Remember when I was all "Ohhh, it's Naked Cupcake Day week, and I'm bout ta blow some minds up in this junk?"
Sorry. I'm all about grabbing life, pantsless, by the warm muffin (I have no idea what that means), but I'm about spent.
It's been a roller coaster of a year so far, and my brain is too effed up with effing to think. (See?)
Anyway, I'm so tense, my shoulders feel approximately like this:
I also apparently have a problem with eyeliner and/or a really uncomfortable obsession with Clockwork Orange.
I could give you a depressing list of all the crap that's gone wrong so far in 2010, but I'm trying to focus on the positive and also not lose readers because now that I have you, I will never let you go. I will hold you forever and stroke your hair and hold your hand and empty your bedpan and never let anyone else take you from me. Forever and ever. I promise.
I just lost readers, didn't I? Blow well.
Anyway, the positives this year are awesome, so I'm trying to focus on those. If the negatives don't become positives, though, then the positives will become negatives and - twitch, twitch - ARRGGHHH!
Soooo ... Naked Cupcake Day week, not so jubilant on the blogue. Sorry.
I am offering one more giveaway, though. Previous giveaways have exhausted the $11.59 my Google ads brought me since I started this blog.
This giveaway is from the heart.
I'll send you a book. One from my bookshelf. Or from the bookstore, if I feel I don't have the perfect book for you.
Here's what I'd like you to do for it:
Tell me what humor does for you and/or why you enjoy humor and/or why you like your favorite humor writer. In this one small portion of life, size doesn't matter. (BAHAHAHA! Dick jokes are great!) If one sentence gets your point across, super. If you want to send me an essay, great. Funny, sad, meta, whatevs.
The deadline is Friday, April 2. You can leave your answer as a comment, or email me at nakedcupcakes at gmail dot com.
I'll pick the winner, and we'll discuss your taste in books and what you might or might not have read. Hopefully, I'll send you something you'll love and you'll think about how humor affects your life.
I know how it affects mine. This blog has done more for me in the last six months than I ever could have believed, and much of that is because of you lovely readers. I started this blog as an outlet to help me overcome depression.
So, this giveaway is a very personal "thank you" from me to you.
It'sNaked Cupcake Dayweek! Hooray! I'm going to do some fun stuff this week. Today, we're kicking off the week with a guest post by PHubby, the coiner of "Duggar butter."
I've heard his stories hundreds of thousands of times, and they never get old. Not even a little bit. Uh-uh. Nosirreebob. They're just as fresh as the first 10 times I heard them.
*sigh* Forgive me. Everyone else thinks they're great, and I did, too, like I said, the first 10 times.
Without further ado, I will, for some idiotic reason, subject you to this ...
So a marriage is a partnership, till death do you part, in sickness or in health, for richer or poorer (at least for one of us- she'll have to explain that one to you [We memorized our vows, and I fucking FORGOT, OK!?]). And so is a blog.
I have been enlisted to help amuse the wonderful people who save a few minutes of their day to nosh on some Naked Cupcakes. In return for my efforts, I will be getting hot sexual favors (shyah). We're going to install a runway and pole in the bedroom next week.
(To all you ladies and wives out there, I understand it will be an imaginary runway and pole in the bedroom in my mind, but do me a favor and try not to pee on my dreams. 'ppreciate it.)
In the early years of the new millenium, SarahP and I lived in California. We had only been living there for a month or so, and the money we had brought with us was wearing thin. The reliable and responsible SarahP had gainful employment, while the less reliable and hygienically suspect PHubby (then PBoyfriend) had a signed contract for employment in a mere 30 days time, and a need to make money before that. To fill the gap, I answered an ad in the paper for a house cleaning agency.
I never researched this, but I feel safe asserting myself as the first and only college-educated, white male to be employed by that company as a house cleaner. I don't say that to be racist or arrogant; it's just a pretty safe bet.
It was just fine with me. It made me unique, like a snowflake. It also gave me something to prove, because on the first day, everyone was looking at me wondering what Professor Wonderbread thinks he's doing with a mop.
And prove myself, I did. My mom raised me well. I know how to clean. I know how to dust. I know how to vacuum. I know how to clean glass and surfaces. I know how to do dishes. And yes, I even know how to clean toilets.
(I know how, because when I was 12, my mother waltzed me into the bathroom and plucked a few squares of TP off the roll, folded them up, wiped the floor next to the toilet, showed me the golden delicious stain she had retrieved in the process and announced, "You see that? Mommies don't do that. Little boys do that." That began my lifelong love of cleaning toilets used by males who lack aim and/or depth perception. And, he now has excellent aim. Thanks, PHubbyMom!)
It was a good thing I knew how to clean toilets because cleaning-crew rookies are assigned to the porcelain patrol. Again, not a problem. Not a problem at all. Until one day...
