Lies and Torments I've Subjected My Kids To.

Cooties:

When my daughter was 4 years old and about to start pre-k, I sat her down to have a very important big girl conversation.  The topic?  Boys.  I told her about boys having cooties and how contagious they were.  She listened with wide eyed interest and then asked what cooties looked like and how you got rid of them once you caught them.  Because cooties were invisible, of course no one really knew what they looked like, only that all boys had them.  I told her not to worry though…because in her cubby at school there would be an invisible can of cootie spray.  All she had to do was spray down the boys with her cootie spray (demonstrating how) and she’d be safe. 

After her first day of school, upon picking her up, she was noticeably upset. When I asked about her day, she heatedly informed me that she looked and looked, but could not find her invisible can of cootie spray.   “Now I’ve got cooties too!”  Yeah, some days it’s great to be a parent.

 Amusement Parks:

 I learned a long time ago why they were called amusement parks.  Parents bring their children, watch the children get terrified, and the parents are left very amused.  When my daughter and then step-son were little (4 and 6), we went to MGM in Orlando.  We waited in outrageously long lines in the sweltering heat before finally boarding “The Tower of Terror”.  Within moments they were both terrified and wanting off…NOW.  By the time we got off the ride, they were both white as a ghost and near tears begging NEVER to go on it again.  For the next year, anytime they acted up, just the threat of making them ride “The Tower of Terror” would bring them right back in line.  Thanks Disney!

 My son was a very big baby, and an even bigger toddler.  When he was 2, he was as big as or bigger than most 4 year olds.  During a trip to Universal Studios, we boarded the “Jaws” ride.  It was a beautiful day and we were slowly floating along when a mechanical Jaws burst out of the water mere inches from our side of the boat, displaying a mouth full of big, sharp, white teeth.  My son screamed in terror as he jumped up in the seat and ran across me in a desperate attempt to escape the attacking shark!  Everybody on the boat, myself included (I know…mom of the year), were laughing so hysterically we were wiping tears from our eyes, as my terrified toddler struggled to find the humor in almost being eaten by the giant beast.  Try as I might, I could not stop laughing as I tried to comfort him and assure him it was just a fake shark and NOT going to eat him.  Did we stop there?  Heck no!  I was now amused.  Next stop…“Earthquake”. 

 Christmas:

 They give us parents so much to work with around the holidays, big and small.  From Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny to the Tooth Fairy, society has made lying to our children not just acceptable, but expected, especially at Christmas.

 When my ex-husband’s son was about 7 years old, he started questioning the existence of Santa Claus, and sharing his doubts with my 5 year old daughter.  That Christmas Eve, we left cookies and milk for Santa and carrots for the Reindeer…on a chair visible from the doorways of each of the children’s rooms.  After the kids went to sleep and the presents were placed under the tree, my husband donned a Santa Claus suit and headed for the cookies as I headed for the kids rooms to wake them up.  I snuck in their rooms, and woke them up very quietly telling each one to be absolutely silent so we didn’t scare Santa off.  I told them that if Santa knew they saw him, he might leave fast, or even disappear so they had to be quiet.  They watched in silence was he ate the cookies and drank the milk, then stuffed the carrots in his pockets, before saying “Ho, Ho, Ho” and then disappearing from their sight. 

 When my son (almost 5 years younger than my daughter) was about 8, he came home from his father’s devastated.  “Dad told Santa to put me on the naughty list!”  After thinking about this for a couple weeks, I enlisted the help of my daughter and put my plan into action.  When my son returned from his next weekend stay with his father, on two small hooks by the front door hung a small wool coat, a matching pointy hat and a tiny lantern with a paper scroll tucked into it.  When he asked about it, at first I refused to tell him anything saying only for him to leave the items alone.  At various times, I’d remove the items for periods of time and then return them to the hooks.  Finally, after swearing him to secrecy, I told him that one of Santa’s elves was staying with us while he handled a top secret mission for Santa.  The kids stared at the items begging for permission to read the tiny scroll. While he never actually got to see the elf, I did manage to take a very fussy picture of him to show my son (which I actually pulled off the internet), and just before the elf’s stuff vanished for the last time, we snuck a peek at the tiny scroll which read, “Naughty” then had a list of several names, including the name of their dad!

 Teenagers

 When my kids were little I would to tell them that aliens injected the brains of teenagers with a toxic serum that turned their brains into gelatinous goo until they hit their 20s and their brains started solidifying again.  This made teenagers act in completely crazy ways and do really stupid things until their brains recovered somewhere around their early to mid 20s.  My son was about 6, and we were walking through Wal-Mart when my son excitedly points to a group and loudly exclaims, “Look mom!  They’re teenagers!” as if he was seeing an endangered species or making a rare discovery, eliciting many strange looks from the Wal-Mart onlookers. 

