Common thread found between commericals and hysterics

It started like every other day.

I woke up late, rolled out of bed, and walked face first into the closet door. A bellowed “GODDAMIT MOTHERFUCKER” sent one of the cats scurrying out from underneath my bed.

I stumbled bear like out of my room and into the kitchen, eyes forced closed by slept in contacts. I pried them open enough to grab a coffee cup, make my fix and down it in a matter of seconds.

Thirty harried minutes later I was in the car, wet hair piled atop my head and big white sunglasses covering as much of my makeup free face as possible. After only two minutes of bargaining I’d managed to have mom take the kid to school, allowing me to speed and make it to work only a minute late.

I popped my head into my boss’s office.

“Here”, I muttered.

“Well good morning to you too”, she replied with a sunny smile on her face.

“Mumble mumble fuck my life. Coffee.”

I trudged to the kitchen and pulled out a cup. The boss came in behind me.

“Meeting in an hour”, she said.

“What? I didn’t know anything about a meeting today!”

“We were able to get a few of the consultants come in to help with the new system.”

“I totally understand the new system!”

“Meeting. One hour.”

I sighed and went to my office, calling back, “Not fair.”

The next hour passed quickly. I drank my coffee, checked my email, and stared at a crack in the ceiling. I thought about bringing caulk from home and filling it in, but I wondered if you were supposed to caulk ceilings. Maybe caulk is only for walls or old, used up vaginas. That led to more pondering of an odd nature, because of course, I’m an odd person.

“They’re here”, my boss called. I heard her office door close. “Meet us in the conference room.”

“If I must”, I said.

I checked my face in the mirror and frowned. Should I have put a bandaid over that zit by my left temple? Eh, whatever. These consultants were new consultants. I didn’t care.

I gathered my papers and made my way to the conference room. The door was open and I could hear laughing and talking inside. Then, to my absolute horror, I heard his voice.

“…asked me to sit in since I’ve been working with so-in-so on…blah blah blah.”

I panicked and started to turn around. Excuses were running through my head faster than an Olympic gold medalist.

I was violently ill! I’d hide myself and my zit in the bathroom and make retching noises until they left me alone.

The kid was sick! I’d just gotten a call and I had to leave immediately.

I’d left the curling iron on and…

“Hey”, my boss said popping her head around the corner. “Come on, we’re ready to get started.”

I swallowed and turned back. Holding my head up and clutching my papers to my chest I followed her into the room.

The Suit and two other consultants looked up from the table. We exchanged pleasantries and I sat, willing myself not to look down at the table and cover my zit with my hand.

The meeting went on for an hour. I avoided his gaze, but I could feel him staring at me. When we got up to leave and everyone shook hands he approached me.

“How are you”, he asked.

“I’m well”, I replied. “How are you?”

“Great. Just busy you know.”

Laughing, one of the others came up behind him and slapped him on the back. “Tell her how you really are Suit!” He turned to me smiling. “This guy is up to his teeth in wedding plans and hating every minute of it!”

I wasn’t sure I understood. I looked up at The Suit quizzically. “Wedding plans?”

“Yeah. Me and Sarah…we’re getting married in a few months. You remember Sarah…” He trailed off awkwardly.

The other consultant was looking from him to me and I saw comprehension dawn on his face. Oh! the look said. This was the ex. The one with the kid. The one that gave him a pass to be with his best friend.

“Oh…yes…um, congratulations”, I said forcing a thin smile.

My boss and the third consultant had stopped talking and were staring at me. They were all staring at me. I was sure they were waiting on feminine hysterics…tears, shouting, or even plaintive “whys”.

They didn’t know I don’t do feminine hysterics.

“I’d better get back. I’ve got lots to do. Congratulations again.”

“Thanks”, he replied. “Hey…if you’d like I’ll send you an invitation?”

I was already half way out the door, but his words stopped me in my tracks. I turned around, astonishment written all over my face.

“Wow. Really? Would you?”

He looked sheepish. “We can still be friends.”

“I have no problem being your friend. I have a problem with you inviting me to your wedding when we broke up only a few months ago. A few months ago…when you were telling me that you were in love with me and there was nothing between you and Sarah. I have a problem with you making me say these things in front of people who’s business this isn’t and making me appear unprofessional.”

“I didn’t make you say anything”, he said indignantly.

I glanced around the room. Everyone was silent and staring.

