Thursday, January 28, 2010

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?”


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.”


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.


“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.


“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:

Friday, January 22, 2010

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.


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…”


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.


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.


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.*

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Parenting: It's weird.

All parents make promises to themselves and to their children. Before they pop out in a mess of blood, fleshy cord, and other things you’d rather not think about (You’re welcome.) you set guidelines on how best to raise them. You form ideas about who they’re supposed to be.

The problem with these promises and guidelines is that they’re often unrealistic.

Children are like STDs. Some are treatable, some aren’t. Some communicate easily, some take a bit of extra prodding. Some are shared with others (whether they want them or not), some are kept hidden.

That might not be the best analogy. My point is you can’t decide before you meet the little buggers how exactly you’re going to raise them. Each one is unique...infectious in their own way.

I was making promises I couldn’t keep long before the kid even came into the picture. I told myself, “Self, you will never have children. You must promise not to procreate for the sake of yourself and others.” And I did. I promised.

But my promises are like front clasp bras – always coming undone accidentally on purpose. You don’t want them to come undone, but you knew when you bought them that your boobs were entirely too large and assertive to be held in by those little clasps.

So before the kid was even a renegade egg I was fucking up this whole “child guidelines” thing. And before I realized that there are no set guidelines and control is just a seven letter word, I spent the first year or two of her life promising this and that, buying into the media hype, and just generally stressing myself out. It started with the little things.

I promised she would always look like she’d been birthed by a J.Crew model, more or less.

I bought expensive outfits, hats, bows, shoes, and matching socks. I made sure she was wearing the cutest thing possible whether we were in public or sitting at home watching talk show reruns. If she got a spot on something I changed her immediately. If she had a snotty nose I would use that suction thing relentlessly on the off chance she would get a stray booger stuck to her face and someone would see. (Actually, I thought the sucker thing was kind of fun. Sick, I know.) In short, she was a very shiny baby.

That didn’t last long. I eventually got lazy and allowed her to become the pantless, tangle headed wonder she is today. The kid would rather ride her scooter around in her underwear than play dress up like other little girls or hide under the bed rather than have her hair brushed. And truthfully, most days I just cannot be bothered to fight about it. You have to pick your battles. Like whose turn it is for the remote, which brings me to...

I promised she would watch very little TV and when she did, only educational programs.

Though evidently a common parental guideline, I failed to take into account my complete and utter lack of patience and low tolerance for all things...child related.

It quickly went from one or two educational shows a day to, “Hey, kid! Sit down and watch Spongebob...look! Look!” Then I’d attempt to squeeze in as much cleaning, cooking, or hiding in a corner as I could before she realized she’d been duped.

Don’t get me wrong we play games and read books and all that other constructive stuff, but I have a short attention span. I’m also very competitive when it comes to board games and the like. As a matter of fact, just recently she and I were playing Chinese checkers and I found it physically impossible to LET her win. I know she’s only four (almost 5), but she totally cheats.

So anyway, now TV = babysitter. Her current obsession is The Little Rascals and she’s picked up a few lovely phrases such as “I hate your stinkin’ guts” and “snot wads”. She also enjoys watching The Bachelor with my mom’s boyfriend and calling the women “hussies”. I’m incredibly proud.

I promised myself that I would nip any and all bad habits in the bud immediately. I was going to be a strict enforcer of “the law”. Uh huh.

At first I didn’t realize what was going on. I’d pick her up from school and there would be a tiny toy dinosaur or some other random little thing in her book bag. I figured they were hers (she’s got so much stuff it’s hard to keep up with it all) or that they were prizes. Things finally became clear when she tried to walk out the door one day with the rattiest looking baby doll I’d ever seen.

“Hey, what are you doing with that? That’s not yours.”

She stood in front of the door and hugged the naked, ratty baby tight to her chest. “Yes it is”, she said.

“Um no, no it’s not. Go put that ugly thing back.”


This went back and forth for a minute. Appalled to be having a scene over such a disgusting toy, I turned around to see one of the teachers looking at me.

“She can take it home if she wants. Just for tonight”, she said.

I looked at my defiant child and I wanted to say no because she was being a shit, but I was tired and didn’t want to engage in tug of war. So instead I said, “Ok”, and led her out to the car.

It took a minute for things to click, but click they did. When I got home I dumped out her bag, went through every tiny compartment, and found contraband galore. And what did I do about it?

I laughed, of course. And when everyone else got home, I told them about it and laughed some more. And when I returned the things to her school, they laughed a I did too. Pretty soon it became this running joke to see what she would attempt to make off with next.

Until she stole someone’s large stuffed pony a few weeks ago.

She got one for Christmas, but hers was pink and this one was black, brown, and white. Of course I don’t pay attention to such things so when one of the teachers asked if I’d seen it, I said no but I’d look around. Sure enough, the little bugger had snatched it.

I made her give it back to its rightful owner who didn’t really understand the significance of the moment. The kid did. She stood there with her arms crossed and looked at me in a threatening manner. The battle lines were drawn. I had to lay down the law about stealing. I had to learn to suppress my laughter, because evidently some people don’t find my sticky fingered child amusing.

Today I’d like to say my child is a recovered kleptomaniac, but unfortunately she’s still going strong. She did stop stealing from school, though now she just takes my things. It’s not nearly as funny, especially when I really need them, but at least it doesn’t get me in trouble with the other parents.

I could fill a few more pages with the promises I made and the guidelines I set: My kid will be this, do that, and go there. But I can’t map out her life. I can’t control everything and I can’t force her to behave.

Technically I’m supposed to be the ringmaster to her clown. But who wants to constantly crack a whip? I think I’ll divide my time between laughing in the stands and coaching subtly from the sidelines.

