Saturday, July 30, 2011

Riding Bitch

I'm not a fan of motorcycles because I'm a Nervous Nellie Mother Hen who acts more like a member of AARP than a woman in the (reputed) prime of her life. Looking back, I'm not certain when the fun got sucked out of my heart by the anxiety.

Mark had his dad's cruiser for the day and informed me we'd be going for a ride. I considered it worriedly for a couple of hours, mind-fondling various excuses I could use as to why I couldn't go. I knew he was crazy excited - he aches for a bike. He works a ton of overtime to help take care of us instead of spending money on himself or saving for a new ride.

I'm of the belief that it's an enormous sign of respect to ride with someone on a motorcycle. You are quite literally putting your life in their hands, and praying against random idiots and flukey circumstances, as well.

I climbed on the back.

I clutched his hips with my thighs and spent the first three minutes trying to breathe as I envisioned my new life as a noodle-neck in my wheelchair, sucking my meals through a straw.

And suddenly I decided to let the fun back in. I just...let it in. I hadn't even realized I'd been warding it off lately with my perpetual worries.

I took a deep breath and relaxed my vise grip on his waist, which allowed me to better grope my sexy's abs*.

It's been a steamy Minnesota summer (they happen, dude) and the sun was warm on my back. We rode through leafy bluffs and I felt like I could smell every single tree, the evening breeze snapping at my face. I couldn't hear a thing but the wind and the hum of the bike.

When I closed my eyes, it felt like I was flying.

*This? I should definitely not be telling you, I can hear his head swelling from here.

Friday, July 29, 2011

Why Losing is Winning

The more I think about it, it's probably a good thing I didn't win the short story contest. I've seen stronger folk than myself brought to their knees by fame and fortune.

$750 is a dangerous sum of money and I surely would have self-destructed. Hookers, blow, maybe the electric bill - I'd have pissed it all away.

And really, who wants to deal with the paparazzi every day? It's bad enough that my man has seen me without makeup, I don't think USWeekly could handle it.

Wait - what?

There would be no paparazzi?

No riches?

No book deal and sponsorship?


I really could've used that $750, then.

Time to activate Plan B. I have to find a second job. Need a babysitter? For a small additional sum, I also promise not to read them my dirty story submission at bedtime.

I do respect that parenting must be a lot of work, and I wouldn't want to put you in this position.

Little Johnny, perplexed, in his jammies: "Mom, what does fisting mean?"

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Drumroll, Please...

I came.

I saw.

I read.

I didn’t trip.

I didn’t stutter.

I didn’t win.

My story was one of the runners up and was published today in Vita.Mn. Click here if you’d like to read it.

Thank you to all my lovely friends who were there to cheer me on. I love you guys for taking the time out of your busy lives to come support me.


Wednesday, July 27, 2011

I'm a Winner

What's the point of living in America, a democracy, if I can't even rig a local contest??

Because I am desperately broke an aspiring writer and a validation whore, I've been shamelessly begging everyone I've ever met to come to my reading tonight and vote for my story. The UPS guy already has plans and the clinic asked me to please stop leaving messages for my doctor while he's in surgery.

There are seven and a half Benjamins at stake tonight if I can read my story without snorting - and generate enough votes from the crowd. Should be a cinch, what with all my friends and family coming, right?


Except that they aren't necessarily gonna vote for me.


My fiance, my beloved, my hubby-to-be has informed me that he will have to wait to see which story is his favorite. Um, excuse me? Would this be the same fiance who has already claimed rights to 50% of the prize money based on the fact that the story is about humping him? Yes, yes it would - it's the very same guy.

My father is refusing to commit his vote until the event is over and he has reviewed The Options.

My brother hasn't even agreed to come - he has to check his schedule.

Now, I'm no fool, I realize that this is partly a writing contest, partly a popularity contest and probably partly a Whose Boobs Look Best While They're Reading contest. Since I clearly can't rely on my writing or my support system, it's time to break out the sisters and make sure they're looking their best.

Anyone available to perform a last minute boob job, free of charge? I'll totally give you boob credit if I win.

And if you're here in town, and willing to vote for me purely to shut me the hell up, please come on over to the Brave New Workshop in Minneapolis and cheer me on!

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

We Clean Up Nicely


Our mamas weren't quite as excited as we were about our White Trash engagement shoot.

Not sure if it was the liquor in paper bags, or the platinum whore hair, but I guess we didn't really nail the Christmas card picture they were hoping for.

So to appease our elders, we met my girl Courtney Conk for a slightly more boring traditional shoot. Even when she isn't pushing boundaries, Courtney produces amazing work.

