Category Archives: Only Me

The New Adventures of Old Christine: Part One

I didn’t sleep much on Sunday night.
I couldn’t stop obsessing over which question I would ask. I wanted it to be The Perfect Question. Funny, intelligent, thought provoking. I was going to take this opportunity very seriously.
By the time midnight rolled around, I had decided “the hell with intelligent and thought provoking, I’m just going to ask them if they’ve ever taken Aerobic Dance class and if anyone wanted to take me on in a dance off!”
I arrived a few minutes early and met Self-made Mom and Manic Mommies. They were very nice and also completely unaware of who I was. Joy Unexpected WHAT? Y from the Internet WHO?
And you people think I’m popular.
Beth, the women who put this event together, came out to greet us and take us to the set of The New Adventures of Old Christine. The first thing that I noticed once we were on the set was this little table with place cards that said things like “JULIA LOUIS-DREYFUS” and “WANDA SYKES.”
Across from that table, I noticed a few chairs, with bottles of water placed on top of them.
I realized that this was where we were going to conduct our little “interview.” I had NO idea it was going to be so intimate and that we were going to be so close to the actors. In my mind, I had pictured us sitting in the place where the audience usually sits and the actors sitting on the set. I imagined they’d hand us a microphone and the actors would have to squint their eyes to see where we were.
Man, was I wrong.

I know that you’re probably thinking “Big deal! They’re just people!”
I know this and yet Julie Louis-Dreyfus! And Wanda Sykes! Sitting right across a table from me! It was very intimidating.
We had to do a few things which I will keep a secret for now (but you will SEE later) before the cast arrived to do the interview.
I was very nervous and was completely aware of the fact that I was the fattest person in the building. (And there were two very pregnant women there, folks.) But, everyone on the set was so warm and friendly, that I was totally OK with being The Big Chub.
Until I realized there was a dude following us around with a video camera. Then I became very self conscience and tried very hard to not be caught standing alone. When you see the video. (Yes, there will be a video) I’m pretty sure that every time you see me, I will be running to hide behind someone. I actually thought about running out of the building, until I saw Liz walk in. If she wasn’t pregnant, I would have knocked her to the ground and licked her all over.
Instead, I ran up and hugged her and immediately started annoying her by repeatedly saying things like “Oh my God, I’m so nervous.” “Oh my God, look how close we’re sitting to the cast.” “Oh my God, I don’t know what to ask them.”
She was very gracious and kind to me. She held my hand (or more like I grabbed her hand and wouldn’t let go)and she really did help to put me (somewhat) at ease.
The moment we had been waiting for finally arrived and we were asked to “take a seat.” The cast walked in and when I saw Julia, I let out a very loud GASP because whoa, she was beautiful. I’ve always thought she was cute, but in person? She’s gorgeous. Her skin was perfect, her hair was amazing, her teeth were pearly gems from heaven, her body was tiny and tight. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.
Actually, every single person up there was beautiful. And so were their teeth. My GOD, THE TEETH.
After they took their seats, I felt a wave of nervousness take over my entire body. I started to shake and I could feel the gas welling up deep within me. I immediately wrote a note to myself.
Note to self: Don’t fart.
I honestly felt like I couldn’t breathe because “Oh my GOD, in a few minutes they are going to hand me a mic and I have NO IDEA WHAT IN THE HELL I’M GOING TO ASK THESE PEOPLE.”
Liz went just before me and as she asked her question, I was about to shit my pants because I knew that I was next and I still didn’t have a freaking question to ask. And just as I was about to start crying, THE GREATEST THING IN THE HISTORY OF EVER HAPPENED. The following words came out of the mouth of Wanda Sykes. “I’ll do anything for a laugh, I’ll fart on stage…”
Wanda said FART!
Suddenly, everything was right with the world.
As soon as Liz handed me the microphone, I was all “omigod I’m so nervous and its funny you brought up FARTING, Wanda, because I wrote a little note here to myself that says DON’T FART because ha! Ha! Ha! I get really gassy when I’m nervous! Ha! Haaaaaa! And so if you think someone may have… well, it was probably me! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
(They’ll be audio proof of that to share with you all very soon.)
Dudes, they were laughing! LAUGHING! Especially Clark Gregg who actually put his head down on the table, but I think his was more of a “Oh MY GOD NO SHE DI’INT” kind of laugh.” Obviously, he had never read my blog because hello! I talk about my nervous gas all of the time!
Fart Talk: The Great Ice Breaker!
Once I had everyone laughing, I no longer felt pressure or nervous and the words just started flowing from my mouth.
I told them that I wrote for a blog called Joy Unexpected and that I had very dedicated readers who knew I was there and how I wanted to take something back to them that would interest them and then, I proceeded to ask a Very Important Question…
”Do YOU read blogs?”
::::awkward silence::::
Seriously. It got so quiet in there.
“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot…”
Julia started to laugh and confessed that she didn’t even know what a blog was and a few of the others chimed in with confession of having never read a blog. One of the cast members said they had read ONE blog, but that it was poorly written and she hated it and vowed to never read a blog again.
I suppose a small part of me was hoping that they would say “why, yes, we know what a blog is! We were up reading yours last night!” I may have been a little disappointed that they had really didn’t know what a blog was as evidenced in my “notes” (if you can even call them notes because, well, look.)

