Year in Review: Shit I didn't get done

Two-post December? Say it ain't so.

I really need to get some shit done. Instead of doing important stuff, I'm just going to post a snapshot of all the entries I didn't finish this year. I will first finish whichever one gets the most votes in the comments.

This is because I'm lazy. So lazy, in fact, that I never finished the post about procrastination, designed to procrastinate while I should have been cleaning. So, I procrastinated on the procrastination post. Awesome. I'm feeling really good about my accomplishments this year now.

Sorry it's hard to read. I'd redo it but ... ooooh! Candy!

Fuck. Were they making fun of me?

I'm kinda pissed at Molly Shannon.

And not only because she probably has one of those 401K things I keep hearing about and probably a late-model fully loaded Toyota Prius. Without leather seats, because she's totally legit.

And could probably fit a tummy tuck or a boob lift into her budget if she weren't too classy for that bullshit.

Damn it.

Anyway, I was originally mad because I just realized that she was making fun of people like me in those Mary Katherine Gallagher skits.

*sigh* Where do I begin?

Let's start with 6th grade. Tryouts for the middle school musical. I think it was Bye Bye Birdie, but I'm not sure. Lots of pretty girls in chorus tried out for it. I played clarinet in band, and I tried out, too.

What I remember of my preparation for auditions was singing Tomorrow and memorizing and singing another song, while pacing between the staircase and the kitchen in my parents' old house. Also, I specifically remember singing in two different octaves because I couldn't reach all the notes in either octave.

I bet I could be a awesome yodeler. I was Jewel before Jewel, except for the living-in-a-van part.

Now, for a conversation with myself as a high school freshman. Let's be real: you were the new kid last year, and now we're all the new kids at the high school. You don't know any upperclassmen. What's a good way to meet new people?

Right. Go ahead and run for class president. You'll meet lots of people. And then, you'll make some awesome posters with really bright markers and some bubble letters like all the other girls.

Oh? What's that? Your mom has a better idea? She thinks it's really cool?! Well, she's a science teacher. I'm sure she knows all about cool! Let's do it!

Oh, these old National Geographic covers are awesome posters. This yawning Artic wolf is going to bring in some serious votes.

Don't even get me started on the baby giraffe chewing leaves next to its momma. So. cute. Election - in the bag.

So ... that went well.

But, by freshman year in college, I was pretty confident I had developed the people skills to win the election for class president. Except, I spent all my time smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and procrastinating. I tried to go "funny" with the speech.

I ran through my credentials with a jokey tone and a smile. I said I was a cheerleader, and I followed that up with a "Don't gag! HAHAHA Ha ha ... ha ..." *crickets* That's when I realized that I am not great at politics and also, I kind of hate politicians. At least I was keepin' it real, and making jokes - unlike the asshats who went to every dorm room and introduced themselves, got comfortable with the issues, and had platforms.

Sometimes, my life seems like a series of embarrassing moments that I try to just ignore. Like, you know when your heel kind of catches on something and your ankle kind of twists to the side, and instead of acknowledging that you almost just fell for no reason, you just straighten up and keep walking even though everyone in your office saw you and your whole face burns but you pretend it doesn't?

Or, like, when on your birthday, you put on your special new sweater from Anthropologie, the cute one you picked out for your hubby to give you, and then, you put on your cute sweater tights and a skirt? When you feel something small kind of drop into your tights and settle just below your butt, and you just assume it's the tag, and you don't have a lot of time to just keep digging around, and later, you forget about it until you go to the bathroom at work, and get up from peeing and see your favorite earring at the bottom of the toilet and think, "ohhhhh," and hesitate a moment before flushing it?

It's like that.

Oh, you don't like adorable kid stories? Well, suck an egg.

The glass windows of the storefront toy store were ringed in white Christmas lights. In the sills stood stuffed giraffes in three sizes, the largest twice as tall as L.

We walked into this locally-owned, independent wonderland of playtime, and the owner smiled. I let L wear her fancy coat even though she was wearing play clothes and we were having a lazy day.

Inside, I barely got her past the wall lined with bins of tiny toys - rubber bumblebees, tiny wooden sailboats, echoing microphones, and snakes of all colors and sizes, made of wood and rubber. She loves snakes.

Finally, I told her we had to keep walking because we had a goal. Next weekend, we would go see Santa, and although she knew she would ask for a doll, she didn't know what kind. Santa prefers details.

Past the bins, against the wall, was a lighted glass case, stretching to the ceiling. At the top were the most fragile dolls, at the bottom, plastic and cloth dolls. I pointed out an Eloise doll, with a cloth face, beautifully painted features, messy hair, untucked shirt and crooked bow - all things that symbolize Eloise's personality, with which L identifies.

There was a delicate, porcelain Madame Alexander Cinderella, barely six inches tall, with an ice blue dress frosted with silver glitter and thread. Her signature red bow lips accentuated her rosy cheeks, her hair was perfectly coiffed.

A mermaid version of Fancy Nancy stood behind the floppy Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy, who smiled sloppily, impossibly, to each side.

Next to Eloise, though, was a standing twelve-inch, vinyl Madame Alexander with a red hooded cape, dark hair and eyes and a basket. "Ohh!" L said. "Yook at the Wed Widing Hood!"

Still, she was unimpressed. We went through the store, looking at other dolls, stuffed animals, games, dress-ups and puppets. Finally, I told her we needed to decide what she wanted from Santa.

"I want to go see that Duck again," she said.

"The duck?" I asked.

"Yes, the bunny one."

"Ohhh! I know which one! That's Jemima Puddle Duck," I told her, and I led her to the back of the book section, where Jemimah rested on a high shelf.

"No, not that one," she said.

"But, this is the one next to Peter Rabbit," I told her.

"No. Not the bunny one," L corrected. "The funny one. You know. The one that squeaks?"

Confused, I led her around the store, checking out the rubber duckies (no), the chirping carved birds (no), a box of fluffy baby chicks (no again).

"L, I don't know what it is," I told her.

She started leading me around, as she looked inside shelves and around corners.

Finally, she exclaimed, "Here it is!" and fell to her knees in front of a shelf in the middle of the store.

There, she picked up a toy about the size of my hand. With dangling feet and yellow skin, it was not what I expected my sweet girl to choose.

"That, L," I told her, "Is a rubber chicken."

"That's it!" she declared. "I'm going to ask Santa for that."

Satisfied, she led me out of the store. A girl after my own heart.

Change of pace, or did I just blow your mind?

December 2006 was mild, and early in the month, it rained. I spent about a week in the hospital, staying close to my newborn baby girl who was being treated in the nursery. Meanwhile, her twin brother was in a NICU two hours away, his lungs being supported by machines, his nourishment coming from an IV and then a feeding tube.

It was a confusing time. I had two babies! The prognosis for each baby was good, but I could only be with one at a time. I didn't see my little boy's face for five days after he was born. When I finally held him next to me, he seemed to sigh as he snuggled close. We had missed each other.

An hour later, I would have to leave him to go back to the hospital where my little girl was.

When she was released from the hospital, we relied on family or one very kind and patient friend to watch her while my husband and I (or my father and I, because I wasn't yet allowed to drive) drove two hours so I could hold my little guy for a little while. 

The babies were eight days old the first day I thought he would be transferred to the hospital close to me. My babies would be close enough to each get at least some time with me each day and soon, he would come home to snuggle next to his sister in the wooden cradle I used as a baby. That day was my birthday.

