I think I broke the record for least number of days writing for NaBloPoMo. I made it two days and then my brain was like, "Fuck this". I don't know why. Something is broken inside of me. I'm just not feeling the urge or need to write stuff here. Instead I've found it easier to just shoot off tweets on Twitter instead.
I hate to give up my beloved little blog altogether. I renewed my domain registration for another year in September. It seems wasteful not to use it. I don't know how often I'll post stuff here, but I'll make a concerted effort to stop by occasionally. I really do miss reading the funny comments (which were usually better than my posts).
Below is something I posted on Facebook a while back. I had originally thought I would try to have a "Not Safe For Work" post and include this. Maybe it's just me, but seeing all the comments roll in that particular evening made me laugh hysterically.
What's hilarious is that one friend asked me, "Is that a horror movie?" and I had to tell her, "No darlin', it's a porno".
I have one more thing to share that made me laugh. This happened today:
I wish I could say it was the first time I've ever found food on my tatas, but NOPE! Happens with frightening regularity. I've had to get chocolate stains out of my bras more times than I'd like to admit.
Before I wrap up this post, I wanted to mention that if anyone wants to follow me on Twitter, you can find me at @suzdal92. Even if you don't want to join Twitter, you can look at my timeline at your leisure. That's where I express most of my nonsense nowadays. But if you wanna be friends on Twitter, that would be pretty sweet. Ciao for now you dear people...
This may well be my shortest post ever, but a post of any length should count toward the goal of writing something for National Blog Posting Month, so let's go with that.
I'm almost positive that I've never shared this story here before, but if I have, please forgive me because I suffer from a severe case of CRS.
Last year, my then seven-year old son told all the kids on his school bus that his Russian father had killed a man when he was a boxer. And while it is true that my husband was an amateur boxer as a young man, and it it true that he broke one guy's nose (and also had his own nose broken), he never killed anyone. Afterwards, I was put in the awkward predicament of trying to decide whether I should send a note to his teacher or something. It's really hard to send an email that says, "By the way, my husband never killed anyone, despite whatever rumors might be swirling around". How to handle shit like this is never covered in any parenting books.
I could probably write my own book giving example of things that aren't covered in most standard advice books. I'll try to share other stories here as I think of them (hence the title name of "Part One"). In advance, you're welcome!
Hey guys! Just so you know, getting back into the routine of writing is hard. I used to work on my posts all day long in my head and then pound them out once I got home from work. I've gotten lazy. I'm telling you this upfront so you'll keep your expectations low. Like really low. Believe me, it will be much more enjoyable that way.
So yesterday was Halloween which meant Trick or Treating with the small human who lives in my house. His costume this year (and last year) was a gangster. He wore a pinstriped suit, nice white fedora and carried a tommy gun:
What did we hear all night long? "Are you a cowboy?" It was mostly kids who asked this but one adult even asked him that question. Turns out that the quickest way to piss of a tiny gangster is to repeatedly ask him if he's a cowboy.
My Russian husband went as "Russian Guy" for Halloween. All he had to do was wear a fur military hat and speak English with his thick accent. It was pretty easy as far as costumes go. Along the way, we ran into a kid wearing a huge, photo-realistic mask of Trump.
Immediately the people with this kid were like, "Look! It's Trump and Putin! We have to get a photo". I posted this image on FB and one friend made the comment, "If this was really Putin he would've been shirtless". Buuuuurrrrn!
We got lucky with nice weather and were able to trick-or-treat for over two hours. The result? A full bag of candy weighing 9.2 pounds. This is what it looked like when dumped out:
My son said these exact words to me, "Look Mom! I can make a candy angel!" (like a snow angel) and he did. It doesn't suck to be a kid sometimes.
(Note-- this post is one of 30 planned posts for the month of November. I intend to change the email setting so that subscribers don't get daily emails. I'll do that as soon as I figure out how to do so).
First off, I have to say "THANK YOU" to you loyal readers who keep coming here day after day, week after week, even though I haven't posted anything since June (I still see the website stats). It makes me feel guilty. Complete strangers come here more often than I do. I'm a shitty blogger apparently. I don't know why, but somewhere around May of this year, writing a post no longer felt like "Yay!" but rather, "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck." It was just one more thing I had to do every day. I don't know what changed. For nearly two years, I LOVED posting my nonsense here. I loved making friends with those of you who were kind enough to leave comments. In an attempt to get back that lovin' feeling, I've signed up for "National Blog Posting Month" or "NaBloPoMo". (Honestly, I'll never be able to remember that acronym). Thankfully they have a badge I can just use instead. I'm going to attempt to write one post a day for the entire month of November.
I have no idea what I'm going to write about daily. Apparently even just a post of a photo counts. The lazy part of me finds that appealing.
It's been so long since I've even logged onto this website, I've almost forgotten how to use it. Bear with me if you see goofy shit. Or goofier than usual, that is. One thing I will attempt to do is turn off email notifications for new posts. Amazingly, I haven't lost any subscribers since June but if anything will drive people away, I'm sure will be daily emails from me. I get it, I really do.
To get things started, here are a couple of funny things I texted to friends today and Saturday night:
If I had a heart condition, I'd be suspicious that this was not a coincidence. A woman who scares easily mixed with a goober husband is not the best combination. One friend asked if I had a lot of life insurance. Thankfully no. Yay?
Hey kids -- today you will be reading a post by my friend Christopher from the website, "Freethinkers Anonymous". Enjoy!
Summer means car washes. Every time I see kids standing by the street holding up signs and yelling that they’re holding a car wash to raise money for something or other it always takes me back to all the summer Saturdays I spent doing the same thing. I’m also always tempted to pull over and donate some even if I’m not inclined to let them scratch—er, I mean wash the car, although that’s kind of hard to do when I’m riding the bus. When I was a Boy Scout car washes were our preferred method for raising money. We also sold candy and occasionally raffle tickets but those didn’t go over so well. One year we had a raffle for a side of beef and I never realized there were so many people in my neighborhood who didn’t eat beef. Or maybe they just didn’t have a freezer big enough to hold half a cow. Also my preferred place to go selling was the rather sketchy collection of condos on the hill above my house. The people I sold raffle tickets or candy to there were generally nice but they also all warned me there were some exceptionally sketchy people who lived in the condos. I never did meet any of these alleged dangerous strangers which is probably a good thing. I’d never seen the inside of any of the condos so I was really curious about what they looked like and would have probably taken any invitation to come in and look around, but that's another story.
The Boy Scout car washes were actually a lot more fun, partly because I knew what we were raising the money for, but also because, well, we just had a lot more freedom to spray each other with hoses and dump buckets of soapy water over each other and throw sponges. The church parking lot where we held the car washes was on a corner with a crosswalk. One or two lucky guys would get the job of standing on the corner holding up signs and trying to convince drivers to pull in and get their cars cleaned. I pointed out to my fellow Scouts that there was a "Press for walk signal" button on the corner which we could use to make the lights change and stop cars. I thought it was one of those stupidly obvious things but my fellow Scouts thought that was a hilarious idea.
One time an 18-wheeler pulled into the parking lot and the driver gave us twenty-five bucks to go the best job we could which wasn't much but we had fun trying anyway. The only downside of that was he didn't invite us into the cab to have a look around, probably because we were all wet and soapy. And maybe he had some things in there he didn't want us to see. Just because we were Boy Scouts didn't make us completely innocent, though. One night the troop came to my parents' house for some reason and they all noticed the herb garden on our hippie neighbor's deck. And they all recognized that particular five-leaved herb that he was growing. I'm probably making it sound like I lived in the sort of pretty bad neighborhood where "mother" was only half a word, but it really was a nice suburb. It's just that every suburb, no matter how nice, has its seedy underside.
The Boy Scout troop had its seedy underside too and one really bad seed was Kevin. I was in Boy Scouts from the age of seven when I started Cub Scouts all the way through the age of eighteen when I earned my Eagle and I stuck around for a couple of years after that as an assistant Scoutmaster and Kevin was the only kid I ever knew who got kicked out of a Scout troop.
I heard stories from friends in another troop that he was about to be kicked out of their troop but his grandparents, whom he lived with, pulled him out and put him in ours before that could happen. And I overheard some conversations between the adults that Kevin was a kid to watch out for, and not in a good way. If any money disappeared, they said, start the search with Kevin.