(Those are my actual notes.)
(Shutup. I was nervous and shaking violently.)
After the “interview” was over, we got to sit down and watch a few minutes of a pre-taping of the show. Then, we hopped on a bus and headed over to a little coffee shop (which they closed down just for us!) and had a chance to talk with producers, executives and also Alex and Tricia from the show.
Then, we hopped back into the bus which took us back to the parking garage. We stood around and talked about what a great experience it was, said our goodbyes and headed back to our cars.
As much fun as I had that day, I was happy for it to be over because OH MY GOD, my girdle type underwear had pretty much cut off all circulation to my legs. I could NOT wait to rip those mofos off. As soon as I got into my van, I looked around, made sure no one was watching, reached under my skirt and began what felt like an hour long process of peeling off the chonies.
(Which reminds me, I really do need to take those things out of the glove compartment before someone (like MY KIDS) reaches in there to get a pen or a piece of paper and instead, finds my dirty, size Q chonies all wadded up in a big ball.)
At the end of the day, I was glad that I went. I was proud of myself for stepping outside of My Comfort Zone and putting my fears and insecurities aside. I was grateful for the oppurtunity to show the people of Hollywood who bloggers really are and let them know that “hey, we get gas too.”
I do not have pictures, because we were FORBIDDEN from taking pictures, but later this month, there will be pictures and also video (Ahhhhhhh!) that I will be able to post here. Stay tuned for THAT, because THAT is going to be very special.
I promise you.


Inspired by my artistic rendition of a duck, I decided to take Gabby to the park to feed the ducks.

One thing you need to know is  I am the type of person who afraid of breaking rules (because I do not want to rot in jail, nor do I want to burn in hell.) I tell you this because there are signs that kindly ask you NOT to feed the ducks, listing such reasons as “feeding the ducks will make them lazy!”  After seeing that there were Do Not Feed The Ducks! signs, I became a little bit fearful of getting in trouble, so as we were walking to the pond I  hid the baggie which contained 2 pieces of bread on the inside of my shirt. I’m not sure who exactly what or who I was afraid of– they do not have guards watching over the pond. But you just never know. It’s entirely possible that there there are people posing as “private citizens” moseying near the pond, waiting to catch the duck feeding rule breakers!

We arrived at the pond without having been caught with our bag o’bread, and I continued to pretend as if we were only there to observe the pretty ducks and not to feed them. I looked around to make sure there weren’t any men in city uniforms around before I carefully took the bag of bread out from underneath my shirt.

Once I had determined the coast was clear, I reached inside of my shirt, whipped out the bread and starting rolling them into little balls so that Gabby could throw them to the ducks.
She threw her first little bread ball and 2 of the ducks who were close by swam up to eat the bread. Gabby went crazy, she started jumping up and down and squealing. “Duckies eat bread, mama! Duckies eating!” I don’t feed the ducks often, so I forgot that when you feed them, they get all loud and start communicating with the other ducks. The two ducks closest to us were all “quack, quack! The Humans have brought bread, come and get it while it’s fresh!” Within a matter of seconds, two  ducks turned into ten ducks. Then, ten ducks turned into what seemed like hundreds of ducks. They were all quacking in what I  perceived to be a very aggressive manner.

I was trying to remain calm, because, seriously, they’re just ducks! However, I was a little terrified on the inside because I wasn’t supposed to be feeding them and there they were, making it TOTALLY OBVIOUS that we were feeding them. Someone really needs to talk to the ducks about that. If they would like The Humans to continue to feed them illegally, they really need to learn how to keep it on the down low.

Stupid ducks.

At one point, one of the ducks got tired of fighting for the bread and just jumped out of the water, unto the sidewalk and right up to me and Gabby. “WHOA, there, little buddy! Get back into the water please.” (I actually said that. Out loud. And I meant it.) I had never seen a duck do that before and it kinda freaked me out. Do the ducks not fear The Humans? Apparently, they do not. All of a sudden, one by one, the ducks started hoping out of the water and walking right up to me and Gabby. The scary thing was (haha, I said “scary” while speaking of “ducks”) that they were looking right at the bag in my hand as they were walking directly towards me. I swear I heard one of them say “You better have enough for all of us, bitch!”

I jumped up, grabbed my daughter and um, kind of started to run away, but in that way where one is trying to play it off as if they’re not terrified of getting killed by a gang of ducks. You know what I mean? I was trying to be all “Ok! We’re leaving because we are totally done feeding the ducks! No, seriously! We’re not afraid of the ducks at all! How lame would that be? HAHA!” Apparently, I am a bad at pretending not to be scared  because two girls who were close by started laughing  and one of them was all “Look! That girl is afraid of the ducks!”

There was nothing I could do at that point, except to turn around and admit my fear to the women who were so openly mocking me. “Did you see that? I got so scared, all of those ducks coming at me, I was afraid they were going to bite my daughter.

