Party with the clit killer

Saturday night I went to a birthday party for a friend.

This friend has parties often and it’s usually the same old crowd. Therefore, I wouldn’t say I was excited about the party in particular. More that I was excited not to be sitting on the couch in my pajamas, yelling at the TV and swilling out of a large wine bottle. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, right?

My family drove me nuts all day so by 4pm I decided I was going to get ready and leave early. It took me even longer than usual because everyone had an opinion on what I looked like.

Mom: You’re not wearing your hair like that, are you?

Aunt C: What’s going on with your hair?

Mom: You have on too much make up.

Aunt C: No! I didn’t mean it like that!

Mom: I did.

Lee: There’s something wrong with the front of your head.

Mom: Are you wearing that? *attempts to button top up to my chin*

Me: ARRRRGH! FUCKERS!

I didn’t feel like straightening my hair because it takes a very, very long time. The only problem with going au natural is that sometimes things work out and sometimes they don’t. And by things, I mean my giant, curly fro.

I ended up pulling the front up in a barrette, which, coupled with my dress, leggings, and flats, made me look like a 13 year old from the 80’s. Radical.

I packed up my wine and went to my cousin’s house to hang out until the party. For two hours we discussed controversial issues like men’s double standards and the merits of ineffectual fathers. I finished the leftovers of one bottle and we went on our merry way.

It was rather cold and drizzly. I was cursing myself for wearing that ridiculous outfit when I’d have been far more comfortable in jeans and boots...like everyone else in attendance. I wandered around and greeted a few people then stopped to check out the refreshment table. Thankfully L and W (the two girls I’d come with, in a completely non-lesbian way) began stuffing their faces too. Except they were stuffing their faces with chips and ranch dip and I was more inclined to stuff mine with meatballs.

As I resumed my mingling I noticed several things:

1) It was only 9pm and there was already a drunken woman swinging from a bench press pole and making sexual innuendos to inanimate objects. Best part? It was the birthday girl’s 50 something year old mother.

2) There was the token creepy old guy that shows up to every party within a 30 mile radius of the house he still lives in with his parents. This one happens to be about 7ft tall and sleeps with anything that breathes. He was clearly on the prowl.

3) The guy I ran into the last time I was out on the town was there. I was pretty wasted that night, but he regaled me with my violent antics. Apparently I punched him in the stomach. Hard. He was laughing about it, but I could see him eyeballing the drink in my hand and calculating how many I could have before he needed to disappear.

4) There was the gay guy swigging vodka out of a brown paper bag and doing some sort of air humping dance. If I were him, a gay man at a redneck shindig, I’d be swigging out of a brown paper bag too.

I had a good time at first. I drank my wine, danced a bit, took some shots. The party was half in their garage and half in their driveway where they’d set up two fire barrels that everyone was gathering around. (It’s the country, ok.)

I was standing with my back to one of the barrels, laughing with a few other girls, when a friend came running over.

“Ya’ll! Omigawd! Have you seen (insert first and last name)?”

Everyone but me turned and looked where she indicated.

“He’s so hot! You should go talk to him”, she said, addressing the girl on my left. “He’s got a great job and he’s really sweet...” She continued spouting his virtues to the single man eater, who didn’t appear the least bit interested.

I was well on my way to being drunk, so when I heard the name of the guy I’d hooked up with on New Years Eve, I quietly panicked. It couldn’t be the same one, I thought. He doesn’t hang out with these people.

“What did you say his last name was”, I asked my friend. She repeated herself. “What’s his mom’s name? Does she work at that Dr.’s office?”

She frowned at me. “I don’t know.” She called for her sister and relayed the question to her, who answered in the affirmative.

I must have looked a bit horrified. In fact I know I did.

She leaned toward me and whisper-shouted, “OHMIGAWD YOU FUCKING SLEPT WITH HIM DIDN’T YOU?!”

“SHHHHH! Shut up! Jesus fucking Christ!”

“YOU DID! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU SLEPT WITH HIM! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

I wasn’t exactly sure what the big deal was. The way she was acting you would have thought I’d slept with the mayor.

“But he’s so nice”, she said.

“So?”

“You don’t just sleep with a guy like that.”

“Well....” I didn’t know what to say. I’d expected him to call me. After all, he kind of owed me one. When two weeks went by and he still didn’t call, I chalked it up to a one night stand...a relatively unsuccessful one at that.

She continued to heckle me about it and the more she spoke, the more nervous I became. I knew he was standing several yards away in another group, but I couldn’t make myself turn around and look. I was positive he’d overheard her antics, especially when she motioned her sister back over, calling her a bit too frantically.

“She slept with him”, she said to her sister.

“NO WAY”, her sister shouted, dancing in place.

I sighed. There was no way I could casually speak to him now that the loud mouthed twins made it look like I was telling our business to the entire female population. I knew he was embarrassed enough about his performance without being made to think I was spreading the details around. I knew my face was beat red.

When pressed for details about him I simply smiled and shook my head, then wandered off to the kitchen in search of shots. I downed several and avoided going outside for awhile, waiting for them to move on to the next drunken topic.

When I finally returned to the group, I was facing his direction. For the rest of the night I followed him with my eyes, paranoid about what he may or may not have heard. He seemed ok, but I wasn’t. The more I drank and the longer I looked at him, the more disappointed I became.

Why hadn’t he called me? Why hadn’t he at least said hello? Why was he ignoring me? Should I go talk to him? I can’t. What if he heard all of that?

As the night wore on our group got smaller. I ended up standing around the fire with him and three or four other people. He was directly across from me and not once did he look at me. Finally, during a lull in the conversation, I said, “Hey, how’ve you been?”

“Pretty shitty”, he said without looking me in the eyes.

Fuck.

