Category Archives: Only Me

More Like The Monte OhHELLNo

Last year we spent our wedding anniversary in Vegas. We had such an amazing time, I knew that I wanted to do it again this year. Except this year was out 20th, so I wanted it to be a bit more extravagant. For us, “extravagant” basically means “willing to spend more than $58 for a room via Hotwire.”
So, last month I spent days searching various websites looking for a good deal on a nice room with a jacuzzi.
Out of all of the hotels and all of the deals that I found, I ended up booking a Spa Suite at the Monte Carlo.
You may be all “the Monte Carlo? BUT WHY?”
You see, last month I stayed there and I had a pleasant experience. The hotel was clean, our room was nice, the staff was friendly and I loved the location. (I’m easy to please. Obvs.)
I was in love with The Room I Booked. I imagined myself sitting in the spa, with a glass of wine in one hand and my husband’s…hand in the other, admiring the beautiful view and flashing lights. I imagined other things that I won’t write here because certain members of my family read this blog now and they’re kind of sensitive about things that involve me talking about sex in any way, shape or form. I swear, I mention my Blow Job Punch Card Reward System ONE TIME.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I had high hopes for this room, for the spa, for my vagina.
The day after Thanksgiving was Our Big Day. The drive to Vegas started off rough– nothing like dead stopped traffic to test our marriage! But, traffic didn’t last for long and after I apologized for blaming the traffic on my husband, we had a wonderful time! We smiled a lot and talked about how much fun we were going to have (and when I say “fun” I mean, YOU KNOW WHAT, MY FAMILY.)
After we checked into the hotel, we did that really fast walk that people who want to hurry up and get naked so that they can “eat at the buffet all night long” do. We opened the door to our room and, well, it was nice. But the window was FILTHY and the view was not all that sweet and I could feel The Disappointment rising from within my soul and into my eyeballs but I was NOT going to cry about a dirty window with a not so pretty view! Instead, I asked my husband to call and ask if we could get a room with a nicer view.
The person who answered our call was very nice and offered us another room. We picked up our suitcases and headed down to the 19th floor. We walked in and it looked exactly the same as the other room! Except that we could actually see out of the window and the view was pretty sweet. But then I walked over to the tub and that is when I saw it.
Other People’s Pubes.
I kind of freaked out.
PigHunter rushed over to have a look.
He saw the pubes (that wasn’t the only one.) I started to cry.
“There is a pube in our spa! I can’t go in there. I will never be able to go in there!”
He picked up the phone and actually said the words “there is a pubic hair in our spa. My wife is crying. This is our 20th anniversary. Can we get a room with a nice view and a clean spa that does not have pubic hair, please?”
The person on the other end of the phone apologized. Then, he offered us a new room and a free buffet for the two of us. I didn’t care about free food. I just wanted a Pube Free Spa.
We picked up our things for the 2nd time and headed to our 3rd room.
The first thing I did upon entering room #3 was run to the spa to check for OPP. I was relieved to see that the spa was clean and Pube Free. I took a look around and everything seemed to be fine. So, I put all of my things down, took off my shoes and went to sit down on the sofa.
Except that just as I was about to sit, I noticed a rather large stain. I remained calm while I pointed it out to my husband.
“That’s not blood, is it?” I asked.
“I hope not.” He replied.
I hope not was not the answer I wanted to hear. I wanted him to say “hell no that’s not blood! It’s chocolate!”
Within the next 5 minutes, we discovered the following:
A half empty bottle of Coke. Something sticky all over the nightstand. Stains on my pillow case.
PigHunter made another call to the front desk. They sent someone up to inspect the room. They cleaned up the room while we stood there and watched (aaaaawkward.) The hotel gave us a $50 food and drink comp for the inconvenience.
Once the drama was behind us, we were able to relax and have a great night.
We enjoyed our free buffet. Played some slots. Went back up to the room to chill for a bit, fell asleep, woke up and laughed about how old we are, freshened up and went out for some drinking and dancing and some laughing and some kissing and some arguing and some more dancing and some walking through the hotel lobby angrily while I said things like “I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU RIGHT NOW!” and then some apologizing and some cuddling and finally some [edited for family] bible study time.
