Thursday, March 31, 2011

I Wonder...

...if professional photographers recognize the injustice when they are expected to take cute pictures of ugly children?

...who has the confidence to go to the doughnut shop right next door to the gym?

...how many eardrums would bleed if Fran Drescher and the Aflac duck had a lovechild...and it was colicky?

...why nobody has invented a treadmill with a refrigerator on it that can only be unlocked by earning the appropriate calories for whatever you remove?

...how much bloodshed there would be if someone installed that refrigerator treadmill in my kitchen?

...if porn stars withhold sexual activity from their lovers when they're in the mood to be kinky?

...why the cat feels the need to lick deodorant out of my armpits?

...who designs male figure skating outfits?

...who approves the designs?

...why I saw the 'homeless' guy under the bridge packing up his cardboard sign and hopping into a much nicer car than mine?

...why sleeping naked in Minnesota is illegal? Aren't the temperatures in January and the mosquitoes in July punishment enough?

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

My New Career as a P.I.

This morning I heard a story on the radio about a couple whose card box was stolen from their wedding reception.

Who steals a happy couple's wedding gifts!?

I used my extensive private investigation abilities to crack this case*.

The culprit is a balding 50-something man with a beer gut who lives in his parents’ basement and kicks puppies and elderly people for fun. He wears sweatpants with elastic ankles when he goes out to dinner.

He has a battered collection of Barely Legal VHS tapes, and he leers at 15-year-old girls at the community swimming pool.

His weekends are spent playing World of Warcraft and he masturbates to fantasies about raping the female characters in his video games - although any of them could kick his sloppy ass with one thigh-high boot. His video game controllers are sticky with Cheetos dust and boogers.

He’ll use the haul from his wedding heist to purchase high-end binoculars online, to help facilitate his window-peeping adventures.

You know who I’m talking about.

It was the creepy uncle.

We’ve all got one.

My only question is this – why in the name of all that is holy did you invite him to the wedding!?

*As an aside, my PI services are available for hire at a reasonable hourly rate.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Date Night in Sexyville

God only knows how this subject ever came up, but last year my brother and his girlfriend and I got to talking about the types of selfless things we’d be willing to do for our partners.

Enemas were mentioned.

I shuddered and announced that I would never assist a man with an enema, and was stunned to learn that they would both willingly do this for each other. I informed them that they were disgusting and they informed me that perhaps there were legitimate reasons I was perpetually single.

Huh.

Apparently, dating is not a romantic montage of moonlit walks on the beach, spoon-feeding one another chocolate and lazy afternoon naps cuddled together in a hammock.

Who knew?

Well, now I have a man and we have a hot date this week. There will be no champagne. There will be no flowers.

But there will be a bottle of Nair and a steak knife.

Yep.

In exchange for me chemically burning off his back hair, he’s going to remove the crusty stitches from my new belly button.

This? Is just one reason I know it's true love.

I can safely say that if he needed an enema, I'd do it for him*. I might piss and moan about it, and I'd probably laugh like a seventh-grade boy, but I'd do it.
 
(*But please, God, I've been good - you really don't have to test me on this one!)

Monday, March 28, 2011

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, March 28th

10. I'm thankful that the only injuries sustained during our afternoon at the trampoline park were some tramp burns. The pain of a broken limb would be nothing compared to the pain of hearing my mother crow, "I told you so!"

This stings far less than being proven wrong.
9. I'm grateful that my friend's three-year-old summoned me to the bathroom while he was dropping a deuce to gleefully show me the red ring on his butt from sitting on the pot for so long.

8. I'm pleased to report that my boobs don't appear to be permanently saggier after bouncing up and down violently all day yesterday.

7. I'm thankful that the mean, mean person who informed me yesterday that my blog is turning into a Mommy Blog was not in the same room as me when she said it, as I might have had to slap her dirty mouth.