“Please excuse me”, I said. “I apologize for making this awkward for everyone.”

I walked out, composed and in control. In my head there was a humming, but I suppressed it until I unlocked my office, shut the door, and finally…finally…screamed, “GODDAMIT MOTHERFUCKER!”

I looked around for something to throw, but realized my office was so tiny that there would be no relief had from that. I grabbed my purse and threw open my door to find my boss standing there, a look of pity on her face.

“If you need to go for a little while…”

“I need”, I said through clenched teeth.

“Where are you going?”

“To get caulk”, I said as I walked out.

“What”, I heard her say, but I was already gone.

I sat in my car and smoked three cigarettes and talked myself down from the ledge.

“You are fine. You are awesome. Your ass looks great in these pants. You didn’t want to marry him. You don’t love him. You are a strong, capable, good looking bitch and you will get laid soon.”

I blew smoke out my nose and looked at myself in the visor mirror. “AND”, I told myself loudly, “he shouts ‘YES’ when he comes! Like that woman in the Herbal Essence commercials. Who does that! Yes? YES! Yes what? Yes, I came! Yes, I win! Yes, I saved money on car insurance by switching to Geico? Who the FUCK does that?”

I nodded knowingly to myself. “They’re going to have ugly children.” Then I flipped the visor shut and drove to the hardware store.

I actually bought caulk, brought it back to my office, stood on a chair, and pumped it into the crack in my ceiling.

“THERE!” I shouted in triumph. “The hole is filled.” Then I burst into hysterical laughter.

Q & A - Part Three

My apologies to Rubbish. I missed his question in the mix. I assure you it was not intentional. (He's such a whiner!)

Q: If you could have a super power what would it be and would you use it for good or evil?

A: I would be able to read minds.

And I would most certainly use it for evil. If by evil you mean winning at games, spying on my enemies, and making millions off of books like "The Opposite Sex - I know what they really think."

Q & A - Part Two

Question 1:

If you could punch three people in the face (with absolute impunity) who would they be and why?

Hunter

A: I love this question.

1) The kid’s dad

2) My dad (with brass knuckles)

3) Richard Simmons.


Question 2:

What are the top three signs you give when trying to seduce a man?

Eric

A: There are two answers to this question: drunk and sober.

Drunk answer:

1) I give them “the look”. Photo is not necessarily accurate, but a good try none-the-less. Looks kinda like an O face. Hmmm....

2) I tell them I’m seducing them. ( “You. Me.” *does sexy-time thrusting move...maybe falls down* )

3) I remove some article of clothing. This could be anything from a shoe to pulling my bra out of my shirt sleeve. You just never know.

Sober answer:

1) I give them “the look”. Again, photo is not necessarily accurate. I tried. Also, you'll notice I gave up on waiting for a good hair day.

2) Um, that’s it. Seduction when sober is always different depending on the guy and his...personality. I usually try to make them laugh, does that count?

3) Fuck! I suck at this game!

Question 3:

If you had to wear the same clothes every day for the rest of your life what would they be?

Secretia

A: That’s easy. I wouldn’t. I’d rather be naked than wear the same clothes everyday. Nudist colony, holla!

Question 4:
If you could change 3 things about your life, wake up and those three things would be in place, without anyone else being negatively affected, what would they be?

Judearoo

A: 1) My breasts would be completely symmetrical, and not fake. Because only fake tits are perfectly symmetrical. Surely I could make money off of that somehow?

2) I would be living alone. Well, with my daughter, but otherwise alone. And maybe my cat.

3) My car would be paid for. Do you have any idea how badly a car dealership screws with young women? Do you have any idea what my interest rate is? Probably not. And I’m not going to tell you because it’s humiliating. I didn’t even know what the fuck an interest rate was when I bought that goddamn car.

See, simple things. Everything else I want I’d like to actually accomplish rather than wish into being. Probably.

Question 5:
Would you rather sit on an ostrich egg or Patrick Stewart's head?

Gorilla Bananas

A: I’m going to go with ostrich egg because Wikipedia says it’s ridged and I’m pretty sure I could find a way to get off with it.

Question 6:
You are trapped in your office from Friday at 5 pm until Monday at 8 am. You can’t call anyone to come get you out. You are stuck for the entire weekend. What do you do?

Jerrod aka J-licious

A: Well, that depends on a lot of factors. Does the copy machine work? Am I alone? What am I wearing? Is Venus in retrograde?

