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.)
But ENOUGH OF THE DEPRESSING, SELF HATRED SHIT, ON TO THE DRUNKEN GOODNESS THAT IS “BARHOPPING!”
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.
Category Archives: random
A party. With Balls. For my vagina.
Next weekend, I will be attending a “Passion party”.
Words can not even express THE PURE JOY I feel inside of my heart (and, let’s be honest, my vagina is pretty darn excited too.)
I have never been to one of these parties, but I once had a friend whose mother sold sex toys and such and man, did we have fun looking at them and trying to figure out what they were for. (We were pre-teen and very curious.)
I can GARUANTEE YOU that I will be laughing during the entire presentation because as much as I like to talk about my vagina and boinking, I will be very uncomfortable in a room filled with unfamiliar vaginas.
How WEIRD is it going to be when they start talking about BEN-WA BALLS (ha! ha! HAHA!) and I make eye contact with some woman who is thinking about buying them and I know she very well may be WALKING AROUND WITH SILVER BALLS UP IN HER TWAT?
The funny thing is that I remember seeing those in my friend’s mom’s collection of sex toys and I HELD THEM IN MY HANDS whilst pondering what a person could possibly do with cold, silver balls that would make them feel good in the places I wasn’t supposed to know about yet.
I get it now! BENWABALLS!
BALLS!
I am going to FREAK OUT, PEOPLE.
Especially if they whip out THE LOVE SWING.
As if the swing itself isn’t enough to make me laugh until I piss myself, take a gander at the “description.”
Suspend your partner at the perfect height for making love standing or in those tricky positions that normally hurt your knees or back. Moving your partner is effortless, providing you both more energy for passion.
My first question on that one will be, “What’s the weight limit?” Because, does that look like it could safely hold ALL OF THIS? I mean, I think at my weight, one would have to have vaulted ceilings to NOT HIT THE GROUND the minute one sat down in anticipation for some KAH-RAAZY VERTICAL BOINKING.
I have seriously reverted back to around the age of 11 where I do not find these things sexy or exciting but,um, TOTALLY HILARIOUS.
I’m already dying here and there are still 8 DAYS until I actually am sitting in a room with women I don’t know looking at products that are going to quite possibly TOUCH AND OR BE STUCK INSIDE OF OUR VAGINAS.
There is no possible way I can be mature about this. I know, some of you are thinking “get a grip, woman, it’s not a big deal.” But, I have lived a sheltered life, a life in which my father was a pastor and um, we didn’t talk about “down there”.
The BEST PART about this is that right after The Party? We’re hopping in a limo and GOING CLUBBING.
Think about that for a minute.
Three o’clock, I’m all “So, what you’re telling me is that I stick that up me twat, and then bend over backwards whilst he’s licking this bubblegum oil off of my boobs?” Two hours later I’m in a club, on a dance floor, with strangers. Do you have any idea how much I’m going to want to run around telling everyone what I just learned?
“HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF BEN WA BALLS? DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOU PUT THEM? WANT ME TO TELL YOU? HAHA!”
Y’all? This is has the potential to be the greatest night of my entire life.
jumpy
‘Er since finding out that a mouse is indeed in our house, I’ve been “on edge.”
I’m extremely paranoid. Every noise literally makes me jump. Just now, as I was taking a dump, a pincher bug scrawled across the floor and I threw my feet up and screamed! SCREAMED! How was I supposed to know it wasn’t a mouse?! It could have been a mouse!
I feel violated. Violated and all vomity inside. My life was fine and dandy until they showed up. I could actually walk in the kitchen and look in the cabinet for something to snack on without putting on a pair of boots and carrying a flashlight.
I refuse to open the cabinet below the sink, so I made Tony put all the “essentials” on the counter top. (like the dishwashing detergent, the windex, trashbags.) Also, and this is our little secret because I think Tony would feel justified in slapping the shit out of me if he knew this, I take a kitchen chair with me when I need to open the fridge and I stand on it before opening the fridge because that is where the mofos are running to hide. And WHAT IF ONE RUNS OUT WHILE I’M SEARCHING FOR SOME MAYO?