And if that doesn’t work I can always feed her to the tigers.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

I'm never going to live this down, am I? Part two

Here are the rest of my "10 things you don't know about me". There are not only sexual references but there are gross...well, you'll see.

6) I’m not as ladylike as I seem.

You’re shocked, I’m sure.

I have impeccable manners, of course. Most southern women do. I just rarely use them.

Not only that, but I cuss like a sailor, have horrible posture and I hate the fact that women aren’t supposed to sit like men, even when they wear pants. It’s a constant aggravation to me to always have to cross my legs or keep my ankles together. I’d rather sit in a chair gangsta style. It’s much more comfortable.

Despite my unwillingness to keep my legs closed and stop dropping the F bomb, there is one ladylike mannerism I observe at all times. I do not fart in front of anyone. Ever. Unfortunately this may lower my life expectancy by several years. The number one killer of southern women isn’t cancer or domestic violence, it’s holding in flatulence. Scout’s honor.

The only thing more embarrassing than slipping up and letting one loose in public is this:

I was at the fireman’s house one night (for you new comers, the fireman was my five year booty call that just ended this past fall) and we were, of course, getting busy. Everything was going great. He was staring into my eyes, his signature half angry, half arrogant “yeah I’m screwing you good” look on his face. I was staring back, my signature half amused, half defiant “you couldn’t screw a...ooh, that again” look on my face. Things were getting intense. Until...

There wasn’t even a warning feeling of built up pressure, no rumble in my stomach, nothing. It just came out: short, loud, and to the point. Like one expelled breath through a bugle horn.

My face was on fire. I couldn’t even laugh it off like I would anything else. He didn’t comment at all. There was just the briefest pause, before he soldiered on through my humiliation, doggedly pursuing his release. I almost would have preferred it if he’d stopped and laughingly acknowledged it. Being a fireman though, he’s trained to plow through smoke and falling, flaming debris. No way could he be deterred by a fart.

I kept my eyes shut tight and attempted to rejoin him in the fight for the finish, but I just couldn’t concentrate. There wasn’t a smell, thank gawd, but the noise was reverberating in my ears. It was way worse than the first time I made that squidgy, wet air pocket in the vagina noise during sex. (I refuse to use the actual term because I hate it.)

After it was over we just lay there next to each other. And even though we were close, it felt like there was a ghostly, gaseous body wedged between us, curling up and making itself comfortable. I ignored it and willed myself to relax into sleep.

When I woke several hours later I found it was gone, vanished into the abyss, and the fireman was in pursuit of round two.

Gone, but not forgotten...goddamnit. If Martha Stewart found out about this I’d be shipped north, stripped of my accent, and banned from the Deep Fried Everything-That-Isn’t-Red-Hot-or-Nailed-Down Club.

7) I’m secretly a 13 year old girl...on the inside. (That is not a virgin reference.)

I like the Twilight series, Harry Potter, and lots of other fantasy books and movies it’s not popular for an adult woman to like.

While I’m driving the nail in my blogging social coffin, I might as well tell you that not only do I like them...I like them a lot. I happen to have two Harry Potter Scene It games and this Christmas I received the New Moon board game. I was rather disappointed since I would have preferred the Twilight Scene It to the board game, but you can’t have everything can you?

While I refused to go see any of the movies for either series on opening night due to psychos in costume, I didn’t wait long. And while I didn’t scream and carry on when Robert Pattinson came on the screen, I do happen to think he’s delicious. And while I dislike Kristin Stewart, it’s only because of her lack luster performances in everything but that stoner movie Adventureland, in which her constantly slack jawed appearance and confused demeanor seems to fit.

I haven’t exactly kept any of this secret, but I haven’t been advertising it either. Go ahead and laugh. I’m ok with it. Just like I was ok when they made fun of me for reading Tolkien (which is admittedly better reading than the aforementioned, but not to a group of judgmental kids) and carrying around books the size of an Encyclopedia. I’m not a cutter. I can take it.

Got any chips?

8) My parenting tactics are bit eccentric.

I don’t usually hang out with other parents. This isn’t because I don’t like them, it’s because...well, yeah, usually I don’t like them. We have little more than a used uterus in common.

I refused to breast feed because it made me feel uncomfortable. I don’t see boobs as a source of nutrients and life support. Boobs are fun – you dress them up, you play with them, you show them off – the end. When the kid was just a baby and I would hold her and rock her, I would remove her hand from my boob if it ended up there. No touchy.

I guess the boob thing would also fall under the shower thing. I don’t shower with the kid unless it’s absolutely necessary. Kids are weird about nakedness. Seriously. They stare at you with those big, bug eyes all wide and innocent and ask you creepy questions. And when you give a vague answer, their response is always “Why?”

“Why are yours bigger than mine?”
“Because I’m a grown up.”
“What are those?”
“Because. Turn around and be quiet, kid.”

I’m pretty sure other parents don’t tell their kids that McDonalds burned to the ground as a result of boy cooties, which are highly flammable. “No, no one died. They picked them up in a helicopter. No, there weren’t any fries left.”

I’m pretty sure other parents don’t taunt their kids through a glass door when they’re being particularly unmanageable and irritating. “HAHA! You can’t open it. Scream all you want ‘cause I CAN’T HEAR YOU!” And throw in a little dancing.

And I’m pretty sure that other parents, if caught doing something less than admirable, don’t shrug and say, “How often do you put yours in the closet?”

When the kid is grown up and sucker punching people in the genitals, it’ll all be worth it.

9) I was a child prodigy.

My uncle is a musician and he thought it would be a great idea for me to learn to play an instrument. (Actually, I bugged the shit out of him until he agreed to teach me.) I started with the piano, but decided that it was too hard.

I then spent an entire summer learning how to play the drums to The Lion King soundtrack. I could play them for the song ‘In the Air Tonight’ by Phil Collins too. I was awesome at the dramatic part at 3:15 on the video. As it turns out though, it’s not cool for fat kids to jam out to Phil Collins...with head banging.