They were so tiny, and they needed help learning to eat. They needed to be held and nursed. They needed me.

Fortunately, H. was being cared for in an excellent NICU. Unfortunately, that hospital is not known for its intermediate care or its coordination with other hospitals. It was late in the day when I learned he would not be coming home that Friday.

What I wanted for my birthday was to be awake all night, shifting between identical cribs, hushing cries, changing diapers, nourishing tiny bodies. I wanted what I didn't know yet - the cold, bone-aching exhaustion that comes from giving yourself over to two other people.

That night, my parents bought dinner at a restaurant and brought it to my house; we probably had cake. My best friend came for dinner. She gave me a gift of feminine little earrings; my mother gave me makeup. Friends and relatives sent flowers. As my parents, husband, best friend and I sat around the table that night, we ogled little L. and we laughed. I took photos of her with the flowers people sent.

That night, I squeezed warm water over her bird legs. She screamed - tinny, puppy wails, bouncing inside the stainless steel sink. I urged her to accept my breast. Pinching my nipples, making a C with my hand, massaging my mammary glands. Weak and down to nearly five pounds, she was not strong enough to extract all her calories from me. When she wasn't with me, I hooked a machine to my breasts and mechanically suctioned breast milk to freeze and take, in coolers, to the NICU.

As I rocked L. in the dark early hours, I swallowed sobs so I wouldn't wake my husband or visiting parents.

My boy would be OK. He would come home. I knew the facts, but my mind was dark.

There were several other babies born to friends and family that same week. We called them "the crop."

A cousin a few days before, a dear friend a day later, and eight days after, on that conflicted birthday, something wonderful entered my world.

Another dear friend gave birth, three weeks early, to a healthy baby boy, the second biggest of the crop. Although he's her baby, her son, I like to think of him as a little bit mine, too.

She and I call him my "birthday buddy."

Fair skin and hair, he is a wide-eyed, earnest boy. He is silly and sweet and just the kind of little boy you know will listen to the teacher and do all his homework.

Every time I see C., I think of how he cracked open my ribs and smoothed my brow. He was a toothache-inducing cinnamon bun, and he gave me the sugar rush to get me through those days. He was the last baby I had to worry about in those weeks, and he was born fine, perfect really.

I like to lay claim to him, although I had nothing to do with his creation, because he was born on my birthday, because he came when I needed news of him. I like to believe we have a bond, whether he knows it yet or not, and knowing me, I'll force one on him if he doesn't feel it.

Now that he's about to turn 4, there are signs we have a cosmic connection.

The other day, my dear friend sent me a text message that might as well have been a message from God that little C. and I share a piece of our souls.

Her text message said simply, "Your birthday buddy's boat he made at school."

Attached was this photo:

I love that kid.

Vote for no one or I will beat you with a club

Polifuckingticians. This is my brain on election time:

See? I'm rehashing old doodles that don't even really make sense, except that they both deal with eggs and also, any lost opportunity to talk about vaginal discharge is a travesty.

I'm at Panera Bread again. Can you tell? I just watched a teenager pick her wedgie. Really going to town in there. I think they have a field hockey game today.

I'm just wondering, over my Cuban Chicken Panini and caffeine-free diet coke, why her mother didn't buy her comfortable underwear for athletics.

Because motherhood is nothing if not judgmental.

But it's OK. I've earned the right. L. and H. are basically the cutest twins ever in the history of Halloween, no matter what BetaDad says. I mean, his kids are cute, sure, but do they know the alphabet? No. And we all know beauty is nothing without brains.

Without telling you all my adorable L. and H. stories, you should know: they are fucking brilliant. And gorgeous. But, I don't post photos of them because I'm unnaturally afraid of pedophiles and also of being exposed in real life as the writer of Naked Cupcakes.

How's the freestyle, free-flow, train-of-thought thingy working out for me? NOT WELL.

This is what you get on the lunch hour.

Oh! I could tell you about the 30 minutes I spent trying to get out of being on top the other night, using a local news item as a metaphor.

It all backfired, because I wound up making all the concessions, even though I argued that on the board of directors that is our marital bed, I outvote PHubby 3-2. I get three votes because I birthed twins. He gets one vote for himself and one for his dingdong.

(That's right. I said, "dingdong." What are you going to do? These things happen.)

Anyway, he refused to bring his airport extension into my unincorporated area, and I eventually agreed to demolish my community in the name of economic development, and everyone went home happy.

This is how politics should happen, people. It's also how sex metaphors should happen.

Take NakedCupcakes with you into the voting booth on Tuesday. Go America.

I don't even know anymore. Sorry I made you read this.

OMG, she posted two days in a row. It's probably the Rapture.

Just kidding. I'm Catholic. We don't really do Rapture.

I'm in Panera Bread right now. I have a meeting in a half hour, and I just polished off an Orchard Harvest Chicken Salad, which is much better than the last Orchard Harvest Chicken Salad I ordered because I learned from that experience that the cooks at PB take out all their "God told me to drown my children in the bathtub" nonsense on the lettuce-in-a-vat-of-dressing they consider a well-balanced salad.

They totally would have gotten around to drowning their children, but they work at Panera Bread. Motivation is hard to come by. (Says the judgmental asshole with the unemployed husband! Huzzah!)

I ordered the dressing on the side this time, and I'm pretty sure I saw the salad bar lady's eye twitching.

I wonder if the Rapture happened right now how many of these other diners would be taken away. I'm wondering mostly because there are a lot of sandwiches on these tables, and maybe some cookies, and I'm not saying I would eat their sloppy seconds, but I'm not not saying it either. Have you had one of these fudge chunk chocolate cookies? They're sensational.

The shirt I'm wearing today is super cute and I totes got it at a secondhand store, but it was all new with the tags still on, and I was really happy. But this blouse is slippery and it's playing peek-a-booby with all the creepy people I deal with daily, and I'm not psyched.

I could button my cardigan a little higher, but then, what would I have to tell my blog readers?

Sacrifice, is what it's called. I am literally flashing my tits at local politicians with dementia-related sexual impropriety to keep you people happy.

Another fashion victory for Sarah P and Naked Cupcakes.

You're welcome.

You know how hot it gets me when you leave out the Campo-Phenique.

I have a blog?!

Why didn't you guys tell me?

But seriously, sorry I'm an asshole.

BAHAHA! That was awesome! I'm not at all sorry I'm an asshole.

But, I am sorry I've been lame about posting. No time for the internet in recent weeks. All will heal once the fuckingassholecocksucker election is over and I can stop spending my time dodging the fragile, but overblown, egos of local politicians. Oy.

FYI, there is nothing in this world that brings joy to my soul like the opportunity to paraphrase sweetly and in a beautifully kind way, "Go fuck yourself" to a really, truly unpleasant person, and when I am robbed of that opportunity because I am the one who has made a mistake and turned the wrath of the beast (politician) toward myself ... let's just say I'm not sure anyone else has reached that level of self-loathing.

The important part is that I went to visit a friend, AuntieBoh, this weekend, and while that story is very meaningful to me and I'm going to write about it somewhere else, what's important for this blog is that we went to the local convent (for a reason) and bought some sweets at the nuns' candy shop.

So, I got back to town last night and, this morning, I told BFF that AuntieBoh and I picked up a little something for her at the candy shop run by the nuns.

So, BFF said, suspiciously, "Did you guys get me something inappropriate?"