6. I'm excited to remove the stitches from my new belly button so I can scratch like a flea-ridden dog.

5. I was happy to learn that trampoline jumping burns 1000 calories an hour, which gave me the perfect excuse to be too sore to go to the gym yesterday. And also, the cat was pinning me down and making me stay in bed - I swear.

4. I'm grateful that my man appears to have a sexual predilection for trolls, as my morning hair now looks like this:

3. I can't wait to go back to the laser clinic this weekend, since I haven't been electrocuted in the kitty lately.

2. I'm grateful to the pharmaceutical company that manufactures Chantix, which will supposedly help me to quit smoking next week without violently assaulting my man in a nicotine-withdrawal-induced fit of rage.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, March 28th?

1. I'm thankful for my man's magic hands. Get your mind out of the gutter, you pervs - he just gives a mean back massage.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Introducing my Friend's Kids to Tramps...

Question: How do you entertain four boys at once, aged 32, 14, 7 and 3?

Answer: The indoor trampoline park!

Because I'm a great role model for children, the day began with a trip to Starbucks and a discussion about breaking the law. I'd informed the kids that we were going to need to do something naughty, and pretend that I was their mommy while at the trampoline park (because I had to forge safety waivers). The three-year-old found this wildly funny but the seven-year-old was concerned about our culpability and kept asking how BIG of a law we were breaking. I helpfully lied explained that we weren't breaking laws, but merely rules, and that sometimes it's OK for grown-up to do this. His anxiety ceased only when I told him that we had two choices:

 - Break the rules and jump on trampolines
 - Follow the rules and NOT jump on trampolines

Suddenly he was at peace with his conscience. So I signed the fraudulent waivers and off we went.

Something delightful that I learned?

You have never, ever heard a child laugh until you've heard their laughter as they ricochet off the bouncy walls like superballs. I had to pull the little guy aside a couple of times and remind him to breathe - and that it's unwise to launch yourself face first into the trampoline without at least putting your arms out to brace the rubberized impact.

Something else I learned?

There is something indescribably joyful about those moments of being airborne and weightless. You feel like a child again yourself, and for a second you don't even care that your middle-age boobs are bouncing in entirely unrelated directions. But the magic has to end, and you come crashing down to the earth again, squashing the small child who got in your way like a bug.

After 60 of the longest minutes of my life, we exited the tramps, sweaty and battle worn, dehydrated and ready to eat anything that stood in our way.

I was feeling smug, because nobody had snapped a neck, as my mother had dourly predicted - not even me.

And my best friend will undoubtedly thank me for teaching her children one of the most important rules in life: Sometimes breaking the rules leads to the most fun!


One of Avery's many facial landings...

Aidan catching air...
A high-speed smear that vaguely resembles
Austin!

Friday, March 25, 2011

Call Center Comedy

Along with drastically reducing my caffeine intake, quitting smoking and joining the gym, I also started taking weight loss supplements - because really,  pharmaceuticals are more fun than treadmills.

I started the supplements a week ago. Today, I got the following phone call.

Perky asshat customer service rep: Hi! Just thought we'd check in with you and see how you're doing with your ______?

Me: Still fat, but thanks for asking.

PACSR: Excuse me?

Me: I started this shit last week!

PACSR (sounding confused): But are you happy with your results so far, ma'am?

Me: There are no results so far. The only two ounces I've lost were at the hands of a scalpel.

PACSR: Um...I see. Well, are you ready to reorder your ______? Because I can definitely help you with that, ma'am!

Me: You delivered a 90-day supply to me one week ago. Even I don't go through my drugs that quickly.

(PACSR lapses into uncomfortable silence, as we are clearly deviating from the script in front of her. Crickets chirp in the background.)

PACSR: Well, is there anything else I can do for you, ma'am?

Me: Yes, please. Can you tell me when I'll be skinny?

PACSR (the relief is almost palpable - this is in her script): Well, ma'am, studies have shown that when taken along with a healthy diet and increased exercise, _______ will help you to lose 1-2 pounds per week!