I’m sure this is giving you the impression that I’m a big fat (ha! ha!) wimp, and, I’ll fully admit, when it comes to certain creatures, be they a potato bug a MOTH, or A misquito (ok and/or Aaron Neville.) I am a frightened little girl. But I think the fact that I once chased a purse snatcher in a dress and heels AND gave birth twice without an epidural should TOTALLY cancel out the fact that I have been standing on a chair in order to take the milk out of the fridge.
When my dad came to remove the dad mouse from my house a little while ago, he was somewhat disgusted at my behavior. I gave him a trash bag and screamed “DO NOT MOVE IT UNTIL I AM OUT OF THE ROOM I CAN NOT SEE IT.”
“Mija! It’s just a mouse! Stop it!”
I feel so misunderstood.
I am honestly and truly freaked the hell out by this mouse business. Amy described it perfectly when she said “it’s like you can feel them crawling all over your body.”
I have to move. Move to a place far away from the mice.
Violated.
OH SWEET JESUS I THINK A MOUSE TRAP JUST WENT OFF AND I DO NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO BECAUSE I AM TOO SCARED TO LOOK AND OMG A DEAD MOUSE COULD BE IN MY KITCHEN ALL DAY AND I NEED YOU TO HOLD ME.
THIS IS WHAT I LOOK LIKE WHEN I GET EXCITED.
I was hesitant about writing the post below. I thought “surely, people must be so tired of hearing about my weight loss! They’ll roll their eyes and tell me to shutup about it already!”
Oh, I was so wrong about you, Internet.
Your comments, your words of encouragement and support, they mean more to me than I can express here. I wish I could hug you all and tell you thank you. And those of you who said things like “you inspire me.” Y’all made me cry. I don’t feel very inspiring, it’s taking me FOREVER to lose it and I’ve whined and bitched about it the entire time, but, if you say my loss is inspiring to you, that it makes you feel like you can do it to, that’s AWESOME. I feel so very “WE CAN DO THIS! LET’S KICK SOME ASS, WIMMINS!” right now. It’s almost sickening how positive and motivated I feel right now. So, for that, I thank you. (Those of you fighting your own battle of The Fat, please, feel free to email me ANYTIME and we can cry, complain and motivate each other on the days we feel like we can’t continue. Or we can brag, and say things like “OMG! I lost another pound!” Ok? Ok!) See? Told you, TOTALLY EXCITED AND POSITIVE RIGHT NOW. And, while this is much better than whiny-ness, it’s kind of sickening and making me want to puke. But in a good way!
In other news….
My friend JODI. (ha! ha! I said your name. J-O-D-I.)had her baby 3 weeks early and in my “excitement mode” I was all “Let me cook you dinner tonight!” Which, I really want to do, but I am panicking because I suddenly realize that I am a horrible cook. There are only 3 things that I make that people rave about. One being Mamarosa’s green sauce chicken enchiladas with spanish rice and salsa meal. The other one being a spinach artichoke dip (which is SO EASY and is cooked in the microwave, so it doesn’t even count) the other a pasta salad (which, um, ANYONE CAN MAKE as long as they have access to some Paul Newman balsamic vinegar dressing, so, again, doesn’t really count.) So, actually,I only have ONE “speciality” that I can make that I am proud of.
I feel like such a failure of a women right now. Hello? My grandma is a MASTER CHEF. All her pasta? From scratch. Pies? From scratch.
She truly is the greatest cook I’ve ever known, (but, sadly, in her old age she doesn’t care much about “sanitation” while cooking and I’m somewhat scared to eat her food for fear of contamination.) My mother? Awesome cook. She makes the best mexican dishes and the woman is full blooded honkey.
Me? I’m all “chili cheese dogs with corn on the cob (which was frozen because I was too lazy to buy fresh!)!” Or “Hey grilled chicken and beans. Again!”
I’m so ashamed.