One Saturday when we were holding a car wash my mother was one of the adults there helping supervise us and making sure we only used the hoses for spraying cars and each other since the one time we'd used them to wrap up one of the younger kids it ended up being hard to get him back out again in spite of our combined experience with knots. My mother also had the keys to the church in case anybody needed to go the bathroom, although Kevin convinced her he also needed to use the phone. His story was that he needed to call some of our fellow Scouts who weren't there and remind them about the car wash.
If you're under a certain age then I think I should explain that there was a time before cell phones, when we relied on land lines only we didn't call them "land lines" because that's all we had.
My mother stood and watched Kevin dial but she didn't notice that he dialed a few extra numbers. She did think he spent an unusually long time waiting for whoever he was calling to pick up. She eventually pulled the phone out of his hand in spite of his insistently saying, "It's still ringing!"
It wasn't ringing. I'm still not sure what he was listening to but my mother found out he wasn't calling any Boy Scouts when the church secretary showed her the phone bill.
If you're under a certain age I may need to explain what a 1-900 number was. You could call and for some fee--I remember a lot of them being advertised as "just" 75 cents a minute although I think there was also a fee just for calling--you could listen to something. Some had sports information, some were fortune tellers, but most were, well, graphic--internet porn for the blind, I guess. Some claimed you could talk to a real woman, usually pictured lounging around her bed in lingerie, but I guess the one Kevin called was a prerecorded message. I never called one myself so I have absolutely no idea what he heard, and since my mother was right there I know he didn't do any talking.
He'd be kicked out for that and moved on to another Scout troop where the leaders were thoroughly warned about what he was capable of. I still wonder sometimes what became of him, but mostly, when I see an amateur car wash being advertised, I wonder what seedy underside it hides.
Hey guys -- remember me? I sometimes write random, nonsense shit here. I haven't written a post for a while (um, eighteen days, I think?) for various reasons. Mostly because of life. Lately it seems like I have to do ALL. THE. THINGS! I'm not the first one to say this, but damn, sometimes it's hard to work full-time AND raise a kid AND run a household. It takes time, people. And energy. Each day, I have good intentions, like this:
Flash forward a few hours later, and this is all I want to do once I'm home:
The key word here is "WANT". Do I actually ever get to sit my ass down and watch TV like a slug?
HARDLY. EVER. And you're probably (rightfully) like:
And I'm like:
You'd think with school being out, I'd have MORE free time, but NOPE! Instead I have to drive and pick my son up from camp* (*daycare for older kids) after work each day, which takes away even more of my precious evening time. I'll spare you the details because I know I'm like every other busy family out there. The evening is a never-ending list of chores: cooking dinner, cleaning up the kitchen, making lunches, doing a load of laundry, helping to wash my filthy child, etc. If I'm lucky, maybe, the Russian and I can sit down together and watch something on the DVR before we go to bed. Oh, and somehow I need to find time to squeeze in a blog post. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE being able to express myself here. I still can't quite believe that people stop by day after day just to read my nonsense. During the school year, I often work on posts at the kitchen table while my son works on homework. It helps me to have a routine. It's a kick in the ass, but now that summer vacation is here, I find that I actually have LESS free time in the evenings. "Summer Vacation... I'm Doing it Wrong".
Lately I've been posting a lot of my random nonsense on Twitter and Facebook because it's quicker than writing a blog post. We can be friends on social media if you wanna. *Shoves hands in pockets; scuffs dirt with shoe*
I hope to do a "Not Safe For Work" post soon. In the meantime, here's a kangaroo that my son painted at camp. I didn't notice the appendage in the front right away. It's fun* to raise boys.(*a combination of mortification mixed with hilarity).
A few months ago I published this post, "I Dare You To Pick A Favorite Name from this List". It contained awesome REAL names that a friend compiled at her job. That post contained her list of names for 2014. Below is the list for 2015. It's just as full of awesomeness:
Mbuyi Tshibangu (prounouced "My Boo-y She Bang You")
Phuc Q Le
Hui Huang (pronounced "Wee Wang")
Haulijiah Lewis (pronounced "Hallelujah")
Okey O. Bryant
Bija Ready (pronounced "BJ Ready")
Saint Hubert Joseph
P P Gentile
My V Vu
Enock Ka Kuuku
Koral Reef Pier
Kocoa Louise Smith
Asshole Kingston (pronouced "Asholay")
This is the moment where your feel thankful that you don't have to tell people that you're "BJ Ready". And that you don't have to answer to a name that sounds like, "Little Caesar Menu".
OK, sorry. This title is total clickbait. I've read that articles with titles that include a numbered list are crazy popular. Think "Five Things ALL Men LOVE in the Bedroom" but when you click on it, the article is about ceiling fans and neutral colors. Anyway, I really did get a massage this past week and I do have some helpful hints for you. 'Cause I'm a giver that way...
My husband and I have birthdays one day apart, which is kind of nice. For example, we can just buy one cake:
Green is our favorite color, hence the green border icing. The roses on the cake I had ordered were supposed to be pink, but it'd say they were more of a peach color. However, I picked the cake up after work and as I was rushing to an appointment with my kid, so I didn't have time to ask the bakery to fix it. Plus, I didn't really care THAT much. I was just glad to have an excuse to eat cake. (Mmmmmmm...caaaaaake. Sorry if you read that in Homer Simpson's voice).
This year the Russian and I each took a day off from work so we could have a special "adults only" day. Like adult lunch, which in my mind means lunch in a restaurant with tablecloths and cloth napkins. One friend heard the term "adult lunch" and was like, "Lunch at a strip club?". Which is a reasonable question since I've heard that some strip clubs provide a nice buffet. However, I've never stepped foot inside a strip club (hell, I've never even been to Hooters) so I don't know if this is actually true.
Besides a lunch reservation, I also scheduled a "couples massage" for us. The term "couples massage" makes you think that something erotic is going to happen. Like some sort of synced "happy ending" for each partner. In reality, it's just a room with two massage tables. Like this:
I don't get massages a lot (because we like to eat food and have electricity in our house), so I had to really think hard about what I would wear. The underwear, that is. I knew my bra would be off, but I've always kept my underwear on during previous massages. I didn't want the massage therapist to pass judgment on me based on my undies, so knew I needed to choose carefully. At first I picked out a delicate, lacy black pair. Then I thought, "Oh, what if it's a guy and he thinks I'm flirting with him or something?". Yes, I really did think this. I also remembered that oils are used quite liberally during the massage process so I didn't want my nicest unmentionables getting oily. So then I thought, "OK, pink cotton will work". But then that seemed too girly or something. In the end, I just wore plain white briefs. Gawd. I spent more time picking out my underwear than doing my hair and make-up.
Once we got to the spa, we did the whole relaxation thing with robes and slippers and hot tea in a special room before the massage. There was a fountain in the room and some kind of aromatherapy going on. I would have been happy to sit there the rest of the day. Sadly, we were called back for our massages all too soon. We were left alone in the "Love Room" so we could disrobe and get comfortable under the sheets. The tables were close enough to each other that we could reach out and hold hands if we wanted to. I reached out to my husband and told him happy birthday. His reply to me was, "Oh my God, I can see your boobs". Yes, he really said that. I guess because we had never had a massage TOGETHER before, he didn't realize that I was topless. I mean, the sheet was covering me, but apparently I had some serious side-boob showing or something. Yes honey, this COMPLETE STRANGER is getting ready to rub her oily hands ALL OVER MY BODY, but thanks for being concerned about my modesty.
The actual massage was wonderful. Except for moments like this
Me, to myself, during the massage: "Oh my God, this is fantastic. Pure bliss. I must enjoy every moment".
My brain: "Hey, wasn't it sad how Leo Tolstoy died at a train station?"
Me: "You suck".
Other topics my brain came up with included memories of Angie, the girl who bullied me in 7th grade, as well as musings on when my next oil change is due.