Me: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!? I have to eat healthy food and exercise!? I thought the whole point of taking this shit was that I could lose weight while beaching myself on the couch with a family-sized bag of Funyons!?!? I WANT MY COTTON-PICKIN' MONEY BACK!!

(Silence again.)

Me: I'm kidding. You can stop holding your breath now.

PACSR: Thank you for your time, ma'am. Please call us when you're ready to reorder and thanks for using ______.

(Click.)

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Women are NOT Equal to Men

I'm sure that if more than twelve of you read this post in its entirety, at least half of you will hate me; or at the very least, vehemently disagree. But first you must understand that I am making sweeping generalizations here, so clearly there will be exceptions.

And also?

I am not an expert.

Just a loudmouthed, opinionated woman who has recently realized that I am both a sexist and a hypocrite.


This realization hit me as I was cooking dinner for my boyfriend. Specifically, as I was cooking meat for my boyfriend, even though I hate handling and preparing it and would have more happily eaten the pasta sans chicken.

The grumbly little pseudo-feminist in my head chastised me for catering to his demands polite request and thought he ought to eat whatever I cooked and be happy about it.

Until I realized that if there was something heavy to be moved, I'd definitely expect him to do it.

Yep, I said it.

I'm the first one to play the Snow Removal is Man's Work card. And the I'm the Girl, so You Drive card. And, most shamefully, the My D-cups Impede Manual Labor card.

Dictionary.com defines the word equal as the same, but let's face it - although four quarters and a one dollar bill may have the same value, they serve very different purposes. One's critical for the parking meter and the other fits your billfold better.

Men and women are NOT equal.

My personal theory is that, to make a relationship work, you must accept (or even better, embrace) this. It's not fair, it's not right, and it's not always cool. But it's the fucking truth.

 - Women will never share closet space equally.

 - Men will never share the remote equally.

 - Women make shittier colleagues. Women get paid less for allegedly doing the same work as men, but anyone who has worked with a mommy knows that women don't do the same work as men at the office - nine times out of ten, it's the mom who calls in at the last minute when Junior is sick, taxing her coworkers. The man? Doesn't have to. His wife will do it.

 - Men make shittier parents. Men don't do equal amounts of work around the house, or equal amounts of parenting. A woman who stays at home with her child for years is often considered to not be working. But when a man 'babysits' his kid for the day, people applaud his efforts with trumpets and parades.

 - If there's suddenly an extra $5K in her bank account, a woman will more often than not use it on something that benefits the couple, or the family. A man will likely buy a boat, a motorcycle or a flat-screen to feed his ESPN habit.

I don't have any great advice or moral conclusion to this post, other than this:

Maybe if we women stopped fighting so hard to be considered the same as men, we'd learn to appreciate our strengths and theirs. And really? Let's not pretend we even wanna be the same. Yeah, it'd be cool to be able to write our names in the snow, but we get the multiple orgasms. And maybe hubby prefers that you cook, but do you really wanna eat that shit he calls dinner?

My best friend once solemnly told me, when I asked her why she let her four-year-old go to school in his Batman costume, "I have to pick my battles wisely."

So perhaps if more couples spent more time figuring out what works for them and less time keeping score, our relationships would be a little better. Not equal, but equally fulfilling.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Love Letters from Afar

Our Road Trip Route
I love to travel, to see and experience new bars and restaurants cultures.

My best trip so far was last year's mad cross-country road trip with my bro from Minneapolis to Kansas City, St. Louis, Memphis, New Orleans, Pensacola, Atlanta, Asheville, Nashville, Louisville, Chicago and back. Not necessarily because any of these were dream destinations, but because the trip itself was so untethered and free-spirited  - as much so as one can be while sharing car and lodging with an accountant by trade and nature, anyway.

The most amazing part of the trip was that it never should have happened. We were broke, we were out of work. But the stars all aligned to offer us this opportunity and we grabbed it like Charlie Sheen grabs hookers.

