whom are too Iowan to admit that they like each other, even though she goes to the bar to hang out with him EVERY WEEK (I'm pretty sure my sister and I broke the ice on THAT one...god, we're like saints...) and eventually they had to kick us out because they were closed but that didn't seem to bother us, and my sister ended up vomiting from Iowa to Arkansas. Because she has ulcers and can't drink anymore. Because of the holes in her stomach. I'm pretty sure that's not going to happen again.
I'm also pretty sure I never paid our bar tab.
Iowa is weird.
*Ya'll, I just checked my credit card and it turns out that I totally paid my bar tab! But did I tip? I don't know if I tipped, which is so incredibly unlike me. Normally I tip way too much and then I have to explain to the police that I wasn't trying to solicit sex from a minor, I was just letting the waitress know that I appreciated her preemptive beverage refills.
Hey, bartender! Did I tip you? If I didn't tip you, leave me a comment or shoot me an email. I would be happy to send your tip in the form of a voucher, redeemable for (1) blow job or (1) corn dog.
I haven't stopped blogging so much as my brain is constipated, which means that not only is Zipbag of Bones nothing put a zip bag of SHIT at the moment, but also that my creative non-fiction writing class isn't going too hawt, if you know what I'm saying. I'm SO constipated that I'm frantically trying to decide if I can somehow pass off my "Summer Vacation" essay from the 5th grade as my 10 page memoir essay that's due on April 8th.
QUICK! How do I say "threw up on the carpet while watching Honey, I Shrunk the Kids" in a way that makes it sound now-ish?
It's not like I don't have anything going on, what with the wedding in 109 days and the other big things I'm working on, plus my voluntary torture (school), personal dramas, and never ending love affair with the bottle...Let's just say I am NOT lacking brain shit. It's just that all my brain shit is backed up in there, somewhere around my duodenum...wait, or is it pons...and it WON'T COME OUT. Meanwhile, my brain intestines keep leaching fluid out of the brain shit so now it's hard as a rock and won't be passed through the brainus and into my fingers without hella pain killers and probably some stitches.
Every once in a while, I squeeze a little brain pebble into these fingers and it splashes softly on this blog...things like the fact that I saw a mattress and a box spring go magnificently flying out of the bed of a truck on the freeway yesterday and a bunch of cars had to swerve to avoid getting smacked by what amounts to a giant, flying pancake and the driver of the truck didn't even notice at first, but when he finally pulled over and I passed him, his head was buried in his hands and you know he was thinking that now he'd have to live on the freeway.
If that were me, I would have kept right on driving. Nobody wants to sleep on a freeway.
Although, it might have been better than the motel in which I stayed Thursday and Friday nights when I met my little sister and Angel Butt and my mom in Des Moines for a weekend of shopping and, apparently, ulcer irritation-ing. The hotel itself wasn't bad, but they didn't exactly have what you might call, oh, LOCKS ON THE FUCKING DOORS. And the overnight desk clerk reminded me of Charles Manson.
Speaking of look-a-likes, we went to dinner at a hibachi place on Friday night and the family we sat with was the great-grandparents, the ten-year-old grandson, grandma, and finally the lesbian aunt who looked EXACTLY like Marshall Mathers. I am not even shitting you. If you took a picture of Eminem and you put a fedora on his head and an extra 50lbs on his ass, THAT'S what the lesbian aunt looked like (and this is a perfect example of why I fucking need photoshop). She was amazing. I almost asked for her autograph, but I was afraid she'd think I wanted it because she's a lesbian, not because she looks like a rapper, and I don't want to be mistaken for somebody who stereotypes lesbians. They would all kick my ass and hang me in a tree by their flannel shirts.
So the Japanese waiters sang a Chinese birthday song (I know, I was confused, too) to a little girl at another table, which was apparently inspirational because Angel Butt decided that we needed to sing Happy Birthday at our table, too, except it wasn't anyone's birthday. The grandma said that it was their friend Niko's birthday, except he wasn't at the restaurant, but that didn't matter at all, and Angel Butt lead us all - the ENTIRE table, even Eminem - in a lovely rendition of Happy Birthday to Niko (to which my mom harmonized) and even though Niko is a complete stranger and a 2-year-old and he lives in North Dakota, I think he knew.
