Lipstick Lesbians and Tractors
Each night, at the dinner table, I ask members of my family how their day went. The best stories, come from Lil J, of course.
Me: Lil J, what did you do at school today?
Lil J: I went to my new class and played and I was very nice to my teacher. (I take this to mean that sometimes she isn't so nice)
Me: Did you have fun?
Lil J: Yeah, except Justin didn't want to share with me. (Which means she probably snatched a toy out of that poor kid's hands and made him cry)
Me: Ohhhh, is Justin your boyfriend?
Lil J: NOOOOO! I don't like boys, I like girls!
At this point in the conversation, J choked on her drink, I laughed and Hubber was all, "yeah, that's good!" He obviously was thinking like a daddy who didn't want his little girl to like boys because boys are trouble. J and I immediately took it to mean that maybe Lil J is gay... like a lipstick lesbian who likes tutu's and dresses and make-up and purses, but who also has a strong attachment to tractors and dump trucks and fire engines and toy cars. I don't care, either way. I think she'd make a good lesbian.
I Have A Feeling Prayers Don't Work This Way
Over lunch today, a friend and I chatted about what we thought the best punishment would be for our a common enemy. We decided that if we prayed hard enough, maybe he would come down with a serious case of explosive diareah. This would make us so happy we'd consider going to church more than once a year. But, should this bout of squirts occur on a plane, mid-flight, we would be so ecstatic we might even put up a nativity set at Christmas!
His experience would be compounded in the air due to the altitude and cramped quarters. We pictured him, sweating his ass off, tortured, on a tiny toilet seat, trying to steady himself as the plane experienced turbulence. Then, as he tried to return to his seat and everyone was staring at the culprit who stunk the place up, an explosion would occur in his pants and drip down his leg. Then, people all around would start vomiting on him as he tried to reach his seat.
And we'd be thanking 8lb, 6oz baby Jesus for answering our prayer!
Over lunch today, a friend and I chatted about what we thought the best punishment would be for our a common enemy. We decided that if we prayed hard enough, maybe he would come down with a serious case of explosive diareah. This would make us so happy we'd consider going to church more than once a year. But, should this bout of squirts occur on a plane, mid-flight, we would be so ecstatic we might even put up a nativity set at Christmas!
His experience would be compounded in the air due to the altitude and cramped quarters. We pictured him, sweating his ass off, tortured, on a tiny toilet seat, trying to steady himself as the plane experienced turbulence. Then, as he tried to return to his seat and everyone was staring at the culprit who stunk the place up, an explosion would occur in his pants and drip down his leg. Then, people all around would start vomiting on him as he tried to reach his seat.
And we'd be thanking 8lb, 6oz baby Jesus for answering our prayer!
TMI Thursday: Pubes, blood and poop, oh my!
Hello, reader! And I mean that quite literally, as I’m afraid I only have one reader. Besides myself, of course. I’m not THAT pathetic. Geez.
Anyway, I’m going to try something different for this post by following the instructions of one of my favorite bloggers. On Thursdays, she asks people to share a story that others might consider to be TMI (too much information).
Hello, reader! And I mean that quite literally, as I’m afraid I only have one reader. Besides myself, of course. I’m not THAT pathetic. Geez.
Anyway, I’m going to try something different for this post by following the instructions of one of my favorite bloggers. On Thursdays, she asks people to share a story that others might consider to be TMI (too much information).
So, here we go.
Someone using the ladies room at my place of employment love, Love, LOVES to deposit DNA samples on the toilet seats for others to admire. And, I ain’t just talking blood here, people – although the culprit has left globs of red, gooey chunks on the seats, too – I’m talking HAIRS. Not head hairs. Gnarly, pube hairs. Long ones. Which makes me wonder, first of all, why the hell are these hairs so long? And secondly, how do they just FALL out onto the seat? I don’t get it. Does this person rub on their doodah as their standing to button their pants? I have also found shit streaks on the toilet seats. SHIT STREAKS. Like right where an ass crack would be. So, either someone pooped standing up and missed the hole, or they didn’t wipe properly and their shitty ass rubbed up against the seat as they were standing. Who the hell does these things?! One day I walked around the office sniffing everyone to see if any of them smelled like shit. Also, before I sit in ANY office chair, I check for stray pubes. No sense taking chances.