Unfortunately, though, that was over a year ago and I've had no such further opportunities.

One of my favorite things (aside from groping tranny bartenders) was picking up kitschy souvenirs along the way. Hot sauce and a voodoo doll in New Orleans, a cowboy hoodie in Nashville, polished stones in Asheville. Just looking at my silly trinkets makes me feel like I'm traveling again.

This is where you come in. My Google analytics tells me that you readers are all over the world, so I propose you guys send me some shit from your motherland that is indicative of your culture.

Belizians, send me some sand or a seashell! Mexicans, send me an enchilada! Frenchies, send me some chocolat! Amsterdamians, send me some...well, you know what to send me...

Tricia Lorntson*
7600 Lyndale Ave S #434
Richfield MN 55343

What's in it for you, you ask? Well, the satisfaction of doing something kind for a crazy stranger dear blogging friend. And in return, I'll send you some lutefisk and dirty snow.

*I'm giving you my parents' address, because they have security doors and I don't. And also, their windows are much more difficult to peep into than mine. And more also, if you peep in their windows, you're less likely to see something that will emotionally scar you.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Operation Bikini Body

In a recent post, I detailed how I plan to bring sexy back without Justin Trousersnake's help. So far I've joined the gym and I've lost two ounces...but these things are actually unrelated.

The weight loss came when I went back to the doctor yesterday for further mole removal, since they apparently didn't dig enough of my tummy out a couple of weeks ago.

Not only am I two ounces slimmer, I am now the proud owner of two - count em, two - belly buttons.

Thankfully my new belly button better aligns with my original than the example in the picture above, which pleases my OCD need to have bodily orifices lined up neatly in a row.

My new bod looks something like this
(don't worry, I covered the naughtiest bits):


One more belly button and I could pass
for a gingerbread woman...with boobs.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, March 21st

10. I'm thankful that my head was hard enough to break my fall when I tumbled down the stairs on Saturday.

9. I'm relieved to be mostly almost kind of done with moving. You know what's more fun than moving? Everything.

8. I'm delighted with this sweet little picture of me and my lovemuffin.


7. I'm excited for this coming Saturday, when we're babysitting my friend's hooligans so she and her hubs can go to a B & B and hump like bunnies relax.

6. I'm grateful that I didn't mow down any errant pedestrians while sleep-driving to the gym at the asscrack of dawn.

5. I'm thankful for the delicious dessert we all shared on Saturday night, and for our resourcefulness in discovering that the cocktail straws were perfect for slurping up the leftover strawberry sauce so as not to be wasteful. There are starving kids in Zimbabwe, you know.


4. I'm excited to go back to the doctor to have more abnormal tissue around my stomach mole removed. It'll be super sexy when he digs it out and it looks like I have a second belly button.

3. I'm extra excited that this means I get to pay for the excision twice.

2. I'm grateful to all you lovely readers who are sticking with me. Not sure if it's the tailwind or what, but my followers seem to leaving lately in droves.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, March 21st?

1. I'm thankful for belly laughs. The kind you have when your boyfriend texts you a picture and says his underwear was really uncomfortable when he was driving to work...because your underwear were accidentally (?) nestled inside his.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Letters to Myself

Dear Grown-Up Tricia,

I can't wait to be you.

Being a kid is really hard. I have to go to school and take naps.

I have to do everything that Mom and Dad and my teachers tell me. I can't wait to be a grown up so I can do whatever I want.

Love,
Little Kid Tricia

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Dear Little Kid Tricia,

You have no clue.

I don't go to school 25 hours a week, I work 50 hours a week instead - and when I nap, they yell at me.

Today was my day off from work, and here's what I did:

 - Washed and folded laundry
 - Cleaned the house
 - Did dishes
 - Went to the gym
 - Shaved my legs
 - Waxed my eyebrows
 - Went to the grocery store
 - Paid bills

I have to listen to everything my boss, my bank, the cops and my creditors tell me. And also? Mom still tells me stuff.