I suspect I would do a lot of screaming until I passed out for a few hours from exhaustion and frustration. I’d read, because I take a book everywhere I go. I’d make up my on rap lyrics to the tune of ‘The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air’ about how fucking sucky it is to be trapped in an office.

Luckily, I wouldn’t starve. My body could just eat my thighs.

Sweet. New diet plan.

Question 7:
That lunchbox is full of E’s right?

Ellie

A: No dear. Hugs, not drugs.

Question 8:
If you were a candy bar, what would you be?

Just me

A: An Almond Joy.

Simply because when I was looking up candy bars to try and decide, they described it like this: “The coconut center is always chewy and moist. The almond gives this candy a distinct nutty taste that no one can resist.”

Oh yeah. It’s kismet.

Question 9:
What is one of your most embarrassing moments in the sack?

Maryx

A: I guess it would have to be the second time this guy tried to put it in my ass.

The first time was a sneak attack in the shower while I was drunk, but I was ready for him the next time. He was behind me and we were going at it when he pulled out and (I thought) tried to go the other route. I ended up diving head first off the bed and doing a belly flop on the floor.

It was, I imagine, extremely unattractive, but at least he laughed. He claims that wasn’t what he was doing, but better bruised and safe than sodomized and sorry.

Question 10:
If you could wipe the slate clean and wake up in your ideal life, what/where would you be?

Hannah Miet

A: I wouldn’t ever want to wipe out what I have now, but I’ll tell you what I always pictured myself doing before I had the kid.

Ideally I was going to college here in the states then studying abroad. I would have been exotic and well traveled, come home for visits only and spent my 20’s carefree and unsettled. Later, I wanted to settle somewhere in Europe or New York and be a journalist and/or write freelance. I wanted to write a novel in my “spare” time. I didn’t want children.

Things change. I’ll still do some of that, but it’ll have to wait until I’m older.

Question 11:
What single piece of art - whether it's a film, a novel, a poem, a painting or whatever - do you most wish you had created and why?

Mr. London Street

A: I spent a lot of time thinking about this question.

It’s nearly impossible to choose just one answer, so I didn’t: Shel Silverstein’s books, Where the Sidewalk Ends and A Light in the Attic. They are quirky, creative, whimsical, and every page makes me smile. His style is relaxed and simple and that appeals to me. The first bit of writing I ever did, that wasn’t a class requirement or a diary entry, was a poem. I don’t write much poetry anymore, but when I do it tends to be humorous and a bit off the wall. Anyway, they are supposed to be children’s books but I still enjoy them.

Question 12:
What kind of music are you in to?

Rebecca

A: My taste in music is all over the place. Right now the CD in my player is a mix a friend made full of old school rap and some new hits. I love to dance, so anything with a beat. Jazz, some country, classical, rock, R&B...I like it all. My favorite tape when I was younger was Pink Floyd’s The Wall. Sigh, the good old days. There are a bunch of artists that I like listed on my profile if you’re interested in more info.

Note:
 
Erin didn't ask me a question, but she did make some awesome hats and headbands that I ordered. I got them this past week and I'm getting ready to order some more things for Christmas. Go check out her stuff. (And no, Erin dear. It's really all about ME.)

P.S. - No matter how much light I had our eyes always looked hooded. It's got something to do with Jesus, I'm sure.
 

Why does everyone keep calling me weird? Is it a fat thing?

So I’ve already answered the questions for the Q&A post part two. Now I’m waiting on a good hair day to take the pictures that must go with it.

I’m kidding. I’ve just been busy....doing...you know, stuff.

Also, I’m a little disappointed that more of you new people didn’t throw out any questions. After all, you’re here to get to know me right? Wait, no, I’ll bet you’re here for the boobs mentioned atop the archives list. C’mon people, it’s called a gimmick. I’d never show my boobs to gain readers. *shifty eyes*

There was one reader I was sure was going to ask me a question I’d have to think about for days, using reference books and Shakespeare sonnets, maybe a fine dining menu or two. But he didn’t. I forgive him though, because I know he’s very busy. Also, he just gave me an award. So...I win.

Now on to the really important stuff.

The holidays are closing in and we all know what that means!

That’s right, FOOD.

I know some people say it’s all about Jesus, but listen to me: Jesus isn’t food. Unless you’re counting those flat, dissolvable cardboard disks those church goers call “the body of Christ”. I totally don’t.