I said maybe one more sentence to him the rest of the night. Then I watched him mack on a girl that was barely old enough to drink (if she was).

Ok, get ready for the rant:

So we slept together. Ok, big deal. So he wasn’t great at it. Ok, big deal. I didn’t bad mouth him to anyone. I was even willing to let him try again sober, which HE suggested, not me. I can understand him being embarrassed. What I cannot understand is him treating me like I’m not there. Seriously? Fucking rude. If I can be nice to him, smile at him, and keep my mouth shut, the least he could do would be to do the same. A simple, “Hey, how are you doing” would have been nice. Or even a “sup” and a head jerk.

Am I overreacting? It was a bit of a blow to the ego, I’ll admit, but there’s just something wrong with the whole thing.

According to my mom he’s this really sweet guy that just picks the wrong girls. He’s really weary about involvement because an ex really broke his heart. According to my friends at the party that know him, he’s a really sweet guy that’s looking for something serious.

Ha. Really? I’ll bet he found that serious thing he was looking for in Miss Pre-Teen’s pants.

That wasn’t nice. Gawd bless him and his erectile dysfunction.

Anyway, I finally left a bit worse for wear. Unfortunately my car got stuck in the mud and had to be pulled out. I’d let my cousin borrow it a bit earlier to pick up a friend down the road and when he returned, he decided to leave the sunroof cracked open and sink my front end into a marsh. Nice. In hindsight I probably shouldn’t have screamed “goddamn it” repeatedly at him out my window. I’m sure I looked a bit psychotic.

On a positive note, that girl will probably be out of commission for the next week. That man is like the Edward Scissor Hands of the clitoris. Ouch.

Note:
I was going to make Erin’s video blog when I got home from the party, but trust me, it wasn’t really the best idea. Now it looks like I might have to do it sober. The horror!

V-I-C-T-O-R-Y

Erin, my cheeky little friend over at Blogging is for Dorks, is having a contest.

You guys know I'm the competitive sort, right? Well you're about to come face to face with the madness. It's going down.

Basically all I have to do is make an asshole of myself on my own blog (which I already do every few days anyway) and I'm in the running to win this awesome owl. That's right: Owl.

There are several things I can do to win, but one of them is to perform a song for Erin. On video. AND she didn't say I couldn't change the words to some awesome rap song and talk about how luscious her booty is or how she likes the fellas with gold in dey mouth. AND she didn't say I had to be sober. AND AND she didn't say I couldn't have backup singers.

Click HERE to read all about Erin's contest and the various ways to win.

You should all do it. I welcome the competition.
(If you beat me, I'll busta cap in your ass.)

Oddity, plus one.

I’ve been told plenty of times, past and present, that I’m “odd”.

As a child, being different was largely frowned upon, or so it seemed to me.

I wasn’t the girl that carried around a smartly dressed doll, mothering it and dreaming of the day the stork would bring her a live one. I didn’t nurture anything but my waistline. Plants died on my watch, pets were known to miss meals and plastic arms and legs were often found sticking out of a freshly dug grave, tattooed with Bic pen symbols best left unexplained. My female counterparts were always a bit more caring, a bit more responsible and subdued.

I was a bookish and insolent child, a winning combination. I preferred interacting with adults because I found them more accepting. I didn’t generally like other children, whether they were male or female, and they couldn’t often tolerate me.

I never was one to keep things simple. If I found myself in a confrontation that didn’t require I run away to avoid injury or the unwilling confiscation of my snacks, I’d purposefully make things worse (a regular heckler in the making). Rather than use an insult they’d understand like “your mom”, I’d use “that hag your (air quotes) biological father was fornicating with”, leaning forward as I air quoted with an Oh Snap! expression on my face. By gawd they might not be able to define biological or fornicating, but they could guess at hag, and air quotes were the Elementary school equivalent of a dodge ball to the genitals. Thus I ended up turning a simple argument into the very confrontation I would usually attempt to run from in the first place. But man, I loved air quotes.

I did have a few things in common with the rest of the germ breeding population, though. Imagination was one. What child didn’t like to play pretend?

While they were imagining hitting home runs, walking down aisles in white, cooing at a real live newborn or becoming a ninja turtle, I was imagining far more intricate, often strange, scenarios. A lot of it was due to reading. I didn’t watch nearly as much television as the average kid.

I used to imagine that I was Hester Prynne from The Scarlet Letter (a slightly altered version, of course). I would walk around the house in a sedate manner, quietly accepting the coldness of my family as my due. I considered her a martyr, just like myself, a slave to the indignities of social compliance. It was all very odd, I’m sure. I never actually told my parents that I was pretending to be a modern day version of a fictional adulterer. They probably just thought I’d eaten something that didn’t agree with me.

I also imagined I was an English girl. I had an affinity for accents even then and would make an effort to speak and think in an English accent at the oddest of times. (I was never very good at Irish, though I loved it too.) I would have long, random conversations with imaginary people and say thing like “jolly good” or “bloody” this or that. My cousin once caught me at it and I had to bribe him with a book report to keep his mouth shut. I could just hear the insults of my peers had he ever told. “Lookit, chee tanks cheez ferin.” (That’s southern for: Check it out, she thinks she’s foreign.)

Another thing we had in common: I was gullible.

Children are gullible creatures, no matter how smart they are. If you can’t recall being duped when you were a child, I suspect you’ve had head trauma. My spawn is only 4 ¾ years old and I’ve tricked her enough to last a lifetime, yet have no intention of stopping.

My Papa was the most prominent duper during my younger years. He could make me believe the most ludicrous stories simply because he was Papa. He was very earnest, but in the most visibly insincere way. When I watch him pull the wool over my kid’s (and my cousin’s kid’s) eyes now, I think, “How the fuck did I ever believe that fat bastard?”