Four hours later I wake up to the sound of water dripping. I hope it’s just a dream because am so tired from all of the dancing. It’s not a dream. The sound of water is real, but where the eff is it coming from? I get up and look to see if our shower was leaking. Nope. I check the toilet. Nope. So, I go back to sleep.
A few minutes later, PIgHunter wakes up.
“I hear water running.” He says. “Do you hear it?”
We look around the room. PigHunter goes “Oh my God.” I turn around and see this:
Water, pouring from the ceiling down the wall next to our bed.
What! The! Hell!
I call the front desk to let them know that “Hi! There is water pouring into our room from the ceiling!” PigHunter tries to keep me calm while I go on and on about the possibility of the ceiling crashing in on us and five minutes later, there’s another person in our room, inspecting things while we stand around and watch.
The water situation is fixed, PigHunter leaves to go get us breakfast. While he’s gone, hotel security comes up to take pictures. He asks if any of our personal property was damaged, I was like “do hopes and dreams count as personal property because if so, YES! PERSONAL PROPERTY HAS BEEN DAMAGED!”
Two minutes after Security Guy leaves, there is a knock on the door. There is a dude standing there with a stack of towels. I was confused. “Ohh, did you come to clean up the water?” I ask. He was confused. “someone called up for towels.” Hmmm. Maybe PigHunter called up for the towels? I don’t know, but I want this guy to leave because I’m sick of Random Hotel Staff all up in my room so I take the towels and set them on the counter.
When PigHunter came back with breakfast, he noticed the towels on the counter.
I told him that some dude dropped them off. “I thought maybe you had called and asked for towels?”
My husband, who is one of the most level headed, kind, calm people on the face of the earth, lost his shit.
He started ranting and raving. “Oh, do they expect US to clean up the mess? Do they think we’re going to spend our anniversary trip drying up all of this water? OH HELL NO THIS IS NOT RIGHT I’LL BE RIGHT BACK AAHHHHHHHHH!
He had every right to be angry. The water leak? Not their fault. But you know, it happened and they didn’t call to check on us or offer to move us to a room that did not have soaking wet carpet. Instead, they sent up a stack of towels so we could clean up the mess ourselves? Um, no.
The hotel offered us another room (#4!) and a $100 food/drink comp.
So, we had to pack up our things again and move to another effing room.
When we made it into our 4th! room (which, by the way, was pretty much perfect) I plopped my over fed ass on the bed and sighed the loudest sigh I’ve ever sighed in my entire life time. This was not the get away I had hoped for. This was nothing like I had imagined it would be. It was stressful and annoying and I wanted a do-over. I allowed myself to sulk for a bit (why do these things always happen to meeee? Why can’t things ever go right for me?) then I sucked it up and vowed to make the very most of the little time we had left (to use the mofo spa) together.
We finally did make it into the spa (to pray, of course, my family!) late Saturday night. We turned the water on, got in (in bathing suits!) poured the bubbles and settled in (on opposite sides of the spa!) I poured some bubbles in and pushed the button to turn on the thing that makes the water all bubbly? The jets? The power nozzles? THE WHATEVER THE EFF THEY’RE CALLED. Anyway, I pushed the on button.
I pushed again.
I pushed it again, held it down for a few seconds.
I could feel the anger rising within my soul.
“It’s not working!” I said, in a voice that sounded kind of satanic because… ANGER! RAGE! ANOTHER THING IS WRONG!
Tony jumped to his feet and leaped out of the tub.
“I am going to call them right now!” He shouted, all angrily. “This is not okay! IT IS NOT OKAY!”
And then I remember reading somewhere that in order for the spa jets (?) to work, the tub had to be filled to a certain point. So I told my naked (kidding, family!) husband to get back in and wait for the tub to fill up a bit and we’d try again.
Sure enough, it worked.
After we stopped laughing, we um, you know, “relaxed” until we couldn’t “relax anymore.”
In the end, I didn’t have the Anniversary Getaway I had planned or dreamed of, but we made the best out of the situation and managed to have a Few Moments of Awesome together. So, it’s all good.