And then my sister and I went back to the motel lounge and got drunk with the bartender and a girl whom he likes and whom likes him, and both of whom are too Iowan to admit that they like each other, even though she goes to the bar to hang out with him EVERY WEEK (I'm pretty sure my sister and I broke the ice on THAT one...god, we're like saints...) and eventually they had to kick us out because they were closed but that didn't seem to bother us, and my sister ended up vomiting from Iowa to Arkansas. Because she has ulcers and can't drink anymore. Because of the holes in her stomach. I'm pretty sure that's not going to happen again.
I'm also pretty sure I never paid our bar tab.
Iowa is weird.
*Ya'll, I just checked my credit card and it turns out that I totally paid my bar tab! But did I tip? I don't know if I tipped, which is so incredibly unlike me. Normally I tip way too much and then I have to explain to the police that I wasn't trying to solicit sex from a minor, I was just letting the waitress know that I appreciated her preemptive beverage refills.
Hey, bartender! Did I tip you? If I didn't tip you, leave me a comment or shoot me an email. I would be happy to send your tip in the form of a voucher, redeemable for (1) blow job or (1) corn dog.
Monday, February 15, 2010
If Only I Could Harness This Power
We have a new "thing" in the Zipbag household. It's called Gray's Magical Dance, and he choreographed it all on his own.
- First, lunge forward and throw up some Jazz Hands action.
- Next, spin around on one foot, counter-clockwise (this is very important!).
- When you reach the 180 degree mark in your spin, release an audible fart.
- For the finale, return to the Jazz Hands position and give me the "I'm pleased with myself" look.
Monday, January 18, 2010
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!
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!
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Trouble With Familiarity...
So let me paint you a picture of what life with Gray is like nowadays.
The Scene: I need to pee. Gray follows me upstairs and lays down on the bed while he's waiting. I consider not washing my hands, wash them anyway, and then go over to cuddle with the birthday boy.
Gray: You don't lay on top of me enough anymore. We used to do this all the time, remember?
Me: That's true, we did do this a lot, didn't we? I think we just got used to each other.
Gray: We have to start doing this again.
Me: Yes, definitely.
::poignant, romantic pause::
::warm fuzzy feelings::
Me: What are you thinking about?
Gray: Wrestling.
::Gray's stomach muscles clench::
Me: NO! Don't!
::loud fart::
Me: NOOOOOOOO!
::he pins me down so the stench can permeate my clothing::
Gray, laughing: What? What's the matter?
Me: LET ME GO! OH MY GOD THE SMELL! I'M SUFFOCATING!
Gray, still laughing like he's some kind of goddamn FUNNY MAN: Come here, I don't smell anything! What's the matter?
Me, finally disentangled and fleeing the room: You are disgusting.
Gray: What?
::innocent face::
Me: You didn't even TRY to hold it in. I felt you PUSH IT OUT.
::maniacal laughter/horrified convulsions::
End scene.
When did this happen!? When did we evolve from trying to hide our gas from each other to using flatulence as a weapon? When did our bodily functions graduate from embarrassing to funny? Where did we step over the line from "I'm going to shower for you" to "please pop my back zit"???
How did we get here?!
And will you please go buy me some tampons?
The Scene: I need to pee. Gray follows me upstairs and lays down on the bed while he's waiting. I consider not washing my hands, wash them anyway, and then go over to cuddle with the birthday boy.
Gray: You don't lay on top of me enough anymore. We used to do this all the time, remember?
Me: That's true, we did do this a lot, didn't we? I think we just got used to each other.
Gray: We have to start doing this again.
Me: Yes, definitely.
::poignant, romantic pause::
::warm fuzzy feelings::
Me: What are you thinking about?
Gray: Wrestling.
::Gray's stomach muscles clench::
Me: NO! Don't!
::loud fart::
Me: NOOOOOOOO!
::he pins me down so the stench can permeate my clothing::
Gray, laughing: What? What's the matter?
Me: LET ME GO! OH MY GOD THE SMELL! I'M SUFFOCATING!
Gray, still laughing like he's some kind of goddamn FUNNY MAN: Come here, I don't smell anything! What's the matter?
Me, finally disentangled and fleeing the room: You are disgusting.
Gray: What?
::innocent face::
Me: You didn't even TRY to hold it in. I felt you PUSH IT OUT.
