I’m over at In the Powder Room today! Go give them some love and check out why I think we probably shouldn’t be telling our girlfriends we acted like a slut at the bar last night.
I’m over at In the Powder Room today! Go give them some love and check out why I think we probably shouldn’t be telling our girlfriends we acted like a slut at the bar last night.
I was sitting here thinking today about all the things I wanted to make sure I tell my daughter at some point. I’m not talking the ooie-gooey things like, “I love you” or “You’re beautiful”. I’m talking the real, down and dirty tricks that I’ve picked up over the years.
This post may be full of generalizations, profanity, and of course sex. We’ll rate it “R” for Ridiculously Awesome.
1. Ignore every commercial you see for those fancy women’s razors. Skip that department completely and go straight for the men’s. Regardless of what they say, men’s razors always work better.
Also, it is perfectly acceptable to go without shaving your legs, as long as you are wearing pants and/or the hair is short enough to not poke through your pantyhose.
2. Speaking of pantyhose…it will never be comfortable. Ever. You can save yourself a bit of pain and buy one size up from what the little box-from-hell says you need. Doing this will not, however, pull in nice and tight all the areas you may be wanting nice and tight. For that, you’re going to need Spanx.
No need to be afraid. Spanx are basically like packing your own sausage.
3. Oh yes, home-made sausage and fresh pasta and God only know what else his mother makes that you never quite manage to get right. Give up. Give up now. He will always compare your cooking to his mother’s, and she will win in almost every category. There is something inside a man’s head that makes him nostalgic for the meals he had growing up (even if his mother could barely manage Kraft in the blue box). There are ways to combat the feelings of anger this will cause you.
– Do not ask for your mother-in-law’s recipes, or to teach you how to make a certain dish. In fact, compliment her always on her food (Wine helps). This will do two things: irritate her and confuse the balance that she expects to be in place.
– Take comfort in knowing that if you have a son, somewhere out there is a woman who will feel exactly like you when your son says, “It’s not like my mother’s makes”.
– Offer to house-sit for your in-laws and have sex with your husband in their kitchen. Then when you are over for dinner, just think back on that experience and smile. (Pass the wine.)
4. Instead of worrying about his mother’s cooking, focus on learning one meal really well. I’m talking entree, at least two sides, salad, soup, bread, and desert. Master that meal. Work at it until it is perfect. This will be your go-to meal. Your company is coming over meal. Your his mother is visiting meal. Your time to give the husband the credit card statement meal.
5. Learn to walk in heels. Go out and buy six inch stiletto platform hooker shoes. Put them on and walk on them until you have nailed those monsters. This way you will be prepared for whenever the husband (or anyone else) gives you a pair of heels. If you can master those, you can handle any, and are therefore less likely to spend weeks walking around in your new gift like a drunken flamingo.
6. Your children will hit an age where they practically become a parrot. And like any wild animal, you either muzzle them or toss food bits at them until they shut up.
7. Your body is your own, guard it. Until you have children, then anything you might be delirious enough to believe is still yours, isn’t.
8. At some point, someone in your life is going to offer you drugs. There are certain steps I want you to take before you accept them.
– Look at the person giving them to you…very carefully. Pay attention to detail here.
– Imagine yourself having sex with them in the next hour.
– Imagine your having sex with them without protection.
– Imagine getting pregnant with them.
– Imagine them 50, balding, and changing the diaper of your sixth child on the ripped couch in your trailer, while the rest of your kids are in the backyard shooting BB guns and attempting to tie each other up with duct tape. Oh, and you’re in a floral moo-moo.
– Turn around and walk away very quickly.
* The same applies to alcohol in excess. Except when you grow up. Then flip the image and imagine all your housework. Drink wine until the image disappears.
9. Finally, before you ever consider some life-long venture with a man, consider these things:
– Sex sucks the first time.
– Sex sometimes sucks the first couple of times. There’s a reason one-night stands normally stay that way. It takes a bit of time to actually learn one another well enough to have amazing sex.
– That didn’t apply to your father and I…and yes, we were a one-night stand turned marriage.