The Thong Story

Last week while in NYC, I was scheduled to do a boudoir photo shoot.
I had to go buy a couple of new, sexy lingerie because I haven’t bought lingerie since 2000.
I searched everywhere for something that would a) hold my boobs up b) hide my belly (button) c) hold my boobs up d) hold my boobs up.
After days of searching, I finally found a couple of nighties that both held my boobs up and also hid my stomach. Attached to each nightie was a tiny little thong. Confession: I do not wear thongs. This is important to know.
Flash forward to the day of the shoot. I am in Laura’s bathroom, changing into my nightie. Keep in mind, I’ve not put on lingerie for my husband in YEARS. I was nervous as hell about letting someone see me wearing something so…revealing? I took the tags off and put the nightie on first. Then, I took a deep breath and prepared to slip The Thong on.
That is when I noticed the tags.
And that is when my heart dropped into my vaginal area because OH HELL NO I WILL NOT.
You see, the tags were in the part that I believed to be “the front.” You know, the part that covers your pachina.
“WHAT!THE!HELL?!” I thought to myself. “When did they start making them like this?”
I proceeded to put the thong on with the tags in the back. Meaning, THE STRING PART WAS UP ALL UP IN MY FRONT.
I stared at in the the mirror.
“But this is pornographic! I can not go out there like this.” I said to myself, full out outrage with what my eyes were looking at.
I stared in the mirror, trying to place the thong so that it covered the, you know, thing that rhymes with flit just right. I turned around so I could see what it looked like with the little patch o’ panty in the back. I thought “well, that looks kind of cute! BUT THE FRONT! I CAN’T GO OUT THERE WITH THE FRONT ALL EXPOSED LIKE THAT.” I tried to figure out a way to keep the string in just the right place. It wasn’t working so well because any little movement and WHOOPS, THERE GOES THE STRING THING.
I called to Laura and asked her for scissors. She said she had some, but I think she got distracted and forgot. I took the thong off and started trying to tear the tags off. I was pulling so hard, but those mofos would not come off. I was kind of panicking, and about THIS CLOSE from crying. I managed to finally get the tags off and then proceeded to put my thong on in what I perceived to be “backwards.”
The entire experience left me some what traumatized and so I had to bring it up to Laura.
“These are the thongs that you were with the string part in the front.” I said, all seriously, because in my mind “tags go in the back. always. I continued. “I don’t even care, though. I ripped the tags off and put them on backwards.
Laura didn’t say a word. She just looked at me and kind of smiled.
After the photo shoot, I met with Lindsay and Lena for lunch. I was telling them all about my shoot. Of course, I had to bring up The Thong.
“Apparently, I bought one of those thongs that you were the strip part in the front, but I ripped the tags out and wore them backwards because I DON’T EVEN CARE.”
Lena looked at me with that “aww, poor sweetie” face that people have to make at me a lot because sometimes I don’t know how things work.
“Yvonne.” She said, gently. “The tags go in the front because they don’t fit in the back. You weren’t SUPPOSED to wear them with string in the front.”
I felt warm with embarrassment. Suddenly the look that Laura had given me made sense. She KNEW about the tags and that I wasn’t actually wearing them backwards, but she didn’t say anything because HAHAHHAHHAHAHA I ALMOST WORE THEM WITH THE STRING IN THE FRONT BECAUSE THE TAGS WERE IN THE FRONT WHICH NATURALLY MEANT THAT I WAS SUPPOSED TO WEAR THEM WITH THE STRING IN THE FRONT AND OH HOLY HELL THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN AWKWARD.
Thongs, man.

I’m Totally Bringing an Annual to BlogHer

“What is this book, Mom?” my daughter asked, as she held the journal up for me to see.
“Where did you find that?” I asked.
“In the hall closet.” she responded.
What she had found was The Infamous Journal of 1987. A.K.A. The Infamous Journal of AWKWARD.
Being different or a little weird wasn’t new to me. I was the child of an evangelist who believed that we were “from this world but not of this world.” So, I wasn’t allowed to do any in any activity that did not involve “glorifying Christ.”
That meant no dances. No sports. No field trips. No boyfriends. No wearing makeup. No wearing anything stylish. No “high bangs.” No hanging out with friends after school or on the weekends. No going dressing up on Halloween. No pretty much ANYTHING AT ALL. It made for a AWESOME high school experience!
My sophomore year in high school, my parents would not buy me a yearbook. It was just ONE MORE THING that made me Different Than Everyone Else. I was devastated! Mostly because I wanted people to sign it so I could spend all summer reading my yearbook (only after I finished reading my bible, of course!)
I came up with the most brilliant plan ever!
I went to Pic’N Save and bought a journal. And I called it my “Annual.” And I wrote my name on it and called it “My Annual.”
And I took it to school and asked my friend’s if they would “sign My Annual.”
They would all laugh. But then, they’d say things like “this is really cool, love writing on lines!” or “hahaha you so crazy!” Or “DEAR DIARY.” I’d laugh with them, but deep down inside I was embarrassed.But hell if I was going to let anyone know that. I walked around as if I was PROUD of My Annual and as if it was a privilege if I allowed you to sign it.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I was a total badass.

“I’m a texture girl.”

If you follow me on Twitter, than you probably know that I hate bananas.
Actually, I have a love /hate relationship with bananas.
I love the flavor of a banana, but I hate the texture.
I love frozen bananas covered in chocolate and nuts.
I love banana bread and banana flavored things. I love dried banana chips.
But plain ol’ bananas?
My mouth hates those.
People are always telling me that I need to buy green-ish bananas, because they are firm! Not mushy at all! Tell that to my mouth, you guys.
The other day I bought a nice greenish bunch of bananas, like the internet told me to do. I opened one up to have a quick snack before leaving for the gym.
The first bite was okay. The second bite? Not so much.
I almost puked.
There were tears running down my face from gagging so hard.
My husband walked into the room just after the gagging episode and was all “Are you okay? What happened?” And I was all “I am trying to eat a banana and I gagged.” And he was all “you’re not supposed to shove the whole thing down your throat.” And I was all “I know that, smart ass. I didn’t. I just took a bite and the texture made me gag.”
And he laughed so hard.
Now, anytime I eat a banana, he watches, shakes his head and says things like “I don’t understand you, woman. Bananas are delicious.”
Then he laughs.
You’re probably thinking to yourself “if she hates bananas, why does she eat them?”
I know, right? I eat them when I need a quick, filling, healthy snack. Usually before or just after working out. They’re so easy. No dicing, cutting or preparing. Just peel that bitch and eat it. Bonus: they’re full of potassium! So, that’s why.
Better a banana than a bag of chips, yes?
The hope I have is that one day I will suddenly, magically love bananas. That the texture will not bother me and I can enjoy one without gagging or making faces of disgust. That hasn’t happened yet.
My hatred of bananas is a constant source of amusement to my husband, who shot this footage of me trying to eat a banana after my workout yesterday.