::maniacal laughter/horrified convulsions::
End scene.
When did this happen!? When did we evolve from trying to hide our gas from each other to using flatulence as a weapon? When did our bodily functions graduate from embarrassing to funny? Where did we step over the line from "I'm going to shower for you" to "please pop my back zit"???
How did we get here?!
And will you please go buy me some tampons?
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
There Are Metal Spikes If You Try To Go In The Wrong Way
You know what's weird?
Sometimes my butt hole knows me better than I do. It's like my butt hole has taken a sworn oath to devote its life to protecting my best interests and preserving my dignity at all costs, come hell or high water.
People can leave whenever they want, but nobody gets in without the proper documentation. My butt hole is like a border patrol agent.
For example, it has been known to happen, on occasion, that I need to fart and so when the opportunity presents itself for me to drop a Stealth Bomb, I prepare for launch.
Except sometimes my butt hole is like, "WHOA THERE. Let's not be so hasty. There's a person of interest headed for the border as we speak, and we need to set up this road block to make sure that he doesn't escape into your underwear. And just to be safe, why don't you go ahead and position yourself for Evacuation. Signal when you're ready."
And I'm like, "Holy shit, butt hole. I didn't even know he was on the run! Thank you for saving the day!"
And then my butt hole is like, "Just doing our job, Ma'am," and voila! My dignity has been spared!
And then I come here and my typing fingers fuck it all up, but still. I appreciate the effort. Butt holes can't be everywhere at once.
Sometimes my butt hole knows me better than I do. It's like my butt hole has taken a sworn oath to devote its life to protecting my best interests and preserving my dignity at all costs, come hell or high water.
People can leave whenever they want, but nobody gets in without the proper documentation. My butt hole is like a border patrol agent.
For example, it has been known to happen, on occasion, that I need to fart and so when the opportunity presents itself for me to drop a Stealth Bomb, I prepare for launch.
Except sometimes my butt hole is like, "WHOA THERE. Let's not be so hasty. There's a person of interest headed for the border as we speak, and we need to set up this road block to make sure that he doesn't escape into your underwear. And just to be safe, why don't you go ahead and position yourself for Evacuation. Signal when you're ready."
And I'm like, "Holy shit, butt hole. I didn't even know he was on the run! Thank you for saving the day!"
And then my butt hole is like, "Just doing our job, Ma'am," and voila! My dignity has been spared!
And then I come here and my typing fingers fuck it all up, but still. I appreciate the effort. Butt holes can't be everywhere at once.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
High Fecalty
Let's talk about poop, shall we? People say death is the Great Equalizer, but I say screw death.
It may happen to everyone, but it certainly isn't the SAME for everyone. Which, on a side note, should I be concerned that Gray wants to, "die at the same time in each other's arms"? Because I'm pretty sure he's going to die first, and what if I still haven't achieved my goal of State-wide Domination or Being Rich or Fucking Steven Colbert? It sounds romantic and all, but I really don't think it's practical. Ok, back to death.
Everybody dies, sure, but generally only once. On the other hand, everybody shits, like, all the time, all their lives. Babies, teenagers, addicts, soccer moms, models (ok, they might be the one exception here but if they actually ate food instead of Kleenex, they would shit, too), bloggers, George Clooney, JESUS.
EVERYBODY POOPS (just like the book says).
Shitting is truly the Great Equalizer. And so I've developed a fondness for the various poop varieties ("baby mustard", of course, being my favorite, followed closely by "corn fed toddler paste" and, finally, "the kind that doesn't hurt coming out").
Not surprisingly, shit is a common topic in my house. We talk about the where, when and what of our shit over romantic, candle lit dinners. We discuss preferred shitting locations and activities. I struggle to understand the whole "reading material" thing because I never have time to peruse a magazine before my business is expelled, the difference being I don't go sit and hope to shit, I wait until it feels like the poo-tip is exposed, and then I hustle. I think my mother is responsible for my phobia of Sitting Too Long. I remember her saying my intestines could fall out if I "strained". Not something I want to test in my spare time.
Despite our high tolerance for all things excrement, something new happened the other day and I'm still a little bit disturbed by it.
I forgot to flush.