Go fuck yourself with a color crayon.

Love,
Grown-Up Tricia

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Go Big or Go Home

Those who know me well are aware that the word moderation has no place in my vocabulary. I do things manically, or not at all. Which might explain my decision to start working out, quit smoking and cut out caffeine, all within the next two weeks.

I realized my ass isn't going to get smaller on its own, and drinking 100 oz of water a day doesn't much matter when it's being used to wash down fistfuls of Jelly Bellys; so today I joined the gym. I was discouraged to see that I didn't get any skinnier from filling out the application. Apparently I have to keep going back or some shit.

But I've done it before.

As for the caffeine, it's a health thing. I've finally accepted the fact that 150 Diet Cokes and 40 cups of coffee a week do not constitute a balanced diet. So I've cut them out.

And it feels like demons are stabbing ice picks through my eye sockets.

I've told myself I can treat myself to an iced coffee on the weekends and perhaps a Diet Coke on Saturday, but otherwise it's water, aqua and H20. This is a bit like like telling a heroin addict that they can only shoot up once a week, so keep me (and those around me) in your prayers.

And the smoking?

It's the monkey I've been wrestling with for years. But I will prevail, because it would be nice to be able to put my socks on without getting winded healthier.

Just wait, people. By the end of June, my bod will look like Khloe Kardashian's less lumpy.

And now I'll spend the next 14 weeks praying to God to give me the strength not to murder anyone in the interim for a Marlboro Ultra Light and a cup of java.

Friday, March 18, 2011

The Pot of Gold

Some fucker in California found a 100-oz gold nugget in his yard, and it sold at auction for nearly half a million dollars.

You know what I'd find in my yard, if I had one? Dog shit.

Of course, I can't afford a dog or a yard, but let's not split hairs.

Although the greedy, jealous part of me would like to find this guy and kick him in the kneecap, I actually love this story.

It gives me hope.

Hope that on any given day, perhaps I could suddenly find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. My dreams, too, could come true! My life could go from ordinary to magical in the blink of an eye. I'd be free of debt and full of childlike wonder at the miracles in this beautiful world.

I could pay off my colonoscopy anal rape and my car. (I like to dream big.)

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go dig in your yard a little.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Fuck You, You're Irish

You know what used to be awesome when I was younger?

Going out and drinking excessively on St. Patrick's Day.

You know what's NOT awesome now that I'm old and bitter?

Being sober on St. Patrick's Day and trying to drive home from work through St. Paul, the capital city of Minnesota.

Seriously.

The only place where more retards congregate at once is the Special Olympics - but they have self-control and aren't puking in the street. Also, they can do sports and shit.

I hereby retract all my whining about winter driving. I now realize I'd rather drive through a blizzard than a St. Patrick's Day drunkfest. At least if you accidentally hit a snowbank, you won't get charged with criminal vehicular homicide.

For the first six cycles of one light that I sat through, I waited semi-patiently. By the seventh cycle, I was ready to mow down those sloppy asshats like a shaggy green lawn. I figure I'd be kindly sparing them the pain of tomorrow's hangover while also satisfying my suddenly violent bloodlust against the pseudo-Irish. Win-win!

But I made it home without committing a civil service felony.

Which was, ironically, quite lucky. So perhaps I am Irish.

Things I've Learned Lately

This? Might keep me out of trouble.
- I'm not as funny as I sometimes think I am. Mostly I just piss people off.

- Sticks and stones may break my bones but feelings really fucking hurt.

- I probably just offended someone by using the effenheimer. There goes another reader.

- A steak knife is not an appropriate tool for removing stitches.

-  I am not a Crissy doll - tugging at my hair does not magically make it grow.

- Undoubtedly I just offended someone else with this naked Crissy doll porn.

- Charlie Sheen must be hogging all the winning because none of it is coming my way lately.

- I'd like to trade my thick thighs for thick skin.