"Yes," I said. "We got you a dick lollipop made by the nuns."

Also, I have a little advice for you Penna Turnpike travelers:

Should you feel the urge, and you get close to the rest stop in Allentown, I highly recommend stopping there to drop a deuce.

Nothing in this world compares to loudly singing, "Because we're pooping here in Allentown," in the middle stall of a Pennsylvania Turnpike rest station bathroom.

The other travelers really like it.

Bonus points for not washing your hands and butting in line at Starbucks in front of the person who watched you not wash your hands.

No one wears pantyhose on purpose

I don't wear pantyhose because I want to. I wear pantyhose because I haven't washed my underwear in long enough that I'm left with nothing - not even the *special Mommy-and-Daddy time* thongs that have the pink-and-black ruffle on the sides of the thong part.

(Which? Would be totally adorable if only the entire ruffle on both sides didn't disappear into the abyss of my ass crack. And also, they look either like demented labia or like pink fairy wings on the back of your underwear, and whenever I think "wings" and "underwear," I think "maximum absorbency" and "heavy flow days" and also about blue fluid being poured over a maxi pad while I'm trying to eat my mac-and-cheese on the couch in front of the TV. AND? Thongs? Hemorrhoid-inducing. So, while PHubby likes them, I never feel sexy in them.)

You know what I do feel sexy in? Two days of leg stubble and chipping toenail polish. Because if I'm having sex, it's pretty much standard. So, now I kind of associate those things with sex. Welcome to adulthood. I'll be your tour guide.

And why would I hang on to pantyhose I know have a run in them and I shouldn't ever wear again? Because there will come a day when I've been through all the undies and still haven't done laundry, and I've even stretched laundry day for a few days by washing a couple pairs of undies in the sink and blown them dry with the hair dryer, but on this particular day, I have to leave early for work, and I don't want to wake the kids with the hair dryer, so it's Pantyhose Day for me. (Which? Corresponds with Bohemian-I'm-So-Artsy-I-Can-Mousse-Scrunch-And-Go-Hairstyle Day.)

I bought a Glamour magazine today, because I'm really stylish, obviously. And it has everything to do with my new theory that you don't have to be skinny as long as there's talcum powder in this world, and if you've had twins and never used baby powder on them and still have, like, six containers of it under the bathroom sink, I highly recommend you try dusting your inner thighs and also maybe the underside of your bottom, which I like to call the other other crack.

You think I'm kidding, but that's good advice. Fashion advice.

Anyway, I bought a cheesy magazine because I've been reading a lot of heavy, serious nonfiction lately, and I really need a break. I don't have enough time right now to read fun fiction (although my Christmas break list is lengthy), so cheesy magazine it is.

(Also, I'm baroque. You know, broke, in the classical sense. If anyone wants to hire a really handsome-guy-with-lots-of-skills who also happens to have a wife who writes a really inappropriate and completely unprofessional blog, holla.)

Anyway, the magazine has a Do-and-Don't page for colored tights. Apparently, plaid tights in muted colors are a DO.

If you do not have to powder your thighs, because I honestly thought to myself, "Hm, if I wore those tights, would I get talcum powder on them in a really obvious place? Because it might have happened once or twice that I had to change pants before going to work, because I left white finger prints right where I was pulling out my wedgie. And this is why every modern girl should have a husband, because who else would tell you these things?

Feminism, is what it's called.

This post has been really heavy on girly stuff. I feel like I should throw something in here for the fellas. If you want something to ogle, go to Ren Fest. It's a boob fair for Trekkies. I almost saw nips so many times at Ren Fest, I stopped counting. And I heard it gets crazy at night, like a big nerd orgy. Nordgy, if you will.

Halfway through the day, it got really crowded, and I concentrated hard on (heh-heh, hard on) not stepping on hoop skirts but I was growing seriously concerned about losing an eye to a nipple. And just when I thought I had the hoop-skirt-and-nipple-dodging thing down, a bunch of people were wearing fur tails and horns, and I was milliseconds from death in every direction.

It was exactly like being being a Catholic monk when King Henry VIII sent his thugs in to burn the abbey.

Thank God for beer and smoked turkey legs.

Am I missing something about the Elizabethans? My undergrad concentration was Renaissance literature, and I even named my cat after a woman poet from the era (shut the fuck up), but I'm seriously confused about the real life Second Life people at Ren Fest.

Frankly, I'm concerned with the level of nerd this world will be producing when my children are adults. Chilling.

Conclusions:

I'm sadly, tragically not nearly nerdy enough for Ren Fest;

Powder your thighs;

The stupid tights you wore under your jean shorts in 7th grade are now a fashion DO;

Maybe don't sniff my undies, in case you're a pervert who thinks it would be a good idea.

Peace.

No, I'm not in a fucking MFA writing program, I was baked and I wrote down some stuff, all right?

Advice: If you are in an MFA program for writing and your husband asks you to read some thoughts he wrote down when he was inebriated, just tell him it's really good and so amusing, really, and don't act like a dickhead in a workshop with a Pulitzer winner. FYI.

Reminder: Pay your quarterly water bill. Just because the city bills on paper doesn't mean the bill doesn't exist.

Advice: If you are wearing really cute shoes in a really boring meeting, so as to draw attention to your feet, please, please refrain from removing one of those shoes and scraping your fucking toenails. Especially if you have kind of a big-time job. But mostly just because it's skeevy.

Advice: Eat a good amount of chocolate.

Advice: Also, maybe still eat a good amount of chocolate, but not quite as much as you're eating now, and also don't be afraid to spend a little extra time at the gym. Go ahead. I'll take care of the kids a few extra nights a week.

Reminder: Have you picked up your prescription, yet? Did you call it in? Go ahead and do it now. I'll wait ...

Advice to self: Start Good Advice and Reminders Service. Become instant millionaire. Lose it all buying taffeta jackets and satin pill box hats with webbing and going to random funerals of strangers to sob like a mysterious mistress just to see what people do. Then, laugh, laugh, laugh at those stupid idiots. Write a book. Get a reality show gig and, the day you think you'll be eliminated, flash your vagina a bunch of times and also call someone a racist name so no one in America will forget your face, baby, ever. Do a bunch of interviews, and then talk about how you got sober and got healthy and then have a serious reality show to redeem your image. (self-made Drew Barrimore!)  Sell some stuff on QVC. Be millionaire again. Also wear lots of makeup and 80s power skirt-suits.

Like this:

Or even:

But don't blow a guy in a clown dog car:

Awwww, burrrrrn:

So, is it just me, or has the Good Advice and Reminder Service become Your Basic Life Planning Service? Open for business.


Reminder to self: Move stuff from washer to dryer before bed, so you don't have to get all dressed up again tomorrow because all you have is another pair of control-top pantyhose you know has a run in the toe, and there are only so many times you can use the excuse that you got a run that morning, even though you got it last time you wore them, and everyone knows no two runs are exactly the same.

It Happened Again.

OK, so y'all remember everything about my life, right? Because someone said to me once, "Yes, dear, because it is all about you."

So, of course you remember last time, when the husband was interested in a show he thought was about a Jew-eating whale.

I thought he was a nice guy before he started talking about genocide-by-marine-mammal and drawing diagrams of water caves he titled "Amphibious Lair of Inter-species Aryan-Whale Power."