And then Gray came home, loaded up on Call Of Duty manuals, and headed into the bathroom for his daily Waiting Game. And then I heard him cry, "EEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYWWWWWWWW-UH!"
He claims it was funny. He says he still loves me.
But my Taboo Anal Pleasures 8.0 has mysteriously disappeared, and in its place is a religious tract about abstinence and a tub of baby wipes.
It may happen to everyone, but it certainly isn't the SAME for everyone. Which, on a side note, should I be concerned that Gray wants to, "die at the same time in each other's arms"? Because I'm pretty sure he's going to die first, and what if I still haven't achieved my goal of State-wide Domination or Being Rich or Fucking Steven Colbert? It sounds romantic and all, but I really don't think it's practical. Ok, back to death.
Everybody dies, sure, but generally only once. On the other hand, everybody shits, like, all the time, all their lives. Babies, teenagers, addicts, soccer moms, models (ok, they might be the one exception here but if they actually ate food instead of Kleenex, they would shit, too), bloggers, George Clooney, JESUS.
EVERYBODY POOPS (just like the book says).
Shitting is truly the Great Equalizer. And so I've developed a fondness for the various poop varieties ("baby mustard", of course, being my favorite, followed closely by "corn fed toddler paste" and, finally, "the kind that doesn't hurt coming out").
Not surprisingly, shit is a common topic in my house. We talk about the where, when and what of our shit over romantic, candle lit dinners. We discuss preferred shitting locations and activities. I struggle to understand the whole "reading material" thing because I never have time to peruse a magazine before my business is expelled, the difference being I don't go sit and hope to shit, I wait until it feels like the poo-tip is exposed, and then I hustle. I think my mother is responsible for my phobia of Sitting Too Long. I remember her saying my intestines could fall out if I "strained". Not something I want to test in my spare time.
Despite our high tolerance for all things excrement, something new happened the other day and I'm still a little bit disturbed by it.
I forgot to flush.
And then Gray came home, loaded up on Call Of Duty manuals, and headed into the bathroom for his daily Waiting Game. And then I heard him cry, "EEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYWWWWWWWW-UH!"
He claims it was funny. He says he still loves me.
But my Taboo Anal Pleasures 8.0 has mysteriously disappeared, and in its place is a religious tract about abstinence and a tub of baby wipes.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
The Trouble With Trusting A Fart...
Before we get started, let me remind you that there is still time to enter my blogiversary giveaway!
I debated long and hard about whether to share this story with you all because...well...it's pretty fucked up and due the nature of this revelation, many of you will have a hard time looking me square in the eyes from this moment forward. I must admit, that's no great loss to anyone, but it will make me uncomfortable because then you'll be forced to focus directly on my schnoz, and that like doesn't happen enough already, asshole.
On the other hand, I am sure many of you will high-five me and declare, "This brave, self-less woman had the courage to crawl into the stinking depths of my inner being, grasp the sinewy tail of my darkest demon, and to wrench it free of my soul and out into the light of the day where it will melt and scream in agony! You, Cat, are my fucking hero!"
Or maybe not.
I even went to Facebook for help: Cat "wonders if there's REALLY such a thing as "too much information". I think people want to know, you know? Do they? I do. TELL ME."
To which everyone responded, "Yes there is such as thing as TMI, but we still want to know anyway." So basically yes. But no.
In the end, I opted out of sharing the story. It is the only way to retain the solitary shreds of my self-respect and dignity. This revelation is better left untold, a secret among many, hidden from the prying, judging eyes of the Interweb.
And then I remembered this post, wherein the last of my dignity up and bailed on me back in December. So now I figure, what the hell? Why not. It might make someone incredibly uncomfortable, and I've been known to go to great lengths to cause discomfort.
So here you go. You're welcome and I'm sorry.
I remember this time, it must have been in 9th grade, when my best friend Sara came from Virginia to stay with me for a week during summer break. We were too young to drive, and thus spent most of our days slathered in facial masks, painting our toe nails, calling Josh Wright on the telephone, and video recording every single second of our time together. And no, it was not the sexy kind of video, perverts.
We arranged to be dropped off at the movie theater to see some flick and meet some boy, and therefore had to stand outside and wait for my mom to come and pick us up after the movie was over. Of course, Sara and I did our best to "lean sexily" against the side of the building, and "appear to be older than we were", because of the things that matter, those are the two which matter most to ninth grade girls at the movie theater.