It was just another house. We arrived in the Cleaningmobile (which was some form or other of 8 year old domestic compact sedan without electric anything) and our 4 person crew - me, a Jamaican guy in his late 20s, and two older females who were in charge - grabbed our supplies and equipment and headed inside.
I took my bucket into the bathroom and went to work. I cleaned the toilet and then moved to the sink.
I was spraying the mirror with cleaner when I saw it and stopped.
In the lower, right corner of the mirror was a nickel-sized, dried, crusty booger. Nickel-sized. Dried. Crusty.
Now, the man who lived in this house had hired people to come and clean. He knew we were coming. He knew exactly what day we were coming and what we were going to his house to do. And this person apparently felt comfortable leaving an enormous, petrified nose goblin for the help to sort out.
At this point in the story, I want to reiterate that I am not above dirty work. But as I stared at this thing on his mirror, I realized that there was a principle involved here.
I calmly surveyed the bathroom until I saw what I was looking for. I removed the toothbrush from its holder, gave the booger a few extra direct sprays of glass cleaner, scrubbed the booger off with the toothbrush, briefly rinsed the toothbrush in the sink, and returned it to its holder. Then I went about my business, cleaning as usual.
That bastard likely never learned this important lesson about karma. I am hoping that by sharing my story, many of you can ... before it's too late.
I got word today I was accepted into a creative nonfiction MFA program.
And this is how I feel:
(Apparently, even having a muppet mouth and a really ugly skirt wouldn't get me down today.)
I can't believe it! Even though I've been a professional writer most of my adult life, I still suffer from that old sleepless, sweaty "One day they'll find out I'm not a real writer" paranoia.
On those nights, I sneak downstairs, turn on the television and cry myself to sleep under a blanket on the couch. Not because I feel ashamed about my writing ability. I cry because, at 2:30 a.m., when Dorothy and Blanche comfort batty old Rose, it's fucking touching, OK?
Thank God for Sophia and her comic flatulence.
Anyway, what was I saying?!
Oh, right! Someone (a whole committee of someones) thinks I'm a real writer! Which is awesome! And a little scary!
So, here's a dirty secret: as part of my application, I submitted an edited, cleaned-up version of one of my old posts from this very blog as an example of humor writing.
Guess what?! CONTEST TIME! The commenter who guesses which post it was will get their favorite candy mailed to them (can be Easter candy or all-the-time candy.) If you're outside the U.S. or Canada, we'll probably have to work out an alternate plan, but you'll win something cool, I promise.
ALSO, I'll be giving at least one hint on Facebook or Twitter, and I will give more hints if it seems like this is too difficult for people to guess.
I'm jubilant, assholes. Get some jubilation up in your pants and start guessing before I get stingy with the candy.
I have a nice little cache of stuff from my teen years because my parents sent over all the boxes of shit I stored in their attic while I went off to college and California.
Recently, I started sifting through one of the boxes because I just can't stand having unnecessary crap in my house anymore.
Along with some other embarrassing items, I tossed out the box that once housed the full CD set, The Music of Disney: A Legacy in Song.
Might not be so bad if I hadn't been 16 the Christmas I received it. And loved it.
Other things I loved: Phantom of the Opera, Sunflowers perfume, Billy Joel, and beefy upperclassman lacrosse players who didn't know my name.
Also in the box I dissected was a diary that ends about 7 pages into the journal, and I have decided to share part of it here. It is (dare I say?) juicy. Are you ready?
Get some coffee.
Maybe go to the bathroom first.
Grab some tissues while you're in there.
Fluff your couch cushions.
I'll wait.
*whistles Dixie*
OK, now are you ready?
This is the entry in its entirety.
WORD.
Yep, Sarah P, band camp was cool. Maybe not cool in the same way as, say, one of those beefy lacrosse players who drink beer on the weekends, have long hair, are really into the environment (NO, Mom, he's not a potsmoker - he's an athlete), and who all would fall madly in love with you if only they knew the real you.
But, sure, band camp was "pretty cool." What with the end-of-camp outdoor Sousa-palooza, the unrequited geek love, and the classrooms filled with the intoxicating scents of clarinet reeds and saliva, it's amazing you didn't head into 10th grade the talk of the senior class and a shoe-in for homecoming queen.
Just FYI, though, maybe you should consider that every actually cool 14-year-old in 1993:
a) probably did not have a diary.
b) if they did have diaries on July 5, 1993, were writing about the activities of the previous day, which likely included making out with beefy lacrosse players under a fireworks display and sneaking nips of schnapps while adult family members were busy with wine coolers and hot tubs.
And, hey, Sarah P - just a heads up - you grow up to be kind of a dick, so you might not want to save this shit. Grown-up you might expose your most private thoughts to the entire world. It's called the Internet. It's going to be HUGE.