He used to tell me that my mother wore combat boots, holey underwear, and didn’t love Jesus. I was very upset about it all until my grandmother (on the other side) explained that if Jesus didn’t love anybody it would be Papa and my father’s uncouth side of the family, not any daughter of hers. I was placated and resolved to set him straight when he decided to heckle me again. He did, of course, and I gave him the spiel my grandmother gave me. He laughed uproariously and went on about his business.

A few days later I was watching my mom get dressed. I was bouncing up and down on the bed, going on about something or other, when she pulled a pair of underwear out of her drawer. They were full of holes. I stopped bouncing. She pulled out another pair, looked them over, shrugged and pulled them on. They had a tiny hole on one cheek.

“You have holey underwear!”

“Yeah...so?”

I immediately burst into tears. I was horrified that my Papa knew my mother had holey underwear. Hell, I was horrified that she would wear them, much less show them to anyone. I was also sure that she was going to hell. While we hadn’t gone through our “church phase” yet, my grandmother was still a strict driller of the “you could go to hell” speech. And if my mom had holey underwear that meant she didn’t love Jesus, and that meant she was going to hell.

When I explained all that to my mom, she laughed so hard she cried. When I went to my Papa’s house (next door) shortly thereafter, she must have goaded him into saying something behind my back because he immediately shouted, “Hey artist! You know what?”

Sour expression firmly in place I replied, “What?”

“Yer mama wears holey underwear, combat boots, and don’t love Jesus.”

“BUT HOW DOES HE KNOW, MAMA”, I wailed.

My Papa still delights in telling that story to people. In truth, he delights in telling any story that makes me sound like an ass or an idiot.

Anyway, now that I’m an adult and a parent, I find I haven’t changed as much as I expected I would.

I’m still insolent, probably more so. Children still can’t stand me and the feeling is still completely mutual. I still have a tendency to egg on an argument when it’s not in my best interests. I’m still not quite the feminine nurturer I hear you’re supposed to turn into once you’ve reproduced. I’m still odd.

There’s one thing, though, that I realized has changed. Where I once was innocent, I am now guilty.

Because oddness is obviously hereditary.

*While I do air quotes, she does blowfish face. We're quite the team.

The Write Stuff

Things have been relatively boring around here lately. Busy, but not in an interesting way. I can’t be interesting all the time, yet I have to post something. It’s been since last Thursday. If I don’t post often you might not come back. Right? Cue needy music.

Sometimes it’s hard to post because my blog is a closely guarded secret. Until recently the only person that knew about it was my best friend Rachel. I knew I could trust her not to go looking for it if I didn’t want her to, so I told her about it and let her read a few things I’d written. She wasn’t very impressed with my writing, but I didn’t take it personally. She’s very hard to impress and one of the reasons I like her is that she doesn’t do or say things just to make me feel better. I might not agree with her, but I value her honesty.

Things are changing around here though. My sister, mom, and aunt are now all aware that I’m blogging. The only person that I’m really bothered by is my mom. She has this habit of making fun of me and I wish I could say I was immune to it by now, but I’m not. It’s easy to be confident about little things like the way I look wearing blue or how well I do my job, but when you’re talking about my dream it’s a toss up. Some days are better than others.

I prefer to type because it keeps up with my thought process, but occasionally I’ll write down post ideas or random things in a spiral notebook. It drives my mother insane. Every time she sees it she says, “Oh! It’s the secret notebook again! Let me see it. Are you writing about me? Oooh it’s a secret!” I’d probably let her read it if she could be an impartial judge, but she can’t. She would read it as an extension of me, and she can’t often stand me, so I don’t see the point.

I’m not misguided enough to think that everyone will like the way I write or appreciate my brand of humor. I know for a fact that my mom just wouldn’t “get it”. She would think it vulgar, tasteless, and self indulgent. Constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated, but she just isn’t capable.

When she found out about my blog she said, “Why are you wasting your time writing crap on the internet? Write a book.”

I could’ve given her a list of reasons why, but I didn’t. She makes me feel defensive and I don’t want to be defensive about this.

Her next statement was, “You better not be writing shit about me on there.”

Snort. Ok.

If I ever do write a book she’d better get used to the idea of being in the limelight. I’ve pretty much decided that I’d like to write a humorous collection of short stories about my life and those in it.

Then there’s my sister.

She was nosing around and found a hand written post. According to her she doesn’t care about finding my site, she’d rather read my diaries. She’s welcome to them. They’re too magniloquent to hold her interest for long, I imagine. Besides, I tell her most of my “exciting” news when we’re having one of our sisterly bonding sessions. I’m beginning to love those more and more, even if I occasionally have to hear something that makes me cringe and/or want to sock her boyfriend in the nutsack. She’s surprisingly supportive of my blogging, writing, etc. She thinks it’s good for me.

However, she seems to be under the impression that blogland is an undercover dating thing. She made the comment “maybe you could find someone on there”. I got a good laugh out of that. I didn’t tell her that the only offers I’ve had for anything have been from women. Not that I’m complaining, of course. I’m not using this as a means to hook up with anyone, male or female. If I wanted to use the internet for dating, I’d join a website specifically for that (but they kind of freak me out, so I'd likely never do that).

I also didn’t tell her just how involved I’ve gotten with this. When I started I never thought of it as a way to make friends or gain support. I started because I was bored and just wanted to write. Once I began getting real feedback and interacting with some of you, I got a taste of what it would feel like to be what I’ve always wanted. I don’t presume to know what if feels like to be an accomplished author, but I would find it difficult to believe that they don’t need validation too.

I know for a fact that I’ve gotten better since I started. I’ve gotten more and more critical of my writing and consequently, I’ve improved. Though I know that and can admit it unashamedly, I’ve come to crave the comments and compliments from my readers. It’s a crutch I’m ok walking with for now.