– Your father and I are NOT the role model in this situation.
– All the sex stuff aside, if they aren’t the kind of man you’d want to introduce to your father…best to just let that one go.
– If they don’t treat you the way you see your father treat me, run.
– If they put their hands on you, experience tells me crock-pots can be dangerous as hell. Make your way to a kitchen and it’ll be like running into the Matrix armory.
– If they cheat on you, they will do it again. If you’re the girl they cheated on someone with, they’ll cheat on you, too.
– If their pants sag, I WILL make them a soprano for life. You’ve been warned.
– If you can’t laugh with them, lose them.
– If you can’t laugh at them, trip them 😀
And finally, let me just say…
You are not allowed to look at your body and say, “I don’t like -insert body part here-“.
I made that.
With my body.
I made that.
You don’t get to not like it.
A few months ago, the husband and I went through a terrible loss. After multiple trips to the doctor and finally getting the green light for some quality time of the midnight-everyone-is-sleeping-we-still-have-to-be-quiet variety, I took the doc’s advice and went out and bought spermicide.
Let me just interject here and say that we are obviously two people who are simply not meant to use any form of contraceptive except implanted birth controls. Truly, our brains are simply not wired for this stuff.
But the doc said no baby making for two months, so we wanted to get in some practice before we catch that next green light. It was sort of like a Christmas present. Insert spermicide.
I read the instructions and proceeded to remove the applicator and try to fill that thing with the gel stuff. It was like packing my own tampon. I finally called in the reinforcements, which is when we realized that the applicator doesn’t come together in the way it is supposed to be used. You have to take it apart. Switch it around.
After I’d already filled the plunger part halfway with gel.
Yay. Let’s make a mess.
Finally, between the two of us, we managed to get the thing filled and then I continued with my instruction reading:
It is best to lay on your back, with your knees bent to insert.
Of course I read this out loud. Which is about when I get laughter and this from the husband:
Head down. Arms in. Knees apart.
I mean, as if the romance wasn’t already flowing at this point, now we were collapsed into fits of laughter that made it impossible for me to even attempt to insert this thing. There’s nothing so hot as watching a chick on her back, knees apart, clutching a syringe-looking thing of spermicide while she is laughing uncontrollably, eyes-watering and make-up running.
Insert as far as is comfortable.
Gotcha. So I did, let out a loud ouch, and got:
That’s not comfortable. Back ‘er up.
At this point I was giving serious consideration to slapping him into the moment. I mean, as if this whole thing weren’t
stressful hilarious enough, he has to jump in with his little comments. I kept thinking about my mother telling me her horror stories using this stuff. She and my father tried it one time…
By the way, these are the kinds of conversations that put your children in need of therapy. Just saying.
…and my father had some sort of reaction. He supposedly jumped up and ran off with his necessary love-making parts on fire. They obviously didn’t use spermicide again, and we were left with an ungodly amount of fear.
Yes. Let’s add liquid fire in here. Not like it’s sensitive or anything. This should be fun.
So, we finally get everything in where it is supposed to be and I read the rest of the instructions.
Product is active immediately after use and for up to one hour.
Crap, we only got an hour! We gotta go! Hurry up! C’mon! -Me
That’s really romantic.
I won’t fill you in on the rest of the messy details…except to say that at the end of the this tale, we didn’t get our happily ever after.
We got towels and attempted to wipe clean every surface of our bodies.
It just screams “Sexy”, doesn’t it?
The husband and I have been butting heads all Christmas season it seems. He wants to do more and more and more than I think is even necessary. So when my mother and I discussed whether we were going to do stockings for the adults this year (something the husband and I normally take care of), we figured we’d save some money and not bother with them. It isn’t as if they are full of things we all desperately need, or even that stockings are that important for the adults. It’s just something we normally do, and didn’t think we needed to continue to do.
I told the husband we were going to skip stockings for the adults this year.
And he flipped. Now, when I say “flipped” for the husband’s reactions, it means he gave me Eyebrow of Doom, growled a bit, and informed me that the foot was down and the stockings were happening.
Fine. The stockings are happening.