Someone using the ladies room at my place of employment love, Love, LOVES to deposit DNA samples on the toilet seats for others to admire. And, I ain’t just talking blood here, people – although the culprit has left globs of red, gooey chunks on the seats, too – I’m talking HAIRS. Not head hairs. Gnarly, pube hairs. Long ones. Which makes me wonder, first of all, why the hell are these hairs so long? And secondly, how do they just FALL out onto the seat? I don’t get it. Does this person rub on their doodah as their standing to button their pants? I have also found shit streaks on the toilet seats. SHIT STREAKS. Like right where an ass crack would be. So, either someone pooped standing up and missed the hole, or they didn’t wipe properly and their shitty ass rubbed up against the seat as they were standing. Who the hell does these things?! One day I walked around the office sniffing everyone to see if any of them smelled like shit. Also, before I sit in ANY office chair, I check for stray pubes. No sense taking chances.
Hmmm. Maybe this guy is roaming our building...but it doesn't explain the pube hair...unless he hocked up a hairball....a pube hairball. Where has his mouth been?!
I'm SOOO Classy with the Sex, I Amaze Even Me
I think the REAL reason Hubber married me is because I had instituted sexual implications for each day of the week (SDOTW = Sex Days of the Week).
- Bottoms-up Sunday (_*_)
- Eat-me Monday :-p(l)
- Boobie Tuesday ( . )( . )
- Humpday – this one didn’t take much creativity (<)===
- BJ Thursday :-p<======
- 69 Friday (not sure how to draw that)
- Free-for-all Saturday (that’s like a free spin on Wheel of Fortune)
Now don’t get all excited thinking that we get it on every night of the week…because we do not. I repeat: WE DO NOT. And, not that doing so would be such a bad thing, but a girl needs leverage these days. When the hubber isn’t behaving to my satisfaction, I can say, “Alright Hubber, Humpday is out and BJ Thursday isn’t looking very good for you.” This sometimes gets me two helpings of Mondays…which is AWESOME. But, it’s even better when it gets me new shoes, handbags and cold hard cash. Money starts falling out of the damn sky when BJs are involved. Men will pretty much pay anything for them. They’d give up their first born child for the prospect of getting weekly BJs. Am I right? Dang, I just noticed how long the peepee is in my BJ Thursday drawing up there. Wow. And it’s skinny, too. Kinda like a pencil. Hmmm. Maybe if I would have drawn it like this <[[[[[[[[[ it might have looked more real. But, that looks too much like condom ridges. We don’t need no stinkin condoms in this here house, people. Hurray for TUBAL LIGATION! I’ll stick with the pencil pecker.
So anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah, we don’t bump uglies daily. I just like to talk like I do. Makes me feel more attractive. (As I needed help in that department). But, having an SDOTW schedule helps us decide what activity would be appropriate for that day, should we decide to partake in the nasties.
I hope this post helps someone turn their sex life into something more classy. You’re welcome. Happy Tuesday – let the boobies free!
Update: I've had some time to think about this post and I think I may be guilty of soliciation and false advertising. I'm badass.
Reminiscing about the pets of my past and present
Having a large, lazy dog is the bomb-diggity. I remember years ago when J was a baby and we were living in a 4-plex in the Heights, a friend of mine thought we needed a dog…a puppy, no less…one that J could “grow up” with or “bond” with…whatever. We were presented with a rat terrier. I didn’t know a whole lot about dog breeds back then, but if I knew then what I know now, I would have told this friend to stuff the terrier where the sun don’t shine. We named him Cosmo, or as J used to say, “Choocho.” His name should have been Satan, though. He was soooo hyper…and annoying as hell… yip-yapping at all hours of the day and jumping around like a goddamned retard. And damn, that dog tore up everything! I mean EVERYTHING (my bras were his favorite….and I don’t know HOW the hell he got a hold of them most of the time). Wait, not everything. He had this little stuffed animal (a bear) that he dragged around everywhere…he didn’t tear that thing up. Anyway, to limit the damage, we used to lock him up in the bathroom when we weren’t home. But, my cousin thought it was cruel because there were no windows in there. So, we bought a baby gate. We would leave the bathroom door open and prop the baby gate there instead so he could “see out”. One day, after returning from work and such, we entered the apartment and stepped into WATER. There was water everywhere! I stared at that little fucker with murder in my eyes as he sat in a kitchen chair licking his ass. Turns out he had chewed through the hose connecting the toilet to the wall and water was gushing all over the place! In his haste to save himself and his teddy bear, he chewed a hole through the baby gate. He saved himself, but he couldn’t get his bear out – so there it was stuck in the hole in the gate, half in half out with its head almost completely decapitated from all the pulling and yanking Choocho had done to try to save it from the flood. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or kick him in the ass. Needless to say, that was the end of Choocho.