But really, now he's watching TV and I'm not really paying attention because it's a football game between two teams I could give less than a shit about, and I'm a couple glasses in to the Beaujolais-Villages, if you catch my drift, which I think you do because I'm drunk.

Anyway, he says, "It happened again."

I'm like, "What?" kind of huffy, because I was looking at anthropologie.com and thinking of straight skirts that would look really fabulous on me if I was four inches taller and my thighs looked and acted less like an advertisement for Anemic Jello Molds Gone Wild. (Seriously, I need to stop wearing skirts on windy days. My thighs are whores.)

The programming guide is on the TV, and he's pointing toward the screen with the remote control, staring at me all, "Eh? Eh?" So, I look up and see MTV is playing "World of Jenks," and I shrug and say, "It looks like 'World of Jerks.'"

And then he's giving me the "I know, right!?!?" look, and my mind is scrambling and scanning wildly to figure out what the hell I've missed, and suddenly, his eyes pop wide open, and he's like, "I'd watch that!"

I swear he wasn't like this before. He said he's sorry. He promised it wouldn't happen again. He'll change, right?

Sunday Sunday

Last night, PHubby was flipping channels, searching in vain for something to watch.

He stopped on something.

"Whoa!" he said. Then, "Oh."

"What," I asked.

I looked up and saw he had highlighted a program on NatGeo titled "The Whale that Ate Jaws."

Then he said:  "I thought that said, 'The Whale that Ate Jews.' I'd watch that."

"WHAT?! You would watch that?!" I asked him, horrified.

"Well, yeah!" he said, with wonder. "Because how would he know?"

To summarize, I married a man who would be willing to watch a show about a whale that ate Jewish people because he'd be fascinated to know how a whale would know what religion people are.

P.S. Of course, it was important for me to research names of Nazi Party members, so I could come up with a name for the whale. This is what I came up with: Whalehelm Frick.

But, more importantly, I feel it is imperative to share with you the actual name of the senior SS officer in charge of genealogy (seriously, I want to vomit just at the thought of it.)

His actual, real-life, hand-to-God name?

Helmut Poppendick

So, logically, I drew this:

And then, PHubby came downstairs, saw me working on the computer, and interested in my life and work said, "What are you doing, honey?"

...

Have you ever found it hard to explain exactly what you're doing without some sort of a misunderstanding?

So, anyway it's 8:30 in the morning, and I have come up with a punny name for a Nazi whale and drawn a picture of a Nazi with a funny name. Nazi sea mammals and penis jokes before 9 a.m.? This will be the most productive day ever.

NOT ADVISABLE

Maybe don't send your ex-boyfriend-from-before-your-boobs-were-fully-formed a funny little response you let your asshole blog readers choose for you.

I'm not going to get into specifics, but I believe Miss Yvonne suggested *crickets.*

Well. I must publicly admit that she was right.

I responded like the rest of you a-holes wanted me to, and I'm the one who has been *crickets*ed.

He obviously didn't get the outrageous hilarity of the response, so now I look like the creeper sending inappropriate Facebook messages.

AND the only thing that would make me weirder now is if I wrote another message.

"Oh, hahaha. J/K. Funny story. That wasn't a real response. I just let my blog readers decide how I would respond to you. Not that I blog about you regularly. It's a humor blog. Not, like, one of those journals or whatev ... Um, some people have read it, but I don't really like to just give out the address. It could ruin my career. Not because I rant or anything. Because I talk about genitalia. Not your genitalia specifically. Really, I don't remember anything about it. Not because it's not memorable, because I'm sure it's quite grand! I'm sure it looked very nice in the light of the movie theater in 10th grade, but it was a long time ago, OK? Just because ... you know what? Here's the blog address: http://nakedcupcakes.blogspot.com. Please don't tell my boss or my old teachers. Sorry I'm an asshole."

So, awesome. Now, I'm on the bad side of the most awkward Facebook exchange ever.

Rating: Not well played.

This Is How You're Going to Improve My Life

So, I just left a really sad rant of a comment over at The Bloggess and probably should have thought better of it. I mean, The Bloggess is not my therapist.

You guys are!

So, I'm going to recap some recent events for you, and then you get to vote on my future behavior. I'm pretty sure I should stop kicking puppies, because things are not going well.

I don't actually know what I did wrong because I'm not very self-reflective. I'm mostly driven by anxiety and impulse, which is a huge surprise to regular readers who find me very classy and self-contained.

I told The Bloggess in her comments that I hate her because her pee looks "fantastic," according to her doctor, and I kind of mean it because my pee still has "signs of infection," and my doctor put me on my third antibiotic in a month, and my kidneys probably look like that chick who got her face torn off by the Chimpanzee - either like that or like that kid from Mask, who was a much less attractive person than Cher, but you could still sort of make out a resemblance, which in my opinion, is just damn good casting - but anyway, I took a day off work, which I really did not want to do, and I went back today even though I still have a fever, because I had to pick up my car from the mechanic this morning, so I was already in town.

S'anyway, even though I wound up not having back cleavage for the wedding, which was cool, I'm still struggling because I still have a fever, but at least my brake isn't almost catching on fire anymore, and also yesterday, I left my pinkeye medication at the doctor's office, where I went to deal with the fucking kidney infection, and the girl who sits across from me who gave me the pinkeye has pinkeye AGAIN, and also when I went in to work on Monday, the electric outlet behind my desk was crackling even after I removed all the plugs, and the building maintenance guy was all "Good thing you called us to replace it because it was already burning,' and I was like "awesome," and also this weekend, while I had pinkeye and a kidney infection for our dear friends' wedding, I ran into this guy I dated in, like, 9th grade and this week, he sent me a message that was all "You have a nice personality" instead of "Hey, sexygirl. You're looking great! No way you gave birth to twins! I kick myself daily for being so lame when we were 14 and also for telling everyone that I felt you up, even though we both totally know you let me."

Which?

Should be the form letter for any ex-boyfriends who send private messages on Facebook, even if you had a young, meaningless relationship, because otherwise, what the fuck is the point?

It's called protocol, people.

/rant

So, here's where you guys come in. You get to vote on my response to 9th grade loverboy (whom my friend's yo-boy (remember those?) ex-boyfriend called Wonder Boy, for some unknown reason)*.

Some of these responses I came up with on my own. Some were courtesy of hilarious coworkers and/or PHubby.

(Oh - and it's possible, but not probable - that this guy has seen my blog. I'm pretty sure some mutual friends read it, but they probably wouldn't tell him about it, but just in case, disclaimer:  Um, you're totally cool, ex-boyfriend from 18 years ago, and I'm glad we can chill sometimes (every 6 to 8 years), even though you're kind of creepy quiet and I awkwardly don't know what to say to you because I really don't know you as an adult, even though you seem pretty nice.)

(Oh! and pretend Gwen Stefani's "I Know We're Cool" is playing.)

Back on point. The context of the message from Wonder Boy was something like, I forgot you're funny and sarcastic. Glad to see you. Be in good health.

*pause with closed eyes and lips, finger to chin, letting it sink in*

*aaaaand, sharp inhale*

I KNOW, RIGHT?!

I'm glad you're as incensed** as I am about the lack of ass compliments and sweaty, feverish angst that obviously did not go in to this note and which my undying beauty and grace so obviously call for.

Where is the pining and groveling?

So.