But here’s the thing. There will be no mounds of macaroni and cheese, brown sugar glazed ham, or buttery, succulent rolls for me.

I’m on a diet.

I know. I know. EVERYONE is on a diet.

But the thing about me and dieting is we hate each other. We’re unfaithful. We tried to make it work for the sake of the kid, but there was just too much bitterness there.

Unfortunately, the doctor says we have to try again. He also acts like the problem with our relationship is 100% my fault, but what the fuck does he know?

The scene: Doctor’s office. The purpose: A doctor’s excuse. Why: Because I didn’t feel well and my throat might have been a little sore. Maybe. A week ago.

I attempted to look as forlorn and sickly as possible while the nurse took my blood pressure and asked me boring questions.

Then I waited, sitting on the crinkly papered exam table and swinging my legs back and forth. Heel struck table: clang! Heel struck table: clang!

Wait...wait...was that? I think it was! “Clang clang clang clang, clangclangclang”...and vocals: “I said what what in the butt! I said what what in the butt! You wanna do it in my butt, in my butt (clang clang clang clang clang clang)! Let’s do it in the butt...Ooooook!”

Enter Doctor Have-No-Soul.

Doc: “Good morning.”

Me: Totally not embarrassed about kicking exam table like a four year old and singing Southpark assholery. “Good morning.”

Doc: “So we aren’t feeling well today?”

Me: “Number one feels ok, but number seven needs a little work.”

Doc: Bland, sheep face. Does not compute.

Me: “Heh, you know...we...multiple personalities....”

Doc: Bland, sheep face. Does not compute.

Me: “Alrighty! No, we don’t feel well today. We didn’t feel well yesterday either.”

Doc: Pulls out stethoscope and starts asking medical questions.

Me: “We might need medicine.”

Doc: More medical questions. Touchy feely, under the shirt action etc.

Me: Medical answers, stray giggle at tickley under the shirt feely action.

After more examining:

Doc: Looks at chart, flips page. Frowny face. “You’ve gained 15lbs since I saw you this time last year.”

Me: “15!”

Doc: “Yes. 15.”

Me: “Shit. Oh gawd! We’re getting fat!” Deliberately bland sheep face.

Doc: “Mmmm.” Fake noncommittal face, but in actuality...judgmental face.

Me: “I’m sick though, so...we’re not talking about weight.”

Doc: “You should be aware that you gained 15lbs in a year.”

Me: “Could you stop saying that out loud?”

Doc: “Yes, but you should be aw...”

Me: “YEAH AWARE, I get it. So what do you think?”

Doc: “I think you should go on a diet.”

Me: “ABOUT MY SICKNESS, NOT MY WEIGHT.”

Doc: Bland, sheep face. “I’ll write you a prescription for antibiotics just in case.”

Me: “Great. Wonderful. Are we finished?”

I got my paperwork and headed to the check out counter. A girl I knew from school was working the desk.

“So, how did it go,” she asked.

“He called us fat.”

She stared at me. “Well, you aren’t”, she said.

I tore out the check I was writing and handed it to her.

“We’ve gained 15lbs in a year.”

She stared at me like I was crazy. “Um...really, you’re not.”

I sighed. “Are we done here?”

She glanced at the check, did a double take and started laughing. “Yeah! Ha! Man, that’s funny!”

On the Memo line at the bottom of the check I’d written: “Cash this before we eat it.”

“Fat people are funny”, I said knowingly.

I went back out to my car and called my boss.

“Well, what did the doctor say”, she asked.

“He said we’re fat.”

“What?!”

I repeated myself, then gave her a run down of the appointment (the edited, I’m too sick to work today version).

“Well, don’t worry about it. Didn’t you say he was an asshole anyway? I thought you were getting a new doctor after the last time when he called you a hypochondriac.”

“We forgot.”

“You forgot to get a new doctor?”

“We haven’t seen this one in a year. Besides, fat people are forgetful.”

“For god’s sake! You are not fa...”

“It’s an alliteration thing, I think. Fat, funny, forgetful, food, freezer, fellatio.”

“You do realize how weird you are right?”

“Yes, we know.”

“What’s fellatio?”

“Gelatin. We have to go now.”

She sighed. “Call me and let me know if you’re coming in tomorrow...and quit saying “we”. It’s weird.”

“We’ll be there. If we can fit through the door. F.....Fit.”