All in all, it was a good experience. My list of things NOT to do during a massage would be this:
Hello there. If you are a regular here, you may have noticed that my writing output has been on the low side lately. For whatever reason, I haven't been in a "writing" kind of mood lately. I'm not sure why. In any case, I'm currently working on a long(ish) post that I want to get just right. I don't know how much more time I'll need so I thought I would write "a quick and dirty post" and share with you this funny and thought-provoking conversation that I had with my eight-year old son last night. Lately my son is really into the game "Would you rather...?" . Sometimes his questions are really silly; sometimes thought provoking. Sometimes both (see Facebook post below from January):
Question my 8yo has asked this evening:
1. Would you rather be super rich with zero friends or middle-class with lots of friends?
2. Would you rather have been a prisoner on Alcatraz or in a concentration camp?
3. Would you rather be attached to a pig for the rest of your life or fart glitter for the rest of your life?
"Uhhhhhhh ... glitter?"
(Every kid has these questions right? Right? It actually might be kind of fabulous to fart glitter, but I bet laundry would be a bitch).
Out of the blue, my son started this line of questioning last night:
Him: "Would you rather go back in time 100 years and meet your great-grandparents or go forward 100 years and meet your great-grandchildren?"
Me: "Was this something you did in school today?"
Him: "No. It's something I was thinking about."
Me: "Hmmmm ... well, it would be cool to go forward in time because I could see all the new technology and meet my grandchildren or great-grandchildren. But what if the world had come to an end? What if there was a nuclear war or natural disaster and nothing existed? That would be horrible."
Him: "That probably won't happen. Everything will be fine."
(Note, there is something else that I thought about that I didn't mention to him. If I went forward in time, I could look up my obituary. I could look up the obituaries of EVERYONE I KNOW. No one should know the time and manner in which they will leave this earth. And yet, if that knowledge was available, I don't think I would be able to stop myself from looking. I WOULD HAVE TO KNOW!!! Ugh, just thinking about it makes me feel sick to my stomach. What if it said, "Woman dies in freak petting zoo accident?" I would know to never visit petting zoos again. This is the kind of stuff that's supposed to upset the space-time continuum right?).
Me: "I think it would be better to go back in time. Then I could see my great-grandparents. And maybe I could do something to stop Hitler."
Him: "You'd have to go to Germany. And you don't know how much time you'll have."
Me: "True. And I don't speak German. But I could at least TRY. Maybe I could send someone a telegram? Even if I couldn't stop Hitler, it would be cool see my Great-Grandparents as young people."
I would love to meet this young man:
I absolutely LOVED and adored my great-grandmother Mollie (wife of Herbert above) who passed away when I was ten. I can't even tell you how happy it would make me to see her again. I wasn't as close to my grandfather, but I think it's because he was so hard-of-hearing when I was a child, it was difficult to have normal conversations with him. He was always kind to me; he gave me sticks of Juicy Fruit gum and dimes. When I was a baby and my parents visited him, he would wake them up at 5:00 a.m. (when he got up) so he could hold me.
Anyway, back to the conversation:
Me: "Which one would you choose? The past or the future?"
Him: "The future. I want to see all the cool technology. I want to see if laser boobs have been invented."
Him: "Laser boobs. You know, boobs that can be used as weapons."
And there you have it folks. The mind of an eight-year old boy. He wants to go forward in time to see laser boobs. You know what?
If I'm honest, I also want to know if laser boobs will exist in the future. WHO DOESN'T?
Now it's your turn to let me know if you'd rather time travel to the past or future. Or you can answer the questions: "Would you rather be surgically attached to a pig or fart glitter the rest of your life?". These are all important things to know.
Sometimes the idea for a post comes in the oddest way. Take this FB quiz a friend posted last Friday night (name changed to protect the guilty):
I wanted to say more, but I didn't want to be a total dick and clutter up this person's timeline so I switched to texting instead:
This is the point where I thought this would be a post about the weird shit for sale on Amazon, because lately I've been seeing some really odd things there. Like this:
The thought of a floppy sheet of rubber covered with Leonid Brezhnev's eyebrows gives me the shivers. And then I remembered that I had recently posted this on Facebook:
Here's the link in case you want to read the full article.
And then I realized that this post wasn't going to be about weird shit on Amazon, but instead about eyebrows. Because I also posted this on FB:
These eyebrow comments I made are all from the past few weeks. I think I might have a problem. Do I have a secret obsession with eyebrows and I'm only just now realizing it? What's next? Late night searches for "eyebrows" on YouPorn? Is it a matter of time before I write my own insane Brezhnev eyebrow article about Eugene Levy? Now that I think of it, I've always kind of had a "thing" for Eugene Levy. Is it because of his manly eyebrows? Is there a cure? Do I need professional help? What do you think guys?
Sunday night I posted this image on Facebook:
I actually found five, crisp one dollar bills that I keep tucked back (in case of a small-bill emergency) and that's what the Tooth Fairy gave him. My other option was to open his piggy bank and find a five dollar bill in there. In fact, that's what I probably SHOULD have done. Just keep giving him the same damn $5 over and over again.
This is the tenth tooth that my son has lost. He lost number nine a couple of weeks ago. I was in the kitchen and he walked in and slammed the tooth on the kitchen counter like a cowboy in an old Western film slamming down his money and saying, "WHISKEY!". Instead of whiskey, my kid was like, "Here's my tooth!". Uh, OK.
I remembered that there was actually a time that we had to have a talk entitled, "The Correct Time and Place to Pull Teeth". You know, just like it was covered in all the parenting books I read.
This is what he looked like after losing several teeth. He was not thrilled with his appearance at this time. I can't say that I blame him. It's a fine line between "adorable" and "hillbilly".
Yesterday I Googled, "stuffed animals with real human teeth" (as one does) because I've now collected ten of my son's teeth and I thought it would be funny to show him one of these "dolls" that you can make. I had seen stuffed animals like the top one before. But then I found the second image. I just... I don't... words fail me here.
I posted this image on FB and Twitter and the universal reaction was: "W.T.F?" People asked me what it was, like I'm some kind of specialist on assholes with teeth. I DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS IS! Several people mentioned the possibility that it's sex toy, which reminds me that I need to find classier and more mentally healthy friends. I can't even tell if we're looking at the front end or back end of this critter. Ugh.
In any case, feel free to leave your own funny tooth-pulling stories or asshole-with-teeth theories in the comment section below.
I have a question for you. What word makes you feel icky-poo, yucky or just dang uncomfortable when you hear it? The author of the blog "Halfa1000miles.com" wrote a post in which she described her reaction to the word "panties" (you can read it here). I have the same "ick" reaction to "panties" but it's not at bad as MY word. What word might that be, you ask? Why, here's a WORK EMAIL that I received which contains my trigger word:
I replied to the sender and copied my boss to it. This was his response:
Being the responsible adult that I am, I immediately replied, "But she started it!". And I sent this:
Our poor (and totally nice and normal) HR person replied that she agreed that it was a horrible name but she's trying to organize games for an upcoming fun company event. My boss replied to both of us with this comment:
I'm not even offended 'cause it's totally true. Still, I don't think it's odd to have this response to a co-worker: "Please don't tell me about your cornhole. I don't want to know". Am I right or am I right?
For those of you who don't know, cornhole is this:
I don't know why it just can't be called "beanbag toss" or something like that. WHO CARES IF THE BAGS CONTAIN CORN AND NOT BEANS! You can still totally call it a beanbag. Ugh. Maybe it's just me, but if I hear the word "cornhole" I think of something completely different. You know what it is. I'm not going to write it here because I am a lady. Also, "cornhole" brings up a horrible visual image as well. This is all because, as someone funnier than me once said, "corn is merely a tourist in the digestive tract". If you STILL don't know what this means, just volunteer to change the diaper of a toddler who has eaten corn in the previous 24 hours. Then you will see a cornhole in all its glory.
While looking online for an image of the game cornhole, I ran across these gems:
To add insult to injury, last Friday I received an email invoice for the cornhole boards that we ordered. I'm like, "Could I go a week without seeing the work 'cornhole' in my email inbox? Sheesh".
Now it's your turn. What word sets off your gag reflex or makes you go "Ewwww"? Feel free to share your own particular trigger word in the comments section below.