________________________________________________
Update: The rest of the page was blank. And it was the final entry in the journal.
Once upon a time, there was a guy named Jesus, and he did a bunch of cool stuff.
Also, he never sinned, which is kind of a big deal if you consider that he wasn't allowed to eat pork, which means? No bacon. He lived to be 33 years old, no bacon, not even once - and they hadn't invented imitation bacon bits yet. That's some serious shit right there.
Anyway, turns out? He was GOD, right? Only in man form. And it totally. blew. everyone's. mind.
So, he was like, "OK, listen up, people. You didn't really understand the point I was trying to make to Moses back in the day, so I'm here to amend some shit, and also? I'm going to go ahead and forgive you for the shit you did wrong, mostly because you are all so GD (see? he abbreviated, no blasphemy - TOLD YOU he never sinned) judgy and I just can't take hearing you kids bickering for one more motherfucking minute, do you understand me?
"In return for how awesome I am and all the shit I'm doing for you, I want you to do some shit for me ...
1. Be nice, assholes. I mean it. Don't make me come back here again. I'm going to go ahead and come back to check on you one more time, and if you're still fucking up, you're in eternal time-out. If, by the time I get back, you've been kind and forgiving and followed my lead, we're going to go rock-and-roll with the angels and throw back some shots but never have hangovers and eat lots of ice cream but never get fat, plus? We're going to sleep on fluffy white clouds - and no diarrhea. Ever.
2. Don't eat meat on Fridays, but the rest of the time you can have pork. Bacon for everyone! (Six days out of the week, see official rules and disclaimers for details.)"
Then, Jesus left a dude in charge and told him to pass it on. Well, you know how that old slumber party game Telephone works, right?
Some wires got crossed through the years, and the "be nice" part has been a little twisted and not quite right, but most of us are at least trying to be good people. And then, almost 2,000 years later, the people in charge of the message decided, guess what?
You may eat meat on Fridays!! Yay, Jesus!
But not during Lent. You still have to abstain from meat on Fridays during Lent.
"We mean it," they said, and looked over the top of their glasses at the people.
And the people were all like, "Sooo ... no bacon on Lenten Fridays?"
Pope & Bishops: No bacon.
People: How about turkey? Turkeys are so dumb, they're practically vegetables anyway.
Pope & Bishops: No. No turkey.
People: Does broth count, because it's not really meat. It's just boiled marrow.
P&B: No. It doesn't count. Go ahead and have some broth. Bacon drippings also are acceptable.
People: Fish. Is fish meat?
P&B: *huddle* *whisper, whisper* *clear throats* No. Fish is not a meat. You may eat fish on Fridays during Lent.
People: *murmur, murmur, murmur*
Random Voice Yelling over Crowd: Does that include snakes?
P&B: You know what? Use your judgment. Is it really going to kill you to skip eating fucking snake on Fridays during the most religious 40 days of the year?
Random Voice: Well, I was just asking, because, like, a water mocassin or something is technically in the water and isn't a land animal, sooo ... ??
P&B: Well, you can't eat dolphins on Fridays, either. Got it? Jeez. Just fucking order a cheese pizza like everyone else on the planet. Are we done here?
People: What if we're old?
Other people: Or young?
Pregnant people: Or pregnant?
Sarah P: Take it off!
Lacto-ovo vegetarians: How about dairy and eggs? Honey?
Vegans: This is disgusting. You people are sinning against nature.
People: Shut the fuck up, vegans. Go back to Stonehenge and pray to trees, UC Berkeley grads.
P&B: All right, all right. ORDER! ORDER! Stop! Here are the rules going forward:
1. You must abstain from eating meat on Fridays during Lent only.
2. In answer to the vegetarians: you may eat eggs and dairy and honey, you hippie freaks, but you really should reconsider those Birkenstocks. Jesus only wore them because they were the only option in footwear at the time. Also? All that fornicating you call "free love" is not really in the rule books. You might want to cut that shit out.
3. People 14 and older must abstain from eating meat on Fridays. Period.
4. Yes, you can eat fish.
5. Because you've all been so obstinate, you all must continue to fast on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday, and you can't have any meat products on those days. That counts for everyone ages 14 to 59 who are not pregnant or have any underlying health issues.
Furthermore, can we please just have one meeting where Sarah P. doesn't scream "Take it off?"
Sarah P: Woooot!
P&B: *sigh* We're done here.
People: Sarah. Did you have to yell "take it off?" Really? You totally got us those fast days. You're such an idiot.
Sarah P: But did you hear? We can have fish and dairy on Fridays during Lent. You know what that means, don't you?!?