These are just a few examples of how I've lied to and tormented my children over the years.  To post them all would be a thousand plus page novel.  Ok, so maybe the last one was a bad example of a lie or torture my kids have endured from me as I really think I was onto something with that one!  Luckily for me, though probably unfortunately for them, I still have several years left to inflict more damage in the form of creative lies and torment.  One day, they'll have children and will be able to pass on the traditions just as I am now doing to them.

Midget Mexican Shit Sculptures On Lawn...BAD NEIGHBOR!!

As I pull into my driveway the day before yesterday, I am greeted by what has become an all too familiar sight:  The neighbor’s hundred plus pound yellow lab hunkered down shitting what looks like a little mexican midget in my front yard.  Now if this was a once in a while occurrence, I might be able to overlook it, but it is becoming a regular thing.  What I found most upsetting about the whole event is that my neighbor, an area native and about as redneck as they come, is sitting on his front steps watching his dog make a mini sculpture of him on my lawn, with what I swear could only be interpreted as pride. 

Before I can park my car and get back around the house, the dog has finished his duty and had left a present on my lawn big enough to trip a horse.  Lovely way to start my evening, but having had a long day, I decide it’s not a battle I want to fight right then so it will wait for another day.

Yesterday morning as I’m exiting the driveway, my peripheral vision draws my attention to my rearview mirror, where I immediately catch sight of this huge pile of dog shit.  Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but I could almost swear it was waving goodbye to me as if to say, “Have a great day.  I’ll be right here waiting for the dog to shit me out some friends!” I found myself thinking the whole way to work that I should probably pick out a name for my new yard ornament, as big as it is.  Jose’, maybe Miguel, and thinking if you put it next to Chelsea Handler people might confuse it for Chuy.

 

(Credit)

I arrive home yesterday, deliberately avoiding looking at my yard to see if the Mexican midget has multiplied in my absence.  A short while later, my daughter arrives home and finds me out on the back patio, where she tells me that once again, the dog is hunkered down in the front yard making a friend for the pile from the day before.  Obviously my neighbor doesn’t give a shit (those his dog gives plenty) so it’s time I do something about it.   As I have thought about this today, I am really not sure how I’m going to handle this maddening situation with my neighbor, but I thought I’d share a few of my favorite ideas. 

Idea Number 1:  Transport shit via shovel and transplant it on neighbor’s doorsteps in a spot most likely to be stepped in before being noticed.

Idea Number 2:  Using shovel, sling shit from my yard to his, taking special aim to hit his work truck and attached tools.

Idea Number 3:  The classic, “poop in a bag lit on fire at front door”. 

Now I know that all of these are very unneighborly behaviors, but then, so is allowing his dog to leave daily sculptures on my lawn.  I am now up to three piles in my yard from this dog, and if I have to pick them up, there will be repercussions to my neighbor.  I will become the shit bandit.  Exacting my revenge in the stinkiest, messiest method available while returning his beloved pet’s byproduct.

I am now about to head home, and if my yard looks any more like a Mexican midget block party, I just might blow my stack.  I may just forgo the tactical planning, and sling it directly at him!  Lord grant me patience as I go home to face this shitty situation.

Bah Freaking Humbug!!

It’s official…the Grinch has stolen my Christmas spirit.  I’m really not sure when it happened, or even how it happened, only that it definitely happened.  It is now 11 days away from Christmas, and while I did drag the tree and decorations out of storage, and put the tree together, I have yet to force myself to decorate it, or do my Christmas shopping.

When the kids were little and there was that magical anticipation of Santa bringing the toys, eating the cookies and his reindeer eating the carrots we left for them, there was a certain excitement which I find is now lacking (the lie is gone).  Instead, I feel a sense of obligation to put up decorations that add clutter to my already cluttered house; obligation to spend money I do not have and really cannot afford or be the “worse parent in the whole world” in the eyes of my children; and the inability to escape all the cheerful Christmas lights and music that are now everywhere I go. 

It all started around Halloween.  When looking in the holiday aisles, I was shocked and appalled to see scattered Christmas items around the Halloween items before it was even the end of October!  I must admit to feeling pulling forces, much like that of the angel and Satan on opposite shoulders, only for me, it was more like the Christmas Spirit and the Grinch whispering in each ear.  One was saying “Yay!! Christmas music, beautiful lights, egg nog, presents…I LOVE Christmas!”  However, the other was much stronger saying, “Are you freaking kidding me?  Can’t we get through one holiday at a time?  Halloween, then Thanksgiving, THEN Christmas…or just skip Christmas altogether.”

The day after Halloween, I walk into Wal-Mart and see two of the closest cashiers wearing red and white Santa-style hats.  I stopped in my tracks and stared blankly for a few seconds before desperately fighting the urge to go snatch the hats off their heads, throw them to the ground and jump up and down on them like a mad woman yelling, “Bah Freaking Humbug!” over and over.  I had the mental image of the enraged turkey ordering Santa to get back to his sleigh and wait his turn.