I rarely pimp people out on my blog (except my neighbor), but...

...if you live in the Twin Cities and need a photographer, you've gotta call Courtney.

Getting married for the sixth time?

Need a senior picture
with your Camaro and your electric guitar?

Want some sexy boudoir shots for
your lover husband?

The Lemon Law

There's an old saying that when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. I prefer vodka, but whatever.

My life has been absurd lately. Nothing epic, nothing newsworthy, just one little fumble after another - and sometimes that gets me down. Other times, like yesterday, it just makes me laugh like a lunatic.

Payday came and went and some commissions I was expecting fell through. By this I mean our accounting department didn't process the paperwork in time, so the commissions will simply be added to the next payroll in two weeks.

Sounds simple, right?

Unless, of course, you are counting on that money to, you know, buy frivolities like toilet paper and ramen noodles.

But an angel intervened and wrote me a small check to tide me over, so off I sputtered on fumes to the bank to cash it so I could go fill up my alarmingly low gas tank...

Except I couldn't cash the check...

Because my bank was on fire.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go stand on a street corner with a cardboard sign. I'm hoping for some vodka, it makes the lemonade taste better.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, July 25th

10. I'm thankful for homemade pesto and I'm quite certain my cooking is not what made Mark sick yesterday.

9. I'm grateful for Sunday morning coffee with old girlfriends, which is much churchier than church could ever be.

8. I'm happy that the dew points have dropped enough that my kneecaps have stopped sweating.

7. I'm excited to see that I've lost four inches in the boobs torso, which is surely a result of being at the gym four times a week, and not from sweating out 20 pounds of water weight.

6. I'm hyped to see the rest of Courtney's pictures from our White Trash engagement shoot, and the pretty photos we took yesterday to make up for them.

5. I'm relieved that my getting up early on a Saturday to be productive didn't disrupt Miss Diva and her beauty sleep.

4. I'm thankful for my smart, sensitive bloggy friends like Jill, who send me wonderful, perfect, encouraging notes when I'm burying my face in the pillow ignoring the world.

3. I'm really grateful I wasn't in the car with Leslie yesterday when she saw a motorcycle get creamed. Honey, I hope you slept OK last night.

2. I'm so thankful for Mama Bird, who is turning out to be one heckuva wedding planner - get the hell outta her way!

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, July 25th?

1. In three days, the short story contest will be over and I will no longer be stressing about getting up on a stage and publicly reading a story about fisting. Hopefully I'll be too busy counting my $750 cash prize.

Sunday, July 24, 2011


I've been MIA for a few days because - well, frankly, I've been curled in the fetal position trying to meditate myself into a state of sedation calm.

I have a touch of anxiety from time to time. By this, I mean it swallows me alive for hours on end. I'm a born worrier and it's exhausting to direct so very much energy at hypothesizing worst-case scenarios. If you're ten minutes late, I fret that you've been in an accident. By the time you're twenty minutes late, I'm writing your eulogy in my head.

It's bothersome.

People should come equipped with a FEELINGS knob that can be adjusted to manageable levels, because I swear I have a knob somewhere inside my head that is cranked up a little too high to be considered normal.

I've been feeling overwhelmed lately. I have no excusable reason - my life is no more stressful than yours, I'm sure. But sadness has been swarming me. I look at the news and notice only the tragic stories. I worry about my job, as most of America does. I hurt for the people who have been out of work and struggling to make ends meet. I am one of those many.

I didn't write anything for a few days because this blog is where I try to mostly share things that make me laugh. I haven't laughed much this weekend but it's beautiful outside right now.

I'm going to go enjoy the sun on my face and just take a deep breath.

I'm going to go laugh.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Welcome to the Gun Show

Yesterday whilst driving I glanced down and noticed a hard bulge in my arm.


I immediately panicked, which is my standard reaction to most things in life. Tears welled at the thought of marrying the love of my life just in time for him to watch me die an excruciating, bald, cancerous death.

Further inspection, though, ruled out the need for blood tests and CAT scans.

Turns out?

It's my tricep.

Apparently I'm growing muscles under the chub.

And now, we will be switching to lighter weights and higher reps. There's never been risk of anyone calling me lean or delicate, but this is a wedding, not the WWE. I knew that I couldn't correct a lifetime of slovenly eating habits and holding down the couch in a mere few months, but I was hoping to slim down a bit for the occasion.

Because, really - it would be embarrassing if I look like I should be carrying Mark over the threshold.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Here's a Tip: DON'T

Wikipedia defines a gratuity as a ‘voluntary extra payment made to certain service sector workers in addition to the advertised price of the transaction’.

Note the word voluntary.