According to my Papa, I also tried my hand at being an artist when I was little. By finger painting his bathroom walls with my own excrement. He still occasionally tells random people that I’m “the artist of the family”.
Good times.

10) I used to eat everything.

Now of course you’re thinking, “You were a fat kid, of course you ate everything.” But I don’t think you really understand what I’m saying.

I was usually hungry, but even if I wasn’t I would still find a reason to eat.

If my mom pissed me off, I’d eat. If my dad yelled at me, I’d eat. If I was afraid someone else would get to it first, I’d eat. If there was a blackout and I had no flashlight and only one match, I would use that one match to find the food supply and, I’d eat. All of it. Just in case I wasn’t able to find it again.

I once ate a piece of raw bacon just because it was there and I was “hungry” and impatient.

And on that disgusting note, I think I’ll end this embarrassing tell all and get to the next part of my assignment: naming seven Bloggers to watch for 2010.

Some of these are well known. A few are newcomers. Either way, I love every single one you and would touch you inappropriately if asked. Maybe.

In no particular order:

1) The Japing Ape - Gorilla Bananas
"The world's leading anthropological ape" has been blogging for a long time and never steps out of character. (Except maybe occasionally on a comment.) His blog is not only amusing, it's unique. He adds a naughty spin to current events and always has an interesting opinion or photo to check out. I'll likely never know who is actually behind The Japing Ape, but that's a tad intriguing. Don't you think?

2) The Yellow Factor - Jerrod
You know how people at work say they have a "work spouse"? Someone they talk to a lot and who's company they really enjoy? Well, if there were "blog spouses", Jerrod would be mine. We've had loads of conversations about blogging and everything in between and I greatly value his opinion. His blog is one I look forward to checking every day and when he posts, it always puts a smile on my face.

3) Brightened Boy - BB
BB is a young, gay, college student blogging about his experiences. No matter what he's writing about, his sincerity and talent are always apparent. He reminds me a bit of myself. Though our family situations aren't the same, they are a bit similar and I can relate to a lot of the emotions he's been dealing with over the years. He draws you in with his words and you become quickly involved, rooting for this person you've never met, but would very much like to.

4) Mr. London Street - MLS
Though he chose me for his shortlist, that's not even on the long list of reasons I chose him for mine. I'm addicted to his blog like a drug. Reading him has allowed me to become a better writer myself. That might sound trite, but it's true. There have been times when I've read one, just one, and felt just about every emotion one can feel. I think that's what makes a good writer: if I can want to laugh, cry, throw up, and punch you in the face all in one sitting. He pushes boundaries and I like that. I have no doubt that blogging is just a stepping stone to bigger things for him.

5) Steam Me Up Kid - Becky
I came across this blog randomly one day and I'd never read anything like it. I was openmouthed at the gall this woman had. Becky is absolutely hilarious. Vulgar, random, creative, completely insane - there aren't enough words to describe her blog. She's also got a talent for photoshopping pictures and adding unique catch phrases. And she's cute. Go see.

6) Contributions to Society - obviouslyapseudonym
She left a comment here and of course I went to check her out. This girl is young, but she's got something.  She's just getting started here so you should be hospitable. This post made me laugh and man, does it ever sound familiar. Cheers to you, newbie.

7) Miss.Chief's Blog - miss.chief
You never know what to expect with this one. One day it's bus stop stories, then it's pictures of new tattoos and drawings, then it's a hilarious tale about Mexico and their...toilets. Whatever she's writing about, I'm always enthralled. And she knows Spanish. Real Spanish, not that stuff where you just add and O on the end.

There's one more place I'd like to draw to your attention. Here. He's a buddy of mine and he's just started with this whole blog thing. Check him out and give him some encouragement.

Don't feel pressured to do this meme, but if you'd like to have my name written on your ass, that would be ok.


Monday, January 11, 2010

I'm never going to live this down, am I? Part one

I’m no stranger to memes as most of you know. I’m an attention whore and when any sort of award or recognition comes my way I take that shit and run like a convenience store thief. But just like stealing, recognition always comes with a price.

Mr. London Street has named me one of his Bloggers to watch for 2010 and I’m greatly pleased. The only downside is that I have to follow in his footsteps and write a post including 10 things you stalkers don’t already know about me. The man that doesn’t do memes has set the bar high. There’s also the little fact that I’ve already shared so much of myself with you, I’m not quite sure what’s left. But I’ll give it my most valiant effort.

Let’s do this.

1) I might be a lesbian.

When I was a kid I would stay home alone in the summer while my parents went to work. Being surrounded with family for neighbors it was hard to get in trouble, but somehow I always managed. My cousins lived next door and we were forever sneaking around the neighborhood causing mischief.

One afternoon my sidekick Ben came over. We were sitting in the living room watching TV when he noticed the big, white child lock on a low cabinet. “What’s in there”, he asked.

“I don’t know. Some breakable junk of Mom’s I think.”

“Let’s open it!”

If Ben suggested it, it was as good as done.

He opened the lock designed to keep my little sister’s grimy paws off things, set it aside, and threw the doors wide. Sitting Indian style in front of the cabinet, we started digging through odds and ends.

There were vases, candlesticks, pictures – all manner of uninteresting plunder. Then Ben stuck his hand into the dark recesses and hit pay dirt. A collector’s edition Playboy magazine…featuring none other than Ms. Marilyn Monroe.

Of course I knew shit about Marilyn Monroe back then. The only thing I knew was that I was holding something forbidden and if Ben’s attitude was any indication, something really cool.

Silently flipping pages, we stared in openmouthed fascination at naked skin. I was every bit as absorbed as he was.