So Halloween came and went, and at the beginning of NOVEMBER, the Christmas lights started going up all over town.  Everywhere I went, I was reminded that the big day was approaching.  Despite my desperate attempt to remain in denial, my attempts were defeated by the ever increasing number of holiday lights in the community, the Christmas carols being played on every radio station, and worse of all, the charitable collections at the entrances and registers of every place I go to shop, reminding me that there are those less fortunate than I. 

At this time of year, when I’m already feeling financially pressured, to be guilted at every checkout line and store entrance to donate to those “less fortunate” than me, I’d really like to ask, where can I put my name on the list to be considered for the list of “less fortunate”?  Does it come with some sort of membership card that I can flash discretely to the charitable collectors as a silent, “back off buddy” without the guilt associated with declining to give away my change after every purchase?  Sure, the “Would you like to donate your change today?” might be a harmless question meant only for the good of some family that is down on their luck this year, but how many other families are down on their luck and just barely getting by, yet aren’t really members of the “less fortunate club” YET? 

Feeling the financial pressure of maintaining our households AND providing the latest and greatest gifts for our children that we can’t afford, going further into debt so that the retailers can line their pockets during a holiday that has become more commercial than spiritual, we are further pressured by the constant barrage of donation requests at every checkout and store entrance, usually in front of long lines of our neighbors and fellow holiday shoppers.  Then, not only do the entrance collectors hit you up when you go into the store, they hit you up a second time when you leave (because you should now have more change). I swear it’s almost maddening! 

In a final effort to find some small spark of Christmas spirit, I sat down to write a letter of my own to Santa.  It read as follows:  “Dear Santa; For Christmas this year, please bring me a large bottle of valium, understanding creditors, and a Less Fortunate Club card to brandish to the constant barrage of holiday charitable collectors in lieu of merely showing them they are number one.”  Something tells me Santa has another gift in mind for me this year.

Bar Room Blow Job

Tonight I gave my first bar room blow job.  I tell you this not to brag or boast, but merely to recount the experience.  I never thought I’d be saying this, much less writing about it for the world to read, but since it took place in a bar, I cannot reasonably expect it to stay private.

It started innocent enough…the bartender talking about my man-friend’s birthday, then she asked if I would do a blow job him.  She told me that she’d do it, but she felt kinda weird being that her husband and I would be there, so I HAD to agree.  I mean, geez.  That was last night. 

Tonight was his birthday, so I go to the bar where my man-friend is moonlighting.  The bartender and I are talking about his bday blowjob, when one of the waitresses, who’s listening in, hearing about his upcoming birthday gift says, “You’re gonna do it here in the bar!?”   It’s then that I realize that she (much like most of you) was thinking we were talking about oral sex, rather than a provocatively taken shot.  I about fell out I was laughing so hard. 

With great amusement, we explained what we were actually discussing. With what I can only describe as a sigh of relief, she says, “When I saw you go into the bathroom earlier I was watching to see if he followed you.”  Still laughing, I informed her it would take place on the bar in front of her before in a bar room bathroom, though judging by her noticeably flustered state, I think the bartender and I found it much funnier than she.

The bartender asked me if I was ready, but I wasn’t.  I needed to finish my drink and get a little more courage built up.  I mean, it’s not every day you do a blow job in front of friends and strangers alike.  Then it’s time.  A chair is positioned, and my man-friend is seated.  I must admit, my heart was pounding, my palms where sweating, but I couldn’t let that stop me.  Both of us are feeling the pressure to perform…then the plastic shot glass filled with some concoction is placed between his legs on the chair.

The plastic shot glass contained brown liquor topped with some type of whipped cream that was described by one of the onlookers as "toothpaste like" in appearance.  As with any first time, it was awkward and lacking in finesse, but I did a little dance and rubbed a little bit, before kneeling down and bringing my lips between his legs to take the mystery shot.  I was feeling a little relieved as I took the cup in my mouth and tilted my head back, until nothing came out.  Sucking a little harder, I was surprised when, without even a courtesy tap, my mouth was filled with an indescribably textured gooey liquid that at first I wasn’t sure if I would spit or swallow.  Suppressing the urge to gag, I managed to gulp it down.  (I must admit to feeling a moment of déjà vu)

(no this isn't me, but another bar bj'er)

It was pretty disgusting and took me a minute to get my gag reflex under control and make my eyes quit watering.  A few minutes later when discussing the vile drink with the bartender, I was telling her about the difficulty getting the liquid to release, my surprise when it finally did, and my reaction as to not knowing if I’d be able to swallow or have to spit it…suddenly I understood why the drink was called a blow job!

Rescued to Begin Again

November of 2005 was a very tough time for me.  I was newly divorced; still recovering from a series of botched back surgeries the year before which left me suffering from very painful disabilities; struggling to work despite back problems; and in addition to my two children, ages 9 and 5, I had custody of my 11 year old sister, and was keeping my two nephews, ages 1 and 4 several days a week.  Every day was a struggle, but we were managing.