- People aren't nearly as accepting of other people's peccadilloes as they claim to be.

- Drinking 100 oz of water a day is supposed to help make you skinny, but nobody will notice because you'll just spend all of your time in the bathroom peeing.

- I will never, ever make everyone else happy. So I'm going to worry a little more about making myself happy.

- The more desperately you're hoping to look sexy, the more likely it is that you will accidentally fart.

- Very little in life can't be made a bit better with a hug.

- Nothing in life can't be made a bit better with a laugh.

- One of life's most important lessons is learning when to shut up.

- All the whipped cream in the world doesn't keep humble pie from tasting like shit.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Dear Mom - Don't Read This One, Either

Hi, Mom!

Of course you're reading this - just like you read yesterday's post, which was cleverly entitled Don't Read This One, Mom.

I would like to start by saying that you have no grounds to email me and tell me my reference to a mouthful of baby gravy was disgusting. If you had simply done what I told you, you wouldn't have read my blog post and known I'm a grown woman in a sexually active relationship nasty whore. Well, I mean - you'd know...but you wouldn't have such awkward details.

You stated that you were emailing me to tell me how gross I am rather than commenting publicly on my blog where Neil and Dad could see it - but guess what? I think they already know I'm gross - we've met.

So on to my next point. Remember all those years when I wouldn't do anything you told me to do? You know, from age two until...well, now? I'm beginning to suspect that perhaps, just perhaps I learned this stubbornly defiant behavior from...um...you. Just a thought.

But you are my mama and I love you and respect you. So after this post, I will refrain from using the phrase baby gravy in my blog. We'll let my readers suggest a less offensive substitute term. Because it's clear that you don't follow directions and will continue reading whatever I post, despite all indications that you should refrain from delving deeper into the sick, sick world that is my brain.

A brain comprised, incidentally, from Dad's baby gravy and your...can I still say egg or is that too grody? (I know you washed my mouth out with soap when I was nine and I told you to 'go suck an egg', but I think that was more about context than content.)

Fondly,

Your Wholesome, Tactful Daughter

P.S. Bet you wish you could still ground me, huh?

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Don't Read This One, Mom...

Aw, shucks...I missed it.

I was informed that yesterday was Steak and a BJ Day, which is apparently men's retaliation to Valentine's Day.

This was news to me - probably because the only Valentines I ever get are from my parents and they have much lower expectations.

This year I actually did have a boyfriend for Valentine's Day, but luckily my man didn't get me shit. I figure this means I'm off the hook for celebrating last night's momentous holiday by supping on Indian food with a girlfriend.

I'll take a mouthful of curry over a mouthful of baby gravy any day of the week. (Seriously, Mom - I warned you.)

But what holidays are men going to make up next?

You boys already have Super Bowl Sunday, March Madness, bachelor parties and weekends - and now you want a whole day for us to spend on our knees in front of the grill?

Greedy much?

Well, I'm no expert, but I suspect we ladies will more happily accept the idea of Steak and a BJ Day once more men start actively celebrating:

     - Clean the Fucking Bathroom Day
     - Our Breasts are not Bread Dough Day
     - Refraining from Delivering a Dutch Oven is NOT Considered Foreplay Day
     - Taking Care of Your Own Children is not Called Babysitting Day

If I were a gambling woman, I'd even wager that Steak and a BJ Day comes around more than once a year for the men who partake in these other, less notorious holidays.

Monday, March 14, 2011

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, March 14th

10. I'm thankful that I'm going to win the Mega Millions lottery. It will come in handy for buying extensions, since I got about two days of cute out of this fucking haircut before it settled into a manly little helmet that will take two years to grow back.

9. I'm grateful that I don't live in Japan. They have more important things to worry about than their haircuts. Like finding water. And their dead relatives.

8. I'm excitedly counting down the days until Thursday when I can pull out my stitches and scratch my belly.

7. I'm grateful for daylight savings time, because really - those weekends are just too long. It's nice to give back an hour sometimes.