People: *baited breath*
Sarah P: TUNA MELTS!!!!! Up top!! *Throws hand in air, waits for high fives all around*
People: *disgusted looks* *walking away*
Sarah P: Guys? Hey, guys ... guys ...? FINE. Nice forgiveness, assholes! Just so you know, I love Jesus most. I'm going to eat the shit out of some tuna melts, and I might even have a side of Utz potato chips and a pickle. Oh - and I'm totally going to appreciate it, just like you should. He died on a cross for us, you know! WWJD, assholes. WWJD?
***
Sometimes, I start writing and weird stuff just happens.
So, PHubby and I have a deal. He will quit chewing on his cuticles/hangnails, and I will stop making "your mom" jokes to him.
I know; it's a bad deal. Chewing on skin is disgusting, and "your mom" jokes are awesome. That's the deal we made, though, so I'll have to live with it.
A few minutes ago, PHubby starts chewing on his skin. I say, "Your mom chews her skin," and he stops.
Then, I recommend a new plan. Kind of like a cursing jar, we'd set up a system where we'd contribute quarters to our own jars when we messed up.
At the end of the week, whoever had the least number of quarters would have the difference between the two jars in allowed indulgences. (Thank you, my misguided Catholic brethren.)
It would break down like this:
Say I had 27 quarters, and he had 32 quarters. He screwed up five more times, so I would get five free "your mom" jokes to use at any time.
Pretty good plan, right? Here's how the debate continued:
PHubby: Let's do that, but replace the indulgence with minutes of oral sex. I screw up five extra times, and each quarter is worth 5 minutes, so you would get 35 minutes of oral sex. (He's bad at math, but he's a demon in the sack.)
Me: *thinking* *considers* Um. Hm. I think I'll take the "your mom" jokes.
PHubby: WHAT?! Fine.
Me: It's nothing against you. I really like the oral. It's just ... "your mom" jokes are that fun.
PHubby: No, no. It's fine. Next time you're ready for oral sex, I'll just let you sit in bed and tell 'your mom' jokes while I whack off ...
*pause*
Let's just repeat that in slow mo', k?
He said, and I quote, "I'll just let you sit in bed and tell 'your mom' jokes while I whack off."
Not clear? OK. Let's try this: Whose mom would I be talking about if I were telling him "your mom" jokes. Think about it. K, got it?
No?
All right. I'll just tell you.
My husband just proposed that he jerk off to my musings about his mother being a whore, being loose, being easy, birthing lots of children, having VD, eating McDonalds all the time, having only one stripe on her pajamas, etc., etc.
K. Back to the action
Me: *staring at him until he understands what he's just said.*
PHubby: *bewilderment, confusion, then sudden realization* Ew! EW!
Me: *doubled over with laughter*
PHubby: What are you doing?
Me: *clickety clickety clack*
PHubby: PUT. THAT. DOWN.
Me: *laughing, typing*
PHubby: Are you blogging that or tweeting that?
Me: Blogging.
PHubby: Good. Because there's no WAY you could tweet that without me looking like a freak.
She's super cheerful, and she has a cute face and lots of freckles and corny jokes and her perennial gardens are a-ma-zing. Also, she sings everything. All the time. And everything you say reminds her of a song she knows and prompts her to start singing it. I'm told this is really endearing if she's not your mother.
Still, she is my mother, and besides all the cute-and-cuddliness, she is very tactful with her judginess.
Here are some things she says to me and what they mean:
What she says: Honey, have you done something different with your eyebrows?
What she means: Time for a wax, wookie.
***
What she says: It's just us, sweetie! You don't have to tidy up. Our house wasn't clean all the time when you were little.
What she means: If we have to wait for your house to be clean to visit, our grandchildren will be in high school.
***
My mom is super supportive and great. She also makes me laugh - especially when she acts concerned about my daughter's girlyness.
LJ's second word was shoes (without any sort of encouragement to learn the word), and 'round about her 10th word, my mom taught her "jewelry." Also, my mother totally feeds it with princess movies and sparkly, girly gifts.
***
You know what's AWESOME? Hot water. Holy shit. Seriously. Try taking a shower in it. It's amaaaazing.
After 12 days without a functioning water heater, that first hot shower felt gorgeous. I felt exactly like how a person in Africa feels when he gets food.
(I've repeated that sentence, like, 12 times in the last five days, and I never tire of it. Insensitivity makes me feel so good about myself.)
***
Hey, you assholes who won the contest, why don't you e-mail me your addresses before I use your Starbucks cards on myself? That's right. I called you assholes. You want me to take it back? Fine. Send me your addresses, and I will.
***
There's this whole blogger-etiquette thing that keeps me from critiquing this blog I read all the time, but I am very judgmental about this blog (which I do not subscribe to and you probably haven't ever heard of - so just stop trying to guess). Anyway, I judge the blogger for everything - what she eats, what she wears, her writing ability.