As we stood there in the hot night air, leaning our little hearts out against the brick wall of the building, we noticed two elderly couples exit the theater doors together and make their way down the sidewalk towards us. It was obvious that the couples were together, on some kind of a double-date, and all four of them were laughing: hysterical, belly-style laughter. Santa Clause laughter.
We were never able to glean the source of their mirth, be it the movie they just saw or some other instance of hilarity. They shuffled slowly along, whooping and hollering and crying and occasionally leaning against the wall to catch their breath, which is what I presumed one of the old ladies was doing when she stopped and braced herself against the wall.
Except that instead of catching her breath, she spread her legs and peed.
PEED!
She just let her bladder go right there on the sidewalk in front of god and fucking everyone. Which caused the troop of gay old friends to laugh EVEN HARDER.
Needless to say, my friend and I were beyond horrified at this spectacle, unable in our youth to imagine a time when our own bladder might fail us or a situation which might call for such extreme public humiliation. Perhaps even worse was the response of the old woman's date, who simply gripped her arm when she had finished watering the cement and steered her on down the sidewalk, all of them still laughing and bellowing to beat the damn band.
We stared after them, jaws unhinged and resting on our shoes, watching as they reached the car and the woman spread her legs once again and finished off her business right then and there behind the car door. It seemed to me that there were gallons - neigh, OCEANS! - of piss coursing out of that old woman. It was a sight to behold.
Then she gathered up her skirt, got into the backseat of the car, and they drove away.
I didn't sleep for a fucking week, let me tell you. There is nothing so terrifying to a teenager as the thought of growing old and losing control of your body. It simply cannot be, this "aging" thing you speak of. Look at me! I'm perky and elastic-y and simply fucking glowing with the light of a thousand unicorns! I will never be that old. Right? RIGHT!!??
And so now you might understand why, when recently I made a stop in the restroom to pee, I had a stroke and died on the toilet when I...saw.the.SKID MARK.
I literally floated up out of my body and looked down upon my soiled garments and thought, "Whose ass is that? Surely that is another person's ass. For my ass would never behave in such a manner. I demand to know whose ass I am wiping!"
And when finally I accepted that it was, in fact, MY ass, the memory of that old lady and her oceans of piss flashed before my eyes and I realized, maybe for the very first time, that I will one day clutch my belly as uncontrollable laughter causes me to shit myself in the movie theatre while on a date with a prostate cancer survivor in a toupee, and probably with a prescription for Viagra that he often confuses with his styptic tablets.
After this realization, I sent my grandmother a package of diapers and a sympathy card.*
*Actually, the first thing I did was text Gray because he was having a really bad day. And suddenly he realized that his day wasn't so bad anymore because at least he had clean boxers. And then I told Veronica, whose response was, "Are you actually TELLING ME THIS?"
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Greedy Little Pig
Last night, we attended our very first Saint Paul Saints game, thanks to our employer, and we were able to invite NeeNee and J-Dizzle, two friends with whom we haven't chilled in FOR.EV.ER, and it was awesome because my boss was like, "You should pool your money and bet on the trains, I think 8 trains will be the ticket tonight!" and I was all, "Awesome, thanks for the tip!" except I was thinking, "Wait, what the hell trains is he talking about? Isn't this a baseball game?" and then somewhere around the fourth inning, I realized that the stadium is sandwiched between two working railroad lines and those trains I keep seeing go by? Yeah, I'm pretty sure those are the trains my boss was talking about.
It was kind of hard to pay attention to the game because NeeNee and I were gabbing away like old friends are apt to do, and at one point we both looked up and went, "Oh my god, it's only the third inning? BASEBALL IS LONG", and then Gray made out with Madonna, except is wasn't really Madonna, it was Mudonna, and actually, thinking back on how many pigs we saw, I'm starting to understand the weird dream I had last night, which - DON'T WORRY - I'll get to that in a moment, but first I must tell you that I ate potato salad, chips, a chicken sandwich, several cheese curds, half a bag of peanuts and most of a bag of mini-donuts, and then in a stunningly brilliant finish, I washed all that down with four keg beers.