And I didn’t even mention all of the slippery oil
“pump it. Faster”
“Is it getting hard?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Go faster. Is it firm?”
“Oh yeah, it’s firm.”
“Good. Hold it. Don’t let go.”
This is what me helping my husband change the brakes on my van sounds like.
If you don’t look good, we don’t look good…
I’ve always been somewhat obsessed with having pretty hair. When I was in high school, “Pretty” meant “Huge Bangs”, lots of hairsrpay and absolutely NO MOVEMENT WHATSOEVER.(Which, was so easy to achieve thanks to totally awesome inventions like THE SPRUSH.)
In my 20’s, I became a Hair Product Whore. A Snobby Hair Product Whore.
Hair products from Rite aid? GASP. Not on my precious, long, shiny, beautiful hair!
High end salons were the ONLY place I’d buy shampoos, conditioners and other products.
I will confess to using V05 hot oil treatments every once in a while (Haaaa! heating up “oil” in a coffee mug whilst soaping up in the shower. Oh, the memories). But, other than that, no product from Kmart would touch my hair.
Oh, how times have changed. Three kids + lots of bills + ONE INCOME= must purchase shampoo from the grocery store and ONLY if it’s on sale and I have a coupon. I’m currently using Dove shampoo and Treseme conditioner. I’ll tell people “there’s no difference! One just costs more!” BUT? I don’t really believe that. I miss my fabulous shampoos, and “deep conditioners”. I miss products that ACTUALLY MADE MY HAIR SMOOTH. (Frizz ease is ASS, people. A-S-S.)
I want to start splurging on my hair again because it’s really starting to feel coarse, and it’s not as shiny as it once was. The problem is I’m TOTALLY out of touch on all of the “good” products. I used to be all hip to that because I’d read the magazines and discuss “products” with my Very Expensive Hair Stylist. Matrix Biolage was The Shit back in the day. Is it still? Or is there something better out there now?
This is where you come in, Internet. I KNOW there are some Product Whore Snobs who read this. Why don’t you tell me what are the MUST HAVES for my hair. Products that will make my hair smell FIERCE, that will make my hair smooth as G-units Buttocks, that will make it as shiny as Tony’s forehead, that will make it thick and so on.
Feel free to throw in your favorite skin care products because this Dirty Whore Year Old Mother of Three has got some SERIOUS WRINKLE ACTION going on. OH and blotching. THE BLOTCHING.
I feel like splurging on some Good Product and I’m asking for YOUR HELP because I don’t want to waste the money I have to save on Crap.
Get out of me pre-FACE.
Saturday night I forced myself to get in my VAN and drive to Skits’ 40th birthday party. I say “force myself” because, well, I’ve not been feeling so hot, and when I feel this way, I like to hide from the world. However, I am growing (ha! ha!) and learning how to push those feelings aside and not them control me and not let them keep from from enjoying life. Also? There was no way I was going to let my weight issues keep me from seeing Skits one last time before she moves.
So, I bought some new earrings to make myself feel better and headed on out to El Torito.
I’m so glad I didn’t listen to “my feelings.”
I had a fabulous time with my friends. I mean, does it get any more fabulous then ME singing “As Long as You Love Me” by Backstreet boys? Seriously, pointing whilst singing The Backstreet Boys is TOTALLY fabulous, right? And, so totally, completely “cool”, no? And so is owning their “greatest” “HITS” CD, YES?!
Speaking of “Fabulous”, I have to tell you about my friend Joelle. (I hope she does not kill me) She’s an incredibly beautiful woman. I’ve always thought that, always. But, saturday night, when she walked in the room, she was so stunning, it actually took my breath away. She had a really hot new haircut (10 inches… GONE) and was wearing a hot pair of jeans and MAN, I was in awe. I felt very ugly for about 2 minutes while standing next to her, but the thing is this, not only is she beautiful? She’s got a great personality to match. She’s not “stuck up” what so ever. Infact? She’s loving, warm and she’s all classy n’shit. That’s rare, to find someone that gorgeous with such a good, pure spirit. I feel lucky to know her, I really do.