“Let’s take it to the clubhouse”, he said.


“We can pull the pictures out and put them on the walls.”

And once again if Ben suggested it…

We had an old camper hatch that we called “The clubhouse”. There wasn’t enough room to stand up and you had to climb through the sliding glass window to get in. That afternoon we took the magazine, pulled out the pages, and taped them all around the metal walls.

It took my dad about two weeks to realize it was gone. I forget how he found out the magazine’s fate exactly, but find out he did. That might have been the worst ass whipping I’ve ever had in my entire life. Of course Ben walked away scot free. He was a boy, after all. He was just doing what came natural. I, on the other hand, not only stole something worth a great deal of money and bragging rights, but I ogled naked women’s bodies. My dad was a bit of a homophobe.

Looking back on it now, he should have beaten me harder. I probably would have inherited the magazine since I’m the closest thing to a pervert there is in our immediate family. As I vaguely recall those glossy pages full of delicious curves, I want to smack myself.

2) I was a very active kid…mostly by protest.

As most of you know, the only activities I find worthy of excess movement are swimming and sex. It’s not that I’m lazy per say, it’s more that I’m uninterested. Why should I chase after a ball or run around a track when I can watch someone else do it? Not only that, but I’m inherently clumsy. My mother just couldn’t grasp that concept. She wanted me involved in sports and groups, bodily harm to myself and others be damned.

I started with karate, which I actually enjoyed. But like most good things it came to a premature end. She didn’t like that I was the only girl in the class and that the fathers of the other students were picking fights with dad because I was kicking ass and taking names. Getting your ass handed to you by a girl is, I gather, a tough pill to swallow, but it sure made my dad proud.

Then there were dancing lessons. It started out with jazz hands, soft soled shoes, and spandex creations of horror and continued with cowboy hats and tassels right up until my senior year in high school. It was a closely guarded secret and for all my independence, I never could quit until after I graduated. My dance teacher and her family became close to me and mine. The ties that bind and embarrass are hard to break.

I also played soccer for several years. I was the kid no one wanted to pass to, the flower picker daydreaming down field. I didn’t set out to be bad at it, but I was all the same. My cousins were on the team too so I had plenty of ribbing at home as well as at practice. During that time, I started wearing glasses. Huge, round, red affairs that made me look like an even bigger nerd.

There was a guy named Geoff that I had the biggest crush on. He was gorgeous so of course I didn’t even come across his register. He only really noticed me twice. The first time was when my mom packed me a t-shirt with a pink cartoon elephant on the front for practice. Doing warm up laps around the field in that get up was probably one of the most brutally embarrassing moments of my life. She might as well have written “Point and Laugh” across my chest.

The second time was when the coach insisted I play goalie during practice because “sigh, it can’t hurt to try”. Translation: “You suck at every other position and this is the only one we haven’t tried.” I was absolutely terrified when everyone lined up to take a shot. I don’t remember how many I blocked/caught and how many got past me, but I’m sure the numbers weren’t in my favor. Then Geoff came up. He was one of the best players on the team and I knew he’d try to smoke me.

I’m not sure if I wasn’t paying attention like I should or if the ball just came at me too fast, but it popped me directly in the face WHAM! and knocked me out cold. When I came to my face was stinging and throbbing. For a minute I thought it had affected my vision, but no, my glasses were knocked off. Everyone was crowded around me, a blurry Geoff the closest.

He was apologizing and the coach was trying to shoo him away. They decided I was fine, but should sit out the rest of practice. After the initial shock had worn off and everyone could tell I wasn’t brain dead or suffering any serious injury, Geoff wasn’t very contrite anymore. It became yet another team joke.

I then dabbled in a bit of softball, which I was pretty decent at and would have played it longer if it wasn’t for the whole running thing. It was the batting I liked. Aggression issues and all.

But yeah, sports and me...not so much.

3) I once shaved off my baby hair.

Everyone knows how irritating those pesky baby hairs across your forehead can be, right? They don’t lay the right way and they make you look like you decided to grow bangs and changed your mind.

I have no patience. If something isn’t going my way immediately, I sometimes act less than rational.

One day I was attempting to fix my hair and I couldn’t get those fucking things to cooperate. They were behaving way worse than usual, not even allowing themselves to be covered by a deep side part. (Which was attractive, let me tell you. Deep side parts are the coolest. Like tie dyed scrunchies and hot pink taffeta.) I used all the hair products I could find, but I just ended up looking like I had a horizontal forehead mohawk with a comb-over.

Frustrated, I looked around the counter for something else to use. That’s when the little trimmer my mom uses on her eyebrows caught my attention. Without even thinking I picked it up, held back the rest of my hair, and started shaving all the baby hair off at the hairline. And it worked. Once I was finished, I was completely satisfied with my appearance.

It wasn’t until a few days or so later when my mom said “What the hell is wrong with your head” that I realized what I’d done. It looked like one of those military buzz cuts across my forehead. It took months for my hair to look decent enough to wear pulled away from my face and YEARS for the baby hair to grow back out to a normal, non-freakish length.

4) I’m kind of a murderer.

Living in a house with only women for five years (with the exception of the past few months), you can imagine how silly it can get. There are times when one of us has to “man up” and take care of something that we feel just isn’t a woman’s job. (And I don’t want to hear any shit from you feminists. Why don’t you go out and split a few logs, Paula Bunyan, and quit bothering me.) I don’t consider myself a girly girl, but I cannot stand a bug, lizard, or small, hairy undomesticated creature of any kind. For some reason, I’m always the one elected to deal with any unwanted invasion.

“Al! There’s a bug in here!”
“Al! Get the vacuum and suck up this bug!”
“Al! Al! Al!”

Listen bitches, I’m not a dude, no matter how you say my name.