“Yeah, you need to go home and lie down. Feel better.”

“Bye.”

Fast forward.

Last night I was sitting on the couch talking to mom’s boyfriend Ray.

“I’m starting my diet tomorrow”, he said.

“Really? I should do it with you. It’s easier to diet with a partner.”

“Ya’ll are crazy. I’m waiting till after the holidays to do any dieting”, mom said.

“That’s the best time to do it”, he replied.

Mom looked at me. “You don’t diet well.”

“Well, I know we’ve had our differences in the past but surely we can hang in there for just 15lbs.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Ok. We’ll see.”

An hour later:

“Who ate my M&M’s”, my sister asked.

“I did”, I admitted from the couch.

“Uh! What the hell!”

“Listen, there has to be one last fling before monogamy starts tomorrow.”

“Mom, what is she talking about?”

“Dieting.”

“Really”, she asked me. “You’re going to diet?”

“Yes.”

“You know Thanksgiving is in like, two weeks.”

“Yes.”

“How are you going to keep from eating all that junk?”

“Fellatio.”

She looked confused. “What’s fellatio?”

“It’s what fat people do to keep from eating....food”, I said.

Mom glared at me. “That’s enough.”

“That’s not what it means, is it”, my sister asked.

I shrugged. “I forget.”

“Whatever. You are SO weird.”

And that’s the story of why we started a diet today.

Now you'll have to excuse us, we're off to lunch.

Not sure what we're having today...but I hear Jesus is low in calories.

Q & A - Part One

So far I've gotten some really awesome questions. A few weird ones, but hey, I like weird. I've split them up into two posts, mostly because some of the answers require pictures I've yet to take. Be afraid.

Here's part one. Be on the look out for part two later this weekend.

Question 1:

Dearest OWO,

If you had one night alone with me, what would you do? Details. ;-)
And... If you had you had one night left to live, and enough condoms to fuck anyone, who would it be?

Lovins!
Sal

A: I might have blushed when I read that first question. Then again, I might have licked my lips and rubbed my hands together in glee. I’ll never tell.

I’d probably make you tell me every hilarious story you know (directly involving yourself of course) and ply you with large amounts of alcohol to loosen your morals and convince you to join me in some form of illegal activity. This may or may not involve men, dancing, nudity, bars, body shots, the DeLorean and/or street signs.

All those condoms and only one person? You’re a hard woman, Sal. But if I only had one night to live, I really wouldn’t need the condoms would I? Can you carry AIDS into the afterlife?

Hmm. Ok, enough stalling. I’m cheating and saying Ludo. I’m sure their lead singer would get the most play time though. I’m fickle that way. Going out with a gang bang. Dodochhhh!

Question 2:
I love your blog. Oh, it wasn't in question form. How 'bout why do you write a blog I love? why do you write?


Stacie's Madness

A: Dear Stacie – I suspect that you have an unscrupulous and raunchy sense of humor, as do I. Please continue to love my blog, she’s very needy.

I write because I must – for pleasure, validation, comfort, release. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, or really needed, to do. That’s excluding sex and all its subcategories, of course.

Question 3:
I'm going to ask this worn out question, but I'd like to know. If you could have dinner with 5 people dead or alive who would they be.

Mr. Condescending

A: In no particular order – Bob Marley, Margaret Mitchell, Andrew Volpe, Adam Sandler, and Ellen Burstyn.

Question 4:
Dear OWO,

I love reading your stories. You give 'em a funny twist. But what I'd like to know is: have you ever contemplated writing a book? If no then why not? If yes then when?

Love,
Your devoted follower! :) (P.T.)

A: I think about writing a book daily. Unfortunately, we are our own worst enemy and everything I write that’s longer than a blog post gets balled up, stomped on, and screamed at: “YOU SUCK! YOUR MOM’S GROCERY LIST IS MORE COMPELLING THAN THIS SHIT!” Yeah, I have issues.

Another big problem is my attention span. Novels require a lot of time, research, and dedication. None of those things are in my nature. I waste time, I abhor research, and dedication to anything is sporadic. Now THAT is brutal honesty. I’m hoping therapy will help. If so, you should see my autobiography “Daddy Issues – How I overcame my Southern heritage” in stores around 2025.

Question 5:
You need to learn how to say "either shit or get off the pot" in Spanish.

the iNDefatigable mjenks

A: Trust you Jenks to not ask an actual question. But don’t think you can spoil my fun! Cague o consiga del pote. Allí lo dije. Su mamá. That’s about as close as I can get it.