Basically, that’s what it looks like every time I eat a banana. Sometimes there is more gagging involved than other times.
So, yeah.
Eating bananas is hard, you guys.


On Thursday night, I was supposed to go to LA for Stefanie’s book signing event. (Speaking of her book, have you bought it yet? It’s hilarious and you will love it. You really should go buy it.
I’ll be honest. I wasn’t looking forward to driving out to LA. But then, I never look forward to driving into LA. The traffic, the assholes. The paying for parking. However, pretty much everything that is worth going to is in LA, so as much as I hate driving out there, I will always do it. Especially to support a friend.
I chose to dress just a little bit fancy. Black pants. White blouse. Pretty red pumps. I accented with a new black necklace and earrings. (That I bought at 40%, plus an additional 20% markdown with a coupon! At Kohls! That right there is some FANCY for you.) I took a little extra time on hair and makeup. Since Stefanie stopped drinking, she’s become really judgmental about looks, so I wanted to look to extra nice for her. SOBERS!
As I was walking out the door, I have to be honest. I was feeling good about the way that I looked. Not in a “I look so hot” way. Just a “I sure aint hating the way I look” way. That never happens to me. It felt kind of awesome.
I realized as soon as I started the car that I wouldn’t have enough gas to make it to LA, so I had to stop on the way to fill up. I knew there was a gas station about 20 minutes out that I could stop out that wouldn’t take me out of the way.
As I waited for the tank to fill up, I noticed that my car was FILTHY. So filthy that my son had decided to scrawl his name across the back window. Normally, a dirty car doesn’t bother me much. I just tell people “I have THREE KIDS! I don’t have time to wash my car!” Or something lame like that. It drives my husband crazy. But not crazy enough to wash it for me, apparently. (Not entirely true. Every 6 months or so, he’ll become disgusted with my car, tear it apart and give it a good cleaning. I promise him every time that I’m going to “keep it clean from now on every single day!” but that never happens. I HAVE THREE KIDS!) Anyway, as the gas was pumping, I went looking for one of those squeegee things that people clean their windows with as they pump gas. I found one right next to me. I was going to step over the hose to get to the back of the car, but it was just a little too high. So, I had the MOST BRILLIANT IDEA EVER. I would lift the hose up, the way you do when you’re cutting in line at Disneyland, do you know what I mean? I thought I’d lift it up, and crawl underneath the hose that was PUMPING GASOLINE INTO MY CAR.
As soon as I lifted the hose and ducked down, the hose came out of the tank and BEGAN SQUIRTING ME ALL OVER MY BODY! Like a hose!
I hadn’t even considered that the hose coming out of the tank when I pulled on it. WHOOPS!
I screamed “OH MY GOD!” Because I had just been hosed down with gasoline! No one came over to help. I imagine they were too busy pointing and laughing, like “HA HA! U tried to duck under the hose that was pumping ur gas! U lose at life!”
I froze for a minute, expecting my entire body to burst into flames, because, you know, I WAS DOUSED IN GASOLINE. My hair, my neck, my my shirt, my pants, my shoes. Once I realized I wasn’t burning up (YET!) I jumped in my car, picked up my cell phone and called Lena.
“You’re not going to believe what just happened to me!” She was all “What?” And I was all “ha ha ha ha gasoline ha haa ahha all over my body ha ha ha hahaa GAS!” She goes “Y, I can’t understand you. Are you okay? What happened.”
I told her what happened and she was like “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that happening to anyone.” And I was all “I bet it hasn’t.”
We laughed and then I almost cried because I couldn’t go to the event after all. I told Lena I thought about still driving out there and she was all “that’s not a good idea considering you’re HIGHLY FLAMMABLE.”
We laughed some more.
Then, she says “don’t change the channels on the radio and Oh! You shouldn’t be on the cell phone!” And I went exactly like this “okay. Bye.” and hung up on her.
The ride home was terrifying. I wanted to roll my windows down because the smell was so awful, but I was honestly terrified of igniting into flames. I thought of someone someone accidentally throwing a match into my car. Or someone tossing their cigarette out of the car only for it to land in my lap. So I kept the windows up until I started to get lightheaded from the fumes. Then I’d open the windows for a quick second and roll them back up again.
The 20 minute ride felt like 2 hours.
I got home and within 5 seconds my husband could smell the gasoline. He did laugh a little and say things like “wouldn’t have made more sense to just walk around the other side of the car?” But mostly, he was just glad that I was safe. I had to wash my hair exactly 6 times to get the smell out. Clothes were put through the laundry twice. Shoes still smell like gas.
And that is the story of how I doused myself in gasoline and almost died while trying to support a friend.
As @SaracasticMomLC said on Twitter, thank God I wasn’t drinking an Orange Mocha Frappuccino.