I awoke Friday, November 11^th, Veterans Day, and got the children ready and off to school.  My nephews were at my aunt’s that morning so it was only my children and my baby sister.  Not having to be at work for a couple more hours, I went back to bed.  A short while later I stirred, feeling disoriented thinking I was dreaming, hearing faint shouts “is anyone in there?”  As I opened my eyes, a ray of sunshine came through the room from the side of the window blinds and the air seemed to be swirling similar to a road horizon on a hot day.  I again heard what sounded like shouting in the distance and got up and walked to my closed bedroom door, still feeling hazy and unsure if I was awake or dreaming. 

When I opened the door, I realized I was not only awake, but in serious trouble.  As the door opened, scorching heat singed the hair on my face and arms, thick black smoke filled the room, making it impossible to see.  No longer disoriented, I frantically pushed to door to.  Coughing violently, eyes burning and watering, I dropped to my hands and knees searching for something to put over my face.  I couldn’t get out my bedroom door so I felt for the windows.  I’d only been in the house a short time and had never opened the windows in my bedroom.  It wasn’t until this moment, feeling blindly in the thick, black smoke, that I became aware that the windows were painted shut and I couldn’t get either window open.  On top of being painted shut, I knew the windows had metal framing through them.  Raw panic filled me. 

I again dropped to my knees and crawled to my bathroom, turning on the shower, telling myself I’d rather die from smoke inhalation than burning in flames.  It was getting very hot, and I was trapped.  I returned to the room, searching for something to break the window, when I heard shouting outside and began yelling and banging on a window.

The voices outside told me to get back while the window was being broke.  In what seemed like an instant, the window was broke and I was pulled from the window, landing on my feet outside the window, where I stood facing my neighbors, Bruce Moody and Chip Girndt.  It was as if I was completely weightless and my neighbors needed only guide me through the smoke and out the extremely high window; my feet naturally finding the ground upon my exit.  I believe God flew me out that window.

I was escorted to the road across the street from the house, wearing only a night shirt and panties…no shoes, no pants, no bra.  While neighbors dressed me on the streets, I watched as everything I owned was consumed by flames.  Bicycles under the carport caught fire and melted together like some type of abstract sculpture.  Flames escaped from every window and under the roof.  I realized at that moment, every picture of every memory was gone and that I no longer owned a single pair of shoes, or even one bra…everything I owned was being destroyed as I watched helplessly. When I looked to the window I’d been pulled out of only minutes before, I saw flames coming from it and realized how close I’d come to dying that day. Thankfully, the children were safe and I was alive!

My boss and his wife arrived and transported me to the hospital to be evaluated for smoke inhalation injury.  In those first few moments, fear and uncertainty were almost unbearable. I was a single mother with no home for my children, no bed for them to call their own.  Everything we owned was gone…their toys, pictures, trophies, awards, clothes…everything.  Then something started happening that changed what I was feeling from fear and panic, to gratitude and optimism, and which taught me a great deal about family and community.

As I sat in the emergency room, people began gathering.  My preacher, good friends, children’s father, aunt…then my office manager came with $1500.00 in gift certificates to a local clothing store which had been donated to my family.  I later went back to the house with my children to thank the my heroic neighbors.

Over the next few weeks, I received what can only be described as a miraculous outpouring of support from the community as a whole.  Within just a few short weeks, I had found a house, and had received enough donations to move in and begin again.  Wayne McMichael created a website for my family, where the community could track what I needed and what had been donated.  Citizens in the community could look at the website and see if they had any items I still needed they could donate such as beds, chairs, dressers, etc.  I might not have had the best of everything we had, but I had the basics of everything we needed. 

Over the next couple months a healing began, and I realized that in a strange way, I’d been given a clean slate…a fresh start.  Most of the material possessions I’d had carried memories of a life I no longer led or a dream that hadn’t come true.  What I now had carried memories of a generous and supportive community of family and friends who’d pulled together to help my children and I in our time of greatest need.  I realized how great God was during this time, how truly fortunate we were for each day we had together, and how every day was precious and deserved to be lived.  I learned how to love, trust, and laugh again.

When I think of this time in my life, a phrase always comes to mind; “You must first experience the deepest and darkest of valleys to fully appreciate the view from the highest of peaks.”  As I sat on the street owning nothing but the shirt on my back watching everything go up in flames, that was a truly deep and dark valley, but I’ve seen the view from many high peaks since that time.  I’m eternally grateful to my Vann Street Heroes who saved not only me, but my children’s mother, and for all the views we’ve had since that day.

Memories I would not have had without you guys:

Bestiality…It’s No Longer Just Your Daughters You Have To Watch!

After a conversation with a friend which led to a Google search, I was surprised to see the number of news stories about bestiality arrests; people charged for having sex with everything from dogs, to hogs to horses and sheep.  What I want to know is how the heck this gets started.  I mean does it start with some young man watching the neighbor’s dog through the bedroom window, admiring it’s long hair, and how the light reflects off it as she moves?  What about the horse?  Is this the firmness of the butt that turns the man on?  The softness of the sheep’s fur?  Now the hog…nope, I got nothing.  I mean, a hog…really?  Who are these people?   