J-Dizzle, who recently dropped a shitload of weight - we're talking a me-sized amount of weight - commented that the ONE cheese curd he ate nearly put him "over the edge" into gastro-intestinal distress, which maybe should have been my queue not to continue ingesting deep-fried ballpark food, and which certainly proved to be a glimpse into what was coming for me overnight. That, my friends, is what we English majors like to call "foreshadowing".
I spent the hours between 1:40 am and 3:24 am moaning in the bathroom, ruing the day I'd decided to put onions on my sandwich and sending angry vibes to Gray in the next room who was obliviously and painlessly sleeping through my ordeal. When, at last, I returned to sleep, I dreamt that I'd been house-sitting for some guy who owned two big pigs and two full-grown kangaroos, and that one of the kangaroos had begun vomiting so I locked him in the bathroom to minimize the fallout, and when the guy came home he was like, "Oh my god WHY did you lock him in the bathroom? Hear that pounding? That's him punching holes in my bathroom walls!" and then he lectured me on responsible kangaroo care, and all the while I was thinking, "DUDE. You left me alone with your animals. Forget about the drywall, you should be thanking me for not eating your pigs."
It was kind of hard to pay attention to the game because NeeNee and I were gabbing away like old friends are apt to do, and at one point we both looked up and went, "Oh my god, it's only the third inning? BASEBALL IS LONG", and then Gray made out with Madonna, except is wasn't really Madonna, it was Mudonna, and actually, thinking back on how many pigs we saw, I'm starting to understand the weird dream I had last night, which - DON'T WORRY - I'll get to that in a moment, but first I must tell you that I ate potato salad, chips, a chicken sandwich, several cheese curds, half a bag of peanuts and most of a bag of mini-donuts, and then in a stunningly brilliant finish, I washed all that down with four keg beers.
J-Dizzle, who recently dropped a shitload of weight - we're talking a me-sized amount of weight - commented that the ONE cheese curd he ate nearly put him "over the edge" into gastro-intestinal distress, which maybe should have been my queue not to continue ingesting deep-fried ballpark food, and which certainly proved to be a glimpse into what was coming for me overnight. That, my friends, is what we English majors like to call "foreshadowing".
I spent the hours between 1:40 am and 3:24 am moaning in the bathroom, ruing the day I'd decided to put onions on my sandwich and sending angry vibes to Gray in the next room who was obliviously and painlessly sleeping through my ordeal. When, at last, I returned to sleep, I dreamt that I'd been house-sitting for some guy who owned two big pigs and two full-grown kangaroos, and that one of the kangaroos had begun vomiting so I locked him in the bathroom to minimize the fallout, and when the guy came home he was like, "Oh my god WHY did you lock him in the bathroom? Hear that pounding? That's him punching holes in my bathroom walls!" and then he lectured me on responsible kangaroo care, and all the while I was thinking, "DUDE. You left me alone with your animals. Forget about the drywall, you should be thanking me for not eating your pigs."
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Because I Care About Your Private Parts
Drew G. from Eden Fantasys is a total pimp.
When he asked me to review a sex toy on this blog, I was like, "Where have you been all my life?" and he said that he was busy rockin' mullet in New Jersey and trying to get into girls' pants, and he was also really into stamp collecting, and then I told him that I used to collect stamps too, and since we were like long-lost twins, that he should surprise me and send me something he thinks I might like, but then I clarified that I didn't want anything butt-related because I only like watching anal porn and would prefer to retain my "exit only" status, so he sent me the Bnaughty to try for myself, and basically proved that the Internet knows way too much about me, because it's exactly what I would have chosen for myself, which means he knocked it out of the park. Or, to put it into stamp collecting terms, his selection hadn't even been licked yet, or anything.
Hi, I'm Cat. I over-share in a public venue, and then I tell Jesus that he's boring. Welcome to my blog.
When he asked me to review a sex toy on this blog, I was like, "Where have you been all my life?" and he said that he was busy rockin' mullet in New Jersey and trying to get into girls' pants, and he was also really into stamp collecting, and then I told him that I used to collect stamps too, and since we were like long-lost twins, that he should surprise me and send me something he thinks I might like, but then I clarified that I didn't want anything butt-related because I only like watching anal porn and would prefer to retain my "exit only" status, so he sent me the Bnaughty to try for myself, and basically proved that the Internet knows way too much about me, because it's exactly what I would have chosen for myself, which means he knocked it out of the park. Or, to put it into stamp collecting terms, his selection hadn't even been licked yet, or anything.