Today when I logged onto my Facebook account I saw this message:
Oh my gawd Facebook, quit pressuring me! Apparently you didn't see this tweet:
That's right. I didn't get sick AT ALL over the winter; instead I got sick on LITERALLY the first day of Spring Break for my kid, proving yet again that Murphy's Law is a real and actual law (how I hate that little Irish bastard). When I woke up the following day, I felt like this:
My eyes hurt, my face hurt, I had the chills and a cough that made me sound like a three-pack-a-day smoker. If I had taken a selfie of myself, I'm pretty sure I would have been a mirror image of Stimpy above. (Kidding. I have MUCH less facial stubble). I had my husband take me to a nearby Urgent Care Center as soon as it opened. Thankfully the flu test came back negative but since I had an obvious sinus infection brewing, I was given an antibiotic. As we all know, antibiotics don't help if what you've got is viral in nature. Annnnnnd......apparently what I've got is a virus. My sinus infection cleared up quickly but all the other symptoms have lingered ALL. EFFIN. WEEK. Did I mention that this past week was Spring Break for my son? We were supposed to have Super-Fun-Week together. Instead we had, "Here Play With the iPad for Several Hours While Mommy Sleeps" week. But you know what? For my kid this actually WAS a pretty good week. He doesn't usually get hours of unlimited time to play video games. I offered to send him to a day camp for the day but he was happier to just chill at home with me. Of course, since I wasn't out and about in the world, I don't have anything particularly funny to write about. Well wait, I take that back. There were a couple of funny things that happened:
One night The Russian thought this would make for a cute a decoration in our kid's room. Instead our son was freaked out by, in his words, "dead Elmo". This falls under the category of "parenting fail".
I found this real estate advertisement in our mailbox one day last week:
Uh, thanks but no thanks, I have a strict rule of not eating food that just mysteriously shows up in my mailbox. Especially not Peeps for God's sake. PEEPS THAT WERE TAKEN OUT OF THEIR PACKAGE AND TORN APART BY GERM-LADEN HANDS! This was DAYS after Easter, I might add, so it was obviously discount candy. "Only the second-best for you, potential client!". This real estate agent has a weird food-themed ad campaign going on. I wrote about this lady last October:
I'm waiting for the day she gets her own van and drives around the neighborhood handing out free candy.
I guess I should just be glad she wasn't handing out leftover deviled eggs from Easter dinner. Although "Mailbox Deviled Eggs" would have been an awesome title for this post. Just sayin'...
While out and about in the world (and online), I can't help but take photos of items that invoke a "WTF?" reaction within me. Below are items for sale that I've found over the last few weeks (with accompanying funny remarks from friends on some pieces).
First up we have some thrift store gems*:
Here's a candle that appears to be made from cornflakes or a perhaps a lifetime collection of scabs, saved by the artist:
There's nothing more adorable than anthropomorphic poo that loves you:
The expression on Mama Duck's face seems to be not so maternal; instead it's more "Hey sailor, why don't you come up and see me some time?":
Need a gift idea for the President of your company? How about this piggy bank? It will be laugh riot as the boss opens your gift during the annual Christmas party. It will be nothing but chuckles after your ass is summarily dismissed and escorted from the property! It'll be hilarious!
These wine goblets are the mullet haircut of stemware: "party on the top; business on the bottom".
Why not accessorize your table with these adorable outhouse salt and pepper shakers? Because nothing says "classy" like tiny shithouses that also season your food.
Need a gift for your friends Virginia and Scott who got married on April 17, 1999? How awesome is this plate? And only four bucks!
Up next-- potato chips that I saw at our local grocery store. As one of my friends put it, "Just because they can, doesn't mean they should":
It's always a surprise to see erotic plastic fruit in the home-goods section of a store:
You'll have to excuse me, but I couldn't think of a transition from a boob-shaped lemon to Baby Prince William:
Up next, is something I found COMPLETELY by accident when searching for something online:
Sooooo...yeah. Let me just say that I never thought of human hair as being very absorbent, so I have doubts about the quality of these particular tampons.
Last item for today-- a toilet seat cover that looks like a bear. The comment from one of my friends is perfect:
It's two-something in the afternoon as I write this. I put this post on FB a little while ago:
I'm happy to report that nothing has changed. I'm still in my jammies and now having a second glass of wine. I haven't had my nap yet, so this is going to be a "quick and dirty" post so I can get to the more important things in my life (the nap, in case I need to speak plainly).
In my last post, I mentioned that this was a busy week at work. We had one of our quarterly Very Important Meetings yesterday. Thanks to technology, everyone uses an iPad to view the meeting materials. When things are "slow" during the meeting, I click on email or Twitter or the news. Yesterday during the meeting I noticed that I'm getting age spots on the back of my right hand (gasp!). I mean, I think they're age spots. Honestly, they just look like freckles, which I have all over me (thanks pale Irish ancestors!). However, these are new freckles, which I think makes them not freckles after all (trying to avoid the phrase "age spots" if you can't tell). Anyway, I thought to myself, "I wonder what cream I could use to fade these? I'll check Amazon". This is one product that showed up in the search results:
That's right. I was in an important, serious meeting at work and this image was on my iPad. Lovely. When the chairman asked at one point, "Does anyone have any questions or comments?" I wish I could have have said, "Yes, I have a comment. If anyone is on the lookout for anal bleach, you can buy it on Amazon. And it's on sale-- $16, marked down from $40. It's a steal! OK, that is all. Carry on sir".
I liked the product description:
All this time the only thing that I thought needed to be whitened and brightened in my house was the laundry. Isn't it called your "brownhole" and not your "beigehole" for a reason? Because that's the way we were made? Anyway, I think it's both sad and funny that there's a disclaimer for pregnant and breastfeeding women not to use this. I say kudos to any woman who has the energy and desire to bleach her backside while pregnant or breastfeeding. During that time of my life I remember being so tired that I was doing good to keep up with basic human hygiene, like bathing and brushing my teeth. Keeping a small human alive was more important to me than the color "back there". But hey, different strokes for different folks, right?
Since this post falls in to the category of NSFW, I might as well include a another funny slash inappropriate thing. This post by my friend (and future life partner) VAGina on her website "Half A 1000 Miles" made me look up anagrams of my name. It was something I had done in the past but I don't remember seeing this particular anagram of my full name (believe me, I would have remembered):
Hey anyone out there with mad Photoshop skillz--I wanna see a mock-up bottle of my wine. In my imagination, the bottle is made of pink glass and the label is decorated with glitter. To keep it classy, the genital part needs to be hinted at, not shown. I did a Google search to try to find an image I had seen years ago, where a wine glass covered the genital area of a woman and hinted at the triangular pubic area. Kind of like this:
Soooooo... yeah. I was just doing an simple image search and found this. Turns out that someone is making hair dye for graying pubic hair. I honestly did not know that this product existed. So we're bleaching our backsides and darkening our frontsides? What if you get the process backwards? Like after an afternoon at home alone with a good bottle of wine? I guess this should be my public service announcement for the day: "Don't drink and dye!"
This week at work we have one of our quarterly VERY IMPORTANT MEETINGS. The ones that wear me out because I'm required to act like a normal and mentally-healthy human being ALL DAY LONG! The meeting where I have to resist standing up and yelling, "F*ck you all motherf*ckers" (not because there's anything wrong with the participants, it's just a sick compulsion on my part. Click on the link if you want a more detailed explanation). Even worse, we have a fancy dinner the night before the meeting so even MORE acting is required on my part. Sometimes by the end of the evening my face muscles hurt from all the fake smiling. By Friday night my only goal in life is to sit on my ass and drink wine and watch TV (OK, this is where one of you wise-asses is going to pipe up and say, "But that's your goal every Friday" and I won't even be offended because it's true).
After work today my son and I stopped by the library and the following book caught my attention. I ended up posting the photo on Facebook:
Here's the link to the post "When Your Safe Word is Bengay". The entire post isn't applicable to our "safe word" topic, so I'll just copy and paste the pertinent part below. Considering I wrote this over a year ago when my readership was much lower, I'm guessing that this will be a "new to you post" for the majority of you:
So here's the horrible thing-- a lot of the people at this meeting are respected pillars of the community; smart and brilliant people in the prime of their career. I just googled "How many Americans engage in bondage?" and found a huge range of numbers. At the very, very low end, supposedly the number is 11%. So even if we make a conservative guess, about one in 10 people at this meeting will be into S&M. Now I will be forced, forced I tell you, to try to figure out who the freaks are (No judgement! OK, a little judgement). Ugh. These are nice people. Which one of them uses a hamburger-shaped gag ball in the bedroom? Which one owns a dog collar but doesn't own dogs? Who has the safe word, "Banana"? Not knowing will haunt me forever...