Turns out, letting The Internet judge your fashion choices is great fun!

Me: You’re not going to believe this. I bought pajamas with teapots on them because they were the only ones in my size.
Her: Wait, with WHAT on them?
Me: Teapots.
Her: I hope you said “Tupac!”
Me: NO! Not Tupac! TEAPOTS.
Her: Yvonne, did you say PEACOCKS?
Me: (unable to breathe) TEAPOTS, LENA, TEAPOTS.
Her: Whatever they are, I bet they’re pretty.
(they’re not)
So, yes. I bought teapot pajamas. And like my daughter just said “Wow, those are kind of dumb because there’s not even any tea to pour in the cups.”
I shouldn’t be allowed to shop for myself, you guys.

The Mother Effing Bird Whisperer

Anytime my cell phone rings at 3pm, I immediately think “it’s Jenny!” And it usually is. It’s awesome to have a friend who calls just to check up on me every once in a while (or, sometimes, to tell me that she thinks the Pope is out to get her.)
During one of our more recent phone calls, the conversation turned to fear of flying. I was all “I just started to get over my fear of flying and then the mother fucking birds took that plane in NYC and now I’m afraid to fly all over again because BIRDS CAN TAKE DOWN A PLANE.” And Jenny was all “I know! And birds are everywhere! I think we should kill all of the birds!” And I was all “YES! WE SHOULD KILL THEM… WAIT. No, I can’t agree with that. Because… I love birds.”
I think she thought I just meant “I love birds in the way that normal people love birds. Because birds are pretty and make beautiful music.” So I had to make her understand.
“When I was in high school, I was obsessed with birds. Birds were pretty much my life.”
I continued.
“I subscribed to Bird Talk Magazine. And I would cut pictures of birds out and hang them on my wall. Because I loved birds THAT MUCH.”
Then, I was all “but that’s not all! My dad built an aviary so I could breed lovebirds. And I would spend hours after school with my birds. AND ONE TIME! My breeder escaped and I was trying to catch her and a HAWK SWOOPED DOWN AND TOOK HER AWAY! And I screamed and my Mom and Uncle came running. I was all “A hawk took my bird! He landed somewhere over there!” And my Uncle grabbed a bat, hopped the fence, found the hawk, beat it with a bat and rescued my lovebird! But she was all bloody and near death, so I did a little research in one of my BIRDTALK magazines and read how to nurse her back to health by keeping her in a shoebox in one of my drawers in my bedroom. And she lived and laid eggs again.”
Jenny was all “oh my God, you’re a fucking WEIRDO and I love you even more after hearing that story.” Which I’m pretty sure was code for “Looooser.”
So, yeah. While you were enjoying things like “homecoming dances” and “dates” I was busy hanging up centerfolds of COCKATOOS and nursing half dead birds back to life.

You may need to take a violation shower after you finish reading this one.