Also: Hay un gato vicioso en mis pantalones.

Question 6:
Dear OWO,

What do you think the worst moves a man can make in the bedroom are? I only ask because I imagine you'll have some funny ones.

Love,
Chiefy
Your devoted follower
p.s. can you make me a sweater that says "i lick you"?

A: The jackhammer. Aside from the fact that it’s just not enjoyable, it’s also dangerous. We’re talking whiplash, concussion, and possible sprains here. I’ve never had electro shock therapy, but I have been on the receiving end of the jackhammer a time or two...and I imagine the two aren’t that different.

The windmill. This move isn’t used during sex, but it’s used right before and in my opinion, waves a big red flag. In case you aren’t in the know or have never fucked a man who is “special”, the windmill is when a naked man is standing up with his hands behind his head and swinging his hips in a circle to make his penis jump awkwardly. Nothing good has every followed the windmill, except for maybe premature ejaculation.

The boob fuck. Shockingly enough, men actually try this move past high school. There is no pleasure in this for a woman that I’m aware of and I’m pretty sure cum isn’t a form of contact solution or hair conditioner. There are plenty of orifices available without creating a new one.

This inspires a whole list of ideas on the worst things a man can SAY in the bedroom. Blog post! Thanks Chiefy.

P.S. – Yes, as long as you don’t mind the possibility of your head going through the arm hole. Anything harder than sewing on a button is bound to end in disaster.

Question 7:
Dear OWO,

What is the one thing you've never done but have always wanted to do?

Love,
Mersiha (Cool as Folk)

A: Travel through Europe and see as much as possible: stop in Amsterdam and do lots of drugs, screw hot foreign guys, and EAT. Dear gawd, eat. (That all counts as one thing, just so you know.)

Question 8:
Dear OWO:

You're on a bus traveling 60mph. But there's a catch; there's a bomb on the bus and if you go less than 60mph, the bus explodes.

What do you do? What do you do?

your devoted follower who's not at all upset that he didn't crack a guernsey for penis week. Not at ALL upset.

Tennyson ee Hemingway

A: Wow, TeHe. Tell me how you really feel.

If I’m alone on this bus, I suppose I’d set it on cruise control and jump. If there are other people, I suppose I’d jump and let them handle it. All for one and one for one, you know.

Truthfully, I’d likely panic and spend my time racking my brain trying to remember how they did it in the action movies, fail miserably at whatever I attempted, and die in a burst of flames having won the hearts of millions by my award winning facial expressions broadcast from the police helicopter to the news. “I’M ON TV MOM! BOOM!” Annnnnd scene!

I’ll be sure to ask you next time, love.

Question 9:
I love your blog and I want to know what you think makes a guy sexy.

The Peach Tart

A: Having a great sense of humor is hot. I find men with tattoos sexy, but I also have a secret affinity for nerds. There is something insanely sexy about a man with tousled hair and glasses. Yeah my taste is pretty varied.

Question 10:
Well, I spent the last day thinking of an advice question, and I come back and here everyone's doing more of a Q&A thing. I totally misunderstood.

Ok, for Q&A: What's your biggest regret in life? Or, if that's too depressing for this blog, how about "If you could be a guy for a day, describe in detail what you would do with that 24 hours."

Steamy

A: I try not to play the regret game. It’s far too easy for me to get caught up in unreality anyway. If I were to start regretting, I’d never move.

If I could be a dude for 24 hours I would go everywhere shirtless. I’d have to have sex with a chick, of course. I’d definitely get a blowjob. I would slap someone in the face with my penis. Seriously, it just looks like hilarious shit. Whack off; stick it in everything even remotely feasible. I suppose 90% of my activities would be sexual. But I’d also beat the shit out of someone, use obnoxious male pick up lines, and piss wherever I wanted. Oh, if only!


*And it's half time!

If you haven't asked a question yet, you have until Saturday night. Have a great weekend. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.

I know. I'm disappointed too.

Today I feel like one of those women that are always rolling their shoulders and cracking their necks. Do you know what I’m talking about? They are so stressed out and possibly angry that they are dancing from uncomfortable work heel to uncomfortable work heel and it makes you wonder if they have a really bad wedgie or if they just drank lots of coffee and the two person bathroom is currently “Occupado”.