P.S.-- I really did see on one website that "banana" and "pineapple" are the two most common safe words, followed by "cheese", "turnip" and "bacon". Which sounds to me like a lot of these people need a snack break in the midst of their activities. Who the fuck is choosing turnip anyway?
The best part about having a blog is getting to meet new people through the comments section. I know now SO MANY freakin' hilarious people-- it's like my life has become perpetual rainbows and unicorns. OK, slight exaggeration but it does make me laugh to read the funny comments written here. A lot of the funny commentators have their own blogs, proving that funny people write funny things. I thought I'd share with you some things that have struck me as hilarious just this past week or so.
My newest blog friend is, oh wait, I'm not sure if I can use her real name here. We'll call her by our celebrity name which is VAGina (once we become a couple that is). She's from Virginia and I'm Gina so there you go. Anyway, last week VAgina wrote this post about accidentally flinging poo (on her blog Half A 1000 Miles). I read this post in bed on my iPad one evening while my husband tried to go to sleep. I wanted to laugh hysterically but because the Russian was next to me and dozing off, I had to stifle my laughter. The result was me shaking silently and violently. Suddenly he turned to me and asked in an annoyed voice if I was, ugh, "pleasuring" myself. That question just made made me laugh even harder. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I couldn't speak. I could only force out one word like even 10 seconds between gasps for air:
Seriously, though, I have to admit that I was a little miffed by his question. "Hello, I am an adult married woman not a 16 year old boy. That's why I have you...to perform your husbandly duties. Duh".
Over the weekend I posted on Facebook about an annoying email that I had received.
Hmmmm...passive-aggressive much Andy? I'll be much more direct in my reply email when I tell him he can go f*ck himself and his "concern for my family". What? Too much? winky emoticon
The reply that I got from Nutty from the website Spoken Like A True Nut absolutely made my day:
Clearly Nutty could have a successful side business writing complaint letters. Let's all encourage her to do so. We need her on our side.
OK, I realize that I keep dipping into the Facebook waters here, but damn, people leave so many funny comments there. I posted this recently:
More examples for your viewing pleasure:
I'm serious when I say that I never knew that shoe-shaped candy dishes were something that people collected or USED. It just seems...odd. Christopher from the website Freethinkers Anonymous had this to say:
I can't top that comment so I'll end here. If you like reading funny comments, scroll back to my most recent post "I dare you to pick a name from this list". There's pure comedy gold there. The next time I go on vacation I'm going ask the people who leave funny comments to fill in for me and write guest posts. IT WILL BE AWESOME!
Today's post is courtesy of a friend's wife who apparently likes funny and unusual names as much as I do. I've never met her but I already love her. Her job allows her to see the names of random people and throughout the year she writes down her favorites. THESE ARE REAL PEOPLE, YA'LL! Remember that as you read the list. My reaction to each name was either laughter or one of the faces below. Seriously.
LIST OF PEOPLE WITH NAMES THAT ARE A BAZILLION TIMES WORSE THAN YOURS
You're probably like me-- each time I would read a name I would think, "Oh, that's the best one" and then the next one would be even better. Trying to choose a favorite is worse than Sophie's Choice. By the way, this list is from 2014. Apparently the 2015 list hasn't been typed up yet. I'm already giddy with anticipation.
Before I forget, I wanted to mention that since the I published the post: "What's in a Name? Just ask Mike Hunt", people have continued to add comments with funny names. I don't know why I find this so amusing; I just do. Today I did an Intelius search and found that there are seven people in the U.S. with the name "Luke Warm". Amusing, I know, but nowhere near the genius found in "The List".
Today's post was inspired by something I wrote on Facebook yesterday:
Thanks to Google maps I can find the exact apartment building of my Russian Mom (and where I lived for a couple of summers in Moscow). My first thought was, "Oh my gosh, it looks so much nicer!" (pic is from June 2015). Then realized that the rest of the world would look at the tired Soviet architecture and think, "Oh my God Gina, did you live in the ghetto or something?". Nope! This was actually a housing development from the 70's. My Russian family was lucky to get a spot here. They only had to wait two years for an apartment because my girlfriend Natasha was a sickly child so that bumped them up the wait-list by several years. In the meantime my Russian Mom lived with her mother-in-law. I have some good stories about them living together (good meaning "horrible and yet funny too") which I won't share here but one involves an entire giant jar of pickles being thrown out a window in anger. Good times, good times...
This reminded me that I hadn't yet written about my first time drinking vodka. Which appropriately enough happened in Russia. I had mentioned in one of the recent "Creepy Guy" posts that I had a story about being kissed on a bus but I needed to find the travel journal from that time period to confirm some details. The vodka, the bus and the kissing are all connected. I still can't find that stupid journal. I think it's because I put it away somewhere safe. Somewhere sooooooo safe that I no longer remember where it is. In any case, I remember most of the story quite well. The travel journal gives one important detail-- namely, how much vodka was consumed that night. It was either 7 or 9 or 11 shots. In any case, WAY too much for a girl who was total lightweight and novice to alcohol.
Let me give you the background: In 1991, I made my first trip to Russia as a college student. The August that I was there happened to be the month in which a failed coup attempt occurred. I wrote about that incident here. I also wrote about my first trip to Kiev here, which is where I learned the importance of using bribery in Russian society.
Below is a photo of me taken during my trip (in front of the Hermitage in St. Petersburg). It will help you visual me as I tell the story.
As my Russian trip came to a close, my three Russian professors invited all of us students to a party. I guess you could call it a "going away" party. At the time I did not know this, but drinking vodka is a requirement at any Russian party. Like, don't even go if you don't plan to drink vodka. You will be harassed and harangued until you take a shot. It's a huge insult to the hosts if you don't drink. My husband said that when he was younger, he couldn't stand the smell of vodka and had to "fake" drinking it so he wouldn't be harassed. He said he'd throw the shot over his shoulder or pour it into a plant or something. I had never had vodka before. In fact, I was generally the designated driver for my friends whenever we went to clubs or to events where booze was involved. I took one taste of the vodka and couldn't get it down. So someone at the party had the great idea to put the vodka into kompot, which is basically home-made fruit juice. I was still mercilessly teased for "ruining" the vodka but at least I was participating. As my journal says, I had 7 or 9 or eleventy-nine shots that night. Too much. I remember I got terribly overheated and red-faced and it was a relief to get outside in the cool air when it was time to go home.
The party was in a northern suburb of Moscow; I had to take the metro and then a bus to get back to my Russian Mom's place in the southern part of this giant metropolis. Once I got to the bus stop on the last part of my journey home, I could only remember one bus number that FOR SURE would get me home, although I knew that there were other buses and trolleys going that way. I just didn't know the correct ones to take. This was before the time of easy information on cell phones kiddos. Bus after bus kept coming but never the correct one. I started to feel panicked because it was getting close to 1AM when the buses would stop. This was still the Soviet Union and I wasn't in the main center of the city. It's not like there were taxis driving around. No Uber then either. And there were no cell phones that I could use to call my Russian family for help. FINALLY the bus came and I was one of a handful of people on the bus. It was super dark and I because I had vodka flowing through my veins, I didn't notice that I'd passed my bus stop. I figured, fine, I'll just make a loop and eventually come back to my stop again. Except the bus was on the last run of the night. I found myself in a giant building full of buses (I guess where they sleep for the night) and the bus driver told me to get off.