In one of the online news stories I read, an Albany, GA man is walking his dog, sees vacant mobile home and enters it with his dog.  Neighbors observe him breaking in (it’s always the neighbors), come to investigate and hear loud scream-type sounds.  The police arrive and catch the man in the act of engaging in “loud sexual activity with his dog”.  REALLY??  I mean, he couldn’t wait till he got home?  Who was doing the screaming?  Was the way she was shaking her butt as she walked just too much for him so he just had to have her right then?  Would his wife at home object so he had to sneak off with his bitch for some quality time?  Well, that was a stretch (him having a wife)…guy probably lives in mom’s basement.

A 62 year old Bainbridge man got busted jumping a fence to a stockyard and having sex with a pig.  I guess he liked a little more of a fight with his conquest.  No sit Boo Boo, sit for him!  Then again, maybe the man just likes squealers.

A Jersey cop got arrested for getting blow jobs from baby cows.  As there were no laws on the books against beastiality, the question was could they prosecute him under the cruelty to animals statute.  Charges were dropped because they couldn’t decide whether having the calves suck on something that wasn’t producing milk could be considered torment (I’m not making this crap up…link is below!)  They also said that that the cruelty to animals statute was dealing more with neglect, and that was not the case here.  Actually, the cop neglected to leave his penis in his pants and out of the mouth of the calf…the sick freak!

It’s everywhere, and you never know who it will be.  Could be you next door neighbor, or even your animal, as some farmers in Enumclaw, WA discovered.  A man went to the hospital seeking medical assistance for a companion then left.  The companion died of a perforated colon, secondary, as the police later discovered, to a sexual encounter with a horse.  During the course of the investigation, they found many videos of the deceased engaging in sexual intercourse with horses.  Police showed video tape to the neighbors who were shocked and appalled to see that not only had their neighbor been having sex with horses, but he was having sex with THEIR horse in THEIR barn.  That’s what they get for leaving the horse unsupervised and having such a nice pad for her.  It’s no longer just your daughters you got to watch out for!

In Sherborn, MA, a farmer reported having his barn broke into several times over the course of a year, prompting him to install surveillance cameras.  What they recorded was not what he expected to see.  Between 3 and 4 a.m. on the night of June 27, an 18 year old boy grabbed a sheep by its back legs, drug it to the back of its stall, removed his clothes (the boy’s not the sheeps) and had his way with the sheep.  Very Baaaaaad boy! 

He was later arrested and then released into the custody of his parents.  Could you imagine being this kid’s parents?  I mean it’s one thing for people to say “watch your daughters around that boy”, but for the neighbors to be watching their dogs, cats, sheep, hamsters…I mean, doesn’t get much more embarrassing than that.  They see your son walking down the street, and protectively grab their pets and rush inside.  Yeah…I don’t envy them.  I bet the parents are wishing they’d been a little more thorough in their birds and the bees discussions now!

With this epidemic of beastiality on the rise, more and more states are putting laws on the books to protect the helpless farm animals from the perverts and sexual deviants of society, I guess we parents and educators need to start doing our part as well.  No longer can we just tell our children where babies come from and how to protect themselves from STDs.  We now must expand our facts of life discussions to include: “it is not acceptable to have sex with your furry friends or farm animals, and no…gerbils don’t like tight, dark and moist places.”

Resources:

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2002384648_farm16m.html

http://www.metrowestdailynews.com/x1578449844

http://www.cbs42.com/content/localnews/story/Sheriffs-office-says-man-busted-in-beastiality/ccpC9AysAUaEsvw_QCWeiw.cspx

http://www.usatoday.com/news/nation/2009-10-29-tn-beastiality-law_N.htm

http://www.walb.com/story/4643441/bainbridge-man-charged-with-bestiality?nav=5kZQ&redirected=true

http://theerant.yuku.com/topic/24302

http://www.walb.com/story/13311868/colquitt-co-man-charged-with-bestiality?redirected=true

Babysitting…Grooming Your Future Stepmother For Dad's Midlife Crisis

I’ve heard guys joking around for as long as I can remember, saying things like, “old enough to bleed, old enough to breed” or “old enough to bleed, old enough for me”.  The first thought that has always come to mind…pedophile…but I just chalked it off to guys being pigs.  As I’ve gotten older, I’m beginning to think there really is some truth to those sayings in the mind set of some middle age men. 

As a mother of a teenage daughter, I am becoming increasingly more disgusted with the pedophiliac nature of this class of middle age men in crisis.  It makes me puke in my mouth to see them dating girls about the same age as their daughters.  Of course they’re flawless…they’ve not yet been infected with that body changing condition that has a life-form clawing and kicking trying desperately to escape for nine months…known as pregnancy…nor have they’ve not been alive long enough or had boobs long enough for gravity to take its toll. I then find myself wondering what they would do if their daughter started dating one of their friends?