I feel bad about it sometimes, but then I remember I'm helping her make money because I keep going to her blog to judge her. It evens out. I hope.
Seriously, though. The girl eats pumpkin in fucking everything. Everything.
Pumpkin in her oatmeal. Pumpkin in her bread. Pumpkin beer. Pumpkin butter. Pumpkin yogurt. Roasted pumpkin. Pumpkin seeds. Pumpkin. Pumpkin. Fucking pumpkin.
I'm torn between two beliefs: one being that she has the cleanest colon in history, and the other being that she has gooey orange strings hanging out of her ass like Christmas tinsel on a cat.
PHubby just handed me a bottle of water, two Midol caplets and two squares of Hershey's Special Dark.
Totes freaking me out. Is he psychic? What could have tipped him off?!
So, yeah. My first experience with a contest, and I perhaps forgot to figure out how to judge the contest until it was already going.
SO, we're going to have TWO winners. Because I'm either awesome or not well prepared. Take your pick.
For those who didn't win, just know that there will be more giveaways soon ... *mysterious eyebrow wiggle*
Onto the winners! On to the winners!
Steam Me Up, Kid will receive a Starbucks gift card because her answer was based on content. Corn chips, dude. Quality research, well done. The trout thing, though? That was all you.
But to be fair, because there were no rules, I used a random integer generator to choose a number between 1 and 11 to pick another winner. The results:
Here are your random numbers:
7
Timestamp: 2010-03-12 01:41:32 UTC
The 7th commenter was ... tattytiara! Hopefully, she can enjoy a nice hot cup of coffee in her new house.
You two can hit me up at nakedcupcakes at gmail dot com with your addresses, and I'll get your stuff sent out. Tattytiara, I have no idea how much $5 is in Canada, but hopefully it will buy you a cup of coffee, eh?
Update: I forgot to tell you your answers were all AWESOME and deeply disturbing.
So ... I'm on the phone with my (super professional, highly educated, I should point out) mom, and we're in the middle of a conversation about work or dinner or something mundane.
There's an unusual break in conversation, and she says ...
"Oh my God, this is too funny ... I'm reading the obituaries, by the way."
Me: Mom!
Mom: I've come to that point in my life. It makes me feel good to read the obits. Because I'm not dead.
Me: Mom!
Mom: What? Come on, listen. This is really funny. This person's last name ... Titsworth!
Me: Mother!
Mom: Come on. Titsworth. That's her last name! Can you imagine?
Me: Was her last name, and can't believe you're making fun of a dead lady's name. Don't you think she got enough flack for it when she was alive?
I saw one of my college professors today as I was on my way out of the dentist's office. I couldn't figure out why he was in my town at 8 a.m., leaving another dentist's office with a developmentally disabled teenage boy being pushed in a wheel chair by a nurse.
Then, I realized the boy is his son and not at all developmentally disabled. He was just really, really stoned and had a big white cartoon-y bandage around his head to keep ice packs on his cheeks. Wisdom teeth.
Seriously, I was 25 seconds away from walking up to them, bending over the wheelchair and yelling, "Hiiiiiiii! How are you today? Are you having fun with your dad? I bet you like baseball!" Like you do when you see developmentally disabled people. Good thing I realized what was going on. Score one for me.
I'm an asshole.
I really have nothing much new to write. We're wrapping up Day 12 without a functioning water heater in this house. The water table is really high and lots of people around here have had flooding (like us, with our failed sump pump, dammit) and burst pipes and whatnot, so we're way down on the plumber's list somewhere.
Let's play a game called "Guess how I smell?" (Leave your guesses in the comments. The winner will receive a $5 Starbucks gift card. WHAT?! I know, right? I'm awesome.)
When the dentist was all done grinding my teeth this morning, my face was still completely numb. The dental assistant handed me a hot, moist, lemon-scented washcloth, and I looked up at her, confused. Did she want me to take a whore's bath? I wondered if I had to explain about my hygiene because of the water heater.
She gave me a funny look back and said, "It's for your face. You have stuff all over it from the procedure."
#selfawareness
****
PHubby and I had an argument a few weeks ago about my (let's just call it what it is) talent for sound effects. I said it's obvious I'm better than that guy from Police Academy, and I would prove it by vlogging. PHubby told me not to do it unless I'm drunk. Gauntlet: thrown.
Speaking of vlogging ... have you voted for Out of Tune Idol, Season 2, Week 2, yet? I've heard it's not a popularity contest, but that's what they said about the student council race in 9th grade. Did I win that? No, no. I did not.
You could say it was because I was a dork. You could say it was because my mom came up with this really stellar and amazingly cool idea of using wildlife pictures from National Geographic as my campaign posters.
You could say it was because I did not prepare a speech or spend time campaigning.