I swore off pets for a long time after that. Well, as long as it took to erase the hate. Which, as it happens, was about 3 years. That’s when we got Kali…a calico from the SPCA. Kali was not hyper like Choocho. Instead, she was anxiety-ridden. That cat would lose her hair if ANYTHING changed. I mean, seriously…if you moved a piece of furniture, that freak cat wouldn’t eat or drink or sleep for DAYS and her hair would fall out and leave these gross bald spots. God forbid you introduce her to another animal! Which, we did, of course, because we love to punish the weak. We adopted, Rosie, who looked like a cat but acted like a dog sometimes and a squirrel at others. Oh, those were the days.
So, now all the cats are gone and we have Harley. She’s the ideal dog…big, loveable and obedient. The only problem is that she is scared shitless of Hubber. We still haven’t been able to figure out why. I think it’s because he smells like evil. And, dogs can sense that sort of shit.
Having a large, lazy dog is the bomb-diggity. I remember years ago when J was a baby and we were living in a 4-plex in the Heights, a friend of mine thought we needed a dog…a puppy, no less…one that J could “grow up” with or “bond” with…whatever. We were presented with a rat terrier. I didn’t know a whole lot about dog breeds back then, but if I knew then what I know now, I would have told this friend to stuff the terrier where the sun don’t shine. We named him Cosmo, or as J used to say, “Choocho.” His name should have been Satan, though. He was soooo hyper…and annoying as hell… yip-yapping at all hours of the day and jumping around like a goddamned retard. And damn, that dog tore up everything! I mean EVERYTHING (my bras were his favorite….and I don’t know HOW the hell he got a hold of them most of the time). Wait, not everything. He had this little stuffed animal (a bear) that he dragged around everywhere…he didn’t tear that thing up. Anyway, to limit the damage, we used to lock him up in the bathroom when we weren’t home. But, my cousin thought it was cruel because there were no windows in there. So, we bought a baby gate. We would leave the bathroom door open and prop the baby gate there instead so he could “see out”. One day, after returning from work and such, we entered the apartment and stepped into WATER. There was water everywhere! I stared at that little fucker with murder in my eyes as he sat in a kitchen chair licking his ass. Turns out he had chewed through the hose connecting the toilet to the wall and water was gushing all over the place! In his haste to save himself and his teddy bear, he chewed a hole through the baby gate. He saved himself, but he couldn’t get his bear out – so there it was stuck in the hole in the gate, half in half out with its head almost completely decapitated from all the pulling and yanking Choocho had done to try to save it from the flood. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or kick him in the ass. Needless to say, that was the end of Choocho.
I swore off pets for a long time after that. Well, as long as it took to erase the hate. Which, as it happens, was about 3 years. That’s when we got Kali…a calico from the SPCA. Kali was not hyper like Choocho. Instead, she was anxiety-ridden. That cat would lose her hair if ANYTHING changed. I mean, seriously…if you moved a piece of furniture, that freak cat wouldn’t eat or drink or sleep for DAYS and her hair would fall out and leave these gross bald spots. God forbid you introduce her to another animal! Which, we did, of course, because we love to punish the weak. We adopted, Rosie, who looked like a cat but acted like a dog sometimes and a squirrel at others. Oh, those were the days.
So, now all the cats are gone and we have Harley. She’s the ideal dog…big, loveable and obedient. The only problem is that she is scared shitless of Hubber. We still haven’t been able to figure out why. I think it’s because he smells like evil. And, dogs can sense that sort of shit.
Nobody is Happy if Mama Ain't Happy
We're getting ready for a little family vacation in Destin and a lot of shit has to come together just perfectly to make everyone happy. First off, mama's gotta be happy and get everything she wants or NO ONE will be happy. So, I stocked up on coconut rum, flip flops, swim suit cover-ups and summer dresses because I plan on spending the week half naked on the beach with a book in one hand and a very VERY alcoholic beverage in the other hand. My fat ass will not be going on a snorkeling excursion, nor will it be jumping off a damn boat to swim with slimy dolphins. It will be firmly planted in a sturdy lounge chair on the beach where it belongs. End of story.