Inevitably there’s a lot of squealing, cursing, and the sound of someone’s feet dancing on a chair.

Years ago, I think I was about 16; we got mice. My dad was working out of town so mom put glue traps out until he came back and figured out how they were getting in. One night I was lying in bed and she started screaming for me. “Al! Al! Get the dust pan!”

I refused to get up, instead yelling back, “What do you want? Get the dust pan yourself!”

“I just saw it run through here! Quick! Get the dust pan and whack it on the head!”

“Are you serious?! You want me to chase down a mouse and whack it in the head with a dust pan?!”


“Forget it.”

But she continued to harass me for the next 10 minutes. I knew she was never going to let me sleep, so I finally got up and went to my door. I peeked out across the dark kitchen, the only light coming from my mom’s room up the hall. I had to go to the laundry room at the half way point and get the damn dust pan.

I’d only taken two or three small, cautionary steps across the hardwood (twss) when I thought something ran over my foot. (I realized later it was just the tie from my bathrobe.) I jumped, screamed, and took off running through the kitchen. It was probably the shortest run in the history of runs, because I tripped almost immediately and went crashing to the floor. When I fell my right knee took most of the impact, but it wasn’t just with the floor.

There was a sickening CRUNCH and my knee was bathed in warm liquid. I knew what happened right away, but I kind of blacked out for a minute. My mom says that I was shrieking so horribly she thought I’d broken a leg.

She helped me to her bathroom where I took my first look at the carnage. Hair and blood and blech, gag, mouse guts were stuck to my knee. I wailed and cried while she cleaned it all off. I kept hearing that CRUNCH replayed in my head, over and over and over.

I’d barely calmed down before it turned into the new “guess what she’s done now” story. She immediately started calling people and relaying the brutal tale. It’s still, of course, a common joke among my family. “Did you hear about the time Alyson crushed that mouse with her knee?


(In case you haven’t noticed the trend, there’s a long list of things I’ll never live down. The post didn’t start out to be that way, but whatever.)

5) I’m often tactless.

In the past several months we’ve been learning how to use a new database at work. This means we’ve been spending a lot of time with new consultants and calling them when questions crop up. We haven’t completely transitioned from the old to the new so everything has been a bit muddled lately.

About a month ago one of my bills was late, as usual. Of course they started calling my work phone every fucking hour. Of course I didn’t answer. Sometimes they get sneaky and call switchboard and it comes up without an actual phone number on the screen, but I’ve gotten wise to that. Ha!

That particular day I was feeling a bit paranoid, so when the phone rang with a number I didn’t know I debated on picking it up or not. I finally snatched it up at the last minute, deciding I just wouldn’t answer using my name and see who it was first.

“Name of company and department." Pause. "How may I help you?”

“Yes, I’m calling for Alyson.”

“Erm, she’s not here...can I take a message?”

“Yes, tell her this is So-in-So the consultant returning her call about the questions she had on blahbity blahbity blah.”

I REALLY needed to talk to him so I had a quick internal debate: I couldn’t call him right back because I wasn’t supposed to be there. I couldn’t pretend to be someone else and say “Oh! Here she is!” because he’d recognize my voice and have to pretend he didn’t which would make things really awkward. Or I could tell him it was me and I was sorry for misleading him.

“Um, ha, So-in-So? This is kind of embarrassing, but this is Your number looked like someone’s that I’ve been avoiding so I...wait, I mean...”

He immediately burst out laughing.

“I’m so”

Still laughing, “That’s ok. Ha!” Then he started answering the questions that I’d left him a message about.

I’ve spoken to him twice since then, answering the phone correctly both times. The last one being this past Thursday:

“Thank you for calling Name of Company and Department. This is Alyson. How may I help you?”

“Oh, so it’s you today? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”

“Yep, it’s me. Heh, heh. Funny.”

More laughing.

“I’m never going to live this one down, am I?”

“Probably not.”

“I’m so professional.”

More laughing.

Did I mention he’s cute and single? No? Well he is, damn it. We have a meeting at his office across town coming up soon. I’m hoping he doesn’t embarrass me in front of everyone, including my boss who I never told about my lapse in professional demeanor. She’d be shocked, I’m sure.

Obviously I’m going to have to split this into two separate posts to keep you from restless eyeball syndrome.

To be continued with five more things you don't know about moi and my top seven bloggers to watch for 2010.

Thursday, January 07, 2010

If there was an Oscar for best performance by a fat kid...I'd win.

Memories of my early childhood are sparse. The ones I have are like an old movie reel. Grainy, with barely legible subtitles and cheesy music.

I was about seven when things switched to glaring color. Pictures, people, and places – all thrown together like a discount movie bin, all at war with each other to be placed on the shelf and labeled: horror, romance, comedy, drama.

There are classics, pulled out and played again and again when I’m alone. There are low budget sequels...

And like every video library, there are those you lend out.

Title: Satan’s Birth
Genre: Horror
Released: September 1992

I’m no longer going to be an only child.

I’m the forgotten child, left standing in a bedroom at four in the morning while my mother is hustled out the door and to the hospital. Left with twin teenage babysitters that are too involved with themselves to care when I lock myself in my room and refuse to come out.

I’m taken to The Grandmother’s to wait and am slightly mollified when she plies me with cheetos and ice cream.

I haven’t seen my dad in days, but who cares? He’s the one at fault for this mess anyway. My cousin told me to check my new sister’s head for dents when she comes home. No one is amused when I repeat this information to my Nana’s Jehovah’s Witness friends. Nana threatens me with the yardstick.

Mom finally comes home. She’s tired and goes straight to bed, taking it with her. I watch them sleep and wonder what the big deal is anyway. It doesn’t even look like a girl, with a thick patch of black hair on its fat head and as far as I can tell, no neck. It wakes up and starts screaming. I might have poked it by accident.