By the way, who the fuck says “Occupado”? Oh! Oh! I know! That snooty bitch that thinks she’s better than me because she has a college degree, a husband with hair plugs, and a child that looks like Puff the magic dragon. “Occupado” THIS * obscene hand gestures toward vaginal area* bitch! I’ll wipe my ass with your college degree!

I watched two and a half hours of Nick Jr. cartoons and went to bed at 9pm last night. My life is officially over. I’m going to get three more cats and spend my weekends knitting sweaters for them with cute sayings like “I lick you” or “The Dead Sea scrolls were found in my owner’s vagina”.

Just to cement my cat lady fate, I’ll go ahead and tell you that Nate never called. It’s ok. I’m completely fine with the fact that I failed miserably in my seduction attempts and instead he’s banging a barely legal school girl. Maybe. I shouldn’t make assumptions. Maybe he’s just helping her psychologically cope with the pressures of adolescence. With his penis.

Do you know how unexciting it’s gotten around here? It’s gotten so unexciting that I harbored the idea of fucking Fisher Price for comedic purposes for approximately 10 seconds. Then I vomited up my homemade lunch of bologna and cheese sandwich that I lovingly placed in a lunch box to show my support for a friend.

Ok, so I didn’t vomit, but I felt the urge. And I did take a lunch box to work in hopes that it would help Lunch Box Boy come out of the closet, but all it actually accomplished was him giving me the finger after I waved it in the air and smiled at him. Actually, I took my lunch box because I’m poor, but you know...two birds, one stone.


Now it’s interactive blog time.

I’ve seen a few other blogs do a Q&A session with their readers. I like it. Let’s do it.

Dear OWO,

Insert question.

Love,

Your devoted follower

I’ll do a post and answer each one. Anything goes. Email them, leave them in the comment section...whatever.

Go!

P.S. – That means all of you.

I must, I must, I must increase my bust!

I was going to write a short post thanking all the guys that participated in Penis Week, but I’d rather do a video. So I’m thinking I might enlist the services of my best friend and make it a little extra special. (And that is not a girl-on-girl reference.) It’s in the heterosexual works.

**********

I’ve always said that I’m glad my kid is a girl. I just didn’t think I could raise a boy. If I’m being completely honest, I didn’t think I could raise anything other than a penis or my hand...but here I am, doing it.

I took her shopping for fall clothes recently and was delighted to find that she and I have more in common than our freakishly long toes. We shop alike: Grab, try on, put back or keep, and get the fuck out. Fast, efficient, and leaving extra time for lunch.

There was only one exception: underwear.

My four year old decided she wanted a bra. Not a training bra, mind you, a REAL bra...with cups and adjustable straps. It took me about 15 minutes to get her away from those racks, sans bra and inappropriate panties, and hustle her, whining and pleading to the check out counter.

I told my mother about it when we got home.

“She wants a bra. Not a training bra with rainbows and butterflies all over it...a real one, with a matching set of bikini panties.”

"Are they made for her size?"

"Yes, the cups (air quotes) are flat, but"

She laughed. “Then why didn’t you get her one?”

“She’s four. Bras and bikini panties? Seriously?”

“Eh”, she said shrugging.

“I could be setting her up to be a....a....”

“A what? It’s no worse than the shit you used to wear.”

“Yeah, well you didn’t help me buy any of it!”

“Nope! And I’m not helping you with this one either!”


I got my first bra when I was six.

It was Fourth of July weekend and I was standing on my grandparent’s porch with my nine year old cousin, waving sparklers. She was making fun of me for not wearing a bra, pointing and laughing at my flat chest. This was the same she-devil that taught me about sex with a Barbie and Ken doll and how to steal the candy from our uncle’s army food packs.

The more she taunted me the angrier I got, until finally I took my sparkler and stabbed her in the hand with it. She ran off screaming and crying, eighties hair still visible over the bushes as she cut through the yard.

My Nana came out the side door, cigarette in one hand and the obligatory gin and tonic in the other. I didn’t know she'd been watching.

“What did ya do that for, dawlin?”

“She was making fun of me.”

She stood staring at me for a moment, blowing smoke out of her nose, before finally saying, "You come on with me.”

I was sure she was going to take the yard stick to my ass. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

She went into the spare bedroom, opened up the closet and started digging through a drawer. I stared at the lengthening ashes of the cigarette clamped between her bright pink lips. I remember thinking that if she dropped it, I had to step on it quick and make sure it was out. Because Papa always said, “Jackass, you make sure your Nana don’t burn this house down, ya hear?”