Secondly, J had to have a $60 swim suit from Pink, which by the way, is a Victoria's Secret spin-off... so that little fact pretty much sent Hubber through the roof because:
Hubber: What 12-year-old buys ANYTHING from Victoria's Secret?! Isn't that place for sexy lingerie, dildos and lube?!
Me: Hubber. Seriously? Just because they sell panties doesn't mean they're an adult novelty store.
Hubber: I've seen the catalogs! The boobs! The toys!
Me: You're delusional. I don't think bras and panties constitute TOYS.
I think he was confusing it with Zone D'erotica or Cindie's or something. The man needs to get out more. Anyway, so then I had to argue with J, because, REALLY, what friggen 12-year old buys ANYTHING from Victoria's Secret?! I sucked at the argument... and lost it actually, because she's a master negotiator and the bathing suit she wanted was pretty darn cute. She convinced me that it wouldn't cost much because she had half of the money saved (which turned out NOT to be half, but I didn't find this out until we were at the damn checkout and she pulls out a $20 bill and a $1 bill...thinking the $1 was a $10...because she's dyslexic or some shit....that or a genius manipulator!). Anyway. Throw in $20 sandals from Pac Sun and she pretty much got her way. Now SHE'S all ready for spring break.
Thirdly, Hubber needed new swim trunks because, seriously, the ones from 1997 died five years ago even though he refuses to admit it. So, I guess his needs are actually my needs for him to get with the program, but whatever...he has no mind of his own. That's why he married me. He also needed a frisbee. Oh, and road trip snacks. Damn, he's so high maintenance!
Finally, there's lil J who now has more sand castle building tools than three kids deserve to have. And let me just say...her bathing suit only cost $10 at Target. And her flip flops were 2 for $5 at The Children's Place. Now, THAT really makes Mama happy.
We're getting ready for a little family vacation in Destin and a lot of shit has to come together just perfectly to make everyone happy. First off, mama's gotta be happy and get everything she wants or NO ONE will be happy. So, I stocked up on coconut rum, flip flops, swim suit cover-ups and summer dresses because I plan on spending the week half naked on the beach with a book in one hand and a very VERY alcoholic beverage in the other hand. My fat ass will not be going on a snorkeling excursion, nor will it be jumping off a damn boat to swim with slimy dolphins. It will be firmly planted in a sturdy lounge chair on the beach where it belongs. End of story.
Secondly, J had to have a $60 swim suit from Pink, which by the way, is a Victoria's Secret spin-off... so that little fact pretty much sent Hubber through the roof because:
Hubber: What 12-year-old buys ANYTHING from Victoria's Secret?! Isn't that place for sexy lingerie, dildos and lube?!
Me: Hubber. Seriously? Just because they sell panties doesn't mean they're an adult novelty store.
Hubber: I've seen the catalogs! The boobs! The toys!
Me: You're delusional. I don't think bras and panties constitute TOYS.
I think he was confusing it with Zone D'erotica or Cindie's or something. The man needs to get out more. Anyway, so then I had to argue with J, because, REALLY, what friggen 12-year old buys ANYTHING from Victoria's Secret?! I sucked at the argument... and lost it actually, because she's a master negotiator and the bathing suit she wanted was pretty darn cute. She convinced me that it wouldn't cost much because she had half of the money saved (which turned out NOT to be half, but I didn't find this out until we were at the damn checkout and she pulls out a $20 bill and a $1 bill...thinking the $1 was a $10...because she's dyslexic or some shit....that or a genius manipulator!). Anyway. Throw in $20 sandals from Pac Sun and she pretty much got her way. Now SHE'S all ready for spring break.
Thirdly, Hubber needed new swim trunks because, seriously, the ones from 1997 died five years ago even though he refuses to admit it. So, I guess his needs are actually my needs for him to get with the program, but whatever...he has no mind of his own. That's why he married me. He also needed a frisbee. Oh, and road trip snacks. Damn, he's so high maintenance!
Finally, there's lil J who now has more sand castle building tools than three kids deserve to have. And let me just say...her bathing suit only cost $10 at Target. And her flip flops were 2 for $5 at The Children's Place. Now, THAT really makes Mama happy.
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