Then, last but certainly not least, there’s my Aunt.

She began looking for my blog, at first without my knowledge. She’s a nosy sort, but she gets it honest (as do I). When she couldn’t find it she asked for the URL. At first I refused. I thought she would surely go back and tell the rest of my family about all the crazy shit I write. Then she switched tactics and just asked that I email her a post or two.

Naturally I realized the possibilities there. With an actual post it would be much easier for her to search keywords and find the whole blog. But confessed addict of validation that I am, I emailed her two posts anyway.

She liked them and asked for “access” to my site again. I confess I found it a tad amusing, a little terrifying, but more flattering than anything. After thinking about it for a bit, I decided that I would go over all of my archives and if there was something I didn’t want her to know, I’d remove it, then give her the URL. So if you notice some of my archives missing, that would be why. I didn’t even really mind deleting them. I’ve been doing this for a long time, after all. It’s not like starting completely fresh (which I would hate to do), it’s more like revamping. I think I needed to do it and after I started, I realized I didn’t much care if she knew more secrets than I had originally intended to share.

Now I have a reader that’s capable of bitch slapping me for writing something untoward, but it won’t have much of an effect. Don’t think that her reading will stop my open book policy. I warned her before she showed up that there might be things on here that could possibly make her uncomfortable. If she now knows more about my sexual activities than she’d like, it’s her own damn fault.

She’s had “access” for about a week now and so far there’s been no backlash. She might be alright after all. She thinks I’m funny, which isn’t really news to me. Of course I’m funny, Auntie.

Everyone say hello and welcome to my Aunt, will you? *Waves*

Anyway, as for the rest of you...

I’d like to say thank you for reading, commenting, lurking, stalking, and following. It means more than you know. Unless you’re being, you know, creepy about it.

Regularly scheduled nonsense will resume shortly.

Relax, don't do it...

I’m not crazy about the whole diary thing. I know I said I’d post more, but we’ve been down this road before with the whole promises thing. I’m not good at promises. I cross my fingers a lot.

I’m also not good at doctor’s appointments. (Oh yeah, you knew it was coming.)

It doesn’t matter if they’re regular physicals, sick visits, or “hey dude, I just need a work excuse” visits. I’m the queen of awkward doctor/patient relations. It’s mostly because I’m nervous. What if I get diagnosed with something life threatening? What if there’s an electrical fire and I’m trapped in the room clutching my paper placemats and running around in circles with my ass hanging out? Then the fire people show up and hose me down because I’m hysterical and it turns out there wasn’t a fire, some lady just lit a match in the bathroom next door? You just never know.

As some of you may recall, my last doctor’s appointment didn’t go so well. I seem to have this knack for finding physicians without a shred of bedside manner. And yet I keep going back for more. I suppose if they were nice and normal I wouldn’t have anything to write about.

Tuesday morning I woke up really late. I ended up having to take the kid to the doctor, which took me until after noon. My appointment was scheduled for 3 o’clock so that gave me about 2 ½ hours of work time. Nice. Totally not planned, but nice.

By 2:45 I was cursing myself. I should have brought regular clothes to change into. Pantyhose are a bitch. What if the doctor tried to come in before I finished undressing? I’m not graceful. I could be hopping around the room pulling on one of the legs or lying on the floor and yanking on the feet part, which really only makes them stretch out, not come off, but I’m stubborn like that.

Their office is in the building connected to mine so it took me all of two minutes to get there. As doctor’s offices go it’s really nice, but I’ve noticed a trend. Vagina physicians always have nice waiting rooms – muted lighting, plush furniture, calming music. I imagine they told the interior decorator, “Make it look like we have no intention of torturing them with fake, expandable penises and slathering their nether regions with a gallon of lube. And throw in a lot of Jesus stuff just so they don’t think we’re perverts.” Well, I’m on to them. It’ll take more than classical music and pictures with scripture to make me comfortable about laying out my bits under florescent lighting.

After I filled out my yearly checklist form (Do you smoke or drink? Are you depressed or anxious? That kind of thing) a nurse called me back.

She held open the door for me to pass by then let it slam behind her. Ah, the ominous sound of entrapment!

“How are you today?”

I gave her a smile that clearly said, “Even though I’m smiling and nodding, I really don’t want to be here. You know this, I know this, don’t ask me about it.”

“I’m well, thanks. How are you?”

Again, clearly what I was saying was, “Stop talking to me. I know you’re thinking about me naked. Lesbian.”

“Good. Come on in here and sit down. Let’s take your blood pressure.”

“Ok.” I shuffled into the herding room. You know what I’m talking about? It’s not an exam room, it’s an open area with a lot of medical looking things and stuff where they brand you, squeeze you, and watch you pee through a little metal door in the wall. (Privacy, ha!) They shuffle them through all day: squeeze, poke, push, peek, and shoo out. Moo.

“Which arm would you like me to draw blood from?”

“Neither.”

She laughed. “Do you mind if I draw it from this one while the machine is taking your blood pressure?”

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

Clearly, what I was saying was, “Look bitch, just do your job and touch me as little as possible while you’re doing it. FUCK look at that needle!”

“Are you ok”, she asked when I turned my head away.

“Yep. Don’t like blood. Don’t like needles.”

She laughed again. “Relax....”

To distract myself I started to hum: “Relax, don’t do it, when you wanna go to it. Relax, don’t do it, when you wanna cooooome.”

I belatedly realized that it probably wasn’t the best choice of song. It was going to be stuck in my head for the remainder of the appointment. See? Like I said: awkward.

She asked questions while she drained the blood from my arm. “You’re here for your yearly, is that right?”

“Yes. And can you please make sure you do a full STD panel?”

“The doctor has to approve that, but I’ll note it on your chart.”