You could say all those things, and you'd be right. (Come on, it was the last season of The Wonder Years. No way I was going to miss that shit.)
But, dammit, I tried hard on this contest. Sure, I've seen the complaints that I'm not out of tune enough. I say I'm so out of tune that sometimes I'm in tune.
Is your mind blown yet? It should be.
And, please, if you do not see the artistic genius behind the Greatest American Potato Head video, then maybe I don't want your vote.
Except I do want your vote, so please vote for me over at Mean Girl Garage. The only votes that count are those in the comments section asking that the contestant "STAY" or those e-mailed to Jules, the brilliant, hilarious owner of the Mean Girl Garage.
I'd like to thank those of you who have become fans and/or friends on Facebook. If you want fewer updates, stay a fan. If you'd like more updates, switch over to my friend side "Sarah Pea." Two flavahs of cupcakes.
Also, big thank-yous to the Google Friend Connectors, Blogger followers, Tweeters, commenters, and regular readers. You make this blogging thing really fun. And for that ...
Coming up is the Second Naked Cupcake Day! I believe we'll have some contests and giveaways and hopefully some guest posts from my hilarious and (don't tell him I told you this because I'll never be able to live with him) way funnier PHubby.
Even though I'm an Internet vagenius (that's a genius with a vagina, patent pending), I haven't been able to get a good countdown clock for my site that does not drive me batshit crazy. Once I figure that out, hopefully, we'll have a countdown to Naked Cupcake Day, which officially starts at 4:30 p.m. March 30 and ends at 11:30 p.m. March 31.
Don't ask me. My friend Allison came up with the times last March 30 when my kids stole warm cupcakes off the oven. The day was her idea. *shrug* I dunno. She likes bourbon?
Am I still blogging? Sometimes I just don't know when to stop.
"Really, you?" you say. "I never would have guessed that about you, judging from your really personal confessions about the OBGyn's office and the time your kid saw you naked."
Hey everyone! Sorry I haven't blogged yet this week. That's because I spent way too much time preparing this video for Out of Tune Idol. Go ahead and turn down your volume. You'll thank me.
And when you're done, please go see Jules at Mean Girl Garage and vote for moi, s'il vous plait!
Back in the day, which was a Tuesday, I had an appointment with the OB/Gyn. The blood pressure was up. I was wearing shoeboxes instead of shoes. I'd spent the last four weeks on the recliner drinking Deer Park and watching episodes of Judge Judy and A Baby Story.
Fun fact: Some specula could be mistaken for hole punchers. Keep one handy at your work desk, and you can use it to create handy storage space in your vagina! All the more room for stolen office supplies!
My health wasn't great, but the twins were "handling things better than your doctor," said Dr. O'Awesome.
Adorable PHubby took off work from his new job to take me to the appointment because, well, he was worried and I couldn't drive.
It had been a while since anyone at the office had checked out my nether regions. (I could just barely get to them in the shower using on old reach-around technique and a washcloth on a broom handle.)
Today was the day, though. Dr. O'Awesome wanted to know how I was ripening (nice visual for you, you're welcome.)
We chatted for a bit about the pregnancy and Dr. O'Awesome made some funny jokes and HAHAHA, we'll just do a little exam to see how things are going.
Dr. O'Awesome and Nurse Pleasant went down to the end of the room, beyond the mountain ranges of Tits, Tummy and Knees, respectively, and disappeared behind the sheet.
And "HAHAHA, we'll just do a little exam ..." turned out to be "HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. SATAN IS VIOLATING MY BIRTH CANAL WITH CLAWS MADE OF FIRE AND SANDPAPER."
From the other side of the mountains, we heard, "Yeah. This isn't going to be a comfortable exam. Just hang in there and we'll get ya taken care of. Try to relax, if you can."
"OK," I said, as tears filled my eyes and I suffered through the pain, wondering when the last time I saw that area was and in what month I last shaved my thighs.
PHubby, ever gentle and caring, held my hand and stayed quiet and calm, even though I knew he was concerned.
The room fell silent.
Finally, Dr. O'Awesome, from behind the sheet, where he was soldering my vagina with some sort of demon speculum, and measuring my cervix with garden shears, spoke, this time addressing my husband.
He said, "Now. You never want to give her more than two fingers."
*pause*
*pause*
*pause*
*uncomfortably long pause during which PHubby and I both try to act really mature about the sex advice we were not at all expecting from a doctor, five weeks before the expected birth of our first children.*
Eventually, PHubby spoke. In a dry, cracked voice, he croaked, "Really?"
"Mmm-hmm," came the response from beyond the sheet wall.
*pause*
*pause*
No one knew how to process this advice. First of all, I was wondering why, if the doctor could use demon speculum to crank me open as wide as the Amazon, I couldn't accept more than two fingers from my husband.