I’m a generous tipper. I’ve only withheld a tip in a restaurant twice in my life, both in instances of incredibly poor and very rude service. And even then, the guilt chewed at me the rest of the night.

But I didn’t tip the Vagina Beater. I had my fourth laser appointment and almost crumpled in dismay when I saw that the blowtorch lady was working again. I tipped her last time, even as the tears rolled down my cheeks and the wisps of smoke were still curling out of my panties.

Here's how I calculated the appropriate gratuity...

Pity payment: + $20
I don’t want to spend my days pinching and pulling random labia, or spreading people’s butt cheeks.

Customer service: + $10
She’s unnaturally sweet and chatty, considering the above.

Technique: - $10,000
Bitch, you’re holding a laser. A little less talky, a little more aim-y, please. The love button has a higher concentration of nerve endings than any other place on the female body, and you just zapped mine. Yes, I’m shedding tears of pain, but I’m also grieving the loss of all functioning nerves down south.

Finish: -100
I've been wiping myself since I was three. I didn't need help then, and I damn sure don't need help now.

So, according to my figures, she owes me $10,070 for punitive damages to the future of my love life. She’ll be hearing from my lawyer, once I can waddle my way to the telephone to hire one.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Sold Out: HOPE

You know that feeling of WINNING you experience when you pull on a coat for the first time since last year and find a twenty in the pocket??

It’s 175 degrees here. I’d be more apt to tuck ice cubes in my bra than to put on a coat, but I cleaned my car out yesterday and found a scratch-off lottery ticket worth $10.

I fist-pumped.

I did a little dance.

I shouted gleefully.

$10 buys a lot of ramen, you know.

Although it’s too hot outside for ramen, so I’d probably buy bread and peanut butter.

Except it’s a moot point because I live in Minnesota, where our government couldn’t get along so they are on summer vacation.

I don’t know about you, but when I can’t play nice with my coworkers I get fired. What I do not get is a lengthy paid vacation (18 days and counting).

One of the many things shut down in Minnesota right now is the lottery, which means that my found $10 is useless.

And also?

I can’t buy a Powerball ticket.

Not that I have a dollar to buy one, but if I could turn in my $10 winner, I could buy bread and peanut butter and still probably have enough for a QuickPick – also known as hope.

Our state has stopped selling hope.

Without our absurd fantasies of becoming instant millionaires, what have we got left?
Not $10, that’s what.

Monday, July 18, 2011

White Trash Americana

So Mark and I were standing out on the front porch recently, and he mentioned that the porch looked really trashy. I agreed.

Until he said he thought it looked trashy because of the plants.

Um? The tomatoes and cilantro and flowers
that the neighbor planted look trashy?

No, perhaps it’s our pickle jar of cigarette butts.

Or the rotting porch floor.

Or…dare I say it? Us.

Clearly our inner white trash was dying to get out, so we embraced it and had our engagement shoot this weekend. It was 95 degrees and muggy, so we knew we couldn't take traditional pictures anyway with our swampy asses and greasy faces.

Have I mentioned how much I love Courtney Conk? And how excited I am to see what she comes up with for our wedding pictures? Our families will be so proud.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Stage Fright

Reality is setting in.

I have to read my dirty story on a stage.

With a microphone. And dodge tomatoes. And not cry if I get heckled. And most crucially, not snort. I have the emotional IQ of a tweenager and dirty words still make me snicker.

Luckily, the venue holds only 200, so we're not talking about a stadium crowd - and perhaps only eleven people will show up.

But I still don't think I can wing this one. I'm going to need to rehearse.

I drafted a board of review and outlined the assignment:

     - Listen carefully to my reading

     - Provide constructive criticism

     - Wrap said criticism neatly in a bow and dip it in sugar

I stood tall and proud and read my story clearly, enunciating all the naughty bits and practicing my I'm An Adult face. As my maiden performance wound into its stunning finale, I eagerly consulted the board for my feedback.

This was the board's response:

Friday, July 15, 2011

Let's Talk About Sex

I entered a short story contest here in Minneapolis and selected me as a finalist, which means that I get to play Little League Carrie Bradshaw for a night. Dudes!

Wanna come hear me read a short story?

You can have cocktails first so I'm funny.

Please come.

The story is about sex.

Now, do you wanna come?

And there's a burlesque show, boys and bis...

You're totally coming, right?

I am in dire need of the $750 Grand Prize emotional support of my friends. I have to get up and say the word fisting on a stage in front of strangers - and my parents - without snorting.



Thursday, July 14, 2011

News of the Feared

In today’s news, a little boy in Brooklyn was abducted while walking home and dismembered.