And then I spoke to a friend, who informed me in the nicest way possible that I was basically being an inconsiderate biatch.
You took a man with none of this. No real family life. No traditions. None of it, and you gave him all of that. You don’t get to take it back.
It made me stop and think. All these little things we do during the holidays that have become just a thing to me, mean something to him. They mean something, because we took him in. We made him part of our family. We drug him through our little traditions, and now he is defending them. He’s defending them because he’s got the caveman personality. This is his family, his Christmas. He’s the defender on the wall of our little one-story castle.
And here I’ve been, poking holes at it with my dull little javelin.
We didn’t make him part of this.
No. The gift my husband gave me is that he made all this something that was finally whole.
Which is crazy to think, you know? That we actually lived -coughsurvivedhack- an entire year.
As a wonderful new friend of mine has so kindly shown me the path, I am following in her hilarious, crooked, mismatched, and possibly tipsy footsteps to a new holiday tradition. If you are interested in this sort of visual Twister game, please, please go visit Hacker.Ninja.Hooker.Spy and her awesome Family Christmas Letter. You will love her, I swear.
Now, this isn’t the first time I’ve written about holiday traditions. But Christmas Happened was more of the slightly funny, but mostly sappy flavor. And since I can’t get through the holidays only baking up one kind of festive holy-crap-I-made-that-and-it’s-actually-pretty creations…I’m here to add my own, traditional Family Christmas Letter.
You know those letters. Those “Look what I did this year” letters. Those “Isn’t my family beautiful and perfect” letters. Those “Aren’t you just so jealous that I have the time to condense my entire fabulous year into 12 pages of ego vomit for your
misery pleasure” letters.
Merry Christmas! Season’s Greetings! Happy Holidays! Joyous Kwanzaa! Pleasant Hanukkah! God/or Whoever You Do or Do Not Believe in Bless You!
2013 was a fantastic year for our big, mixed up (we have too many last names to put them all here) family! And as you can see, we’re still working hard on our promotions across Facebook for the freedoms for all religions to worship, or not, as they choose. We’ve added to our list of Things We Post to Make Our Family Block Us: Women’s Rights, Left-Wing Conspiracies, Democrats for Hilary Clinton as President, and Science Does Exist (as does global warming and evolution). I’m happy to report that I’ve gone from almost 300 friends to a overwhelming 27 co-conspirators. We have been so blessed.
The year started out with so many resolutions. I resolved myself to the fact that I was going to have to be a writer, whether I wanted to or not. The voices simply would not leave me alone, and so I chose to accept them. I started three different blogs, with one who managed to survive to today. My little baby, Badass Women of History is still alive, but struggling. Let’s all say a prayer, have a moment of silence, or ignore this completely if you’d like for her. Hopefully she’ll be out of therapy and on her feet again in 2014!
I even enrolled back in college, discovered the world was still full of young morons we are happily promoting to statuses allowing them to make important decisions for future generations, and so one semester later…I escaped. That’s right. I ran for the hills and left behind the digital world of online learning, where intelligence doesn’t matter and grammar is a myth. Yes, the world of week long discussions on “Who’s your favorite President of all time?” and “What was cool about that character?”. The magical land where you lose letter grades for writing half a page over the required two pages for a final paper, or mantras like “Who needs to understand the meaning behind this story? NO ONE!” are chanted on every available chat room corner. Yes. I escaped.
I even started a diet this year. Five times! It was an amazing process. I kept watching the Kellogg’s commercials and then I would
run drive to the store (this diet never mentioned exercise) and buy up all the crap is that cardboard? tasty Kellogg’s flakeys I could find. Yum. I gained ten pounds this year. I’m so proud of me.
March was exciting. I published my second book. I sold two copies of it. Which is eight less than my first book. I knew I was on my way then, and immediately set out to work on book number three. I mean, the only way I had to go was down, and with some really hard work and perseverance…I did it. Book three came out in October and I’ve sold…wait…ZERO COPIES. I know. It’s so exciting!
Towards the end of April we had a bit of excitement. I even documented the conversation, just so I could remember the wondrous feelings of panic, stress, and oh-my-god-I’m-going-to-puke.