A few weeks ago I found myself sitting in a cold room in urgent care waiting to have x-rays taken. I had been involved in a car accident and wanted (needed) to make sure that all discs in my back were okay and not going to start bulging again anytime soon.
I speak from experience when I say that bulging discs are NOT FUN.
Before the doctor took the x-rays, he asked me a few standard questions.
“Are you pregnant?”
“Any chance you could be pregnant.”
“When was your last menstrual cycle.”
I had to think about that one for a minute. It had been a while since I had one, but I hadn’t really given much thought to HOW long. So, I did a little mental math (winners do the math!)
“I’ve not had a period since October.”
What the hell, My Body?
The doctor stopped typing on the computer, looked at me and said “And you’re NOT pregnant?”
“Nope.” I said, all sure because… VASECTOMY! HASHIMOTOS! NO POSSIBLE WAY!
“Well, I’d like to give you a pregnancy test before we take the x-rays just to be sure.”
“That’s fine.” I said, getting a little nervous now because ALL THINGS ALL POSSIBLE THROUGH CHRIST.
He handed me a cup and was all “go forth and pee in this here cup. Once we get the results, we’ll send you downstairs for x-rays.”
A little fact about me: I hate peeing in The Cup. When I was sick as a teenager, my mom took me to the doctors and brought my best friend along. I had to pee in The Cup so they could check for a bladder infection. I went into the bathroom, did my business and walked out of the bathroom, pee cup in hand. As soon as my mom saw it, she started to laugh. And then my best friend started to laugh. I was all “WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING? WHAT IS SO FUNNY?”
Apparently, you don’t need to fill the cup all of the way to to top. “they just need a little bit of pee” my mom said, while laughing at my full cup of pee.
So, to this day, I never know how much is too much. And it stresses me the HELL OUT. Like, I don’t want to under pee and have to do it all over again. I also don’t want to OVER pee and risk the doctors and lab technicians pointing and laughing at my cup. You know? (You’re all “No, I do not know at all whatsoever.)
The pregnancy test came back negative and so the doctor sent me for x-rays. After the x-rays arrived, the doctor sat down in front of me to tell me that everything looked good. I just had some strain and which kind of muscle relaxer would I like?
(Answer: Soma, please.)
But then, he started talking about my lack of a period.
“You really do need to see your doctor about that because not having a period increases your chances of uterine cancer.”
I already knew this based on the last time I saw my gyno for missed periods. And the biopsy had revealed that my uterine lining was too thick and I had been ordered to take some kind of a hormone to make me bleed so that I could shed that lining. I never took those pills because right after I saw her, my periods started coming regularly again and I thought there wasn’t any need to take a pill that increased my risk for BLOOD CLOTS. I have enough health problems as it is. I don’t need to walk around wondering if the pain I feel in my leg could possibly be a blood clot that is going to travel to my heart and kill me!
(Not that I’m a complete freak about things. NOT AT ALL.)
I had forgot all about that fear until this doctor went and brought it up again. The entire way home, all I could think of was UTERINE CANCER. UUUTTERRRINNNEE CAAANNNNCCCCEEERR.
Naturally, I called Kaiser first thing in the morning to try to get an appointment with my gynecologist. The soonest appointment she had available was in May. (!@$%@!!!!) So, I had to do something I never, ever want to do. I had to schedule a “Possibly Have to Look at Your Vagina” type appointment with my family doctor. Who happens to be a man. Who also happens to be related to a friend of mine. And, really, that just adds a layer to the awkwardness that is someone who is NOT MY HUSBAND examining my vagina.
When I arrived at my appointment, the nurse asked me to undress from the waist down. She handed me a sheet to cover my from the waist down nakedness. I sat there waiting for Dr.M with my sheet securely placed so as not to reveal any of my half naked body. He knocked on the door a few minutes later and was all “Hey Y. Nice to see you again.” He begin asking me questions about what was going on (or, in my case, NOT going on) down there and I was all “I haven’t had a period since October and the doctor in urgent care said I needed to see you about that because.. UTERINE CANCER.”
He ordered some test to check my hormones and also ordered a pelvic ultrasound. And then he was said the words that brought peace to my soul. “You just had a biopsy and pap smear done last summer. We won’t need to do that again. Go ahead and get dressed while I order your tests.”
Vaginal Exam AVERTED!
A few days later I was laying on a table in a dark room while a technician put a glob of warm goo on my belly and begin pressing the ultrasound camera all up on my pelvis area. I watched her face closely to see if I could figure out if if what she was seeing was good or bad. Surely, if there were a tumor or something awful like that, it would show on her face. At one point, she looked a little… concerned? “Everything okay?” I asked. “Yeah, I’m just trying to get your bowel out of the way.” I HATE it when my bowel gets in the way. SO annoying.
“I’m almost finished with this part” she said “But your doctor has requested I do a vaginal ultrasound as well. Is that okay with you?”
Really, did she need to ask? I love having giant dildos with cameras shoved up in me by complete strangers!
Except, did you know that they don’t actually insert the camera? But that they ask you to put it in yourself as they’re putting a giant condom on it?
I almost passed out from embarrassment as she handed the Vag Cam over to me and watched me as I ha ha ha you know, hahaa put it in. And because it wasn’t awkward enough, I accidentally made eye contact with her just as I was doing it. I panicked and blurted out “Is that up far enough?” Which, OF COURSE IT WASN’T! So she was all “just a little bit farther.” And I was all “SURE THING!” Things got even more weird when she was moving the camera around inside of me and begin PUSHING ON MY LEG. It took me a few minutes to get that it was her way of asking me to “open them legs up just a little more, please” without actually having to utter the words “spread ‘em” out loud.
I can’t think of anything in my life that was more embarrassing than that experience. Not even making a Little Poopie while giving birth to my first son. NOT EVEN THAT.
The good news is that all of the tests came back normal. No cysts or tumors or cancer.
The bad news is that I still have not started my period and they can’t give me one good reason why. I get a little panicky when I think of the 5 months worth of back up all up in my Ute, but my doctor told me not to worry and to just enjoy not having a period. Which, really? Me? Not worry? ESPECIALLY after two other doctors are all “UTERINE CANCER!!!”? I’m trying really hard to relax and “enjoy it” (which… how does one “enjoy” the absence of a period?) But “relaxing” “not worrying” and “enjoying” are not things that come easily to me. Especially when things aren’t working as they should be.
Any tips on how one can go about “enjoying not having a period” will be much appreciated.