“Humph.”

With these uppity, exclusive vagina doctors you have to ASK to be tested during your yearly. Isn’t that a crock of shit? Then they look at you like you’re The Outbreak monkey and probably go off and whisper to each other, “Yeah, that one’s been around. What a whore! Better make it a double glover, Gladys!”

I mean, when I was younger and going to the health department, so no one would know I was...busy, all you had to say was, “Fill her up!” Then two weeks later you’d get a phone call saying, “You’re clean. See you again in 6?” With these bastards you have to whisper it and walk around with your head down like you’re ashamed for being conscientious about sexual health. Ridiculous.

When she was done I was herded out to wait in a small alcove right across from the doctor’s office door. There was a woman sitting in front of me reading a health magazine and a woman sitting to my right with a laptop. Vaginas everywhere.

I could see my doctor sitting in his office, slouched in his big chair with his feet stretched out under his desk, doing gawd knows what on his computer. Lazy bastard.

Another nurse escorted me to an exam room and closed the door. She was a...much older lady, but very friendly and chipper. Of course that irritated me. I didn’t feel there was really anything to be chipper about. Who likes looking at vaginas all day? Perverts and hippies, that’s who.

She handed me the placemats and instructed me to take everything off. I was debating on asking if I could just borrow some scissors and cut a hole in the crotch of my pantyhose so I didn’t have to struggle with them. In the end I decided not to because they were my last black pair. I can be practical on occasion.

I stripped down, unfolded my placemats and climbed onto the exam table. By the time the doctor came in I’d managed to tear two holes in my boob placemat from tugging on it the wrong way. You’d think they could afford better material, what with all the muted lighting and guilt framed photos of "flower petals".

“Hello there. How are you today?” He took a seat on the black, rolling stool in front of the table.

“I’m ok.”

“Good, good. We’re doing your yearly today, is that right?”

“That’s right. Unless you’d like to make this a monthly thing.”

“I doubt that’s necessary. Now then!” He fired a few questions at me about family history and previous medications. Then, “Are you sexually active?”

“Only with myself. Lately I mean. Heh. It’s a jungle out there, ya know!”

“And it says here you want a full test panel, same as last year?”

“The very same.”

To his credit he didn’t give me the Judgy McJudgerson face like the nurses. I thought he might have actually been a bit pleased about my healthy choices, but it’s hard to tell with people that speak in monotone.

“Alright then, let’s listen to you”, he said. “Big breaths.” He put the stethoscope on my back. I always feel silly when they tell you to take big breaths, because I was probably going to do it anyway. It’s like common sense. So when they actually say it, I feel I should try that much harder. So I was breathing in and out a bit more forcefully than normal and I probably sounded like a bit of phone sex gone wrong.

I also just knew he was staring at the crack of my ass. If I were him, I’d be staring. It’s there. People stare at things like that, doctor or not.

“Alright. Lie back.”

I did, lifting my right arm and laying it over my head. He flipped up that side of the placemat and started kneading my boob. I don’t think you’re supposed to look them in the face when they’re doing that, but I wanted him to know that I wasn’t embarrassed at all. Nope. I stared at him, wide eyed, waiting on him to stare back.

Usually he’s not a small talker. The guy is a total in-and-out merchant. But he started chatting, and I think it’s likely due to the attempted staring contest that he was losing. Ha!

“So, what do you think about this weather”, he asked. Knead, knead, knead, knead.

“It’s hell on the nipples! Ha, ha, ha!”

Nothing. “Lift your other arm please.” Knead, knead, knead, knead.

He talked a bit more about the weather and I gave a generic answer here and there.

“I’ll be right back”, he said.

He went out to fetch his nurse for the fun stuff. I stared at the poster on the ceiling of a field of flowers with this bit of scripture: “Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad. Let the fields be jubilant and everything in them.”

What does that even mean? Is that supposed to be comforting? Distracting? When your gynecologist is sticking things in your vagina, is that really a time to be thinking about Jesus and jubilant fields? Is it alluding to being fruitful or something? Because I don’t want to be fruitful.

He came back in, towing his ancient nurse with him. As instructed I scooted to the end of the table and placed my feet in the stirrups on either side of his head. I thought about accidentally on purpose having my foot slip out and slap him in the face. That made me laugh...on the inside.

He went on about his business, cranking that stupid tool open. I hate the click, click, click noise it makes. Like a wind up vagina, you expect your bottom half to start waddling off the table with out you, clacking up and down.

Then he said something to his nurse I couldn’t hear, she leaned in and replied and they laughed. HE LAUGHED. I’ve never heard him laugh. Ever. At first I was shocked.

Then I was irritated. How dare they laugh about something I wasn’t privy to when I was the one being spread like a buttered roll?

Then I was horrified. What the fuck are they laughing about? Is my vagina comical? What’s funny down there? Oh mother of gawd.

He finished the examination in silence then left me to get dressed. As I hopped off the table I thought, “He was probably laughing because he used almost a whole bottle of lube on purpose, just to irritate me. Blech.”

After spending an ungodly amount of time struggling into my pantyhose (fuck I hate them) I went to his office.

“Every thing looks good”, he said.

“Sure it does.”

“Yes”, he replied looking at me oddly over the tops of his glasses.

“Great.”

“We’ll send you a card in the mail with the rest of your test results. Do you have any questions?”

“Just one.” I fixed him with my “I’m serious” stare.

“Yes?”

“What were you laughing about?”

He looked surprised. “Laughing....Oh! Just office talk.” He smiled.

Something was wrong with the man: Laughing, smiling, making small talk.

“Mmmph”, I said looking at him with suspicion.

He shooed me out of his office with a prescription for birth control. “I’ll see you next year then.”

“Oh, you bet.”