Hi, I'm Cat. I over-share in a public venue, and then I tell Jesus that he's boring. Welcome to my blog.
So I got this bullet-style vibrator last week - it was delivered to the management office at our apartment building while I was at work, and for those of you who enjoy your privacy (obviously I have no concept of such a thing), I'm happy to report that the package was unrecognizable for what it truly was, and very well could have been a sheet of vintage Sinatra stamps that I bought on EBay. As funny as I think a giant cock-n-balls would be, stamped on the front of the box, shocking and awing everyone it encounters from NJ to MN, the package was very discreet.
Inside the Bnaughty box, I found an instruction pamphlet, which was disappointing in that it was not product-specific, which can be confusing as fuck to morons such as myself, and said something along the lines of, "If your product is waterproof, take care to dry the vibrator thoroughly after use and remove the batteries," which sparked a 30 minute panic attack over whether or not it would actually electrocute me to death if I took it into the bathtub. The box clearly said water-proof, but the instructions didn't back that up, and I tend to dwell on insignificant details like the possibility of electrocution.
Once that was all sorted out, I found the enclosed drawstring storing pouch which is awesome because I never know exactly where to store my vibrators but this one was like STORE ME HERE, DUMBASS, and also because it's like Crown Royal for your clit.
So I think the purpose of a vibrator with a remote control is probably so that you and your partner can play together, and there's an element of surprise because you don't know if he/she will kick the level from 1 up to 2, or jump all the way up to 4 but bring it back down to 1 at just the right moment to drive you crazy. It's like playing the lotto with a guaranteed cash prize. I've never had a "two can play" vibrator before, so this one was a lot of fun. I think it would be better if it were wireless because the cord is slightly constraining, but Gray didn't seem to mind because he loves anything that comes with a "clicker".
It, in fact, did not electrocute me in the tub. Which is, you know, a plus. It also gave me my first completely submerged 'gasm, which is also a plus.
We're moving right now, and it doubled as a kick-ass egg scrambler when I couldn't find my whisk the other day. Fluffiest damn eggs I've EVER had. I've also been using it to massage my aching rib at night. It's the perfect size to really get into a specific knot and go to town. I'm not sure that's what BSwish had in mind when they created the Bnaughty, but they might consider marketing this sex toy to athletes and physical therapists. They could call it the Bknotty.
OVERALL RATING: Four stars out of five!
I'm more of a "manual" kind of girl because vibrators tend to make me itchy afterwards, but if you're a fan of the battery-operated orgasm, this is a really fun one that would travel well and could probably be used in public pretty easily. Hmmm, that's an idea...I'm writing this from a coffee house right now....
Anyway, now for the BEST PART! Drew the pimp and Eden Fantasys are going to send one lucky reader their VERY! OWN! BNAUGHTY! You want it, I know you totally do! Bow chicka bow wow...UH!
Ok, so you have to live in either the U.S. or Canada to enter this giveaway, and you must be at least 21 years old. Them's just the regulations for this kind of thing, like it or like it. If you're foreign and young...NO SEX TOY FOR YOU!
Everyone else, leave a comment on this post and tell me: What's Your Favorite Sex Toy? If you don't have one, you're lame, but you can still enter the giveaway. I'm going to take entries from today, June 28th, until midnight (Minnesota time) on Sunday, July 5th, 2009.
(Also, please keep in mind that if you're one of those people who's profile is set to No-Reply Comment? You will need to be sure and include contact information in your comment/entry. If I can't find you? Your entry will be DELETED, even if I know who you are, because I'm lazy like that.)
Until then, you know what I'll be doing. I un-earthed my box of porn yesterday.
Good luck!
Monday, June 22, 2009
My Deductible Has Not Only Been Met, It's Been Wined and Fucking Dined
Wahhhh. Seriously. My back is totally fucked. I went to the orthopedic specialist last week because I've been in some serious back pain and was convinced that either one of my ribs had detached and was carving my initials into my left lung, or I had a massive tumor growing right up against my spine, making it difficult to breath and/or move in any way, and if this was the case, I was going to name it Squid and keep it in a jar if I survived the surgery.