I’m sure there are advantages to dating a girl the same age as your daughter.  They’d have so much in common…same taste in music, same style clothes, similar friends, parents the same age…I mean the list goes on and on.  I can just see dad introducing the girlfriend to his daughter.  “Honey, I’d like you to meet your new sister/mom.  I think you’ll really like her!”  Then imagine the kinds of conversations they could have:  Daughter: “Remember that year we went to church camp and Nathan was there.  He’s so sexy!” Girlfriend: “You’re dad is sexy, and amazing in bed!” Daughter: “Is your dad single?  Maybe you can introduce us and we can double date.”   I’m not sure these men should go introducing the girlfriend to their sons just yet or they might be competition!

Buy a sports car or motorcycle; start hitting the gym or change your style of dress or hairstyle to be younger and more “hip”; abandon your families and trade your woman in for a younger model; throw away your careers and party away all your money...just don’t think we’re all jealous of you.  It’s not jealousy, it’s repulsion.  Had you started dating the same girl a few years ago, you’d have been jailed for child molestation, and labeled a pedophile for life.  To the teenage daughters, be nice to the girls you babysit…you could be grooming your future stepmother for your dad’s midlife crisis.

The Invisible Booby Bandit

Saturday morning, after a late night out with friends, I awoke needing to take a girlfriend to work.  Having slept only in a tank top and panties, I changed into a t-shirt and jogging pants (no bra as I was merely driving and dropping her off) and went to pick her up.  After dropping her off at work and getting back to the house, I felt something pull from under my boob.  Having long hair which sheds terribly, I at first thought it was a hair, but when I went to remove the irritant, I instead found found gum…chewed and sticky gum, all over the underside of my boob and half way down my tummy.  What the hell?

I go to the bathroom, lift up my shirt and examine my gum painted torso wondering how the hell that happened.  I mean, obviously I must have fallen asleep with gum in my mouth, but with the amount of hair I have, surely it would have fallen into my hair, been all over the bed, or on the OUTSIDE of the tank top I slept in…but no…it was all over my left boob and upper tummy.  I checked the bed and found no gum, I turned the tank top inside out and still found no gum.  How the hell did this happen?  I mean, it’s not every day you wake up with green sticky boobs…well, at least not for me. 

As the day progressed, I just couldn’t get this oddity out of my mind.  I’m still completely perplexed.  The only possible explanation is that I was visited in my sleep by the Invisible Booby Bandit, who had left his mark.  The least he could have done is wake me up and let me enjoy the experience!

Pressure Cookers and Men

Saturday, I spent time with fabulous conversationalists, gluttonously drinking and eating my way into a hangover and bigger dress size.  We were talking about all sorts of topics, from food to penises (strange how talking about one thing you put in your mouth leads to the other).  As we ate great food, we discussed recipes and cooking methods, and with cooler weather approaching we talked about stews and soups. 

I used to swear by my crock-pot, thinking it was the best thing since running water and indoor toilets.  The thing that made a crock-pot so incredible was the ability to throw all the ingredients together before leaving for work and returning home with the house smelling as though there was a gourmet chef in my kitchen preparing dinner for me (pretty pathetic, I know, but hey…I’m single).  However, there’ve always been two flaws with this method; [1] It requires advance planning and forethought (both of which I suck balls at), and [2] It must be done in the morning BEFORE work (and I’m like Godzilla in the mornings, only not as good looking).  However, in order to get the full blending of flavors and the desired textures of my soups and stews, the early morning sacrifice had to be made…until I discovered the pressure cooker.

A few years ago, I purchased a pressure cooker, and realized that I could cook in an hour what had previously taken all day.  My crock-pot has been collecting dust since.  So back to Saturday.  I’m discussing all this with my friends and explaining how incredibly awesome a pressure cooker is, when the only husband in the conversation starts telling a pressure cooker horror story.  He asks, “Have you ever seen a pressure cooker blow?”  He then shares a story about his mother using a pressure cooker which blew it’s top so forcefully, barely missing her head, that it put a hole in the ceiling.  To hear my non-pressure-cooking friends talk, I might as well be cooking with a time bomb which was bound to blow eventually, and take half my face when it did. 

After a couple similar stories about the dangers, and me bragging about how safe and reliable mine is, we ladies decided that pressure cookers are like men.  Most are safe, albeit a little exciting because you know they COULD be dangerous.  With a little care and attention they’re usually harmless, but occasionally you get one that flips its lid for no apparent reason.  Usually, however, one only flips its lid from major neglect or pure stupidity on the part of the operator (even the pressure cooker is telling the woman it’s her fault).  Finally, when they do blow, they can do serious damage and cause bodily harm.

So a couple days ago, craving some fresh boiled peanuts but having limited time in which to cook some, I break out the pressure cooker to once again work its magic.   When the release began its bobbing and the steam started whistling, I found myself thinking back to the weekend’s conversation and laughed aloud when I realized I’d now even given my pressure cooker nuts!