My First and Only Male Stripper Experience: Part Two

You can read part one here
The Hostess walked in and told everyone to take their seats as Stripper Santa would be making his appearance shortly. There was a mad rush of women who ran to the back of the room. I was tempted to start knocking bitches to the floor so that I could grab one of the back row seats. After seeing Rico Suave Santa, I was preeeeetty sure he wasn’t going to be stripping down to “boxers!only!” and really didn’t want to be in the front row for the unveiling of that particular package. However, I remained calm and decided to wait until everyone had a seat to find my place. Of course, I ended up on a folding chair in the “front row.”

I was terrified for several reasons. I had never seen a stripper live and in person nor did I have any desire to see a stripper live and in person. What if he started grinding in front of me? What if his “Christmas Package” accidentally brushed up against my leg? HOW WOULD I DEAL WITH THAT? Would I cry? Would I laugh? Would I want to kick it? Would I want to pet it?

Once everyone was seated, the hostess came out and was all “Ladies, are you ready for a little fun?” Most of the women were just as uncomfortable as I was, so everyone was kind of like “um, yes?” Except for one of the older ladies who I will refer to as “Marmen.” Marmen waved her Horny Flag high in the sky in the form of dollar bills and was all “WHOOOOOO! I”m READY!!”

The hostess took her seat and suddenly, a Little Person in an elf suit appeared holding a boom box on his shoulder. I hit the woman next to me and was all “I TOLD you there was an elf!” He ran around in the little space in the middle of the room trying to get the “crowd” pumped up. There aren’t any words to properly convey how mortified I felt in that moment. I put my head down, trying not to lose it because AN ELF RUNNING AROUND ASKING IF WE’RE READY TO WATCH RICO SUAVE SANTA GET TAKE HIS CLOTHES OFF. HA HA HA HA HAAHAA”

He pushed play on the boombox and BOOYAH! Rico Suave Santa appeared in all of his wavy haired, chiseled body glory.
I wish I could remember the song that was playing as he started bumping and grinding, but for the life of me I can’t. I am pretty sure it’s because I went deaf and numb in that moment in anticipation of what was about to happen before my eyes. In fact, I’m getting all red with embarrassment as I type this. It was THAT bad.

Lil Elf was moving and grooving in the background as R.S. Santa began unbuttoning his Santa top. Marmen went nuts.
“WOO, BABY!” She shouted. He threw his shirt to the ground, walked over to her and began doing that move that strippers do where they do that wave with their body that starts with the head and travels down to their legs. Do you know what I’m talking about? If I could find my Flip cam, I’d totally re-enact it for you. That’s how much I love you.

It didn’t take long before the pants came off.
NOT boxers.

The older women in the room went ceraaaaazy. There was hootin’ and hollerin’ and woo’s! and hoo’s! and dollar bills! And then… there was me. With my head in my hands, praying to the Lord. “Jesus, please do not let him come near me with all of that hanging out all over the place.”

I lifted my head long enough to watch Rico Suave grinding his way towards me. I began to panic. Dear God, let him turn. Let him TURN. LET HIM TURN.

He didn’t turn.

As he got closer to me, I panicked. I put my hand up in that “Stop in the Name of Love” manner and said “NO!” He looked at me all “WTF, bitch?” And I looked at him all “I don’t want your jirating junk near my leg, asshole!”
It was totally awkward and I felt like an asshole but then Marmen came to rescue. “Get over here, Sexy.” She screamed. He backed up into her lap, laid back and started grinding her leg. Marmen loved it so much that she reached over and began TO RUB! HIS! NIPPLES! Rico Suave liked to have his nipples rubbed and I know this because well, ha ha you know. BONER! The lady next to me screamed “ewww” while I tried to catch my breathe from laughing so hard. The lady sitting next to Marmen didn’t seem to be phased by the boner whatsoever. She began slipping dollar bills into his g-string while Marmen continued playing with Rico’s chest area.

This only went on for a few minutes, but it felt like HOURS AND HOURS.