(Think of The Children! THE CHILLLLDREEENNNN.)

I was pretty shook up as we walked away from the pond. I realize how stupid that must sound, since I am talking about DUCKS. Not alligators. Not Tigers. DUCKS!! But, I had no idea ducks were so aggressive and unafraid of humans. I so did not expect them to hop out of the water and get all up in my grill like that.

Effing ducks, man.

Cut me? Cut YOU.

Whenever I watch the video of my first baby being born, I cringe a little inside when I see my husband breathing through the contractions with me because on that very important day in our lives? He was sporting a Haircut given by me.
My “problem” (and yes, it’s a problem) with “thinking I can cut hair” started when I was a young girl and curious to see how I would look with bangs. That set off a chain of events in which I would end up crying, or making someone else cry because I thought it was a good idea to “give ’em a little trim.”
Everytime I’d come home from getting a hair cut, I’d find something wrong with it and try to fix it myself. I can’t count how many times my husband came home to find me in the bathroom crying and saying things like “OMG. CAN YOU PLEASE SHAVE MY NECK BECAUSE I MESSED UP AND WENT A LITTLE TOO SHORT.”
I went through a phase where I truly believed I could cut my husband’s hair “just as good, IF NOT BETTER” than the barber and BONUS! I could save us an entire $8 every month in doing so!
Because my husband is precious and loves me,( not because I had went and bought an entire “hair cutting kit” complete with clippers, scissors and combs! at Costco) he decided to go ahead and let me cut his hair.
I was very pregnant with Andrew at the time and I remember the first time I cut his hair VERY WELL. I remember thinking “Seriously, how hard could this be?” But as soon as I started buzzing off the sides of his hair, I was like “This shit is HARD” and also “WHOOPS!”
The thing about cutting hair is that when you go too far on one side, you have to even that shit out on the other and um, let’s just say by the time I was done “evening shit out” he had pretty much NO hair left on the side and a big puff of hair on the top. I tried desperately to blend the sides and the top, but the only way that was going to happen is if I shaved it all off.
And let’s not even talk about the sideburns. (Or should I say the “lack of sideburns” by the time I was finished.)
I remember when we sat down to watch the video of the birth of our son together for the first time. Aside from the part where I was all “OMG. I think I’m pooping” as the nurse was all “No you’re not” while WIPING MY ASS, the most humiliating moment for me was watching my poor, supportive husband helping me through the labor with a totally jacked up up hair cut. I don’t even think he realised how bad it was until he saw it on tape. He was like “WOMEN, YOU WILL NEVER CUT MY HAIR AGAIN.”
And I agreed because, holy shit, you should have seen it.
One would have thought that my days of giving other people haircuts were over, but one would be wrong in thinking that. One day, a friend who always tries to make me feel like a bad mother was all “I cut my boys hair because why would I pay someone else to do something so easy?” I went all “Oprah” in my agreement with her “Girrrrrrrrrrrrl, I know, right?”
The next day, I went and bought a new haircutting kit (at Costco!) and announced that “from now on, I’LL be cutting your hair!”
That didn’t last too long because OH MY GOD, my kids hated me cutting their hair with a passion.
I had no decent place to cut their hair, so we would have to take kitchen chairs out back. And the cuts would take HOURS and those hours were filled with crying, screaming, tantrums, threats and sometimes? Bleeding.
The kids: Wah. Cry. Bitch. Moan. MOM! this is taking forever.
Me: I bet you never complain to the barber about how long it takes.
The kids: Yeah, because the barber doesn’t take 3 HOURS.
Me: I bet you never whine about that to the barber.
The kids: Because the barber doesn’t CUT THE TOPS OF OUR EARS OFF.
It was horrible. For them. For me. For the neighbors.
I swore that I’d never take a pair of scissors to a head of hair ever again for as long as I lived.
I meant it, I really and truly did. But then? One time? I was giving my dog a bath and I decided to give him “a little trim” and um, well, haha! OOPS. (I’m telling you, that “evening shit out” gets me EVERYTIME.)
Why am I talking about my problem with “cutting hair” again?
Perhaps, because I’ve done it again?
Only, this time to my poor, helpless 2 year old daughter?
Beautiful (even with a bad hair cut.)
I thought “cutting her hair will be easy! Just cut straight across the bottom! No problemo!”
I could actually close my eyes and see myself doing it and doing it perfectly. Obviously, I forgot that a) I was dealing with a child who can not sit still for more than .6 seconds at a time. b)a child who throws herself back when she gets pissed c)That I don’t have the proper hair cutting scissors and haha sewing scissors do NOT work d)I CAN NOT CUT HAIR.
Dr.Phil always says “The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior” and in “the past” I’ve jacked A LOT OF PEOPLES HAIR THE FUCK UP. So, honestly, what was I thinking?
It doesn’t look too bad in that picture, but trust me, it’s totally uneven and way shorter than I intended. I have to take her tomorrow to get it fixed, which means it will be even SHORTER and oh man, PigHunter is PISSED.
I don’t blame him, I shouldn’t have picked those scissors up. I mean, yeah, they were sitting there calling to me “you know you want to do it. Just do eeeet” But, I should have been strong, given them The Fingah and walked away.
Because, no one should ever have to suffer Jacked Up Hair because of my inability to STEP AWAY FROM THE SCISSORS ever again.