The Penis Epiphany

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Sometimes...There's Just Not Enough Coffee!

I awoke this morning to the most horrific sound…my phone’s alarm. It was fortunate for the alarm that it was on my phone, for in that first waking moment nothing would have given me more pleasure than to throw the source of the wake-me-from-a-sound-sleep-ruin-a-good-dream noise maker out the window, onto the concrete drive, and watch it shatter in a million pieces! 

However, since I NEED my phone, I had only the image of destruction I’d created in my mind to draw satisfaction from.  I cross the house, cursing myself for not having gone to bed earlier as I’d told myself to over and over again last night.  I get to my son’s door, which is hanging half off the hinges (don’t even ask), push the door to, and in the sweetest possible way I could muster, I scream, “WAKE YOUR LAZY ASS UP!!”  (Just joking, but I was so grumpy that the thought crossed my mind.)  I realized at that moment that the best thing I could do for both of us, would be to get him up and go lay back down for half an hour…try and find the right side of the bed to get up on.

I awake the second time to Marshall coming in to kiss me goodbye as he heads off for the bus. Realizing that I can put off the day no more, I get dressed and head out the door for the 25 minute drive that would take me to my prison cell of the day.  About half way there, my phone rings.  The number on the caller ID I quickly recognize as my son’s school, but upon answering it, realize I have almost no reception and can make out little more from my son than he needs another shirt.  I must now turn around and go BACK to Vidalia to bring my son a new shirt, and I realize that I don’t have a clue what he was wearing in the first place (I know, I should be nominated for mom of the year).  When I got back in range of the towers, I called the school asking to speak to Marshall, but am transferred instead to the principal, who informs me that it is picture day, and my 5^th grade son is wearing a shirt that says, “Grab a butt and pinch”.  WHAT??? Where did that COMPLETELY inappropriate shirt even come from and how come I’ve never seen it?  I mean, surely it would look much better on me!

I deliver the shirt, and head off to work for the second time this morning, already late, only to hit every single red light in town.  It’s then that I realize I had not been successful in finding the right side of the bed to get up on.  At one light I was stopped next to a funky painted Crown Victoria, jacked up on ridiculously large tires, with the radio bumping so loudly my car shook from the bass, and I couldn’t hear my own radio.  I shot the driver a dirty look, to which he was completely oblivious as he slumped to one side, moving to the obnoxiously loud music like some basketball player bobble-head toy.  At another light, I notice the very heavy young woman in the car next to me with her hand down her shirt frantically scratching her right boob, and can’t help but associate it to the likeness of Al Bundy with his hand down his pants.

I finally make it out of town and go to pass a truck while there is an available passing lane.  The old man in the truck speeds up to faster than I wish to go so I crank up the radio and set the cruise control.  No sooner than the passing lane ends, the man lets off the gas and slows to an infuriating 45 mph (in a 55).  I’m now late for work, stuck behind a man going well below the stated speed limit, oncoming traffic spaced out perfectly to prevent me from passing, and at that moment, I experienced shear road rage, cursing loudly for no one to hear but me.

I could sure use another cup of coffee!  Whew…if the morning’s been like this…what adventures will the rest of the day bring?  To this I just say…bring it!

The Factory's Closed But the Playground Is Open!

Boredom got the better of me at about 9:30 last night, so I decided to go shoot a couple games of pool.  I take a shower and head to a favored local establishment.  Upon arriving at the establishment, I see a gentleman at the tables I’ve played with for years, shooting against an unknown man.  I lay some quarters on the table and wait my turn.  A couple games in, I go to the bar for a beer.   The owner is behind the bar, which is never a real good thing. I place my order and wait…and wait…and wait.  I finally get his attention for a second time and ask about that beer.  That’s when it happens.  He leans in and says, “I thought you were pregnant.”  WHAT!!!

Normal people probably would have been offended or asked where he heard that from, or a multitude of other questions and emotions.  Me…no.  Without missing a beat, I say simply, “Honey, while I’ve kept the playground open, I closed the factory many years ago.” 

For all that know me, that comment wouldn’t be a shocker, or even a small surprise, but an expected degree of smartassism I tend to be notorious for; however, I did mention there was an unknown man playing at the table.  I commence to playing pool with my new pool playing partner, who’s game is seriously suffering.  I little while later, he just can’t contain it anymore and tells me how wrong it was to make that comment around a single man.  He just couldn’t concentrate on the table knowing there was an open playground right next to it!

I guess I have discovered a new and very effective pool playing strategy.

The Female Sex Drive and Viagra for Women

Ever since the breakthrough that brought many men’s sex lives back to life, women have been asking, “Where’s my magic blue pill?”  In response, researchers at pharmaceutical companies have spent the past decade trying to find the magic formula to end their sexual dysfunction and improve sexual desire, arousal and satisfaction in women. 