I’ve never heard a sound like that in my life. My ears are ringing. “Shut up”, I tell it loudly. My mom is trying to quiet it, but then turns to me, angry. She tells me to go to my room. As I walk out I pick up a hand mirror from the dresser.

“Take it back”, I scream throwing the mirror to the floor. Glass shatters all over the kitchen and in the bedroom doorway. I see my dad heading toward me and I know it’s all over.

They’re going to kill me now. Kill me and feed it my snacks. Give it my room and my books.

As he drags me off down the hall, I pray they have cheetos in heaven. The puffs, not the crunchies.

Title: The Curious Case of Brian’s Bullying
Genre: Suspense, Drama
Released: September 1993

It’s not easy being the smart, fat kid. Being badly dressed doesn’t help either.

It’s the first day of third grade and I have to be at the bus stop early. My mom dressed me in kaki pants, white turtleneck, patterned vest, and Keds. I hate my outfit. I know I look like the kid that swallowed Nancy Drew, but agree to wear it when she presents me with a new lunch box. It’s full of my favorites: a snack pack, cheetos, and a ham sandwich. I stuff in another snack pack when she isn’t looking.

I hate the bus. Mine is the first stop in the morning and the last stop in the afternoon. It feels like I spend an eternity bouncing around on those hard black seats.

It’s too dark to read in the morning, but on the way home I stick my nose in a book. People usually leave me alone, but not today.

The normal ruckus is going on around me – kids screaming and jumping, tramping up and down the aisle. Sometime later a body falls into my seat, knocking my book from my hands. I look up and angrily shove them out, sending them across the aisle.

It’s a high school boy that lives down the road from me. His name is Brian and he’s a tall, beefy, red-faced asshole. His book bag has come open and papers are falling all over the floor as he tries to steady himself. I pick up my book.

He turns around and yells curse words in my face, spit flying from his lips. A drop lands on my cheek and I brush it off. “You’re disgusting”, I say with bookwormish dignity. “Fucking nerd”, he screams back. Snatching the book from my hands, he starts ripping out pages.

“Stop”, I yell, but he doesn’t. Furious, I do what my Nana told me to do when boys are being “sonsabitches”. I pull my leg up in the seat and kick him hard in the crotch. I’m amazed when he drops to the floor like a stone. While he moans and cries, I attempt to gather up the pages of my book. They’ve flown all over the place and I have to crawl around under seats to retrieve them.

It’s taking me a long time and I’ve practically forgotten about stupid Brian. But as I’m crawling under another seat, I’m yanked from behind. He’s gotten a hold of my legs and is dragging me down the aisle. I try to kick him loose. He picks me up by my shoulders, squeezing hard, and holds me as high as he can.

The bored bus driver finally decides to intervene. “Put her down. Now!”

Brian grins up at me and yells, “Ok!” Then he throws me down and away from him as hard as he can. I slam into the floor, my head striking a seat leg, and lie there stunned. Before I can get up the bus pulls up at Brian’s house. He laughs as he steps over me on his way out the door. The bus driver shakes her head, but doesn’t comment.

I’m hurting all over, but at least I’m almost home.

By the time I’m dropped off and make the long trek up the driveway, my face is swollen from crying. My mom is standing in the kitchen when I go in. I stand in the doorway, holding my shredded book in my hands, tears coursing down my cheeks. She immediately runs to me and asks question after question. She feels the knot on my head and surveys my dirty clothes while, in between sobs, I explain.

Later she repeats the story to my dad. He’s just gotten home from work, but he’s had a “few beers” first. He is angry and irrational. He takes a gun from the cabinet and tells mom he’s going to go over there and shoot Brian’s dad. Unable to stop him, we wait. He doesn’t come back for hours.

I’m lying in my bed with a compress on my head when I hear him come through the door, singing. He’s drunker still and in good spirits. He and Brian’s dad have bonded over a bottle of Crown Royal.

I turn over and attempt to sleep off his betrayal. Goddamn rednecks.

Title: The Accidental Flashing
Genre: Comedy, Horror
Released: Summer 1995

I’m rarely indoors during the summer months. Every day is long and action packed. It’s the only time of year that an activity takes precedence over reading. I swim and I tube and I ski. My bathing suit is my skin for three months.

I eat less too. Not because I want to eat less, but because of the “no swimming for thirty minutes after you eat” rule. And I never break it. Not because I don’t want to break it, but because my Aunt once ate three pieces of birthday cake, “dove” in, got a cramp, and I had to help tow her in before she drowned. She’s at least 350lbs. People are lighter in the water, true, but I’m not a trainer at Sea World.

I’ve been trying to learn how to water ski with only one ski, but out of all the water sports I do, it’s my least favorite. This is most likely due to the traumatic way my family tried to teach me two years ago.


They hooked the rope to the Jet Ski and handed over the training skis. Brandishing a video camera from the dock, they called, “No matter what you do: DON’T LET GO OF THE ROPE!” Simple enough, right?

They started to go and I tried to pull myself up. I wobbled a bit, then crashed down, sliding beneath the surface. They continued to drive forward while I alternately sunk and rose, holding on to the rope for dear life. Probably around my third or forth time breaking the surface I heard them shouting, “LET GO OF THE ROPE! LET GO OF THE ROPE!” I did as they said. While the Jet Ski turned to come back for me I shouted indignantly back at the dock watchers, “BUT YOU SAID NOT TO!”

They play the video tape all the time. Even for guests.

Today my dad is going to ski. He uses one and he’s pretty good, but he only does it once a year. He’s sober so he probably won’t fall.

I climb in the boat with the rest of the onlookers while dad sits on the dock and straps on his life jacket. He lights a cigarette and climbs down the ladder so it doesn’t get wet. I roll my eyes and toss him the rope as we go by. He gives the driver a thumbs up, his cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth.