I should mention here that my Russian language skills at this point were really, really poor. But I knew that money could do the talking for me. I told the guy, "I'll give you 200 rubles to take me home". It was the equivalent of a month's salary. For me, with the favorable exchange rate for dollars, it was like less than ten bucks. The driver asked me for my address, which I didn't know. I knew the street name, Golubinskaya, but not the building number. However, I did remember that the bus stop was next to a playground that had a bunch of white statues. So I told him, "The stop where the white statues are" and thankfully he knew what I was talking about. I pulled up Google maps and that playground has been improved but it looks like a couple of the statues are still there:
The bus driver turned off all the lights on the bus and had me stand next to him in the darkness. We didn't say a word. When we got to my stop I pulled out the money and gave it to him. What happened next happened fast. As I handed over the money, the man grabbed my hand and pulled me into his lap. Before I knew it, his face was in my face and he kissed me. Immediately my "fight or flight" instinct kicked in and I pushed against the guy's chest as hard as I could. At that time I carried a big blue cloth bag (see pic of me above) that functioned as my purse and book bag. I jumped down the stairs and pushed through the door and ran as fast as I could. I could feel that stupid bag banging against me as a ran. I thought about ditching it because it was slowing me down. I didn't stop until I made it back to my Russian family's house. Did I tell them what had just happened? No I did not. I felt guilty, like it was my own fault for having gotten into that situation. Much the way rape victims are often made to feel. Would I have been a rape victim if I hadn't ran? I don't know. I'm glad that I'll never know. I was alone with a strange man on a dark bus on a quiet, deserted street. I'm sure he could tell that I'd had too much to drink. Russia at that time was notorious for being the kind of place where you could get away with rape and no one would give a shit. From what I was reading online right before writing this, it doesn't seem to have changed much. So this is my ultimate creepy guy story. And maybe the guy didn't mean me any harm. Maybe he was just so happy that I had just given him a month's salary that he got overwhelmed. Still, the kissing was out of place. A handshake and a "thank you" would have been fine. Proving that creepy guys are really everywhere out in the world...
*Actual quote from the video below, so you know you're in for some high-caliber entertainment folks!
Hey guys-- I was hoping by now I'd have my usual blog-writing mojo back. I've hit a dry spell and I don't know why. I had this happen a few months ago and then suddenly one day I woke up feeling like my old self again. As it is right now, it's like my writing mojo has deserted me. I hope that she (my mojo) is in an awesome place, like a sunny beach locale, drinking lots of good wine and getting properly laid on the regular. She'd better come back loose (in all meanings of the word) and relaxed and ready to get back to work. Because I have several ideas percolating in my brain. I'm just having trouble getting the words from my head to my fingers and keyboard. It pretty much sucks.
In the meantime, I've been trying to think of some funny things to share here. I keep seeing the daily statistics of visitors and I can't help but feel, "I'm so sorry that I've got nothin' for you! Your visit was for naught!". Anyway, yesterday my husband, son and I spent part of the morning looking at old video clips of my son and laughing. This clip below (taken at the zoo) is one that people usually find entertaining. Please try to ignore the droning music in the background. If I knew how to do video editing, I'd try to make the dialogue louder and the "music" softer. But unfortunately, I'm lacking those particular skillz. Also, don't worry, there is NO actual poop in the video so it's safe for work. However, the background noise might be enough to cause your co-workers to complain to HR (and I'm totally on their side, just so you know).
Hey guys... the title of this post sums up my mood lately. 'Cause February. The grayist, dreariest, and blah-est month of the year. My thoughts feel thick and heavy. I don't have molasses brain. It's worse-- it's like pudding brain. Believe me when I tell you that it's hard to pull something funny out of your ass (OK, now that visual image actually IS kind of funny) when you don't feel particularly inspired. So keep your expectations low as you read this post. Seriously. This is not false modesty on my part. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED!
I ran errands on my lunch hour today and I noticed the man in the photo below wearing a tiny white yarmulke:
Here's what I thought: "Awwwww... look at that adorable little Jewish man walking to the post office". Then once he got closer I realized that his yarmulke was actually a large, white wound dressing. That's right-- he wasn't proudly wearing a symbol of his faith-- he simply had a head injury. And then I realized that for EVERYONE'S sake, we'd all better hope to God I never have to ID a witness in a criminal line-up. Horrible mistakes will be made.
Me after a bank robbery: "It was a man with a horrible skin condition! Seriously, he should see a dermatologist".
Police officer: "Ma'am, video surveillance captured a man wearing a very obvious 'Freddy Krueger' mask".
This is because my brain is a bastard who constantly embarrasses me and betrays me. Below are some examples JUST FROM THIS PAST WEEK (examples previously posted on Facebook):
Oh, before I forget, I hope to soon pull together a post about "Shit I Saw Thrift Shopping/ Shit I Saw at Tuesday Morning". I haven't done one of those in a while. I had a sort of a funny moment recently at the store "Tuesday Morning" when I saw the item below and thought it said "Foo Fighters". You know, these guys:
This is what was actually for sale:
There were no tiny Dave Grohls in the package. Just plastic soldiers that you are supposed to use as food picks at parties. Which is kind of cool I admit, but not as cool as "Foo Fighters" food picks would have been...
OK, this is the point where I apologize once again. My brain is not cooperating with me lately. If I can get my shit together, I'll try to post some of the funny stuff I've seen while out shopping. See, that's my tease so you'll come back again in the future. Don't leave me! I'll be funny again! Maybe! No promises! But I'll do my best!
Heads up you guys-- this is a "Not Safe for Work" post. Lots of boobs, boobies, and ta-ta's to come below. Side note-- I'm partial to the word "ta-ta's" because it was one of the first English words that my husband learned. This is because on his first trip to the United States, my friend David made it a point to, well, point to my ample chest area and say, "Bodacious ta-ta's". For a non-native English speaker, "bodacious" is a hard word to learn but the Russian picked up on "ta-ta's" quite easily.
I sent this text to a friend this morning:
This conversation became the perfect segue to help me finish this post which had been languishing in my drafts folder. A few weeks ago I was on the Goodwill website for some reason and I happened to see these salt and pepper shakers in the "Americana" section. I couldn't help but notice the position of the hands on Salty and Peppy:
"Why are they clutching their boobs?", I wondered. And then I had a thought-- are there boob-shaped salt and pepper shakers in the world? Thanks to Ebay I soon had my answer. It was a resounding "yes":
Soooooo...I don't even know what to say about these things. They are simultaneously hilarious and horrifying and a sad commentary about the objectification of women. But mostly they make me think, "WTF?".
This next salt and pepper shaker was disconcerting because THE WOMAN DOESN'T EVEN HAVE A HEAD! Not sure what's up with the "fake bake" color on her boobs while the rest of her body is lily white.
If you don't get the "yip, yip" reference, then obviously you never watched Sesame Street as a child (and what kind of shitty childhood did you have anyway?) so I've included a helpful clip just below (start at 2:29 to hear the "brrring" part):
Here we have a more modest example (no naked nips):
Here's a rare find. It's the limited edition "Lady T1000" salt and pepper shaker from the movie "Terminator Two":
Ugh, I'm including this next image for the handful of people who haven't seen "Terminator Two" (and if you haven't, put it in your Netflix queue for god's sake).
Here's another headless set for you. I couldn't think of any jokes about the bottle caps lids (but send me yours and I'll add a caption):
Last thing for today is a smoking pipe, not a salt and pepper shaker. I'm including it here since it showcases big boobs (and it's not like I'm planning on having a pipes-with-big-boobs themed post anytime soon).
There are so many potential jokes here, I don't know where to start:
"Don't blow smoke up my ass".
"What do you mean, I act like I have a stick up my ass?".
At the ER: "Don't worry m'am. People come in here ALL THE TIME with problematic anal insertions. It's quite common actually".
And no, I don't remember where I saw the pipe for sale, so no need to email me asking me for deets. Just check eBay. You'll probably find it there. Along with a disconcertingly large assortment of big-boobed salt and pepper shakers.
Well, it's one day past Valentine's Day so I probably should have written this post BEFORE VD (*snicker*, will that ever stop being funny?) but I couldn't. 'Cause I had to sit on my ass this weekend and drink wine and watch TV. Oh, I also did this on Friday night (yes, it was after drinking wine, why do you ask?):
I have a palette of eyeshadow that includes a shocking electric-blue color. For over a year I've thought to myself that I should see what I look like in blue eyeshadow. I can honestly say that never before in my life have I worn blue eyeshadow. And now I can see that this was a good decision on my part. I got this comment from one of my asshole friends (Kidding; I love all my friends even if they are dicks because at least they're funny dicks):
I feel like I should apologize right here for any of you who follow me on Facebook as well as read this blog. I've found that I keep posting more and more of my nonsense stuff on Facebook that normally I would have saved up for a post. So apologies in advance if you've already seen most of this.
Anyway, earlier this week I posted this on Facebook and the comments made me laugh:
In case you're wondering how old we are, I started dating my husband in middle school. Kidding. I was in college. Nowadays it seems ridiculously young to get married while still in school, but I did. Of course, if my son even THINKS about getting married while still in college I'll kill him.