(Dear Joelle,
Are you mad at me for writing this? Circle YES or NO
Love U 4 Evah,
-Y)
The night ended on a sad note. Having to hug Skits “goodbye”. I know we’ll see each other again, BUT I HATE CHANGE. I hate that she’s not going to be a couple freeways and just an hour away anymore. HATE it. I hate that should I accidently get pregnant again, she won’t be able to throw me another baby shower and make beans and weenies for me at her house here in california. I hate that I won’t be able to email her and be all “Todd Glass is going to be at The Improv next week, wanna go?” I guess that’s life. Things happen, people move, life changes. You have to accept it and make the best of it. But, that doesn’t mean I can’t HATE IT.
I wish PigHunter had come with me, but, he’s a homebody and was all “Go! By yourself! Have fun! Don’t let dumb people get you down! Enjoy life! SING BACKSTREET BOYZ WHILST POINTING YOUR FINGER IN THE AIR! Because that’s cool!” (He might not have actually “said” the thing about backstreet boys, but he totally said it with his eyes)
So, alone I went.
And I’m happy I did. I needed to be around friends and let loose a little.
Ok. A lot. Because saying “I have to PEE!” very loudly in a restaurant is “letting loose A LOT.”
The one in which I say “And MAN” constantly
I was recently interviewed by Regina Lynn from Wired News.
She was doing a story about the annual “Boobiethon”. I spoke with her on Tuesday evening and after we talked about the ‘Thon, the subject turned to my blog.
She gave me some extremely awesome compliments, told me that she loved my blog and had spent an hour reading it, then… THEN, she said that, are you ready for this? I was a “great writer”.
A professional WRITER thinks I’m a “great writer.”
Go figure. (And yes, I do believe that was a Toot of my Own Horn)
After the complimenting of my great writing skillz (Ha! Haaa!), the conversation quickly turned to The Fat. She told me she could totally relate to my struggle with The Fat. We had a really great conversation about our body issues, I really appreciated her perspective.
After our phone call, I sent her an email that said we should meet up for coffee sometime, that way, she could see “that I’m not lying when I talk about my weight and how gross I really am.”
Funny stuff, RIGHT?
Not so much. This was her response.
the way i see it, if we women keep telling our lovers that we’re huge and gross, eventually they will believe us .. and then that steady stream of “you’re beautiful” dries up … and then perhaps we drive them to go find a woman who isn’t huge and gross (translation: who doesn’t tell them she’s huge and gross, because the men wouldn’t have noticed if we hadn’t old them … )
I’m not saying that you’ll lose your husband if you don’t shut up. LMAO!!! i’m just saying that since you’re NOT huge and gross, and your husband knows it and I know it, it makes me wonder what’s really behind it. what’s the real worry there? that someone won’t love us, or that we’re not deserving of love, and as long as we are “huge and gross” we can pretend it’s because of that rather than admit what disgusting people we really are inside?
sigh. it’s so complicated being female, isn’t it? and ex-Catholic (in my case).
Whoa, huh?
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about those words since I read them. They’ve been bouncing around my head ‘err since. A LOT to think about right there. And man, am I thinking about it.
I also haven’t been able to stop thinking about whether she would actually “quote” me in her article.
Well, she did and MAN, I’m SO glad I asked her not to link my blog. I’m feeling slightly embarassed at what I said, but, then again, I have this problem where I think everything I say or do is “dumb”. (I’M WORKING ON THAT, SO DON’T LECTURE ME) But, yeah, I’m glad I asked to NOT be linked. HA!
(That’s right, I turned down a BUTTLOAD of hits. I bare my soul on this blog, and the thought of thousands of people clicking over here FREAKS ME OUT. I don’t write here to get a ton of hits. I write here because it’s cheap therapy, because I connect with people who I can relate to, who understand where I’m coming from, who are supportive and kind. I write here because I enjoy writing.)
Well, that, and because I love talking about farts, boobs and vaginas on The Internet.