He’s up immediately, though it takes him a minute to gain his full balance. On the straightaway he hooks an arm through the handlebar, takes one last puff of his cigarette, and tosses it away. He jumps waves and does a few spins while we clap.

I spend the rest of the afternoon swimming with my cousins. Except for the 10 minutes I stand with my nose to a post on the gazebo for punching Andy and pushing him off the dock. It’s no so bad though. Ben whispers “Andy’s a wiener” every time he passes by and I giggle.

It’s time to go home and we start the uphill walk. “You did good on the skis”, he says. He’s being nice today. Ben said it’s because he smoked pot behind the shed with his dad, but I already knew that. I like him better when he smokes pot. Not my uncle though because he laughs really weird and calls me “Ralph”. “I don’t get it”, I tell him, but he just laughs harder.

I go straight to my room to take off my bathing suit. I pull on the shorts my mom laid out for me, but I choose a different t-shirt. The one she picked has a picture of a pink cartoon elephant on the front. Once she put it in my soccer bag and I had to wear it to practice. That woman is on a mission to make me a laughing stock.

I head to the laundry room to put away my bathing suit. The folding door is partially open and I yank it back, coming face to naked crotch with my dad. For a minute we are both frozen with shock. He turns his back, but I’ve already seen it. I turn around quickly and go back to my room. I feel sick and embarrassed. I lie on the bed and press my pillow over my head. Maybe if I press hard enough the image will go away.

We avoid each other the rest of the night. My mom asks me why I’m acting weird, but I can’t tell her. When I go to bed I hear them talking in murmurs. I know it’s coming even before it happens.

She bursts out laughing and I hear her say the words “you” and “penis”, but that’s all I can make out. I’m horrified. Now she’s going to tell all her friends about it and they’re going to laugh too. It’s not like I wanted to see his nasty thing. Ugh!

I get up the next morning and peer out my door. I’ve decided that I’m going to peek and shout to announce my presence before going through any doors or around corners. It’ll be a pain, but it’s better than having to see that again. I’m convinced I’ll be scarred for life, like that kid at school that caught his parents doing it on his four-wheeler. Now he won’t ride it anymore and he wears dark sunglasses all the time. I’ll probably have to move in with my grandma if it gets too awkward. That thought cheers me up a bit though because she has better snacks at her house.

I make myself a bowl of cereal and turn on the TV. My sister wanders by in her footy pajamas, heading for my mom’s room. After a few minutes they come out and go to the kitchen. It’s demanding grits and eggs again. I figure I can eat twice.

My mom looks at me across the bar and grins. “Good morning.”

I glare at her then turn my face to the TV. She’s never going to let me live this one down, I know it. I plan to call grandma as soon as I finish watching my show and eating breakfast. And maybe a snack.

Monday, January 04, 2010

Button, button, stop with the goddamn button!

I owe you lot an apology for not posting a drunk video blog like I said I probably would. So here it is:

“I’m sorry I didn’t make a video blog of myself being retarded drunk on New Year’s Eve because I was far too busy having sex.”

I’d love to say it was glorious and that I’ve been filled up to the brim with enough sexual healing to last me awhile. Sadly that’s not the case. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either.

It was a bit like eating at a really nice restaurant.

The setting is perfect: mood lighting, attentive service, the air is filled with the scent of promise. The appetizer melts in your mouth and the wine is delectable.

Then the main course comes and the first few bites are amazing. Eyes roll heavenward and satisfied moans escape lips. You start to feel a bit lightheaded. You want to eat everything, but you find yourself ready for dessert NOW.

But SURPRISE! There isn’t any dessert! There’s only more main course...and more main course...and more main course. They keep taking away your plate and putting a fresh one down a few minutes later. And that really sucks because you’re a methodical eater – only eating one thing at a time and saving the best for last.

You eat all of the main course you can because you’re a trooper and it’s been a very long time since you’ve been to a restaurant. But someone has to cry uncle. You’re left with no dessert, only a dissatisfied ache. And even though there’s no check, you know you’re going to be paying for it later. Because, for some reason, you already have plans to come back.

There. I think that about covers it. Should I leave it at that? Would you be satisfied? No, neither would I.

I met him sometime around March of last year. He was a friend of my mom’s boyfriend – only a few years older than me, good looking, smart.

A group of them were going to a bar and invited both of us out with every intention of causing a connection. Sadly things didn’t go as planned. We said barely a few words to each other and there may have been a misunderstanding or two. I didn’t see him out again, but I would hear the occasional story about him and his women. I’d never admit it to any of my friends, but his antics fascinated me. It was almost like listening to stories about myself, in male form.

New Year’s Eve was looking rather grim. Most of my friends were either having a quiet night at home or going out to a club. I didn’t really want to spend the evening at home alone, nor did I have the money to go clubbing. The only other option was a party.

My mom and her boyfriend go to this party every year. I always heard it was a good time, but in all honesty, who wants to go to a New Year’s party and get drunk with their mom? Well...I decided it was better to get drunk for free than sit at home, so I climbed in the backseat of Ray’s truck and tagged along.

Ray has to get to everything early, so for the first two hours I was asking myself, “Self, why the fuck did you come here?”

Then things got better. Some people I knew came in and the hardcore drinking began.

I was wearing my new outfit – a pinstriped shirt dress, black leggings, and black flats. I was in love with the top because it reminded me of wearing a man’s shirt. There were slits on each side and when I sat down they rode up to my hips, exposing a lot of leg. Legging clad leg, but still.

I was sitting at a long table with my legs propped in the chair next to me, chatting across the way to a friend, when mom said in my ear, “He’s here.”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw him speaking to Ray. He looked good, better than I remembered. I shrugged and turned back to my friends.