6. I'm thankful to Mother Nature for blessing me with this monthly gift. Bitch better bake some cookies for me to celebrate.

5. I'm pleased that my first attempt at making French toast did not result in a kitchen fire. It did, though, result in a delicious powdered sugar coma.

4. I'm delighted that the boyfriend finds it amusing to take photographs of me while I'm drooling in my sleep and upload them to Facebook.

3. I'm grateful that all the female sales clerks in jewelry stores are thoughtful enough to put their tits on display so the men have something to look at while they're shopping.

2. I'm happy to realize that, aside from a lovely dinner this evening gossiping with an old friend, I have nothing on the calendar this week. Yay, lazy days!

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, March 14th?

1. I'm thankful that the swelling is subsiding in my ankle after slipping on the ice yesterday and hitting the ground like a sack of cement.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

The Itchy and Scratchy Show

The worst part of getting tattooed is the merciless, endless itching while it heals.

Turns out?

Getting stitches is very similar, but with no pretty aftereffects to dissuade me from scratching.

I went in last week to have moles removed and biopsied to check for skin cancer and the mean doctor told me I'm not allowed to pick at the stitches. He also told me that Valium is not an appropriate aftercare medication for this procedure. Fucker.

One of the spots they stitched is my lower stomach, a few inches below my navel. This means that the stitches catch on my pants and my skivvies, and all I wanna do is scratch like a flea-ridden dog.
I'm trying my best, but the itching is calling out to me like a siren's song, luring my hand down my pants.
 
"Come hither," the itch sings. "Don't worry about what that silly doctor says...just think how delightful this will feel!"
 
"Never mind that you're in the middle of grocery store," the itch cajoles. "You know you wanna stuff your hand down here and rub me. Those people aren't looking...just do it. DO IT! I triple dog dare you..."
 
And by the way?
 
Those people were looking. Judgmental asshats, all of them.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

iChanged My Mind

I retract my post about not liking my new iPhone. We've spent a bit more time getting to know one another, and I think I'm in love.

Seriously.

This phone does almost everything.

I can unfriend you on Facebook and then Tweet about it. Savage Love and 1001 Sex Facts are now at my fingertips, and the USWeekly app is going to save me $3.99 a week.

My iPhone will tell me when I'm going to get my period and can then navigate me toward whatever food I happen to be craving or whatever person I'd like to punch.

If you try to sell me Xanax, I can use my Pill Identifier application to make sure it's not a roofie - or worse, a vitamin.

I can download stock tips porn at lightning speeds, and I can airbrush all my pictures until I look unrecognizable smokin' hot.

If this SOB had two more apps, I'd marry it today. It just needs Drive My Car and Pay My Bills. And we need to tweak that vibrate function a bit - c'mon, Apple. You know you can come up with a better battery than that. I'll totally give you back the finance and education apps in exchange.

Friday, March 11, 2011

My Sacrifice


Don't hate me
 because my tits rock.
I'm giving up reality for Lent.
In my New World, it is 70 degrees and sunny. I'm a size six and my boobs are pneumatic. I get paid exorbitant sums of money to write books and my workday doesn't start until noon.

I travel to Iceland in the autumn and Bora Bora in the winter.

My boyfriend's favorite way to spend a Saturday night is sprawled out on the couch with me, a bowl of popcorn and fifteen back-to-back episodes of Sex & the City.

My mother never says I told you so and my brother never farts. I can wear high heels without tripping and my leg hair never grows.

My bathtub is the one in Scarface (the sexy tub in the mansion, not the one where they dismember the guy with the chainsaw) and it has chilled cup holders for my champagne.

It's rough, and it's a challenge, but I am willing to do this...for Jesus, of course.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Muzzle Me

Do they make muzzles for people?

And no, I'm not talking about some BDSM kink. I'm just wondering if I should be allowed to speak? My brain-to-mouth filter is deteriorating by the day and it's only a matter of time before I say something really horrifying to someone.