The responses are (and whatever you pick I'm using for real (God, I'm an asshole)):

A. Thanks. You have a nice personality, too.

B. You remain as exciting as a bucket of wet cement.

C. Thanks! I am funny and sarcastic. But seriously? Go fuck yourself.

D. This is super nice, but you forgot to compliment my youthful good looks. Please edit and resubmit.

E. Kind of you to say. Your girlfriend has a nice "personality," too.

F. Remember that time we dry-humped under a bridge and you came in your pants?

G. What was it that charmed you? When I made my Cesarean scar speak or when I snorted down the Alabama Slammer and shot it out of my mouth like a fountain?

Leave your votes in the comments!

Wine is awesomeeee!!!! ^max X10

So, you know how most guys have penises in the same basic range?

Like, most of the time, you're getting to know him, and you're like, "OK. Yeah, all right. I can work with this ..."

"So it's a little crooked? S'allright ..."

"I wouldn't say the girth WOWs me ... but it's doing it's job. Cool ..."

(Oh, God. I'm going to regret this post when I'm sober.)

"Sure. OK. This is going relatively well. No surprises, but nothing really wrong, either. Cool."

But then ...

You meet a guy, and you get friendly. If you know what I mean. *leering at you to indicate double-meaning*

I mean *elbow, elbow, wink, wink, wink ... wink ... really big wink*

How do I put this?

A time comes when ... well, you know ... um ... you, like ... OK, deep breath ... sometimes, when mommies and daddies love each other very much - and they're married - they touch their ... you know what? Let's move on.

When it's time to play I'll-scratch-your-back-if-you-scratchmine, *WINK WINK* you have one of those confused moments when you flinch a little bit and then have to keep going like everything is cool.

It's like this:

Ohhh, ba*tiny tiny pause*byyyy ...


It's small ...


ish.


Smallish. Yeah. OK ...


It's not OK. There's something wrong here.


But it's also ...


No, it's just small. Really small.


OMG, I feel like I'm touching a child, and everything about it is just wrong.


*Outside, a blizzard rages, and you have no way of getting home for two days*


Shit.


"Getting snowed in. It will be so romantic. You, me, wine. *eyebrow waggles*"

That dick! He planned this!

He knew I'd want nothing to do with his baby penis, but that I'd never be able to say that. And now I'm going to have to seem like I want to do it with him for two days unless I want to freeze to death.

Time to start up the fantasies ...

OK, I'm an astronaut on a strange planet, and he's an alien and that's why his penis is small ... but ... eager?

Now I'm just thinking about puppies.

Crap. I'm really hot. Why isn't he done? Maybe he thinks my boobs are too small.

He'll probably tell all my friends and then snap my bra strap at lunch before going home to play Yu Gi Oh with  his clubhouse friends.

Stop it.

I'm the Jolly Green Giant and he's Sprout.

NO! EW!

Ummm, he is ... a normal size, human man, and I am a giantess, and he's conducting experiments on me!

With his tiny penis.

OH, NO! Do not start giggling. Tell him he's tickling you.

With his tiny penis.

Now I can't stop laughing! OH! OH! He's getting excited.

He thinks I'm quivering!

Why is this getting funnier? Oh my God, Oh my God! Please, dear Lord. Make him stop yelling, "Take it all."

He heard you snort! STOP laughing. Stop it stop it stop it. It's not funny.

His tiny, childlike penis is not funny at all. Nor is his grunting.

Or the fact that he's always going to think of you as the girl who snorts during orgasm.

I'm back attack. Zach attack.

I'm so fucking educated, I can use the word "fuck" and it's charming.

Well, I mean, I can't, but I do have friends who have Pulitzers. OK, not friends exactly, but, like, people I officially know now. And, like, multiple people-with-Pulitzers-who-I-officially-know. They might not remember me, but I know them!

So, you see how I'm better than pretty much anyone with a lesser degree now, right? I mean, really? You went to a state school and finished with a Bachelor's Degree? That's very nice, sweetheart. Your mom and dad must be super proud of you. Do you like your Friendly's uniform? You are the best, most handsome mopper I've ever seen.

Here's a quarter, kid. Our little secret, eh?

*pinchy cheekies*

The only thing better than being a grad school douche like I is being rude to a cashier.

I was in Target, like, a couple months ago, because I've been way too busy to blog about it since then, but I've been itching to tell the story, so here you go; I think I may have built it up too much, but fuggit. Dig the scene.

In Target, I was on the celly with a friend (because I'm a dick who talks on the phone in the store, but I do it quietly, and there are few places in this world a mother of multiple 3-year-olds and a wife of an ADD egghead can go to have a quiet talk with a friend, so kick you in the balls for judging), and the woman in line in front of me started getting angry.

I narrated the uncomfortable play-by-play to my friend on the phone.

The woman with the Caribbean accent wanted a roll of quarters. The cashier would not give it to her. An outrage!

All the customer wanted in this world, other than the small child by her side, was a roll of goddamn quarters, and is that so much to ask for in this life? I ask of you.

I whispered something like, "And I don't blame her," to my friend.

But, soon after the manager came over, I realized the cashier wasn't refusing the customer a roll of quarters out of racism or nationalism or boyfriendjism. She was refusing the customer a roll of quarters because she didn't have any rolls of quarters.

And the customer service desk didn't have any. Because it's Target policy not to make change, so they don't keep rolls around.

So, actually the woman I initially sided with was being a lunatic about the idea that Target had no rolls of quarters, and the situation became a lot more intense.

"What kind of a store is this?" said the customer.

Ma'am. This is the kind of store where you can purchase a garden hose, Goldfish crackers, a sweet cardigan, a frozen pizza, antifungal cream, toilet paper, birthday cards and a pregnancy test in one location. I see by your bag that you understand the premise of the discount department store.

By nature of being a discount department store, Target also is the type of store that is not a bank. Stop yelling at the cashier, and if you choose not to purchase the items she rang up and bagged for you - politely, I might add - then put the fucking items back where you found them.

Don't just walk out, muttering about taking your business to Wal-Mart and jestering **EDIT: BetaDad pointed out that I wrote "jestering" instead of "gesturing," but I'm keeping it because it's both appropriate for what she was doing and points out how educated and awesome I am** about the cashier to your tiny child, and leave your bags at the counter without paying for them, leaving the frozen pizza for the store manager to return to the shelf.

Next time, accept the idea that Target doesn't make change, and make an extra stop at the bank on the other end of the fucking parking lot.

(OK, the next part of my notes on the saved draft of this was "Also, melon baller." How I wish I knew what the hell I meant by that a couple months ago. Conversely, I wish I could go back in time and tell my historical self that those three words were not enough to jog the memory of present-day me, so could she please be a little more specific, kthxbai.)

I had more I wanted to say, but I'll save that for tomorrow's blog entry.

I've got some step-by-step cleaning instructions simmering. It's brewing nicely. (OK, so I've basically been drawing doodles of myself with a broom, again, but I'm telling PHubby I'm spending a lot of time on the computer right now for "research" and "serious writer writing" for my grad school program. He's starting to get suspicious about the amount of mousing I do (quite a bit), versus the amount of typing I do (none), so I'll have to actually take a break from doodling to write a blog post.)

Um, piano man, play me off?

Maybe why no one takes me seriously

Passing a stone gatehouse at the main entrance of the college where I am beginning grad school, sweat gathers under my arms and at the base of my neck.

Panic.

I look at the clock and again at the schedule. 6:40/6 o'clock. 40 minutes late.