When I got home that night I went to the bathroom. I was going to investigate. No way were they laughing at “office talk” and if I had a funny looking vagina, that’s the kind of thing I’d like to know.

I grabbed a hand mirror and arranged myself accordingly. And that’s when I saw it.

That morning in the shower I was in a hurry and I cut myself shaving, like I always do. This time it was on my upper inner thigh. I’d pasted a sparkly bandaid with “YOU ROCK” written across it in big letters over the cut and forgotten it was there.

The fucker probably told the whole office that I was trying to send him a message via bandaid. Probably thinks I have a thing for him. I've been trying to get him to laugh, to just crack a smile, for years and in the end all it took was a sticker.

Maybe I can make it our special game. Next time I can use one of these:

Dear Diary - Part one

In case you’ve failed to notice, embarrassing posts are a trend around here.

I don’t usually mind writing or talking about my sexual exploits, my accident prone nature, or my family’s odd habits. Hell, I’ve even made videos.

But there’s one thing I’ve been shying away from...and that’s posting old diary entries. There are several other bloggers that have made this quite popular and their entries are hilarious. For example go here.

However, as far as I’m concerned, my diary entries are far more embarrassing than any accidental flatulence sex story or recording myself drunk on a webcam. I want to be a writer (Who doesn’t, right?) so somehow posting my horrific adolescent musings and ridiculous prattle seems a bit like shooting myself in the foot. Not only that, but those diaries do nothing to show how badass I was in real life. Seriously...badass.

Against my better judgment I’ve decided to post them anyway. All this week (unless something fulfilling happens in my vagina violation appointment tomorrow afternoon) I’ll be copying excerpts from my various diaries and adding a note or two. Enjoy...or cringe. I’ll be doing the latter.


April 15, 1998 (age 12)

Dear Diary,

Guess what? I had a terrible day today. I sprained my wrist. It’s in a holder thingy. I didn’t have to eat lunch at school today either!! Yes! Actually, it wasn’t all that bad a day after all. Anyway, I ate a Chick-fil-A sandwich and a rice crispy treat. Well, anyway, I gotta go!

(Lots of doodling and bubble letters spelling awful catch phrases from Clueless.)

Notes: Ok this was a really short one, but it has a point. I’ve been obsessed with Chick-fil-A for years. Also, I was girly freak of nature...like, totally...but anyway! I want to grab my 12 year old self and stab her in the left hand so she can’t write anymore bullshit.


April 17, 1998

Dear Diary,

They canceled the dance because of the weather, can you believe that! What a crock! J.R. gave me a hug today! He looks sooo...good!

Anyway, my dad is really going off on my mom! Well, I asked him if I could spend the night with C and he told me no. Well I was kinda disappointed, but I just looked over at him and he tells me he will kick my A (A is in a circle) if I don’t quit giving him dirty looks! How mean can you get! I mean he is really p.o.ed about something. Well, gotta go.

(No doodling today.)

Notes: In typical teenage fashion most of my entries were either about how awesome and like, so cute some guy is or about how much my dad sucks at life.


April 21, 1998

Dear Diary,

Sometimes I think my father has not one single bit of understanding in his entire body! He won’t let me sell t-shirts to raise money to save a rainforest. He just doesn’t get it. I don’t care if the school is trying to get money. I want to do this cause it will be fun. He never listens to my opinion, all he ever cares about is what HE has to say! He doesn’t care about my interests at all. Anyway, I gotta go.

(No doodling today either.)

Notes: Yes, I was a geek that wanted to sell rainforest t-shirts because it was “fun”. Sigh. Even worse, I remember exactly what those t-shirts looked like and they were full of squiggles and neon colors. Absolutely horrendous. I bought two and wore them whenever he would take me places, just to piss him off.

I was afraid to write many curse words in my diary for fear of discovery, but I remember him saying, “The rainferest (that’s the accent) kin go fuck izself!” Oh daddy, how I miss our father / daughter talks about the environment. And...Psychology: “Don’t do as I do, ya do as I say do, hear? I brought ya inta this world. I can take ya out and make another un just like ya.”


January 25, 1999 (age 13)

Dear Diary,

Have you ever noticed how people make up illusions and really actually believe that they are a part of them? Well, C has this warped notion that she is in love with CM. I think it’s pretty idiotic. We are just too young to be in love just yet. Anyway, I don’t intend to do anything of that sort, fall in love, until I’m done with everything I want to do. Like travel.

Have you ever noticed how parents want us to grow up and be mature at such an early age? I do. I’m just as much entitled to have childish fun as the next person! If I so much as laugh and my dad doesn’t feel like hearing it, I get yelled at! I’m sick and tired of it! Anyway, I guess school couldn’t be more boring! If it wasn’t for Shana, Amy, and Brandi I’d go insane! School sucks! I hate school! Well anyway, I gotta go. C-ya.

Notes: No more doodling. Obviously I was depressed. Why else would I use 50 thousand exclamation points? For future reference, “C” is my cousin that lived next door and the bane of my teenage existence. I was a young, retarded Dr. Phil in the making. Childish fun though, not sure what that’s about...maybe making out?

May 10, 1999

Dear Diary,

We had a softball game with the church tonight. I don’t remember who it was we played, but we lost 28 to 1. We’re a new team, so it will take time and patience to win.

Anyway, our skit is tomorrow, the one in English class on the play of Romeo and Juliet. I hope I do good.

Guess that? Some of the church people have all said I’m a good singer. I tried to be and I’m still trying. Maybe something good will come out of it. I love singing, especially slow, sweet songs. Have you heard of that new singer Ricky Martin? Man, he’s hot!! He can sing really good too. Mom says he’s gay, but I don’t think so.

Anyway, I was thinking about a message that someone presented at church and I started to wonder why it’s so hard to be good, ya know, Christian like. Maybe I’m doing something wrong. Well, gotta go.