Giving the people what they want

Today, there was great potential for me to feel depressed and cry a lot. The last day of school for my boys, friends not speaking to me because I am a Horrible Person and also, fat, blahblahblahwahwahwah. But then, the greatest thing EVER happened! I recieved an email from The Bride To Be which contained totally embarrassing and yet totally awesome pictures of a certain someone doing a certain type of dance and Ha! Depression averted!
(Ok. Not really, but can we pretend? Please? Thank you!)
I can’t decide on what to title the following picture, so let me give you a few of the choices.
“Proof that I am sometimes a jackass”
“Proof that I am a happy drunk”
“Proof that I need to get out more”
Or (and I think I’ll go with this one)
“Proof that I did the worm on the floor of the bowling alley bar.”

Continue reading

You know how sometimes I delete entries because I think they’re dumb? Yeah.

On Saturday night, Tony and I went to a couples bridal shower.
At the bowling alley.
Sounds crazy, right? A Bridal Shower, at the bowling alley. WHAT?
But I’m here to tell you, it is so NOT crazy. Well, unless by “crazy”, you mean “The Greatest Idea in the History of Bridal Showers.”
The best part about the shower was that it was a surprise to the bride and groom to be. I’m a SUCKAH for surprises. They make me uncontrollably happy. As we were standing there in the bowling alley waiting for the bride to show up, I kept asking people “Do you think she knows? Do you think she knows? Do you think she’ll freak out when she sees us? What about when she sees the guys? Do you think she’ll cry? OMG. DO you think she knows?” As I was asking the questions, repeatedly, my mouth was watering (from the excitment) and I kept jumping up and down whilst clapping and squeeling because EEEEEEEEE! SURPRISE!
I seriously geek the hell out.
The groom arrived first and found a room full of family, friends and one crazed out psycho surprise lover in the bar. Everyone was all “SURPRISE!” and Oh my God, I think I made sweet pee pee in my pants because SURPRISE ACHIEVED!
As soon as he arrived, he was given a pair of pink boxers that he had to wear. (Do I need to tell you how crazy that made me inside, it was like THIS IS THE GREATEST SURPRISE BRIDAL SHOWER IN HISTORY AND IT HASN’T EVEN STARTED YET!)
After everyone explained to the groom what was going on, the girls went and waited for the bride. Once she walked through the doors, we totally tricked her. We were like “This is your shower, girl, let’s bowl!” Little did she know that her fiance, her brothers, uncles and male friends were waiting for her outside. (With roses in hand! But that was supposed to be a surprise! Sorry! I can’t help it, I’m so excited to tell you about this!)
As we started to put on our socks and bowling shoes, her fiance snuck in the door and surprised her with a pink ring, a rose and a pink veil. She started laughing hysterically, which made me so happy because it worked! We surprised her! Sweet pee pee! After they had their moment, the guys walked in one at a time, each giving her a rose and a kiss on the cheek and a little joy to a certain little dork sitting on chair feeling so lucky to be a part of such an awesome moment in history.
Since I hardly ever get a night out with my husband and since I am no longer a nursing mother, I decided I was going to have me a few drinks of some hard liquor.
Ha! Ha! I said “A few.”
After my 3rd double rum and diet coke, my friends were like “Hey, how many of those have you had? Are you ok?”
And I was all “I’m GREAT! You just better hope that they don’t turn on any music!” Because, people? When I’m drinking, it’s all fun and games until the DJ busts out The Hip Hop and R&B.
Well, um, after we were done bowling, everyone decided to go hang out in the pool room/BAR. And HOLY CRAP, there was music. Sweet hip hop music. I started out calm, with just a little bobbing of the head and gentle thrusts of the hips. But then, some dude, (Sorry, Michelle, I can’t remember his name!) challenged me to some sort of dance off. Obviously, he had NO CLUE who he was dealing with. At one point, he uttered the words “You’ll have to do better than that.”
Big mistake, dude. Big. Freaking. Mistake.
The next words out of his mouth? “OHHHHH, SHE DROPPED IT LIKE IT’S HOT.” I’ll let you “imagine” the move I busted out. But just remember “drop” and “hot.”
What happened next marked the moment that my husband decided it was probably time to go home. We were all standing around the bar and the same dude who had challenged me before was still talking smack about my dancing, so I was like “DUDE, do NOT make me bust out The Worm, because I will.”
Two seconds later, I fell to the floor, forgetting that I was wearing a skirt. And granny panties. Because WHOOPS, I was on The Rag.
Funny how liquor makes you forget little things like that.
Let me show you a little post that I wrote when I got home before I continue.