The car glides up the smooth main drive on campus. I don't know where the welcome dinner is being held.

I will never be a writer.

I dial PHubby. Quickly. Please, look up the campus map online.

Wait while I turn on the computer, he tells me.

PHubby and Dell are making me late. They are working against me.

Just tell me where the fucking building is.

He tells me where to walk. He is still talking when I see the room.

I'm here, I tell him. I have to go. Thanks.

I don't sound gracious.

Fuck. I'm so sweaty.

Five hours for a two-hour drive. Preschool children. Too much coffee. Humidity.

I didn't even check to see if I smell.

Oh God. What if I smell like a giant crotch?

I do. I do smell like a giant crotch.

Check bag for baby wipes. Emergency douche kit? NO. Think. Binaca?

Damn it, Sarah.

Calm down. There is a solution. Keep legs crossed. Napkin in lap. Sip drink.

Act like you're being really polite about dining neighbor's personal smell. Like blaming it on the dog. Or the baby. Only a classmate instead.

Easy.

Don't say "scrotum."

Other topics of conversation to avoid: vaginoplasty, politics, religion, bongs, David Bowie's package, making cakes for white supremacists, and, as always, cute stuff the kids do (yes, SarahP, this does include the play-by-play H-dog gives you during his poops).

Shit. I should have written this down on my hand. I'll never remember all this.

Check face in window. Act cool. Act serious. Intelligent. Thinky, even. You can do this.

Brush hair back from face. Open door.

This is the rest of your professional life.

The rest of my professional life?

Consider walking backward.

Someone saw you.

Lots of someones saw you. Walk in.

Big room. Lots of people. Lots of --

What in the name of fuck? Who put together this dinner party?

Get confused.

Get bewildered.

Get lost.

Find program director.

Find table.

Meet mentor.

Get dinner.

Meet classmates.

Laugh.

Napkin in lap.

Sip.

Laugh.

Chitchat. Family, writing, writing, writing, someone else's funny story.

Laugh.

Tell funny story about bongs.

*crickets*

Fuck.

Welp, there's always the blog.

Just so you know, y'all are my fallback plan.

If this grad school thing doesn't work out, I'll go to Blogher next year.

In any case, I'll be back to blogging regularly very soon. Thanks for being awesome, even though I haven't been responding to comments. I read them all. (Do you even read my responses when I do post them?)

Trying hard to make the rounds to all the blogs I love. It's taking sometime.

Love to all, especially your mom.

This is my 100th post.

Peace.

Men are from Mars, Will you touch my penis?

Sarah P: Honey, will you help me try to zip the top of this bridesmaid dress?

PHubby: Sure.

Sarah P: ...

PHubby: ...

Sarah P.: ... Well?

PHubby: Um, stand up a little straighter. I don't want to rip the dress.

Sarah P.: Oh, sure. Yeah. Of course. Gingerly!

PHubby: ...

Sarah P.: ... Is it working?

PHubby: Can you maybe suck in a little bit?

Sarah P: ... *whooooossssshhhhh* Shit. I was.

PHubby: Um, maybe if you try to reach your elbows behind your back.

Sarah P.: Oh, hahaha. Very funny. I fell for that one in eighth grade.

PHubby: No, I mean, if you do that, it might give me a little more slack for this last inch-and-a-half.

Sarah P.: Oh. OK. God, I hope it fits.

PHubby: ...

Sarah P.: ...

PHubby: *perspires* *grunts*

Sarah P.: Well ...?

PHubby: Um. Well. Hm. *suddenly upbeat* How do you feel about back cleavage?

Sarah P.: I don't feel good about it.

PHubby: It could be exciting! *pervy eyebrow waggle, tongue hangs out*

Sarah P.: You would leave me for a wet bagel if it let you hump it.

PHubby: Not if you let me back-cleavage-hump you.

Sarah P.: God!

PHubby: *defensive* What?

Sarah P.: *big, affectionate hug* I love you. You are the most supportive husband ever. Thanks for making my grotesqueness feel sexy.

PHubby: *joyful, hopeful, happy puppy* Does this mean I get to get nasty on your back fold?

Sarah P.: No, but here's a kiss on the forehead.

PHubby:

C-U-Next-Tuesday: Honoring the Tuesday, only on Wednesday because that's how I roll and you can suck it

Editor's note: I wrote this weeks ago, but didn't think it was worth a post. I can barely keep my eyes open, so I added a photo to this old post. Phoning it in.

C-U-Next-Tuesday, formerly a semi-regular feature on this blog, was all wrong.

I'm reworking this bitch into something we can respek. Respekkit. I stole that from somewhere, but I don't remember where, so I'm claiming it. Respekkit.

Anyway, there was nothing intrinsically wrong with the C-U-Next-Tuesday idea. I just needed to reverse my approach. (I just spent six hours rewording that sentence to make it into some sort of approach-from-the-rear joke, at which I failed and which I think is sadly telling of my current level of brain power and motivation to clean.)

C-U-Next-Tuesday should be all about honoring those who deserve the title. Honoring the cunt.

Indeed.

As my friend Jilly wrote when I first announced my love for Nancy (on my birthday, after PHubby requested Nance wish me a Happy Birthday):

This woman needs a fanclub. STAT. She ranks 2nd (right between Anna Wintour and Gwyneth Paltrow) for my all time favorite C U Next Tuesday faces. This woman brings her A Game Bitchface to the news everyday and does not receive the proper appreciation for it.

Amen, Jilly.

If you already watch Nancy, you know. If you don't, allow me to break down the cuntyness for you.

Normally, I watch Nancy for one of two reasons:
1. Exclusive interviews with major players in a crime that has made national headlines.
2. I become hypnotized by a gigantic necklace and a shiny shirt.

I get pissed at Nancy when she covers worthless crap, like Jon-and-Kate drama or Michael Jackson's death - not that I wasn't interested in those stories. I was! Nancy excels in other areas.

Nancy is a former prosecutor with a record of wrist-slaps for shady practices - quite obviously all in the crusade for victims. Bitch, WHAT? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Occasionally, though, Nancy covers something pointless and I watch anyway, because I've already seen this Law & Order, and I just can't devote another minute of my life to Two and a Half Men. (Charlie is a whore, Alan is a mooch, the maid is a bitch, the mother is a sociopath, and the kid is stupid and farts a lot. I get it.)

This happened last week, when Nancy was discussing the latest news of Jon Mark Karr, a completely delusional fuckwad of a person who, a few years ago, falsely confessed to killing Jon-Benet Ramsey. Long story short, Homeslice has some issues.

Discussing Karr's possible sex change (because apparently, he might be in hiding as a woman, after being accused of stalking a young girl), Nancy was confused about where on the sexual spectrum this guy lies, and she straight-up got snarky with one of her contributors:

"I'm a JD, not an MD. You need to break it down for me."

YES! Nancy-watching pay-off! She's all, "Break it thefuck down. Does he or does he not have a penis, a vagina-like hole, or breasts?"

She gets to the bottom of the issues.

Also? Nancy Grace has a contributor named Jean Cesares, which when you're not paying attention to the TV, and Nance calls to Jean Cesares for information, sounds exactly like Jenkasaurus ... and you think for a split second Holy Shit! Nancy Grace has a contributing dinosaur! Nancy Grace is King of Everything!

Anyway, I do follow a lot of true crime news. Any time Scott Peterson writes a letter to Casey Anthony, or scuba divers have a picture of Natalee Holloway's remains, you can find me over with the other crazies at websleuths.com. I'm awakewriter. Friend me, yo!