Notes: That 28 to 1 score had nothing to do with me. I was busy picking flowers in the outfield. Literally.

This was during my parent’s church phase. Interestingly enough, it was with the youth group that I got in the most trouble: making out behind the church and at the youth leader’s house etc. My desperation to be cool was at war with my fear of the preacher’s message of damnation. Christian girls don’t get felt up at a youth lock in. Oh, the torment of it all! “Please Jesus, don’t send me to hell! Amen. P.S. – Do hand jobs fall under “fornication”?”

I thought I was going to be the next pop superstar. I would sing in the mirror with the shower running in the background because it “sounded better”, clutching a hairbrush and shoving my glasses back up my nose every 10 seconds. You don’t even want to know what kind of moves I pulled out with my Ricky Martin tape. Oooh Snap!


July 13, 1999

Dear Diary,

I’ve been away at my Aunt Donna’s house and a lot has happened since then. Well, I went to Aunt D’s on Sunday night. On Monday me, Addy, Aunt D, and Aunt D’s bud Glen went to see “Never Been Kissed”. It was pretty cool. During the week we rented movies, talked on the phone, and drank wine coolers. I talked to a bunch of Addy’s guy friends, but they’re only 12. We met two of them at the movie theatre when we went to see “Wild Wild West”.

Addy’s brother B came on Wednesday night. We stayed up late and watched movies. Addy went to bed about 2:30, but B and I didn’t go to bed until like 4:30!!!(Hint, Hint!) All we did was kiss and mess around a little so it wasn’t that bad...sort of. I got mad at him the next day cause he was being a real jerk.

Anyway, C and A went to the beach while I was gone and they met these big, hunky marine guys. They were like 19 and up to 27. One of the tried to do C while she was drunk. C got drunk, she makes me so sick. She kissed two of them.

By the way, I don’t think I told you about Pastor S. The church people were wanting to fire him so he resigned. That totally sucks! That guy was the best pastor in the whole world. Sure I’ve had my quirks lately, I haven’t been devoted at all, but Pastor S pointed me in the right direction. All I gotta do is take a step. Ever since Pastor S resigned though, we haven’t been back to church. I’m gonna miss everybody a lot.

We are going to Carowinds on Thursday and I guess it will be fun. I can’t wait to see what Tony’s friend that he is bringing looks like. (I am not shallow! I just like cute guys! Give me a break! At least I’m not going after a 24 year old Marine like C, The Ice Queen!) Sorry, I had to get that out. I love C a lot. She’s always gonna be there though, whether it’s in a good or bad way. I have a picture of me and her about to go to the farewell dance on my radio in a frame. I wonder what she’ll say about it?? Well, I gotta go. It’s late.

Notes: I have by this time decided I’m far too old to doodle hearts and flowers and write “Whatever”, “Cool”, and “For Sure” in the margins. It’s not much, but it’s an improvement.

B would be the first guy on the list in this post. Ah, I was crazy about that disgusting child-whore.

I found out later that Pastor S actually stole a lot of sound and computer equipment. Thinking about him now, I realize he was probably on cocaine. He would shake your hand really fast when you spoke with him, pumping it up and down so hard that by the time you managed to get away, someone had to pop your arm back into the socket. He could never remember my name, but he sure remembered my Papa’s. “Hey DICK! How ya doin’ today DICK!” Pump pump pump pump pump the arm. “Thanks for the donation DICK! Praise Jesus, DICK!”

C and I have always had a love/hate relationship. She was always prettier, thinner, and more popular. She delighted in making fun of me, but no matter what she did I kept going back for more. It’s true what they say about kids doing anything for acceptance. Things are very, very different now. And anyway, everyone knows it’s the smart, funny one that makes it in life. Right? Right.

More importantly, if there had been a competition between us for: Best vagina...I win. Most awesome one liners...I win. Uses words correctly in sentences every time as opposed to never...I win. Had orgasm first and KNEW what it was...I win.


That’s all for today. The suspense is killing you, I’m sure. But ya know, I like, gotta go!

When everything turns to shit

Usually when I say “I’m very busy and important” I’m being ridiculous, but lately it’s been completely true. I’ve had meetings constantly about this new database and somehow I’ve become the go-to girl. I’m not under any illusion that this is because I’m smart. It’s likely because no one else wants to deal with it and they know they can push it off on me and it will get done. That and they like sitting in my office and staring at my cleavage.

A lot of these meetings are sprung on me at the last minute and I hate that. I’m a bit sporadic with my appearance so if I don’t know about a meeting ahead of time I could come to work in yesterday’s touched up makeup and jogging pants. This, evidently, is not acceptable anymore now that I’m the go-to girl. No more waking up at six and running out the door 30 minutes later. Now I’m back to my 4:30am alarm setting and it sucks like a hooker with a quota.

I had several days notice on yesterday’s meeting so I was able to dress appropriately. I chose my outfit carefully on the off chance that, this time, the cute consultant would get some balls and wave a green flag. I was also hoping he would find the two Tweety Bird bandaids on my ankle and knee endearing rather than juvenile. I’m a very accident prone shaver. Very.

I teetered into work in heels that were half a size too big. I was convinced that with a little adjustment they could be the next “mama’s getting laid tonight” shoes. I looked good. It’s just a shame I had to walk like a candidate for hip replacement.

The meeting ended up lasting three hours and was very informative, though not in the conventional sense. It turns out the cute consultant is married with two small children. It’s the other eh *shoulder shrug* looking guy that’s single. Someone mixed up their statistics. However, this someone didn’t mix up signals and is pretty sure that the married one has been flirting. Or this someone could have a complex and think that every man she meets is flirting with her. Guilty until proven innocent. I know its backasswards.