Because I love you all so much, I am going to give you some awesomeadvice.
If you’ve had um, a great deal to drink and you are wearing a skirt and also your granny panties because haha who’s goign to see your chonies? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT BUST OUT WITH THE WORM IN THE MIDDL EOF THE BAR OF THE BOWLING ALLEY.
seriously. Do not. No one needs to see all of that white chunky goodness that are your thighs and also your lower ass. NO ONE.
And when peopel call you “stripper” it’s not a compliment. It’s more like a HAHAHAAAA we’ve got you on film doing “the worm “in yourskirt you drunken dumbass.
I am goign to kick people’s asses tomorrow for encourgaing me to do such things.
(But honestly? You’ve not liveduntil you’ve seen me do the worm, people. Jus tmake sure I’m notwearing a skirt when youa sk me to do it.)

So, yeah, I wasn’t thinking about the skirt flying up on my first attempt of The Worm. But, I quickly fixed the problem by tucking my skirt between my legs and proceeded to show them all that when you issue me any type of challenge that involves “Dancing”? YOU LOSE.
(P.S. Attention Wimmins attending Blogher. FEAR NOT! I will not be packing any skirts! Unlike the unlucky few at the bowling alley on Saturday night, your eyes will be spared the White Chunky Goodness that are my thighs and lower buttocks!)
On the way home, Tony made me cry. He said he was mortified when the skirt flew up because (and these are his exact words) “No one needs to see your pad, woman.”
First of all, no one saw The Pad. It’s not like I lifted up my skirt, spread my legs and bent over. My skirt lifted up a little. BIG FREAKING DEAL. He only said that to be An Ass and to make me feel like an ass. And I did for about 2 minutes, but you know what? The same way that “No one puts Baby in a corner?”
“No one makes me feel about about doing The Worm.”
(Well, except if you send me in email the day AFTER I do the worm and say “Everyone talked about the worm at the game, but no worries, it’s all good!” Because that will make me all paranoid and shit and wish I had kept my worm to myself and done The Monkey instead.)

And so began a lifelong pattern of making “bad choices” with scissors.

There was a period of time where the church I grew up in went all “Cult.” They started preaching crazy things from the pulpit. Things like “Christian women didn’t wear makeup, because that made them Jezebel whores” or “Women had to wear dresses because ONLY MEN CAN WEAR PANTS.”
Also? Women had to have long hair. Pretty long hair.
As a young girl, I wanted nothing more than to have bangs. You see, I had this crazy widows peak and when I’d wear my hair back, people would make fun of me. On more than one occassion, I was called “Squiggy” (from Happy Days.) Kids are so cruel! I asked my parents if I could cut bangs, but the answer was always “Absolutely not!”
One night, whilst in the bathroom, I started playing with my hair to see what I would look like with bangs. I pulled some hair to my forehead and held it there. It was in that moment I came up with a brilliant idea. I thought “if I cut a little piece of bang, no one will ever notice and I can get a better idea of what I would look like with bangs!”
I got the scissors, took a chunk of hair from my widows peak and chopped it off.
There, in the middle of my forehead, layed one piece of bang. The minute I saw it, I panicked. How in the world could I hide that chunk of bang from my parents?
But then, I had another brilliant idea! I would shave it! Shave the piece of hair and Ha! Haaaaa! No one would ever know what I had done.
Um, except the very next day in Sunday School, the Sunday School teacher was all “What’s wrong with your head, Y? Is that a bruise?”
(Because, you know how when you shave a patch of hair and there is stubble left, it kinda looks purple?)
I wanted to lie, but I was in The House of The Lord, so, I told her the truth of what I had done. After she finished laughing hysterically, she asked if my mom knew about it. Of course my mom didn’t know about it! But Sunday School teacher made sure that she knew about it. (Just like the time she “made sure” that my mom knew that I had thought it was be HILARIOUS to change the first line of the hymn “The Old Rugged Cross” to “On a hill far away, where we all used to play, :insert something funny about a boy seeing my underwear:” Man, I got whipped GOOD for that one.)
My mom was P.O’d. And as punishment, she REFUSED to allow me to cut bangs, meaning I’d have to suffer the “grow out” in humiliating fashion.
Oh, The teasing I had to endure! Especially once it started growing in and got all spiky and shit.

Here is the only photographic evidence I have of the actual growing in of the bangs. Thank GOD I was such a “looker” who did not need makeup to look all hot, because, MAN, life would have really sucked if I was akward looking in addition to having a protruding patch of bangs sticking out of the middle of my forehead.
(I wanted to bad to make a “She thinks my tractor’s sexy” joke, but FOR THE LIFE OF ME could not think of one that was actually funny, but look! I found a way to bring up the tractor without it having to actually be funny because ha! ha! ha! ha! I’M LEANING ON A TRACTOR.)