PHubby, I'm pretty sure, was afraid to ask what would happen if I did.
*pause*
The doctor finished the exam, snapped off the gloves and tossed them in the biowaste bin. He rolled forward on his stool until he was next to PHubby, put out his hand, palm up and said:
"If you give her your whole hand to hold during labor, and she squeezes it during a big contraction, she could break bones. Never give her more than two fingers."
Pretty sure he knew how confused we had been, but in case he hadn't, we tipped our hand with our simultaneous "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!" and vigorous head nods.
The next day, we became parents.
EDITED TO ADD: The twins were five weeks early. I can see how the timing thing could be confusing.
I forgot to mention yesterday that the neighbors named their daughter after their dog. Not even kidding.
What really sucks, though, is that the dog was never allowed inside. She was outside for snow, sleet, rain, 100-degree heat. The poor old thing was blind, and they let her wander the neighborhood, sleeping on other people's porches and pooping on their lawns.
She was a sweet, sweet dog, and they seemed to be affectionate with her. They just didn't provide her with any sort of shelter.
Full disclosure: I liked the dog more than the daughter, and if I had to house one of the two - I'd house the dog. The daughter is one of these children who stops at your property line and stares, smiling creepily and not really saying anything unless you ask her a question. The most you get is a one-word answer.
***
Speaking of creepy, I am a good judge because I'm now officially the fucking freak of the preschool nature class at the arboretum.
This is how it happened:
Last week, I took to Thing 1 and Thing 2 to their first class. It was so fun! They learned all about how snowflakes are formed; we went on a nature walk and saw deer and fox tracks in the snow; and we made snow globes. AWESOME, right?
Right.
Except I'm super awkward.
I'm trying to fit in with the other moms. As we've established here, I'm too friendly.
I struck up a conversation with this nice woman there with her 4-year-old chunk of cuteness, Emma. When we left for the nature walk, I noticed Emma and her older sister were wearing their wellies.
*smackforehead* Why didn't I think of that?
So, I said, "Emma, I really like your boots! They're so cute."
Her mom responded about how they bought them in the fall because Emma fell in love with them and now they were coming in handy.
I said, "Oh, they're so clean! Our boots are all dirty and cracked." (Parenting tip: Mud is the only toy a child needs.)
Long story short, we chatted for a few minutes about boots.
Fast forward to Saturday. I had some meetings and a dinner to attend, so PHubby took the Muppets out to run a few errands.
When they came home, the kids had brand new boots "for class," PHubby said.
H-dawg had bright-yellow boots with monkeys on them.
LJ had pink polka-dot boots with Hello Kitty on them - the exact same boots Emma had at class.
I tried to convince the kids to wear different shoes to class. I pleaded with PHubby as he got them dressed to persuade them. Finally, I told him about the conversation with the mom at the nature class and how creepy it was going to seem when we showed up with Emma's boots.
"She probably won't even notice," he said.
I nodded. My heart filled with dread, but I hoped he was right.
What happened at class?
Emma's mom walked up to me before class began, and said, "My kids wore their boots today, too. Have they been to Target?"
FUCK.
So, I hobbled together some sort of lame abbreviation of the story for her. She wasn't really paying attention. She was probably too busy thinking about how weird I am.
Most of the moms are 10 years older than I am, with kids the same age. I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, a young mom.
They all hang out at the arboretum and garden and drink organic coffee and wear the kind of expensive outdoorsy clothes that are very plain and always wrinkled and kind of pointless. They're wholesome not in the breastfeed-until-five way, more like in the husband-is-a-CPA, liberal-guilt way.
And now, I am the outcast of the Crunchy Bunch.
There's a nice pregnant mom there about to burst with twins, so she won't finish out the class. After she leaves, maybe I'll latch onto the friendly lady with the tick and the cute little boy or the chick who let her 3-year-old girl wear a sundress to class in 40-degree weather and her 5-year-old boy wear a brown coat with a pink, leopard-print, faux-fur trim.
*** Thank you to all of you who voted for Out of Tune Idol Season 2!
***
I feel so popular right now, what with getting tagged for an award and all the pedophiles checking out my blog.
Here's something. Lots of bloggers list the search terms that get them hits. It brings me lots of LOLz, so without further ado, here are mine from 2010 so far (CLICK PICTURE TO ENLARGE):
I have to list six things I master.
1. I am master of saying inappropriate things to my parents.
2. I am master of deadlines.
3. I am master of wearing the same yoga pants for an outfit two days in a row and as pajama pants for the night in between.
4. I am master of finding the unexpectedly poignant and memorable movie - on DVD or OnDemand only, guarantee void at movie theaters.
5. I am master of not being able to find something directly in front of my face, no matter how long I look or how hard I try.