A California woman drugged her ex, cut off his peter, and stuffed it down the garbage disposal.

Two crazies in Vermont were charged with animal cruelty after being caught living with 80 their two cars.

A security guard at the Twins stadium scolded two lesbians for kissing at a ball game, hurling bible passages like stones.

And, as discussed yesterday, Minnesota is running out of booze!

Surely you can understand why I like to play Pollyanna Ostrich sometimes and pretend the world doesn’t exist.

Where do these people come from?

I come from bloodlines peppered with mental illness. Schizophrenics, depressives, alcoholics and Vikings fans. I’ve spent the better part of my life battling anxiety and often wondering if I am – or will be – crazy, too.

But a quick skim of the headlines assuages me.

Never, ever have I had the urge to slice off a boy’s head, or a boyfriend’s penis. I like cats, but only in moderation. And with all the dumbasses falling out of the stands at ballparks lately, I’d be far more concerned with being injured by a flying middle-aged man than being traumatized by a girl-on-girl kiss.

So, while I do concede gratitude that the daily news makes me feel decidedly stable and ordinary, it terrifies me to realize just how many crazies are out there walking among us.

Be careful out there, folks, it’s a mighty scary world. Wear a nut cup and carry your own flask. You never know who wants to cut off your cock - or your cocktails.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011


I’m as politically ambivalent as they come, which may or may not be a fancy way of saying that I’m ignorant. My only real worry with the Minnesota government shutdown was making certain that Mark and I got our marriage license beforehand. We did, and I’ve been breathing easily since.

Until I heard that Minnesota may run out of alcohol.


Is a problem.

Because in case you didn’t know from my brand-new countdown widget – I’m getting married in a few weeks.

Have you ever been to a dry reception?

People eat dinner and then they leave.

This presents an issue, since we aren’t serving dinner. Our reception is on a Sunday afternoon and we’re having a dessert bar with coffee and champagne.

MY kinda wedding cake...
The bubbly is the only lubrication at this shindig.

There’s no DJ or string quartet.

No dry chicken and no chicken dance.

Just a bunch of people eating sweets and mingling. I don’t know about you, but I mingle a helluva lot better with a Big Gulp of champagne in one hand.

So my highly educated opinion on current Minnesota politics is this:

You jerk-offs have shut down because you can't agree on anything. Kindergartners are put in time-out for the same infraction, but they still have to go to school.

You've laid off thousands more Minnesotans. Many of you legislators are still collecting a paycheck, although the elderly who rely on Social Security checks are in jeopardy of not having their bingo money.

But enough is enough.

If Minnesota runs outta champagne before the wedding, there will be a riot. You’ve been warned.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

My Sexy Abs

I disguised him.
You know,
for privacy.
I have mixed feelings about my personal trainer.
On the one hand, he’s hot and I like to sleep with him. On the other hand, he’s a big, mean sadist jerk and I’d like to punch him…but I can’t lift my arms.

Mark is one of Those People I hate would like to be. His alarm goes off at the asscrack of dawn and he bounces out of bed, fully coherent and functional. He’s brimming with energy and he enjoys working out.

I am one of the Other People. You know the ones. The ones who remain burrowed in bed until Those People would call it 'mid-day'.

The ones who can’t function without injectable caffeine.

The ones who count cuddling as their cardio. (What? It burns calories!)

The ones who will never, ever enjoy going to the gym. Except when I’m exiting.

Mark’s been working with me on a routine for quite a while now, and we’re finally seeing results.

As for him, the barking coaching has strengthened his core muscles and helped to define his abs. As for me, well…just look at how sexy I’m looking these days.

But on the upside, the crying has lubricated my eyeballs. And I’m pretty sure I lost some weight vomiting last night after split training.

This wedding dress my health had better be worth it.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Monday Marvels

The Top Ten Reasons to Marvel over Monday, July 11th

10. I’m thankful that we had a four-legged dinner guest on Saturday.

9. Gabby was thankful when our dinner guest went home.

8. I’m pleased to have found some sexy industrial undergarments for beneath my dress.

7. I’m grateful that I got to spend my Sunday afternoon doing girl crafts with my friend Leslie.

6. I’m happy to have found the perfect flaming Mo to style my hair for the wedding. I knew this guy was made for me because he was wearing a Running with Scissors t-shirt and excused himself to vomit while setting my appointment.

5. I’m delighted to have discovered Peggle, a video game perfectly matched for my electronic skill level. Yes, it may be marketed at four-year-olds, but screw you. It has unicorns and rainbows.