First of all, I have to thank you all for the advice on how to solve my computer problem.
I downloaded a few of the free programs y’all suggested and once I was able to get them to run, they seemed to have fixed the problem. At least for moment. There are no more “BIG TIT” photos being imported, nor is there anymore renaming of my photos.
Now, I must make a confession. I know EXACTLY where I picked up the precious little virus/spyware from and as TOTALLY EMBARRASSING as it is, I’m going to tell you where.
I got a “friend request” from some radio station on MySpace. I clicked on over to check the site out. Oh man. This is where it gets really embarrassing. There was a section on their page with a bunch of what looked like “Profile pics”. Just about the photos, it said something like “Send us your photos and we’ll feature them here.”
There was one photo that stood out to me. It was a Very Large Half Naked Woman. Curiousity got the best of me and I wanted to see her “page” so, I clicked on the photo! WORST MISTAKE OF MY INTERNET LIFE!
Instead of being taken to her myspace page. A little x came up on the screen and the photo downloaded to my computer and the next thing I know, a ton of pictures started pouring into my computer. At first, they were advertisement like photos, then, all of a sudden BAM! Look at this here very large cock! And look at this here, um, very shaved vagina! And then, and this is where I started to cry and panic, MY photos were being renamed to things like “Cocksucker” and “Tittay lovah”.
I won’t go into anymore details, because… BORING. But! I was able to download a few programs and apparently, they removed whatever the hell it was because there are no more pictures being imported and all of my pictures are back to the way they were.
I really hate hackers.
Celebratory Fingahs (Because seriously, the first thing I thought of when I could upload again was TAKE DOUBLE BIRD PICTURES FOR FLICKR!)
I give them The Double Bird!
Now! Let’s move onto some exciting stuff!
I am not feeling good today (translation: I’m hemorrhaging like a MOFO) so, I thought I’d treat myself to a Green Tea Frappucino. I got G-Unit dressed, put on a bra and off to Starbucks we went.
It was the most perfect Green Tea Frap that I’ve ever tasted. Just the right amount of Melon Flavor, perfectly blended, no huge ice chunks… It was truly perfect.
When we got home, G-Unit wanted to “WEE” on her “WEE”, and I knew that was what she wanted because she said “WEE! WEE?”. I was on a high from my Perfect Frap and even though I had a million things to do in the house, I was like “The housework can wait! Let’s WEE!”
Not two minutes into the Wee Session, I hear this strange buzzing sound. Chills ran up and down my body because it sounded a lot like a bee. And I’m scared of bees. Terrified, even. I look up and HOLY SHIT OMG BEEEEEES. EVERYWHERE. COMING RIGHT AT ME AND MY DAUGHTER.
I dropped my frappucino to the ground and I screamed something like “OMG! BEES! MUST GO! INSIDE! DON’T! WANT TO! DIE! MUST SAVE GABBY! OMG! BEEEEES!” whilst trying to get my daughter out of the swing.
I was telling myself to “stay calm” because “OH MY GOD THE BEES CAN SMELL MY FEAR AND THEY ARE GOING TO KILL ME!” But, “OMG THE BEES WERE GOING TO KILL ME!” So, staying calm wasn’t an option.
Yes. I thought they were “Killer bees” and yes, I thought they were coming to kill me and my daughter.
Now. I have a “history” of over reacting to things, but, in this case, I think my reaction was completely justified.
I got her out of the swing, ran to the door and tried to unlock it, but I was shaking so violently, I couldn’t get the key in the slot. I finally managed to get the key in, opened the door and shut it behind me.
G-unit was screaming, I was crying and not quite sure what to do.
“The police must know so they can warn The Citizens about the Killer Bees!” So, I called the police department.
The phone call went a little (or, maybe, just maybe EXACTLY) like this.
“Hi! OMG! I was outside with my daughter. OMG! Sorry! I’m so scared! I could have died. Ok. Um, So, I was outside with my daughter and OMG! Bees! They started coming towards us! I could hear them and OMG! I’m sorry! Bees! They came at us, hundreds of them! And! Omg! I’m so sorry, I’m freaking! I thought they were going to kill us! OMG! Help! They’re still in my front yard! I can’t open my door…”
“Maam? Let me give you the number to Vector Control.”
Vector control? Was she serious? Shouldn’t she be dispatching policemen and firemen to my house to figure out how to stop the vicious Killer Bees? Shouldn’t she be telling me things like “Oh my GOD! Keep the doors locked and do not go back out there!”
I call Vector Control and basically give them the exact same story and the lady was all “Ok, ma’am, do you still see the bees?”
“Yes! OMG! They’re in a huge pile in my tree! RIGHT NEXT TO MY DAUGHTERS SWING!”
Apparently, it was just a swarm of bees “resting” and they just happened to choose MY tree and um, they weren’t Killer Bees trying to kill me and my daughter and ha! ha! like always, I TOTALLY OVERREACTED.
And by totally overreacted, I mean “dropped my Perfect Frappucino and left it there to melt away.”
In all seriousness, I am always amazed at the intense and powerful instinct to protect my children from harm. The truth is, I was worried more about my daughter getting stung then I was about my own safety. I actually thought of how I would lay over her body and take the “stings” so she would be safe, but then got scared at what would happen to her if I died whilst being stung and she was left all alone there in the front yard where she could do things like “run into the street”.
And even though I was overreacting and the bees weren’t trying to kill us, I would have offered myself ALL OF THIS up to those bees in a second if it would keep my daughter safe.
But ha! ha! They were just regular ol’ bees looking for a place to rest.
Man. I really do need to learn how to Chill The Hell Out.