6. I am master of falling asleep on the couch and then waking up enough to jog upstairs, change as fast as possible, jump into bed, and yell "NOT IT," so PHubby has to turn off all lights and feed the cats because we forgot to do it before we came upstairs (which I realized 45 seconds before I got in bed but also works out in my favor because I then can weasel him into getting me a glass of water and some chocolate since he's going down to the kitchen anyway).
I getsta tag six of yas, so the last six people who commented:
1. Ells
2. Tara
3. Tara
4. Jilly
5. Peggy
6. Dogimo
Please remember to vote! I didn't make Mr. Potato Head violate a Little People sheep to lose Out of Tune Idol Season 2.
So, I suppose I've skipped quite a few Tuesdays, but now I'm back like bandeau bathing suits in 2000.
In this week's edition, I will be awkward AND cunty. It's a special day.
Oh, no, it's fine. Of course you can interrupt me with a query! What's that you say? You haven't voted yet for Out of Tune Idol Season 2 Week 1, and you have noticed I have received 0 votes except for the thousand votes I cast for myself? Well, let me guide you over here to Jules' blog, Mean Girl Garage, where you can go ahead and help me advance to Week 2.
I'll wait.
*muzak*
Well, now. That's better. Thank you! Your votes are appreciated. Since I did not receive 50 votes on this post and comments now are closed, I will make you another deal. (Let's be fair: I set the count to 50 because I knew it was highly unlikely.)
If I win Out of Tune Idol Season 2, I will show the banana/drunk singing video AND the Out of Tune Idol Season 2 Behind the Music video PHubby has started. You're welcome.
Down to the dirty ...
So, PHubby takes the trash out to the curb this morning because it's trash day. He comes back inside and is washing his hands at the sink when he says to me, "You know how the trash can has big writing on one side that says something like 'THIS SIDE TO CURB,' and a special handle on it for the truck thingy to grab and pick it up and dump it?"
"Of course," I reply.
"Well, sometimes, I look down the street to see of the [neighbors 2 doors down] have their trash can out, yet, and they NEVER -"
I put my hand up, as if to say, "stop right there."
"I. have been. silently judging them for years, based on that," I tell him, and it's true. I feel a twinge of superiority every time I drive through the alley behind our homes and see their trash can pointed the wrong way.
PHubby gives me the "Right?!" look and continues to say how it's such a small little touch of common courtesy.
Let's be honest: he's preaching to the choir. Their boy used to cut our lawn, but he was terrible. He would only mow when he felt like earning 20 bucks, not when the grass needed it.
He used to zip through our yard, not doing the trim, cutting the corners, and racing home without asking for payment. I suspected it was because he had to get it done before he got some sort of privilege, and he didn't want us to call him out on doing a shitty job.
When I could, I would try to catch him at his house to pay him right after he was done, but he already would have gone.
Little fucker.
One day, Momma Neighbor and Son Neighbor came to the front door, and she asked if he'd been doing an OK job because he had mowed our lawn three times (in 11 days - WTF?!) and hadn't been paid.
I said, "Oh, sure, sure," because I was being too nice.
She looked around my yard and said, "Well, I can see the trim needs to be done."
I wanted to say, "Lady, this kid hasn't edged the yard all summer. You live two doors down, and your lawn is fucking immaculate. Don't tell me he doesn't know how to do this. He's a greedy little fucker who wants 20 bucks for 20 minutes worth of work, and he has not once done a good job. Your son doesn't understand what a good day's work is."
But I didn't.
I said something about how we were both very busy right now and were not always home. I asked if the boy would put a sticky note on the front door when he had mowed, so we would have some sort of record.
I also said we were getting ready to pull some old shrubs and plant some new things in the front garden, and we'd had a lot on our plates.
And then she looked around our yard again, and she said, "Wellllll, taking care of a home is a big responsibility," her voice going up again to really drive home the condescension.
Really, lady? You're judging me for how shoddy the grass looks? Your fucking imbecile offspring did this and is robbing me blind in the process, I thought.
Soon after that, we got a lawn mower.
No matter how chummy she has tried to be with me since then, I have always remembered her snippy little comment that day.
That's why, when I pass her backward trash can, I think about how the garbage truck driver who is always so nice to us (and has more than once pulled our trash can out from behind our house and walked it all the way to the street to empty it when we forgot to put it out) must think the neighbors are big assholes, and I smile.
Also, I made a voodoo lawn doll out of AstroTurf, and I'm using it to infect their newly sodded lawn with disease and pestilence. So far, it seems only to have worked on Poppa Neighbor's head (stop with the wispy comb-over, dude).
I don't care, though. I have labeled them jerks, and I'm sticking with it.
They had a fucking sprinkler system installed, too, as if they've never heard of water conservation. That makes them even bigger assholes, in my book.
Fin.
(Please remember to vote! Another post coming later today!)