There are now all sorts of products on the market targeting these women, but the FDA still has not approved the female “Viagra” equivalent.  Why?  Because with men, it’s a physical issue.  Rub a man’s penis, the blood flow increases, the penis enlarges and it gets hard.  Rub it long enough, and ejaculation occurs.  It’s a simple matter.  Women…not so simple.

Women have different plumbing all around, and different stimulants that make that plumbing flow!  Unless you can create a pill that not only increases the blood flow and libido, but also improves hormonal balance, intensifies sexual stimulation and orgasm, AND makes the men we’d be making love to more attentive and apt to care whether or not we’re getting what we want and need while we’re having sex, there just isn’t going to be a magic-fix-all pill.  I mean, if they could come up with a pill that makes you grow a mini man to make love to yourself, including the foreplay that mentally stimulates a women, they might be on to something!  However, I have a strong feeling the men in our lives would strongly object.

Let’s face it.  Jeff Foxworthy was on to something when he said men were simple creatures…they want a beer and wanna see something naked.  Men are visual creatures, and tend to be aroused by what they SEE.  Just watch a man’s reaction to a good looking woman in a low cut top.  Women are mentally and physically stimulated.  We tend to be aroused by what we FEEL.  Not just feel with our bodies, but feel with our minds, and the two are inseparably linked.  We need the emotional connection, to feel like we’re being pampered, adored or loved by our partners.  When we feel that intellectual/emotional stimulation, the physical stimulation is heightened and the desire, arousal and intensity is increased.  A little attention with a woman goes a long way in increasing libido and sex drive.  There’s no pill for that.

However, I think I’ve got the answer for the women who suffer from merely lack of arousal.  Find the hormone in 30-40 something year old women who are in their sexual peak, mass produce and prescribe it to women with sexual dysfunction, and gone is the lack of libido.  I know this from personal experience.   No amount of attention, drug, tequila, or any other substance known to mankind could come close to the increase in libido brought on by this surge of hormones rushing through the body of a woman in her peak.  I once told a friend, I completely understand why dogs in heat rubbed their butts on fence posts.  As a single woman, waking up in the middle of the night without a sexual outlet can be positively maddening.  I’m sure pharmaceutical companies would have no shortage of women willing to donate some of their surging hormones for those less fortunate.   I’ll be the first one!

Emotionally Unavailable Men

With the divorce rate so high, there is a higher number than ever of 30-40 something divorcees, all in the pursuit of love, in one form or another.  The need for skin to skin contact, and emotional intimacy keeps me in the pursuit of love.  What I have found repeatedly along my journey is the emotionally unavailable man.  He comes from a variety of social and economic backgrounds; from law enforcement, to professionals, from white collared to blue, from ugly and fat to fit and good-looking, but make no mistake, he is the same man, just wearing a different disguise and set of circumstances.

The “woe is me, I’ve been hurt so I won’t risk it wall”, that is so impenetrable; has been skillfully and painstakingly crafted over years of failed marriages and relationships, abandoned dreams, and disappointments, make finding a functional relationship almost impossible. 

Another thing that just kills me about this emotionally available man, is a hobby they all seem to share.  Video Games.  The “lets tune out the real world that’s hurt me so, and zone into my fantasy world where I am all powerful and people (the other emotionally stunted individuals playing the same game for the same reasons) respect and admire my skills” mentality.  This becomes an addiction or an obsession, and the real people in their lives can’t compete to the fantasy world to which they escape.  Women, beware of this man, as you could rub your boobs all over his face and offer all sorts of sexual favors, resulting only in getting him irritated that you are obstructing his view! 

Then there’s the man that must always have his buddies/playmates around.  No private conversation will ever be private because you’re NEVER alone.  He lives so fast that you’ve got to constantly be on the chase if you hope to catch up.  Forget a thriving sex life with this man…heaven forbid he’d have to separate from his buddies long enough to play with you.

This has me thinking.  I need to create a self help manual for these emotionally unavailable men.  I’d break it down into sections as follows:

1.       At our age, in the singles market, we’ve ALL been hurt and had our hearts yanked from our chest and jammed up our asshole.  If you’re not married to your soul mate, and you’ve never had your heart broken it’s for one of two reasons.  You’re either a complete prick that breaks the hearts of those who love you, or you’re a narcissistic bastard…either way…next.

2.       I’m not the one that hurt you (if I did, I’m probably sorry about it), and I don’t deserve to be punished because some other woman did you wrong.

3.       Life goes on.  Get the hell over it and move on. 

4.       Contrary to what you seem to believe, you do not look sexy with that big head set on your head, and killing the enemy using your thumb and forefinger on a remote control doesn’t make you look like a God to the woman who’s being forced to watch you.

5.       If you can’t separate from your buddies long enough to get laid, have you considered I might not have the equipment you REALLY want?  Maybe it’s time you re-explore your sexuality!

I think it would be a best seller.  I’d be the next Opra (OK…maybe that’s stretching it a little).  Maybe a little more Chelsea Handler, but with better hair.  I’ll get to work on that tomorrow…tonight, it’s girls night.