What’s that in the butter?

Last night I decided to mix it up get a little kahraaazy at the gym…
by getting a tan.
I’ve only “tanned” once in my life. I do not like tanning beds. They scare me. But, tomorrow is The Wedding and I thought it would be nice to have a little color on my skin.
The girl that works there took me into the tanning room, handed me my protective eyewear, and then, hands me a bottle of some kind of cleaner and informs me that I MUST CLEAN THE BED BEFORE I GET IT.
I have “germ issues”, and issues with “other people’s body sweat”, and so I would have preferred that the bed had been cleaned FOR me. Since that wasn’t happening, I forced a smile and said “Awesome! Thanks!”
Before she walked out, I asked her for a towel. I wanted to drape a little towel over my nipples (That word. Kills me.) because, I don’t ever want to experience burnt nipples.
“Sorry, we don’t have towels.”
Once again, I forced a smile “That’s ok! No big deal!”
But, actually, it was a HUGE deal to me. I did not want crisp-ay nipples and the thought of not having a towel to cover them with filled me with panic and anxiety.
It was time to “clean to bed.”
I picked up the spray bottle, got a bunch of paper towels (enough to protect my hands from Sweaty Wimmin Germs) and was about to spray when I saw “It.”
A pube.
Right there. In the middle of the bed. All alone, all curly. Just laying there.
Instant dry heaves.
No. Seriously. I couldn’t stop heaving.
A strangers Pube! On the bed I was going to lay naked on! STARING AT ME! ALL CURLY LIKE!
After I was able to stop heaving, I came up with “a plan.” No way in hell was I going to come near that thing, so, I decided to blow it out of the way. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and blew as hard as I could.
Now that The Pube was somewhere other than on the bed, I sprayed the shit out of that bed and after a couple seconds of wanting to throw up, I began to wipe that sucker down.
I am not ashamed to admit I cleaned it FIVE TIMES.
I began to get naked, but decided to keep the chonis on because NO WAY IN HELL was my naked butt going to lay on a bed where another woman’s pube had resided 3 minutes earlier.
Once I was naked (except for the chonis.) I had to decide what to do about “The nipples. I was seriously terrified of them getting burnt to a crisp and I can only imagine how much that would hurt. It only took me a minute and Ha! I had a plan! I came up with the awesome idea of making nipple covers out of paper towels. I tore a couple of small, (ok, large, because… ARE HUGE) round pieces, licked them and slapped those babies right on.
Pure genuis. I know.
After I made sure the protective eye wear was fitted perfectly on my eyes to avoid PERMENANT AND SEVERE EYE DAMAGE like the scary ass sign haning above the bed so clearly warned me about, I felt like I was ready to push the “start” button.
I took a deep breath, checked my Custom Nipple Covers to make sure they were in place, adjusted the glasses one last time to make sure that they were completely covered and finally… pushed the start button.
Six minutes later (I know, most people tan for about 12 minutes, but, being the paranoid freak of nature that I am, I asked her to cut my time in half because I was afraid of burning or getting blister and man, I would hate to show up at a wedding with blisters all over my body.) the whole ordeal was finally over and my skin has a lovely, very slight, darker tone to it.
I’m not quite sure it was worth all of the Drama, but, hey, it’s good to “live on the edge” and get a little wild and craaazy every once in a while.
And for me? That was wild and crazy, people.

Penis balloons are funny.