Scene: I'm sitting in the stylist's chair at the salon, playing with my new iPhone and thinking that I'm making pleasant chit-chat with my cute little hairdresser.

ME: This Savage Love app rocks when I'm sitting in the waiting room!

ADORABLE LITTLE HAIRDRESSER: Savage Love?

ME: Yeah, the deviant sex advice column - it's great entertainment. These people make me feel so vanilla. Who knew that there are people out there into eating tampons and drinking piss?

ADORABLE LITTLE HAIRDRESSER: Um...did you know I'm a conservative Mormon?

ME:  Ohhhhhh.......look! I can check the weather on my phone, too!

Note to self: Maybe try not to offend the woman who holds your hair in one hand and a scissors in the other.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Great Expectations

So...here's what I showed the stylist:


This is what I got:
(Because I tend to forget they only cut your hair,
they don't perform plastic surgery.)


And suddenly I'm seeing an alarming resemblance to:


Hopefully the boyfriend likes humping Goombas...

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Stop That Train, I Wanna Get ON...

Charlie is stone cold bat-shit crazy and it seems to be working in his favor. He got fired from his job that pays him millions of dollars for doing copious amounts of hookers and blow - and now some other networks are considering paying him more.

I'm fairly certain that, if my work performance was flailing because I was up all night snorting coke out of a stripper's' taint, my boss would not give me a raise.

Snooki has leveraged her dubious skill at cartwheeling sans panties into the ability to command five-figure deals for club appearances. Dude. I'll get sloppy and do cartwheels for ten bucks and a midnight Chalupa at Taco Bell.

When did being a train wreck become a high-paying career? Because I'm definitely qualified for this gig.

Seriously.

I'll work nights, weekends. I'll put in overtime.

I'm totally flexible. Which should mean payday when TMZ scores pics of me doing lines off my own ass, no?

Monday, March 7, 2011

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, March 7th

10. I'm relieved that Mark's cat is handling my moving in without having a stress-related stroke. I was fearful that the transition might disrupt one of her many, many naps.

9. I'm pleased to announce that none of the drunk guys barfed on me in line at Dunn Bros this morning. Though, this begs the question: why were these five guys plastered at 7:15 on a Monday morning in a coffee shop?

8. I'm super excited for more fucking snow this week! For a moment there, the snowbanks melted to dangerously low levels where I could nearly see around the corner as I pull out in my car - which really takes the adrenaline rush out of the daily commute.

7. I'm looking forward to getting my hair did tomorrow. My style is bipolar. I cut all my hair off, then get upset and grow it out for two years before spontaneously cutting it all off again. So although I'm fired up today, be warned that by Wednesday I'll probably be crying about being bald.

Short? Long? HELP!
6. I'm thankful that I was able to assemble the freestanding clothes rack that came in 700 pieces without cursing and throwing things asking the boyfriend for help.

5. I'm grateful it's nearly Easter, because I love Jesus. And Cadbury mini-eggs.

Imma ride this bitch
like I stole it!
4. I'm delighted to learn that traditionally in a Hindu wedding, the groom and his peeps arrive on an elephant. Supposedly the Americanized version uses a convertible instead. I think Americanization is bullshit and told my brother that we're gonna have to ride the elephant, because...well, that would rock.

3. I'm thankful not to be dating the douchebag at the bar on Friday, who hit on me the split second he was out of his girlfriend's sight for a moment.

2. I'm grateful for the Savage Love iPhone application. Now if I go to church, I can surreptitiously read his salacious column during services and see if God strikes me down.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, March 7th?

1. I simply cannot wait to pay someone to tell me how much money I owe to the IRS! Perhaps this person will also be helpful enough to coordinate the tricks I will need to turn in order to pay my tax bill. But then I suppose those fuckers will want to tax my new earnings, as well. It's a vicious delicious cycle.
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