Morning glory

Sarah P: *emerging from the bathroom in morning radiance, full of beauty and love, the picture of grace and loveliness* Honey?

PHubby: *pausing on the staircase, on his way to fetch coffee for his gorgeous wife* What?

Sarah P: *rounding the corner* Will you still love me when I join Whitesnake?

PHubby: Do you want to dance on my car?

Sarah P: *shrug* Kinda.

*a few minutes pass* Gorgeous wife lounges in bed, radiating beauty and femininity, awaiting the coffee that will be served to her by a very attractive, shirtless man.

PHubby: *handing wife coffee, staring at her, probably amazed he is lucky to have landed such a looker* I'm not sure whether to call you Blair or Mallory.

*a few minutes pass, nothing really happens*

PHubby: Maybe you should reconsider Whitesnake. I think you'd fit in better with Mr. Big.

Sarah P: How dare you.

Professionalism, is what it's called

I'm a consummate professional.

In real life. Where I wear pearl necklaces (not the porn kind) sometimes and buns a lot.

Unfortunately, if I get an offer based on my blog, I lose all composure. I think this is because my blog is a lot about making offensive cakes and googling suspicious writers and worshiping strange people and inanimate objects and sometimes, but not always, where I complain about PHubby, even when he doesn't deserve it, which he usually does, but sometimes, I menstruate, and if labor pains are my punishment for Eve being kind of a fruit whore, then me being a bitch for four days a month is PHubby's punishment for Adam being a douche who thought with his penis.

My point is, I keep my dark side where it belongs - on the Internet. In real life, I'm quite educated and classy and also very rarely poop. That's what all my friends say about me behind my back, I've been told. Although, to be fair, the poop thing is less a personality trait and more an uncomfortable medical condition.

So, maybe I lose my composure when I get offers based on my blog because those offers are probably not based on my blog at all, and were sent to me by a glitch or a hitch or whatever the technical term is for when the Internet gets crossed with the World Wide Web, and they are like two planes waving in empty space, and sometimes they collide in strange places and that's when sometimes your boss gets an e-mail you wrote to your coworker about your boss' big, stupid, labia face, and you know you used the right e-mail address, which is why it's totally unfair that you got written up again.

I think that's how the Interwebs get crossed. I was flipping between a documentary on Al Gore's inventions and a show about parallel universes while I was falling asleep and kind of drunk, but I'm pretty sure I got it straight.

Anyway, the moral of the story is to never write an e-mail about your boss' vagina head to anyone. Best just to keep it word-of-mouth.

Where was I?

... Labia face ... WWW ... blog offers!

Right, so I got this e-mail today that at first I skimmed and was like, "WHOA! Someone likes my blog!" and also, "AWESOME! I totally want to do this. It sounds like fun!!"

But, then I read the whole thing and got a little bummed because:

Duuuuude, no one likes my blog. People like Chrissy's blog, and they want Chrissy to be a guest blogger for the month of July.

Chrissy always gets everything!

Stupid Chrissy.

(Anybody know who Chrissy is, by any chance? Because I swear I won't send her messages pasted together from newspaper clippings and locks of her pets' fur. I'm just curious, is all.)

Anyway, I decided to be friendly/funny about the whole crazy mix-up and hahaha! what a crazy world, huh?! J/K LOL LYLAS BYOB BBQ!

So, here is my response:

But, then I realized I made a mistake, so I sent another one:

Then, as I was writing this post, I realized I responded to a guest blog request as if it were an interview request. Who do I think I am, Tom Cruise? Who the hell tries to get my interview?

So, anyway, I know it's possible I might have screwed up, but do you think they're still interested?

One-off for the Afternoon

Last night, we were a-chit-chatting in bed.

Being silly.

Flirting.

Laughing.

(Awwwwwwww. Aren't we precious?)

PHubby: You know I can't get an erection while laughing, right?

Me: ...?

PHubby: No man can get an erection while laughing.

Me: Really?

PHubby: You wouldn't like it if I could. It would make me a creepy clown.

Me: ...

PHubby: ...

Me: ...

PHubby: I guess creepy clowns are one of those topics to avoid before sex.

Me: *rolls over and takes extra covers, keeping hands and feet on bed and under blankets*

It was a tough lesson for him to learn.

No promises, but I might actually post again this year. Might.

Bringing Sexy Back, first part in a series

Sometimes, when faced with the pressure of kids, career, and family, couples can find themselves in a romantic slump.

Maybe one partner feels there isn't enough time to devote to creative love making, or maybe one partner is just too tired at the end of a long week to really focus on special time.

Or maybe one partner is just a selfish lover and maybe should think about someone else's needs for once and stop being so demanding and also maybe offer chocolates and a foot rub once in a a while instead of just whining about it being "that time" and "kind of thinking about a blow job" every day for five-to-seven days in a row.

The point is that couples must make time for each other, invest in the sexual and romantic relationship to reignite those old sparks that got them those adorable kiddos in the first place, eh?

Here at Naked Cupcakes, we are offering a series on bringing the va-va-va back to the voom.

Please join us for ...

Lovemaking, Lesson 1

Role Playing

After many years together, couples sometimes find lovemaking becomes routine. Well, there are some great ways to make whoopie exciting again!

Role playing offers couples the opportunity to "meet" a "stranger" or a "cheerleader" or even a "celebrity." The possibilities are endless, and it can be fun to experiment with different characters and situations!

Taking turns to help each other fulfill fantasies can provide excitement for both parties. For instance, on one turn, she's a lusty businesswoman who has little time for anything but a cheap one-night stand.

Another night, he could be a bartender, calling a late night cab for the drunk girl, flirting with her friend, and then maybe somehow turning into a businessman taking off his suit and banging the friend right there on the desk while his secretary holds his calls, and then he is suddenly the young high school teacher threatening to give her a "D" unless she does some "extra credit." And then - well, that's when the shower ends, so we really never know how the story ends.

Role playing can provide the opportunity to explore fantasies, is the point.

Other times, perhaps, take advantage of every day situations where role play could develop naturally, and let it play out. Use it to inspire a session later, in case the timing is wrong.

For instance, say someone wants to play "dragon." (Click the diagram to enlarge.)

Maybe you'll find role playing isn't for you, and that's OK.

The point is to keep trying until you find what works for your relationship.

It's always fun trying - and there's definitely a learning curve when two people commit to spicing things up in the boudoir.

When your backs heal, we'll move on to the next lesson ... Sexy Talk.

Karma, or God's Groin Punishment

You know how if you do something crappy, like, say steal two cases of someone else's Nestea from underneath a shopping cart, where the person left them, forgotten, in the grocery store parking lot (Ahem. Are you reading, you?) ...

And then, a couple days later, when you've forgotten all about the many weekend hours you spent lying on your back in the grass, pouring iced tea down your throat and making iced tea fountains with your mouth, laughing and laughing at the idiot who left the Nestea under his cart ...

... that's when a ninja comes out of nowhere and punches you in the nuts really hard ...?

That's kind of what's happening to Joran van der Sloot.

The world's most notorious jet-setting creep recently was arrested in Chile and deported to Peru to face charges related to the murder of 21-year-old Stefany Ramirez, a woman van der Sloot allegedly met in a casino and took back to a hotel room.