I’m still trying to recover from Saturday night.
This “getting old” business sucks.
I remember when I could bounce back from a night of rubber dicks and rum and coke like that. Not the case in my old age.
The Passion Party was more fun than I could have imagined.
Fun AND? Educational.
“Never put anything in your butt that doesn’t have a cord attached.”
Write that one down, people.
I was a slightly mortified at the beginning of the presentation, because the very pregnant lady used the words “handjob” and “stuff my box” in the first 5 minutes and I was like “lady, DO I EVEN KNOW YOU? Howza’bout easing into sessually explicit talk?”
But, then, she gave me a stick with a generous sample of cream that would make my nipples tingle and I was like “I love you, now why don’t you give me a little bit of that stuff that will make my vagina burn up in anticipation of some sweet love makin?”
And let me tell you, that stuff? The “enhancement” gel that you put on your, um, you know, hahaa, clitoris ha! HA! It makes you have to pee INSTANTLY and it burns like a MOTHER. Had she said “Your twat will BURN THE HELL UP” as opposed to “it will feel warm and tingly”? I might not have been the first one to stick my finger out so I could go to the bathroom and rub it on my ha! You know what.
I was the first one to try the products and the first one to laugh everytime she said “balls” and “handjob.”
I was also the winner of the “put the penis in the vagina” game. I called dibs on the dick (a plunger between my legs) leaving my partner with no choice but to be the “vagina” (a roll of toilet paper.) The team to get the “penis” into the “vagina” the fastest would win. I looked my partner in the eye and said “We’re SO winning this.” I hate to lose. The teams before us took over 20 seconds to achieve “penatration.” It took me less than 5 seconds to get mine in. BOOYAH!
Apparently, I know how to navigate a penis. Who knew!
I did order a few things, but I will not tell you what because that is only for Pighunter to know, but I will tell you that um, I will never be able to look at a dolphin in the same way ever again.
After the Party for Vaginas was over, we all jumped in a limo that was OVERFLOWING with liquor to head out to clubs for a little dancing and hilarious little “dares” for the bride to complete.
We each had to write our own dare for her. My dare?
Shout as loud as you can “I LOVE MY VAGINA!”
I thought it was funny.
Our first stop was El Toritos for a little dinner, you know, to absorb the absurd amount of alcohol we were about to consume. As much fun as I had talking with The Girls, I have to say, I can’t remember a time I have felt so stupid and pathetic as I did at that dinner.
They are have a college degrees, they all have sucessful careers, they all own houses and have lots of money.
Me? I don’t have any of the above. I’m an uneducated, overweight, housewife who got married at 19 years, popped out three kids and spends her days figuring out ways to stretch HER MAN’S money so she can pay the bills. I wanted to run outside and cry and maybe, perhaps run into oncoming traffic.
I can’t recall I’ve been more ashamed of the person I’ve turned out to be.
I know, I KNOW, I’m lucky because I have a good husband and three beautiful children and there are people who would kill to have such a precious family. I’m not trying to demish their importance and value in my life.
But, apart from my kids, I really feel like I am nothing. I am ashamed that I don’t have a degree. . I’m ashamed that even if I wanted to (which, right now, I don’t because I refuse to leave my little girl in daycare and I do LOVE staying home with her) I couldn’t go get a good job because “girlfriend don’t have an edu-kay-shee-own.” (If you got that, then you totally watch King of Queens and DON’T YOU LOVE THAT SHOW?) (And, man, I’m way overusing the parenthesis tonight and I should probably look up the word “parenthesis” because my un”higher”educated ass doesn’t even know if I spelled it right.)
After the dinner in which I felt ashamed and had to rip farts to aleviate the pain in my stomach, we hopped back into the limo and headed for a little pub called “O’Douls”.
I have to be honest and say that I didn’t want to go because I expected there to be music with pipes and lots of white men drinking beer, but man, was I wrong.
Let’s just say they should change the name of that place to O’Mexican’s. I felt right at home because the mexicans? They are My People.
In the limo, I was ALL TALK about “the dares” we had for the bride. I was like “Hey, if you don’t want to do one, pass it to me and I’ll do it because I’m WILD AND KAH-RAAZY and I DON’T EVEN CARE!” HA! HA! They whipped out the “Start a conga line” card and I was like “Hell to the no on that!” You see, I was in the midst of My People and I refused to bring shame to them. Like, what kind of a Mexican would I be if I busted out in a conga line during “Lean Back?”
Can I get a “Viva La Mexico?”
We decided to move along to a different place where we could annoy men (to help my friend complete her dares) and drink of The Devil Water. We ended up at a place called “The Palms” or something like that, I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention.
It was at this point in the night I became completely aware that I was “The Fat Girl” of the group and pretty much of the entire club and, once again, wanted to run to the bathroom and cry. BUT! Instead, I drank lots of alcohol and pretended to be totally ok with the big, fat body I was sporting.
I almost forgot about it when when guy approached me to ask me if I was single.
“No, I’m married.”
“Damn. Ok, but you’re HOT.”
“HA! HA! Right.”
*Whispers in my ear* “I’m going to give you my number anyway, beautiful.”
Isn’t that special? I kicked him in the vagina.
I decided to leave the group and hit the dance floor. The “underage” girl who got in using a cousins ID joined me and we danced our asses off with a guy named Victor who, for some reason, wanted us to find a way to get him invited to the wedding. I, in semi-drunkeness, was all “dude, don’t worry, you’re so there and I gave him my email address to prove that I meant it.
As if I have that kind of pull with my friends. I still think they only invited me because they wanted me to do The Worm if it got boring.
It never did get boring. The entire night was a blast, from start to finish and everywhere in between. Well, except the part where I wanted to kill myself because the only thing I can say when asked “So, what do YOU do?” is “Um, make tittymilk and stuff.”
Oh…OH! And the part where my friend got sick in the limo on the way home and DEMANDED that the limo driver pull over. On the freeway. At two something in the morning. When OTHER DRUNK PEOPLE ARE ZOOMING PAST YOU AT VERY HIGH SPEED AND YOU COULD POSSIBLY GET KILLED INSTANTLY IF THEY SWIRVED FOR ANY REASON.
Ok, and the part where I had to hold my friend’s hair up and pull it out of her face WHILE SHE PUKED because um, remember, I don’t even clean my children’s puke because I FEAR The Puke. But, everyone left and I had no choice but to take care of her, even if she was yelling at me the entire time. (“Leave me alone, Let me sleep here on the cold, hard floor! STOOOOPP ITTTT.”)
But other than THAT. Pure awesomeness.
It makes me wish that someone had thrown ME a bachlorette party.
I always miss out on all the fun stuff, man.