So as I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I wanted to write about love and married life and how you what you imagine ends up being SOOOOOO different (just like parenthood) but still it's all good. Then I happened to read this article which perfectly and succinctly describes married life here, but in a much better and funnier way than I could have hoped to. One of my favorite lines is this: "And you imagine eating out at nice restaurants, and screwing, and eating out and screwing and eating out and screwing." Hey-- any unmarrieds out there reading this, I hate to burst your bubble but this is NOT an accurate representation of married life. I mean, sure, in the beginning, you'll have marathon stay-in-bed sex days where all you do is eat, screw, sleep, and repeat. I know I'm not the only woman who has ever done it so much that your sensitive bits get so raw that you finally reach a point where you're like, "Uh, this doesn't really feel good anymore". Anyway, my advice to you, my unmarried and newlywed readers, is to ENJOY AND REMEMBER EVERY SECOND OF THOSE DAYS! Later when you have kids you'll remember fondly that there was a time when you could just relax and enjoy the moment. Post-children, your sex life will consist of trying to have a quickie in your bedroom while a small child yells things under the door like, "Open the door guys! I'm lonely". Repeatedly.
While on the topic of sex, let me share this bit of helpful advice that I posted on Facebook:
Did he get me flowers? Here's your answer:
Yes, red roses are so clichéd, but damn it's still nice to get them.
Don't tell my husband, but my son's Valentine's gift to me was my favorite:
It's a chalk drawing of a golden retriever (my favorite breed of dogs) wearing glasses. And not just ANY glasses. The coolest, most kick-ass glasses ever:
Does anyone here know anyone in the eyeglass manufacturing world? Someone needs to get on this stat. These glasses need to exist in the real world.
Thus concludes today's post. Regarding Facebook, I wanted to mention that if you don't want to "friend" me, you can just "follow" me and still see the random shit I post on there. That way I won't be privy to your personal information. You know, in case you run an escort service or work as a Depends underwear model, that little secret will stay a secret known only to you and your friends and family. Oh, and while on the topic of family, no one in my family knows that I'm back on Facebook. I didn't use my last name. I can't tell you HOW liberating it is to be able to write and say what I want. Back when I was (briefly) on Facebook several years ago, I had to worry about my elderly aunts taking offense to things I said and then ratting me out to my Mom who then scolded me. Yes, I'm a middle-aged woman and I still don't want to get in trouble with my Mom. Sad (and funny), but true.
I love words. I love names. I love names that sound like inappropriate words. I like silly sounding names also. Years ago my boss would sometimes have work correspondence with a man named Bert Bean* (*not his real name but pretty darn close). Every time I would see the name I would have to repeat it a million times. "Did you see the letter from BERT BEAN? Don't forget to call BERT BEAN! Bert Bean. Bert Bean. Bert Bean!!!". Once iPhones and Ipads entered the scene, I would wait until we were in an important meeting and then quietly send him an email with a subject line like "URGENT!". Then the entire text of the email would just be the words "BERRRRT BEEAAANN!". I would watch my boss read the email and then he would turn and give me a death glare. And I would just smile back. Because I can be an obnoxious little shit that way.
I work with a (super nice) woman whose last name is Butts. My son thinks this is hilarious. A couple of nights ago he asked me: "Does anyone have the last name Boob?". Good question. I checked the people-search website Intelius.com and found this:
Poor Alison. Either her parents didn't love her or else they didn't think this whole name-thing through completely.
Once I'd found Boob, I couldn't stop looking up other funny and/or inappropriate names. What about Boobie? Yep!
I swear this isn't Photoshopped. Mostly because I don't have Photoshop. Anyway, let's just stop and remember that no matter how hard life can be sometimes, at least your name isn't "Peniee Boobie" or "Boob Boobie" (unless you're one of those two people of course).
I remembered hearing the name "Richard Dick" so did I did a search and found these gems:
Flush with success, I started looking up every inappropriate name I could think of, you know, like "Mike Hunt". Why? Because I'm secretly a 12-year old boy on the inside.
I couldn't find anyone with the last name "Vagina" but I did find this which is probably worse:
Several years ago while I waited at a professional photo studio (to get pictures taken of my son), I noticed that someone had started filling out an employment application. What caught my attention was the name on it. Seymour Butts. I showed the clerk and she didn't think it was very funny. (But I did). No one really has that name, you might think. Ha!
If your last name is Butts, maybe your family is like, "Oh hell, let's just roll with it". You'll notice that I highlighted the work information of one of the Mr. Butts. Because if it's true, then that is the most awesome thing ever. I hope he was the store manager. "Oh, you're not happy with the quality of the panties you purchased? Why don't you talk to Seymour Butts about it. Wait! Come back! That's really his name!".
So what's the best name you've ever heard? Write it in the comments section. Just so you know--naughty words and obscenities are fine by me (and actually encouraged).
OK kiddos, here it is! Part two of the "The Creepy Guys" post. And yes, I did mean "coming" as a double entendre. If you read the last post (and you didn't, what the hell is wrong with you anyway?), you'll know that this is a NSFW (not-safe-for-work) post. Unless your boss is OK with you reading words such as "penis" and "orgasm" and "genital tasting" while at work. So go empty your bladder, grab a snack and sit down and enjoy the creepiness:
"Story One" by Shawna of the website NoTradeJack:
"Creepy Guy Extraordinaire"
So, before I was married I was an aspiring comedy writer. What this means is, I would go to comedy shows and drink a lot and try to pick out funny/date-worthy people in either the stand up line up or in the crowd. It never worked out in my favor. One comedian in particular was an uber creep. I won't mention his name, although women should be wary of this guy so maybe I should put him on blast... No, I'll be the bigger person.
Anyhow, the guy, we'll call him Frances because I've always liked that name for men, made a joke about babies with AIDS, and somewhere in my stupid mind I thought, "Man, this guy is both hilarious and brave. I must talk with him further." Stupid move, me. I caught him outside of the comedy club, told him he was super funny (when you tell a comedian he/she is funny it is a known fact that they orgasm on the spot), asked him what other projects he works on besides stand up, and told him that I was working on an idea for a sitcom and I'd love his input and maybe to collaborate at some point in the near future. Now, the guy wasn't hideous looking, but he wasn't really my type either, but he took this as me hitting on him and immediately wanted to bang somewhere. I declined his offer, thinking it was just another risque joke (I'm pretty naive), and we went our separate ways after exchanging his business card for my number on the back of a Walgreen's receipt.
A couple weeks go by and I had to go to LA for what I thought was a very important meeting about a possible sitcom because that's what I had been told. Instead, this "very important meeting" was nothing more than hanging out with other funny people who knew a guy, who knew a famous comedian, who was married to someone who had Disney connections. We literally did zero writing together, but we did get to see a super funny set from the aforementioned famous comedian and she was great. Anyway, I asked Frances to go with me to LA to meet everyone, mostly because I hate driving on freeways, but also I didn't realize he was a wacko. On the drive down there he was asking how the sleeping arrangement was going to work out and I basically shut him down. No. NO. NOOOOOOO. He wasn't happy with that, so he tried to persuade me. He told me he was masochist who loved to be hurt during sex. He then proceeded to tell me why.
"I was working at a grocery store as a janitor and we worked with really strong chemicals to strip the floors. One of the bottles of this stuff got on my pants and ate through the material and got on my dick. It basically blistered my entire penis and my wife was mad at me for not wanting to have sex with her while I was healing so she basically raped me one night and the pain was so intense because of the blisters and the skin started coming off and she wouldn't stop until I finished and when I did, I realized I was a masochist."
Frances finished up his story about skinless finishing and I stared at him in disbelief and silently blinked about a hundred and twenty-seven times.
OK, so I'm stuck in a car, on the LA freeway, listening to Frances basically tell me he's a fucking serial killer who loves to have sex with necrotic wounds. I check the speed of the car. Nope, too fast to tuck and roll out. I look out the window. That's a pretty steep cliff. Nix the jumping into a pile of abandoned pillows idea... So, I just have to wait. We get to LA and I ditch that motherfucker. I did bring him to the comedy show, as promised, but other than that I was hanging out with internet friends while making fun of Frances on the outside and secretly being a little terrified of the 5 hour ride back home with this monster.