Van der Sloot allegedly paid for his trip to Peru using funds he extorted from Beth Twitty, the mother of missing Alabama student Natalee Holloway.

Those who have not been living under a rock for the last five years will recognize Holloway as the high-school graduate who disappeared in Aruba during a graduation trip in 2005. Van der Sloot has remained a suspect in her disappearance.

Over the years, van der Sloot has told several lovely, colorful stories of Holloway's disappearance, saying he left her alive on a beach, she began convulsing and he hid her body after she died, and that he sold her into sexual slavery.

Such a nice boy. It must bring so much peace to Holloway's family.

He allegedly told Twitty he would reveal the location of Holloway's remains if Twitty paid him $250,000. Twitty had already sent him $15,000 when Ramirez was reported missing - five years to the day after Holloway was reported missing.

Recently, he told Peruvian authorities that he would aid Aruban authorities in the recovery of Holloway's body if only he could be transferred to Aruba.

Seemed kind of odd to me ... could Aruba be that much more lenient than Peru? Perhaps, he'd like to be close to his mother? Better weather? Softer beds?

Then, the other day, I saw footage of van der Sloot being escorted to a Peruvian law enforcement vehicle with tinted windows.

It was odd, though. The windows were darkened, but not like one would expect to see on a professional law enforcement vehicle in the United States.

They were darkened in such a way as to indicate a dealership had nothing to do with the windows. Instead, I believe law enforcement officials took the car to the little brother of one of the cadets, who skips Ag class to do detailing three times a week in the side parking lot of the Best Buy.

(It's a good spot, because no one goes to Best Buy anymore because no one buys CDs.)

The kid has a good side business, but the officers got ripped off because that tint job is bubbled worse than the windows on that Trans Am the transfer kid from Jersey used to rev in the 7-11 parking lot on Friday nights.

Anyway, I laughed for a while about the bubbled tint on the official vehicle windows, and the whole thing got me thinking about the quality of Peruvian jail.

I'll bet it's really special.

So special, I'll bet van der Sloot will be calling it "home" for many years to come.

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

Wouldn't it be awesome if Peruvian officials kept a ninja on staff to randomly punch prisoners in the gonads?

Like, if you were a prisoner, you'd never know if it were your day. It could be a year between nut punches, a week, a couple days, a couple hours. You'd never know!

One day, you might get three nut punches and think, "Well, there are my nut punches for the year. Glad that's over."

But then, as soon as you were feeling normal again ...

In your crotch!

Then, you'd be rolling around on the floor, groaning, "Why God? Why my nuts? It was just my turn last week."

And then God would be like, "Why?! Why!? Did you forget about your goat raping spree and the time the orphan babies nearly starved because you wasted all the baby formula making daiquiris? Hmmmmm?"

That's when you would start thinking about how creamy the formula made those pina coladas, how refreshing they were, in the good ol' days, way back before you were in a third-rate prison. But God would still be yammering away ...

"Or how about the time you got wasted and poked holes in the beekeeper's garb? Or when you toilet papered the convent?

"Or when you stole your mother's car to go cruising for sluts and didn't even wipe off the mirrors or seat belts -"

That's when you'd interrupt and be all, "HEY! That wasn't a crime!"

And God would be all, "Ohhh, look who's all high and mighty now, Mr. Neighborhood Old Lady Peeper."

And then, you'd sigh, and say, "Jesus, God. Fine. Send the fucking nut puncher again. It's got to be better than this guilt trip. You know, this is why no one is Catholic anymore."

Then, God would cross his arms (like he does) and get all huffy and say, "So be it." Then, he'd grumble a bunch of stuff you couldn't really hear, but you'd be pretty sure you made out, "cock knocker" and "Satan's loins."

And then?

NINJA NUT PUNCH!!

Hah! God got you again, goat fucker.

Rainbows and Labyrinth

Well, shove a horseshoe up my ass and call me "Lucky."

Yesterday, I learned I got the mentor of my choice for first semester, I received a random e-mail from someone complimenting my real-life work, and I saw a double rainbow.

A double rainbow.

There is nothing funny about any of that. I'm just literally so excited about it that I can't keep it to myself, and it's my blog, so I get to brag.

Also? I gained 90 pregnancy pounds and I have very few stretch marks and only a few of those pounds left.

See? Lucky. Brag. Brag. Brag.

Leaving a comment on another blog this morning reminded me what a weird kid I was. (It doesn't take much.) Her blog post involved a fantasy boyfriend and a fantasy dog. I'm pointing this out, so when, at the bottom of this post, I show you the type of dog I want, you won't say, "Well, that was random."

Because this blog is anything but random. It is a carefully worded, well thought-out plan of ...

OMG! My mother-in-law is bringing over short ribs for us to grill tonight!!!

*sigh* Summer tastes like corn and barbecue sauce ...

Which?  Reminds me of this time we went over to our friends' house before any of us had kids, and BFF made PHubby cupcakes for his birthday. And the cupcakes were decorated with candy corn because PHubby loves candy corn more than he loves Jesus, me, and sex, combined.

(Clarification: Not like he loves having sex with Jesus and me, together, in a threesome (or would it be a trinitiy?); just, if you take the sum of the separate love he has for Jesus, sex, and me, and compare it to his love of candy corn, candy corn wins.)

We were inebriated in the way that makes you think super deep about stuff. As I ate my cupcake, I spent a long time staring at the bowl of candy corn on BFF's table, and, suddenly, I realized everyone was staring at me. I took this as a cue to share my innermost thought at the moment, so I said, "Scarecrows have candy corn fingers."

Because that was the exact thing I had been contemplating for five minutes. It just made so much sense at the time, and I had never thought of it before.

Let's just say no one else found it as fascinating, and much laughter ensued.

PHubby and my friends are assholes, kind of.

Back to the action: I was a weird kid. I know you probably couldn't guess that now, seeing as how I turned out so normal and professional. If you had to choose three words to describe me, I bet they'd be elegant, poised and collected.

That is what you all think of me, right after you get over the fact that I rarely use the serial comma.

(Let me tell you something about the serial comma: the only reason you like it is because your teachers taught you it was proper, and fourth-graders are know-it-all assholes.
I've edited teachers' work. Granted, I was editing high school science teachers, but it's important for the world to know that one of those eight or so teachers I edited was a decent writer. ONE.
I couldn't believe the rest got through a middle school ditto, let alone a four-year institution of higher learning.)

So, surprise, surprise, I was an odd child. It's what happens when you live in a rural area as an only child.

When friends came over to play, they loved to play dress-ups because my mom gave me all her old prom and homecoming and bridesmaid gowns to use.

Once we were dressed up, we'd play one of our favorite pretend games - to have boyfriends and kiss them for 20 minutes on end.

Sometimes, the boyfriends were in the air. Other times, they were opposite ends of my bookshelves. (Insert "woody" joke here.)

When we couldn't agree on who would get to have David Bowie as Goblin King Jareth from Labyrinth ...

Moment of awed silence, please.

... we would each pick a fake boyfriend name - careful never to pick the name of a boy in our class because ew, boys are gross.

My preferred name? P.

Guess who has two thumbs and married a P? This guy.

My luck just keeps coming.

And here's the dog I want:

I'mma name him Rick James.

I don't know anything about the breed. At all. I just want one, so I can make fun of its fur.

But we won't get him a companion, because Rick James likes to smack a bitch.

Love you!

XXOO!

 - Sarah P