Eventually, the music stopped (Thanks, little elf man!) and Rico Suave picked up his clothes off the floor and exited the room. We all sat around, laughing and trying to process what had just happened. Out of nowhere, Lil Elf Man appeared and struck up a conversation with me. I was polite, but secretly hoped he’d go away. He didn’t go away. Instead, he asked if I wanted to dance. I was all “ha ha! No thank you!” But Lil Elf Man wasn’t hearing it. He grabbed the boom box, turned it on and started to dance. “Come on!” He said to me. ” ha ha! It’s ok! I’ll pass!” “COME ON! IT’LL BE FUN!” At this point, I stopped being so nice and was all “Really, I’d rather not, but thank you.”
Next thing you know, Lil Elf Man was tearing it up in the middle of the room WITHOUT ANY PANTS ON. Then! And I swear to GOD this is a true story, he came up to me and started dry humping my leg.. I was paralyzed for a second because PANTLESS LIL ELF MAN IS DRYHUMPIN’ MY LEG.

I was all “Dude! Get off of my leg!” And he was all “Come on! WOO!” And I was all “WTF LEAVE ME ALONE!” and he was all “ha ha ha! Merry Christmas!” And so I did what any woman with a half naked elf humping her leg would do. I kicked my leg in an attempt to fling him off. It didn’t work, but he realized that I wasn’t playing around at that point and so he dismounted on his own. I knelt down so that I could make eye contact with him and said something to the effect of “That wasn’t cool, Man.” in a Very Serious Tone.

And then I went home, took a Violation Shower.

The End.

My First and Only Male Stripper Experience: Part One

(I’m doing this in two parts which is annoying, I know. But, I’m so busy with work that if I don’t break it up, it will never get written. And I really want to write it because it’s one of the funniest nights of my life.)

A while back I was talking with Angella about God and faith and prayers. It was an uplifting, inspirational conversation until I managed to turn it into a conversation about male strippers and “pulsating packages.”

I then proceeded to tell her about my first and ONLY experience with a male stripper. I had planned on writing about it here, but of course, I got sidetracked and forgot all about it. Lucky for everyone, my memory was refreshed last week while watching Hot Carpenter parading around in his “elf” costume.

I used to work for an afternoon school program through a local school district. For the most part, all of the women that I worked with were in the 40′s or older. So, when they told me that they had hired a stripper for our annual “in someone’s home” Christmas party, I was a little… surprised? I had never seen a male stripper before and honestly, I had no desire to see one. I don’t know, the idea of watching a mostly naked man grinding his junk all over the place doesn’t turn me. In fact, it kind of scares me. I don’t know, while I loves me some sessual relations, random thrusting dicks aren’t really “my thang.”

I expressed my concerns to the woman who had hired the stripper.

“It’s not going to be anything nasty, Y.” she assured me. “I’ve made arrangements for it to be good, clean fun. He’ll only strip down to his boxers.” She specifically said “Boxers” which led me to believe that it was going to be totally tame and pg-rated. I mean, it HAD to be as I worked with a bunch of prudes. Or at least I THOUGHT I DID. But more on that later.

I wasn’t sure how PigHunter would feel about me going to a party with a male stripper, but he’s such an easy going person I wasn’t too worried.

“Hey baby. There’s going to be a male stripper at our Christmas party this year, are you ok with that?”


“Um, they’re going to have a male stripper at our party this year, BUT! It’s going to be totally innocent, he’s only going to strip down to his BOXERS! Seriously! He’s not even going to wear a thong! They’ll probably just be cute little boxers with Christmas trees on them! And babe, I work with older woman, so nothing crazy will happen. BOXERS!!”

He laughed and was all “I don’t care, have fun.”

For the record, you have to know that I completely believed the whole “he’s just going to strip down to his boxers! It will be good, clean fun!” COMPLETELY BELIEVED IT.

The night of the party finally had arrived. I kissed my husband goodbye and he made some joke about the stripper and I was all “Babe! Seriously! ONLY DOWN TO HIS BOXERS! Do not worry!”

I arrived at the party and the ladies were all riled up about the stripper who was only going to strip down to his precious little boxers. We ate finger sandwiches, sipped on that nasty punch/7up drink as we wondered what he would look like and who would be brave enough to sit in the front row. After about an hour, the door bell rang.
“Oh my God! He’s here!” The ladies squeed.

Linda, the hostess who was in her 50′s, asked me to go with her to answer the door. “Why not?” I thought, and accompanied her to greet The Stripper. “You open it!” She said to me, all nervous like. And so, I opened the door. My mouth dropped and I didn’t say a word because “OH MY GOD IT’S RICO SUAVE IN A SANTA COSTUME.”


I can’t really explain why I was so shocked. That’s a lie. Yes I can. I was shocked because I had imagined what this Innocent Stripper was going to look like and the picture I had painted of him did not look anything at all like Gerardo.

I finally was able to compose myself enough to say hello and let him in.
As soon as he made his way in, I ran back to the living room where all the of “Wimmins who work with Children” were nervously waiting for him to inform them that “OH MY GOD HE LOOKS LIKE GERARDO AND HE BROUGHT AN ELF!”
to be continued…