He didn't end up murdering me and I dropped him off in front of a Denny's when we got back to our hometown. Then, I passive aggressively accepted his friend request on Facebook and immediately unfriended him. Which, can be a very serious ordeal according to the murdery-type shows I watch on tv sometimes. Unfriending can equal your death. But, this guy isn't even acquaintance material (for me) let alone friend material. I realize I shouldn't judge and everyone has their own little quirks and fetishes, and maybe this one (rough, terrifying sex with a sloughing, chemical wound penis) just wasn't for me.
"Story Two" by Ashley
While on our honeymoon in Punta Cana we met a couple that we immediately clicked with. They were several years older than us. In fact, we were closer to their son’s age who just happened to be traveling with them. We met for dinner a few times, went on an excursion and even planned to get together at some point later that year after we returned home. One night while I was getting ready for dinner, my husband met the other husband for a drink. He then proceeded to ask my husband if we would be interested in “switching” for a night. My husband let him know that he didn’t think his wife would go for that (sure honey, blame me!). The man then asked if I would be interested in a night with his wife while the men watched! My husband ended the conversation at that point. We ran into them a time or two before we left home and boy was it hard to look them in the face. I mean really, of all the people at the resort, you ask the HONEYMOONERS! I have worried about couples' intentions every time we have met a “nice” couple since. I mean the woman seemed so sweet and was a school teacher for God’s sake.
Below is the only "Creepy Girl" story that I received.
"Story Three" by Christopher of the website Freethinkers Anonymous:
"Don't Come Around Here No More"
Amy was never really invited. She just kind of showed up, and that was okay. Scott’s room was a hub of activity and I guess she glommed on to our little group because she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Although I feel kind of mean for saying it wasn’t long before we all started wishing she’d find someplace else to go. First she spent a lot of time sitting very close to Scott, then draping herself over him, and when he started moving away whenever she came into the room she moved on to Drew and when Drew found ways to avoid her she started walking next to me, although she didn’t get as touchy-feely with me as she had with them.
At least not until the night an older guy down the hall gave us most of a bottle of Everclear and we mixed it with grape Kool-Aid and…well, we were young and inexperienced drinkers (read: lightweights). Scott passed out in the bathroom after a marathon vomiting session and I don’t remember where everybody else ended up, but somehow I passed out on Scott’s bed with Amy lying next to me. All the lights were on when I closed my eyes and it was completely dark when I woke up and felt something. Someone was holding my hand. And I could feel the fabric of sweatpants. And my hand was being moved up and down on those sweatpants. And then there was hot breath in my ear and a voice said, “Many men have picked at the lock but I’m giving you the key.”
It’s a lucky thing there was a strategically placed garbage can next to Scott’s bed and that when I rolled over and threw up, most of it went in there.
And I hoped that would be the end of it but while Amy stopped coming around as much I started getting phone calls at all hours reminding me that the offer was “still open” and that she loved me. It was the “I love you” that creeped me out more than anything else. I didn't ask but I wondered if she'd done the same thing to Scott and Drew. We can all agree that nothing's more flattering than being at least third choice, right? And the rumors that got back to me that I was an alcoholic and needed help were annoying too.
She met me in a hall one day and I just yelled, “Don’t you get it? This is why no one likes you. This is why no one wants you around.”
I still feel bad about doing that and I intended to apologize, but I never got an opportunity. She glommed onto another group and after that our paths never crossed again.
"Story Four" by Bekah of the website TheOMGSpot:
I just wanted to do my fucking job.
And my job required that I sit on this damn passenger bus for several hours to get to some big work thing.
So there I was. Me and two guys. And those two guys' assistants.
They were pleasant enough, in that they didn't openly pick their noses or grab my ass. Still, something about the larger of the two dudes made me feel... well, pure revulsion. But we had to be on this bus together for HOURS, so I figured I needed to at least be polite.
The big dude came right up to me and introduced himself in a booming Southern drawl. He called me "little lady," and I had to resist rubbing my hands on my slacks after shaking his clammy, greasy hand.
No, literally, his hand was greasy. Because he was eating fried chicken. Which quickly became a point of contention.
This guy wanted me to share his fried chicken with him and his friend. They were both in suits and red ties, and they were going at that poor, dead bird. I declined, but they wouldn't take no for an answer. I declined and declined and declined, but eventually, I realized that this hours-long bus ride would just be easier if I ate the goddamned fowl.
So, there I was, eating a drumstick, when the big dude was all like, "Now, have you accepted Jesus in your heart?" I deferred. But he asked again, "You know that nothing in life is more important than our Lord and Savior?" I nodded. I figured vague agreement would mean he'd shut up sooner rather than later.
I'm not going to bore you with the details of the rest of the conversation, but for your sake, I'm going to paraphrase: "Gay people are gross, and I don't like liberals. Jesus is what government should be about. Oh, and guns. Lots and lots of guns. Guns everywhere. And I sure don't like them immigrants. But you know what I don't like more than immigrants? Women who get abortions. Those babies sure are precious."
The chicken settled in my stomach like a rock, and I mutely listened to his ramblings.
Well, actually, I did more than listen. I took notes and recorded them. Because I was a journalist. And the creep on the bus was a presidential candidate. And my job was to observe him as he toured Iowa to gain votes for the 2008 caucus.
Eventually our bus reached the campaign event, and Mike Huckabee stepped off that bus with chicken grease on his fingers, a grin on his face, and his creepy opinions in check. And the crowds roared.
"Story Five" by Tits McGee (OK, it's really me; inexplicably I find that stupid name amusing):
So my plan was to tell you my long, creepy story of being unexpectedly and inappropriately kissed on a bus in Russia but I need to find my old travel journal to help me fill in the details of that night. Part of the reason for my fuzzy memory (besides the fact that it was a bazillion years ago) was that night was the first time I ever drank vodka (at a party with my PROFESSORS I might add). I want to be sure I remember correctly, so this particular story will just have to wait until a future post.
But don't worry. I have plenty of others "creepy guy" stories to tell. Here's one that happened when I was 20:
When I was a college student, I also worked part-time at a local optical store as a receptionist. The optical store was located adjacent to one of the busiest intersections in town. To get on the interstate to go home, I needed to turn left. I'm not kidding when I say that it was at least five minutes or more between green lights. I've uploaded an image from Google Maps of the EXACT intersection to help you imagine the scenario. You'll need to change the blue cartoon car to a crappy old orangish-brown Toyota Corolla (lovingly nicknamed "The Turd" by my sister) to correctly imagine me.
After work one day, during the peak of rush hour, I found myself behind a pickup truck full of construction workers. They were mostly Hispanic (not that it makes a difference, I'm just setting the scene) and they were riding in the actual pickup bed. (As an aside, I wanted to mention that you don't really see people riding in the back of pickup trucks anymore. I remember riding that way several times as a kid. Back then no one was really thinking "Safety First!". It was more like, "Just don't fall out and you'll be fine!"). I became aware of the some of the construction guys leering at me; one of the guys yelled something to me. I tried to ignore them. Remember kiddos, this was before the time of cell phones so I couldn't pretend to be looking at my iPhone screen. Then one of the guys made the gesture below. Ugh, it's crude and horrible so I'll make the photo small:
That's right. The gesture that means "I want to perform oral sex on you, random strange lady". GAAAAAAHHH! No one had ever done that to me before. I was MORTIFIED! Seriously, I didn't know where to look. I think the stress of the situation aged me in a year in the time it took for the light to turn green. Could someone please, please explain to me--what is the point of waggling your tongue between your fingers to a woman you don't know? Did he think I was going to give him the thumbs-up and motion him to pull into a nearby gas station? Why would he want to taste the genitals of a complete stranger!?! I could have been riddled with venereal diseases! OK, actually I was still a virgin at that time so I probably would have been the perfect candidate for anonymous genital tasting, but HE DIDN'T KNOW THAT, NOW DID HE? Bleh, even now thinking about it makes me feel weird and awkward. Thanks random construction guy for creating that bad memory!
Thus concludes our trip down "Creepy Men Memory Lane". Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who submitted a story. They were so funny and horrible and entertaining all at the same time. You guys are awesome!
I'm the worst kind of asshole-- I think I'm funny.
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