4. I’m relieved to assume these headpieces will look a bit cuter on the little girls at the wedding.
3. I’m grateful to the first person who ate a morel mushroom to determine whether they are poisonous or edible. My sincere thanks to you, sir. (It had to be a guy – no woman would be that stupid.)

2. I’m happy I got to spend some quality time with Mama Bird this weekend.

And the number one reason to marvel over Monday, July 11th?

1. I’m incredibly thankful that Mark bought an 8000-BTU window unit air conditioner so we can sleep without curling up in a sweaty puddle.

Friday, July 8, 2011

Hang in There, Baby

Dear Rhonda Byrnes from The Secret,

Suck it.

This optimism thing isn’t working.

I’m trying, I really am. But even Pollyanna has a breaking point.

The phone rang last night, and I happily visualized the outcome. Clearly it was Vita.MN, calling to tell me I’m the winner of the summer short story contest – and man, do I need that $750.

Positive visualization.


Isn’t that supposed to do some shit?

Turns out it was the doctor’s office, calling to rag on me about a bill. I guess they want $750, too.

Maybe I should send them a copy of The Secret and tell them to go ahead and visualize me being able to pay that bill.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go visualize myself not crying into a pillow.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Murder in the North Woods

I witnessed a murder this weekend.
Did I forget to mention that? Did I fail to tell you that our idyllic weekend was all a sham?

I have blood on my hands and nowhere to turn. (Accessory-to-murder blood. Not just blood from my firecracker incident.)

You may know Doug as our boat captain. A quiet man. A peaceful, generous man.

Until you cross him.

Doug is retired military, and an ex-cop. He gives you exactly one chance. If you blow it, he blows the whistle and you go home – and you’re not invited back.

Except apparently whistle is just a euphemism.

So there I was, in my camp chair by the fire pit, enjoying the morning sun on my face.

“Oh, look!” I exclaimed, marveling at their general adorableness. “Squirrels!”

Then Mark the Narc hollered “Doug! Red squirrels!”

Doug nonchalantly grabbed his .22 and took aim. Squirrel #1’s butt exploded and he tumbled to the ground. Squirrel #2 took a shot to the head before diving out of the tree to his twitching, spewing death.

I’m not ashamed to admit I shed a tear (or five) in honor of those poor squirrels.

And you can be damn sure I cleaned up after myself around the cabin after that. Doug ain’t gonna have a reason to whistle at me!

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Happy Hayward


Wikipedia states that a cabin is a ‘small, roughly built house with a wood exterior, typically found in rural areas’.

I state that this is bullshit – see Exhibit A.

We left our 400-square-foot house with its 6-square-inch bathroom and headed to The Cabin in northern Wisconsin to stay in Exhibit A. Our accommodations were palatial.

There is nothing more Midwestern than Going To The Cabin, but it’s a mindset, not a place. A cabin can be minimalist and rustic, or – in this case – a majestic dream home built on the waterfront.

What makes it a cabin is the joy and the love it contains, and you know there’s a lot of both when a 5,000 square foot house feels warm and cozy.

Mark said he hadn’t seen me smile like this in a while.

It’s the smile of someone whose toughest decision
 of the day is when to reapply sunblock.

The smile of someone who is greeted at the Woodhaven bar with a hug from the owner,
who made my favorite kind of pudding shots because she knew I’d be in town.

My friends Heather & Brandon

The smile of someone who is bouncing around in the bed of a pickup truck
with freckled shoulders and dirty feet.
The smile of someone seeing the sun set over the lake
and eagles flying over the boat.

The smile of someone tearing down the trail on an ATV,
clinging to Erin in fear and delight.

The smile of someone who may or may not have peed on her man in the lake.

The smile of someone who falls into bed at night
 smelling of bonfire and stars.

The smile of someone who is blessed to have such
generous friends and a man she loves.

Captain Doug
Anxiety and stress have no place at the cabin,
you must check them at the door and leave them outside with the mosquitoes.

Only love and joy are welcome,
and there’s more than enough to go around.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Thumb(s) Up

Shelley and Doug were kind enough to open their lake home to us this weekend.

We were on our best behavior, hoping to be invited back, so Mark brought lots of explosives.

I put on my mother hen hat and lectured everyone on being careful because fireworks are dangerous.

No bottle rockets and Black Cats for me, no sir. Just a sparkler.

Turns out?

Sparklers are dangerous, too.

Here are some things you may not have realized you need a thumb for:

Shotgunning a beer
 through a Fun Noodle...

Holding a Big Bubba cocktail...

Wiping when you pee...

Typing when you blog...

Thumb burns aside, it was a spectacular weekend, and I’ll tell you all about it when I regain the use of my left hand.
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