Later I was walking past him and he said something smartass to me. I replied in kind and the flirtation began. Never actually stopping to talk to each other, we just exchanged heated looks and barbed words. The turning point was the dance.

There was a band playing country music (which isn’t my favorite, but I enjoy some of it) and they were pretty good. I was standing in a group of people, including him, when they struck up a slow song. (Wish I could remember what it was. I’ll have to ask.) He got all excited, claiming he loved it and had to dance. So I said, “C’mon.”

We walked out onto the floor, wrapped our arms around each other, and melted. His fingers ran from the back of neck, down my spine, stopping just short of getting very hands on indeed. While he swayed us in a raunchy circle, he sang low next to my ear. I forgot about everyone there, including my likely slack jawed mom. It was probably the most fun I’ve ever had slow dancing.

The song ended and we returned to our places. The flirting kicked up a notch and had our looks been hands, I swear we would have been naked and panting.

I’d stepped outside for a minute when I heard the count down begin. I raced back through the door and began counting with the rest. Then everyone was shouting and exchanging hugs as the band struck up the New Year song. I came face to face with him and we grinned at each other.

“Happy new year”, I said.

“Let’s see what you’ve got”, he replied grabbing me and pressing his lips to mine. BANG. FLASH. Instant burn. It wasn’t a long kiss, but it was effective.

The party ended with the band making up funny songs about it’s members and various people in attendance. People were drifting out and saying their goodbyes. I was sitting on a barstool and he stood with his back to me, wrapping my legs around his. I slid my hands under his shirt and ran my nails down his back, tugging at the back of his belt. He made a noise of frustration and looked around before slipping his hand behind him and placing it between my legs.

It was all very inappropriate, but I honestly didn’t think anyone had noticed until I looked to the left and saw mom looking at me in horror. I just shrugged and grinned at her. She never drank, but that night she was wasted, having taken a Xanax before the party. I knew she wasn’t likely to remember much. (And she didn’t.)

Ray turned to me shortly after and said, “Are you coming with us?”

“I guess”, I replied reluctantly.

Loosening my legs, he turned around, looked and me and said, “That’s fine”, in a fake hurt tone.

That was all the invitation I needed. I looked back at Ray. “Nevermind.”

As we tripped off across the driveway he said, “Your mom is going to kill me.” (My mom works with his mom and knows him quite well, him being a friend of Ray’s and all.)


We made the short drive to his house and went in. While he greeted his dog and dicked around, I took off my jacket and watched him. He seemed nervous, which was at odds with the personality I’d come in contact with so far.

“Come sit down for a minute.” He stretched out on the couch and patted the cushion next to him. I lay my head in his lap and threw my legs over the armrest. While we talked he slipped his hands inside my shirt and, well, here’s where I have a mental block. If I’m to explain it correctly I should say, “He fondled my breasts”, or something like that. But I just couldn’t type it without laughing and thinking of a Fabio novel in my Aunt’s fat, sweaty paws. I also couldn’t say, “He played with my boobies”, because that just doesn’t sound right...right?

Whatever, you get the idea, ok?

I was impatient, which I’m sure he was all too aware of, but he took his sweet time getting acquainted with my boobs. Finally he got up and towed me toward his bedroom, shutting the door in the face of his unhappy dog.

I started to take off my leggings. He turned around from whatever he was fiddling with (no, not himself) and said, “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking off my leggings.”


At the time I was a bit confused about the problem with me removing my clothing. Was there a protocol? Was I supposed to play red light, green light or something?

I soon realized what the deal was: he wanted to be in complete control.

After removing my leggings, I crawled across the bed on my knees and turned around to face him. My shirt was unbuttoned to the waist and I was attempting to undo the rest when he pounced, flattening me to the bed. My sense of time is a bit addled, but there was a lot of long, delicious foreplay.

But when I tried to rise and take some control, he wouldn’t have it. For a moment it was a bit like being between two trampolines. I was trying to sit up and not understanding why he wouldn’t let me. So being the stubborn drunk, I kept trying and just ended up pinging back and forth between him and the bed. It was awkward, but kind of funny.

I finally got him on his back. (Isn’t that always fun to say?) And you’d think I’d get tired of hearing how awesome I am at oral sex, but no, I don’t. I’m even semi-bragging about it now. How tacky...yet entirely true. I will say I’ve never had one shout quite that much or that loudly. Must be getting better with age, eh? *brushes shoulders off*

Then there was some sex. It was good sex. There was hair pulling and ass slapping and shit talking. But then...

Whiskey came calling and demanded payment. And we’d have to start all over again.

And again. And again. He was tireless and would not accept defeat and neither, at first, would I.

Unfortunately, the longer things went on the harder he was on my bizness. Not in, or with the right appendage, but on, you understand. I’m not exactly sure what that deal was, but I had to put a stop to the button grinding before it went numb and fell off.

The stop and start routine went on forever before we finally just curled up together and slept for awhile. When I woke up he wasn’t there. I slipped on my shirt and found him in the living room watching TV. He was embarrassed, poor guy.

Now, normally I wouldn’t have cared it he was embarrassed or not. I would have shrugged and kept my mouth shut. But for some reason, I liked him enough to reassure him that I’d had a good time. And for the most part, I had.

I went and put my clothes on and asked him to take me home. I still have an aversion to being there when the sun comes up. I’ll have to work on that...

We laughed and carried on an easy conversation all the way home. When we pulled up he apologized again. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. As I climbed out of the truck he said, “I’ll make it up to you next time.”

“Yes, you will”, I said smiling.

He watched me dance across the driveway on my tiptoes, trying to avoid the mud puddles, and didn’t pull off until I was inside.

I went quietly about my routine and climbed into bed, but I couldn’t sleep. As much as I thought I liked him, there was still one problem:

I was too sore to help myself to dessert.