She finally found what she was looking for and turning around, held it up for me to see. It was a pale blue training bra with one of those sticky appliqués on the front of Strawberry Shortcake.

“This was ya cousin’s first training bra and now it’s yours.”

I didn’t want a hand-me-down training bra, but I knew better than to say that to Nana. She handed it over and told me to go to the bathroom and put it on.

The rest of the day she made sure to tell everyone that I was wearing that fucking bra. I was mortified. The only consolation was my cousin had a nice, red welt across her palm and was getting no sympathy. Training bra trumps sparkler burn.

My mom didn’t deal well with “girl issues”. It made her uncomfortable to talk about anything relating to underwear, boys, and especially periods. Nana used to say, “That woman just needs to touch herself, that’s all there is to it! Pain and simple.”

So Nana continued to buy my bras, panties, and other girl products as I grew up.When she passed away I was 12 and I started buying my own things.

My she-devil cousin was old enough to drive then and we would go to the mall with Papa’s credit card, buying whatever we wanted. My first run-in with Victoria’s Secret was on one such trip.

It was around my 13th birthday and I wanted something new and special to mark the occasion, but I wasn't sure what that was yet. She-devil marched into VS like she owned the place and started digging through the racks and bins. I was too busy gawking at all the leopard print and lace. Obviously this place had never heard of white cotton.

I finally started looking around, trying to draw as little attention as possible. I had a strong dislike for women that measure you for bras (still do actually) and I didn’t want one of them feeling me up in the VS dressing room in front of the she-devil.

I was rummaging through a bin when I saw a sign I couldn’t ignore. Glancing furtively around, I made my way toward every teenage girl’s destiny: the padded bra.

I found love with an emerald green, satin Wonderbra that day. The padding in that sucker was un-fucking-believable.

I took it to the counter, paid, and immediately went to the dressing room to switch it out with my plain white “Virgin” screamer.

BAM! Insta-titties!

I was so fucking proud of those things. Until I got home.

I stowed my bags in my room, made myself something to drink, and settled on the couch with a book. A short time later, my dad and mom came home from wherever the hell they’d been. It couldn’t have been 60 seconds before....

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH YOUR CHEST?” My dad was gawking at me.

“What? What’s going on?” My mom peered around him and her mouth promptly fell open.

“Let me see what you bought today”, she said reluctantly.

“Papa said I could get whatever I wanted!”

She started to my room. “Just show me.”

My dad was still yapping to himself, trying to wrap his pea brain around what was going on. “Don’t know what’s wrong with...is that green....I don’t think....”

A bright, emerald green strap was poking out from underneath my tank top and I shoved it back.

My mom started digging through my things and pulled out the Victoria’s Secret bag, empty except for tissue paper and a receipt. She read it and looked up at my dad standing in the doorway.

“It’s a MIRACLEbra”, she said with tears in her eyes, horrified. My dad looked at her, and then looked at my chest. Back and forth he went before finally bursting into laughter.

“MIRACLE! IT’S A MIRACLE”, he howled.

My face was bright red. I snatched the bag from her hand and stomped out.

“Call him”, I heard my dad say.

“I WILL not”, my mom replied.

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of the speaker phone. Ring. Ring. Ring. I stood in the hall, horror struck.

“HELLO”, my Papa shouted into the phone. He always shouts.

“DAD! THERE’S BEEN A MIRACLE!”

“WHAT?”

“WE’VE HAD A MIRACLE AT 154 blank ROAD!”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKIN BOUT, JIM?”

“YOUR GRANDAUGHTER BOUGHT A MIRACLE BRA WITH YOUR CREDIT CARD! SHE’S GOT 'ER BOOBIES PUSHED UP TO 'ER CHIN!”

Loud, obnoxious, old man laughter.

“AND IT’S BRIGHT GREEN!”

More laughter.

For the next several years I became known as “The Miracle at 154 blank Road”...all because my mother was too embarrassed to help me shop for underwear.

Now it’s mine and my daughter’s turn to go through these rituals. I guess I'm about to buy her first training bra. Weird. Hopefully I'll do alright with this girly, parenting stuff and not embarrass her too much. It's definitely not all sugar, spice and everything nice.

But it will probably be fine.

After all...I have no problem touching myself.