Me: My brother’s coming home in June.
The Man: Yeah? Cool.
The Man: -Playing his video game.- We’ll get married while he’s home. Go ahead and set that up.
Me: –Insert my own Eyebrow of Doom. (It was a rare sighting, purely brought on by immense shock and unable to be viewed again.)- Whaaaaa?
So the wedding planning began…the next day. It was a beautiful affair (no sarcasm here folks…it was very pretty). The night before was a lot of fun. The man, the brother, and the friend/crazy stressed-out wedding planner and myself got to decorate the entire space the night before. The man was sick. He got dizzy on a ladder and I got to send him home, to fall asleep without me, while I continued to fill this space with as much green, orange, and yellow as humanly possible.
I only had one major freak out before the ceremony, so I count that as a complete win. And I’m not responsible for any of the therapy I may have induced when I lost it in the kitchen and stood there in my dress, demanding they bring me The Man while tears drew streams of make-up down my beautiful, blushing cheeks.
I only managed to hurt myself by accident once this year, and it involved a slip-in-slide, so it wasn’t completely my fault. I mean, in my defense, the year before I played on it all day and I was fine. How was I to know that after four or five slips I would be reduced to a hunched over, whining pile of shit-I’m-that-old. I may have had a birthday this year, but I’m stopped counting them. Everyone else got older though. Everyone.
The husband and I both hurt ourselves on purpose. I let a few men stab me, and he let a big Irish guy poke him. I don’t judge…I let the Irish guy poke me, too.
For some reason I believed that the massive canvas that is my thigh wouldn’t be painful. I wore the Cone of Shame on this one. That’s okay though. I wore the Cone so much this year, I should have gotten an award for it. I may have actually, but since this year was the year the husband domesticated me, and since I suck at that as much as I do, the award is probably lying under the pile of clothes that has never found its way into the closets and drawers…or maybe behind that stack of books that we now use like an extra coffee table. It might even be under the bed. I don’t know what’s under the bed anymore. I think it is alive and it eats things…like my award.
So yes, the husband domesticated me. He started a new job and I quit mine. I mean, I don’t need a job. I’m a woman. My power increases tenfold when I enter a kitchen. I become an unstoppable force, surrounded by a cloud of flour and spitting pure vanilla extra into the eyes of my enemies. I am so glad the husband noticed my wonderful disposition towards this lifestyle, and I’m learning my place, truly.
I even got all the good kitchen stuff for my bridal shower, including the waffle maker I use specifically to crush cinnamon rolls down into crunchy, made-for-my-thighs goodness. I went on an absolute baking spree, and even did a halfway good job of it. Enough so that I looked into what it would take to open my own bakery. That’s right…I was going to start my own business. I am so good at following through with everything I start…I’m still home with no bakery. You figure it out.
But those cooking supplies are coming in handy, because we’re back in the holiday season, and now that the husband has made it his goal to put us into eternal debt for Christmas, I’m going to need these baking skills I’ve been
All in all, it has been a good year. My children are still alive. I haven’t used my “one” (the one chance I have to nail the husband in the face with no threat of retaliation), and I am still the tattooed, dyed, offensive bitch with a backbone that I’ve always been. I wish you the best in whatever holiday you are celebrating and remember…you’ll never quite be as awesome as I am, but that’s okay. I’m just here to give you a visual image of something to strive for.
It may be hard to tell here, but you can almost see the Eyebrow of Doom.
Now, I get the raised eyebrow a lot. Normally it means one of three things:
1. I’m getting ready to get scolded. -In my best the husband voice-
The foot is down.
2. I did something stupid, which means the eyebrow raises only long enough for him to let me know I did something stupid. It’s like the warning shot before the laughter and endless teasing follows.
or 3. I was wrong.
I don’t like that last one.
See, I can handle when “the foot is down”, because this white chick and her lack of rhythm can pull off some fancy dance moves to get around that one. Hence why the daughter is getting the One Direction bed set she asked for…regardless of the many “foot downs” that took place.