Both X-rays revealed absolutely nothing, which should surprise me exactly zero because nothing is ever wrong with me, according to modern medicine, I feel like there's a problem with my pregnancy and they tell me it's just too early to see the fetus, it's too tiny, everything is fine, and I have acne literally erupting from my back and chest and neck like some kind of pissed of Hawaiian lava-wielding deity and they tell me it's just stress and it will go away on it's own and then when it doesn't go away on it's own they tell me there's nothing they can do to make it better because it's "truncal" and therefore unresponsive to topical treatments, and I should just wait some more. And then I up and stop pooping. For, like, two months. And they tell me that it happens sometimes and they tell me horror stories of city bus drivers who get massive anal leakage and can no longer run their routes and other stories of women who are in the ER every three days for emergency enemas because they haven't pooped in, well, about the same amount of time as me, and that maybe I should stop taking calcium supplement and schedule a colonoscopy that probably won't tell us anything useful about why I'm not pooping, but holy fuck do they think it's fun to shove cameras up ass holes.
And now my back hurts so badly that I can't sleep, and I can't really breathe when I'm laying down, but during the day it comes and goes (thank god) because like right now it doesn't hurt AT ALL (kind of like when I was at my appointment with the orthopedic specialist and he asked me to bend and crouch and twist and show him where I felt the pain, but because it wasn't acting up, I could do all of those things just fine except show him exactly where the pain was because I couldn't remember EXACTLY where it was), so I'm going to physical therapy on Wednesday because he thinks maybe it's a muscle and/or ligament issue and feels we need to "stop the cycle" of pain before it gets worse.
And I'm pretty sure I'm going to go to physical therapy on Wednesday and they'll ask me to do back flips and even though I've never done a back flip before in my life, I'll somehow be able to crank them out like freaking Paul Hamm, and they'll say that I "seem to be fine" and to "let them know if I'm still having trouble in 30 days" and then the instant I walk out of the clinic, my entire body will seize up and my rib will explode from my chest and impale my left eyeball and they'll find me writhing around on the sidewalk and the doctor will come down and rub his chin and furrow his brow and say, "Hmm. Maybe we should make a follow up appointment."
Both X-rays revealed absolutely nothing, which should surprise me exactly zero because nothing is ever wrong with me, according to modern medicine, I feel like there's a problem with my pregnancy and they tell me it's just too early to see the fetus, it's too tiny, everything is fine, and I have acne literally erupting from my back and chest and neck like some kind of pissed of Hawaiian lava-wielding deity and they tell me it's just stress and it will go away on it's own and then when it doesn't go away on it's own they tell me there's nothing they can do to make it better because it's "truncal" and therefore unresponsive to topical treatments, and I should just wait some more. And then I up and stop pooping. For, like, two months. And they tell me that it happens sometimes and they tell me horror stories of city bus drivers who get massive anal leakage and can no longer run their routes and other stories of women who are in the ER every three days for emergency enemas because they haven't pooped in, well, about the same amount of time as me, and that maybe I should stop taking calcium supplement and schedule a colonoscopy that probably won't tell us anything useful about why I'm not pooping, but holy fuck do they think it's fun to shove cameras up ass holes.
And now my back hurts so badly that I can't sleep, and I can't really breathe when I'm laying down, but during the day it comes and goes (thank god) because like right now it doesn't hurt AT ALL (kind of like when I was at my appointment with the orthopedic specialist and he asked me to bend and crouch and twist and show him where I felt the pain, but because it wasn't acting up, I could do all of those things just fine except show him exactly where the pain was because I couldn't remember EXACTLY where it was), so I'm going to physical therapy on Wednesday because he thinks maybe it's a muscle and/or ligament issue and feels we need to "stop the cycle" of pain before it gets worse.
And I'm pretty sure I'm going to go to physical therapy on Wednesday and they'll ask me to do back flips and even though I've never done a back flip before in my life, I'll somehow be able to crank them out like freaking Paul Hamm, and they'll say that I "seem to be fine" and to "let them know if I'm still having trouble in 30 days" and then the instant I walk out of the clinic, my entire body will seize up and my rib will explode from my chest and impale my left eyeball and they'll find me writhing around on the sidewalk and the doctor will come down and rub his chin and furrow his brow and say, "Hmm. Maybe we should make a follow up appointment."
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