Anyway, there went that idea. If they aren’t married, they’re gay. If they aren’t gay, they’re creepy stalkers with small penises. Moving on…

That put a bit of a damper on my day, but I’m pretty resilient. By the time I left work I was in good spirits. I picked up the kid and we sang along with the radio all the way home.

Getting out of the car every evening is a bit of a struggle. I’ve got my purse, the kid’s school bag, jackets, cups, the kid’s artwork, and any number of other odds and ends depending on the day’s events.

I was juggling everything in my arms and trying to put the key in the lock while the kid held open the screen door, standing back a bit. As soon as I pushed it open our 130lb yellow lab flew past my legs, making me stagger on my heels.

I looked after him, a confused expression on my face. Why on earth had he been locked up in the house all day? Then I took two wobbly steps through the door and figured it out.

The smell was like a right hook to the jaw. I almost went down. My knees buckled and I might have said “motherfucker”. The kid followed me in and as I threw everything down on the table she took a few steps past me into the dark house, fingers pinching her nose. “It smells weally weally bad Mama.”

“Stay back”, I said, pulling her toward the door. “You stand right here while I figure out where it is.”

I flipped on the light in the dining room and stared at a large, spread out puddle of what looked to be vomit. There were pieces of leaves, rocks, and chunks of something hard and black…like vomit trail mix. I glared at it, crouching down and taking a reluctant sniff. Nope. Not the source, but of course I hadn’t really thought it was.

That’s when I noticed that my bedroom door was open. My bedroom door is never open unless I’m home. I shut it every morning because the cats will park their hairy asses all over my clean laundry that I should put up, but don’t.

As I approached my bedroom the smell got stronger. I held my breath, flipped the light switch and sure enough, there was the fucking source. Shit. Shit. Shit. All over the floor. But not normal piles of stinky dog shit. Hell no. This was diarrhea dog shit. Thick, brown puddles of diarrhea covering entirely too much of my carpet.

I immediately gagged and backed away from the door. The kid was asking questions and yapping at me, but I just waved my hands at her in a shooing manner. Then I lost it.

“OH MY EFFING GAWD! (gag) THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR! (gag) OH I’M GOING TO HURL! (gag) FUCKING (gag) DOG!”

I danced around the kitchen while I screeched, my heels tapping on the floor. I grabbed my cell phone and called my mom, who didn’t answer. Then I tried my sister who also didn’t answer. I needed to avoid the mess and I needed to blame it on someone other than the dog.

I sent the kid to the living room to watch TV while I scouted around for more. I found another crime scene in the playroom. Not diarrhea, but massive piles. I mean massive. They looked like deflated footballs. More gagging and screaming followed.

While I was pacing and hyperventilating in the hallway, thinking vile thoughts about the dog, my sister called back. “THERE IS SHIT IN MY FLOOR!”

“Well I didn’t do it”, she replied indignantly.

“I KNOW you didn’t DO it. Someone left my door open and…”

“I didn’t do that either”, she said.

“Do you understand what’s happening here? I’m practically breaking out in hives! I’m having trouble breathing! I even threw up a little in my mouth! I need you to co…”

CLICK.

Realizing I was going to have to deal with the shit all by myself, whether I wanted to or not, I headed to the laundry room. I dug through the cabinets and armed myself with a new roll of paper towels, carpet cleaner, old cloths, and air freshener. I layered five plastic grocery bags together and started hunting for a pair of rubber gloves.

I had to settle for a pair of bright orange gardening gloves with white grippy dots all over the palms and fingers. I put my hair in a clip, pulled on the gloves, and walked slowly toward my room.

I held my breath and walked in, tearing off a huge wad of paper towels. I had to hike up my skirt to squat down. I was afraid I would go toppling over because of my thin heels, but I refused to take them off just in case my bare feet somehow made contact with the muck. Gagging and cursing the entire time, I threw the first wad in the bags and took off out the door.

And that’s how it went for an ENTIRE hour. Pick up, gag, run out, gag gag gag, cuss, scream, dance in place…and repeat. I looked like Rocky, psyching myself up, pounding the air with my fists. When it came time to scrub the carpet my feet were killing me and my head was pounding. I dumped cleaner all over the floor and tried to figure out how I was going to scrub it without falling over.

The only way was to get on my knees.

And that’s how my sister found me: On all fours with my skirt rutched up, ass sticking out, heels in the air, intermittently spraying air freshener while I scrubbed and cussed at the floor like a deranged person.

After the first few minutes of her taunting I wished I’d taken a gigantic deflated football turd and transferred it to her room. I told her just that while she was lightning candles all over the house. She was not amused.

I had to take a 15 minute break to recuperate before cleaning the second room. Then I went through the same process all over again. On one of my mad dashes out the door to breathe my sister was standing in the kitchen.

“I’m hungry”, she said.

I stared at her in disgust.

“What?”

Later that night I was lying on the couch watching TV with mom. They’d let the dog back in, much to my irritation, and he was crashed within reaching distance. There was a commercial on so I let my eyes drift closed for just a minute.

“What’s…oh…oh!”

That same sickening smell filled the air. The fucking dog let loose a series of farts, each one polluting the air far too close to my head. I promptly jumped up and ran for the bathroom, gagging, while my mom fell off the other couch laughing.

After I finished throwing up I returned to the living room, ashen faced and with tissues shoved up each nostril. “Iz nwat punny. I’m squeamish.”

“PFFFFTRRRRFFFFT”, said the dog’s ass.

“Classic”, Mom wheezed, trying to pinch her nose and laugh at the same time.

The kid stuck her head out of her playroom.

“Mom”, she said.

“What honey?”

“It still smells like shit in here.”


*The criminal, Skeebo, seems to show some remorse. Refused to pose for his picture and elected to hide under the table in shame instead.*