And I can handle doing something stupid, because…it’s me. I’ve gotten used to that about myself.
I don’t like that last one. I don’t like to be wrong. I like it even less, because when I finally have to admit it the eyebrow goes up, as does the corner of the mouth in that little I-knew-it smirk, and I get the silent, twinkling of the eye that is the equivalent of some Greek grandmother wagging a finger in my face and yelling “I told you so!” It’s the cone of shame, dammit.
So, when we went to Walmart and I see a lady standing at the end of the row where the cash registers are looking all friendly and helpful like the Walmart people do standing there when they have no costumers and are ready to wait on someone…
Me: Oooh, look there’s a lady open down there.
The husband: I think that’s self-checkout.
Me: No it’s not. C’mon. -To the Walmart lady.- Are you open?
Oh! And that’s AFTER he found the shirts that I swore they were sold out of, because I couldn’t find them anywhere, except I neglected to look in the main aisle where there were stacks of the neon horrors.
Or when we argued the whole way home about this video for Adrenalize by In This Moment. We both might have a bit of a girl crush on the lead singer…
And so I swore that in the beginning of the video she was walking out in her nurse outfit with a rabbit mask on. He said no, it was some almost faceless, nude colored mask.
I pulled up the video on my phone, but the screen is so small (not small enough that I couldn’t tell it wasn’t a rabbit mask, but small enough that I shoved it back into my pocket and thought to delay until we got home)…
So he pulled it up on his bigger, fancier phone.
Yeah. But there are rabbit masks…later in that video. If you watch the whole thing.
And then tonight happened. You see, while we were at Walmart I grabbed The Dark Knight out of a $5 bin thinking the kids would love to see it. It’s Batman. Of course they’d love it.
The husband: That’s a little old for them.
Me: It’s Batman! It’s fine.
The husband: It’s violent, and the Joker is a little intense in that one.
Me: Oh, pfft. They’ll be fine.
The Dark Knight came on TV today, and so I let the son sit down and watch it with me.
The son: The Joker is killing a lot of people.
The son: He said son of a…
Which is when I slapped a hand over his mouth, shook my head no repeatedly, and turned on SpongeBob.
I forgot how scary that guy was.
And then my mother…my traitorous mother (I say that with love and affection) TOLD THE HUSBAND about the Batman catastrophe…
I had to do it.
I had to put on the cone of shame.
Me: You were right.
The husband: Oh yeah?
-Insert Eyebrow of Doom here-
This whole transition to staying home/not working outside of the house, and then becoming pregnant and being SO sick…I’ve gotten lazy.
I didn’t want to say it.
I didn’t want to admit it.
But I have.
I can’t remember the last time I put on make-up, just because. Or that I thought, ‘Hmmm…let’s wear jeans.’ Nope. I’ve been rocking the husband’s sweatpants and sleepy pants for a solid couple of months.
I wear them to the doctor’s.
To the kid’s school.
To the store.
I might as well have been wearing a big neon sign saying, “I GIVE UP” or these. I could have worn these:
I knew it was bad, when we got invited to the husband’s aunt’s annual Christmas party. It’s one of the few excuses we have to get dressed up during the holiday season, since we’re more stay-at-home-ers than travel-all-over-ers. (Oh my grammar this morning…-facedesk-)
The husband doesn’t like to get dressed up, but he will if I do. So when I told him I ordered something to wear for the party, he gave me the one eyebrow raised, oh-shit-she’s-snapped-finally look.
I may or may not have stomped my feet and attempted to defend my case, in which he finally agreed with me in some effort to probably get me to shut up.
The point is…I ordered a dress. And because he loves me, he is giving me an early present and ordered me a pair of kick ass shoes to go along with said dress.
Then I went out and bought hair dye. And I’m going to paint my nails.
I’m going for epic transformation here.
And I figure…
So fingers are crossed as the dress and shoes arrive in the mail today, for the party tomorrow…
What about you? Ever feel like giving yourself a total transformation? Ever slide into habits of laziness and have to kick that crap to the curb? Have boobs like Jessica Rabbit and aren’t sharing? Tell me about it!