I’ve been trying to think of something to write for my obligatory “Birthday Post”. I wanted it to be funny, thought provoking, sad, and uplifting all at once.
I wanted it to be meaningful, something I’d look back on a year from now and feel The Joy deep down in my heart when I read it. I wanted people to link to it and talk about it on their blogs because OH MY GOD, I WISH I HAD WRITTEN THAT POST.
I’ve started and deleted at least 5 posts because I can not seem to get past the fact that last night, I sent my husband to Target to buy me something that I was told will clear up the problem that I have recently developed that is kind of ruining my life at the moment.
Medicated Selsun blue
my sister told me
you will help clear the bacne.
Oh, late 30’s and your fucked up hormones, HOW I HATE YOU.
I guess this is as good as it’s going to get because at the moment, I can’t think of anything positive to say about turning 36 because I have zits on my back.
I can not think of anything more annoying than when you’re taking a shower and the timer for the sprinklers go off just as you lather up and the water pressure goes from hot and hard to freezing cold and limp.
Oh! Wait! Yes I can!
When people try to come up with cute little sayings with the word (or part of the word) “blog” in it!
Am I the only one who finds this blonnoying? I swear, I’m not trying to be blogstrovsial, or a blitch, those cute little word manipulations do not normally bother me, but lately, I’ve been seeing them every where and I swear, if I read one more post containing a blog-word, I may consider bloverdosing to commit blogiside.
It felt good to let that out, I just hope I didn’t bloffend anyone.
I haven’t thought about The Dent much, but I’m pretty sure that’s because PigHunter took the van for the weekend to go camping. For “The Record” I was dead set against it, because he used to take the Ass-tro van and that thing would come back smelling like a burnt wood and fish juice.
And I don’t like my car to smell like fiery fish juice.
I just got the cigarette smell out of the car and I just know I’m going to spend the next few weeks trying to get the smell of “camping” out (also compulsively and obsessively looking at The Dent.) and do you know why I don’t to go camping?
I’ll tell you why—because I hate the smell of burnt wood.
I know there are people who love the smell of a fire burning. My Grandparents were some of Those People.
They used to have a little house in the mountains and I’d stay there almost every weekend, because I loved staying with my grandparents. However, I hated staying there in the winter, because they constantly had a fire burning in the fireplace. The smell from a wood burning fire makes me sick. It makes me so sick that I get angry inside. No, seriously, I feel rage as I’m thinking about it because I’d be trapped in that house with that smell.
And that smell would penetrate my skin and my clothing and my hair and it didn’t matter how many showers I took, I’d still walk out of that house smelling like a fireplace. (And when I was 16, it was VERY IMPORTANT to me that my hair smelled like Heavenly Flowers and NOT like Burnt Ashes.)
I suppose I’m in the minority with my hatred of Fires. Most people I know love to get a fire going and enjoy the warmth from the fire while sipping on a cup of hot cocoa. Me? I’d rather bundle up under some blankets, crank up the heater and read a good book while still managing to smell like Heaven.
Or should I say Bleaven
One would think that writing a recap of my time in Chicago would be Real Simple, but that has not been the case.
Because my life is complicated (and by “complicated” I mean the complete opposite of “Real Simple”.)
Hopefully I’ll have something up by tomorrow (as if anyone will still care by then. Please? Still care.) and then we can all move on to more important stories, like, The Crazy Old Lady Who is Stalking Me and Who Banged on My Window Today.
It is Wednesday night. Do you know what that means?
It means my parents are at church and I can play on their internet!
Technically, I have access to The Internet, but, not really.
I have yet to set up my computer in the room that we are staying in and my dsl modem (hells yeah I ordered my own DSL) will not arrive until May 16th . So, that means the only internet connection available is the one on my Mom’s computer, which means I can only use it when she’s not here, or when she’s talking on the phone in another room.
Excuse me for one minute.
Clear browsing history.
Ok. What was I talking about again? Ah, yes, the fact that I am a wimp who doesn’t want my parents to know that I have a blog.
How old am I again?
I know it’s only a matter of time until they find it, because my mother finally learned how to use “google”.
Last night, she was all “I think I have a *insert infection that I am not willing to name in case she googles it again* and I’m going to google it!”
I’ll admit, I panicked a little and started to recall if I had ever written about *insert infection that I will not name*.
“Let me look it up for you!” I shouted as I practically knocked her down to get to the computer first.
If she ever googles “Aerobic Dancing” I’m so screwed.
I just had a conversation about this with my sister last week. She asked if I was ever going to tell my parents about this blog. She asked me if I was tired of “hiding.”
I don’t feel like I’m hiding. (as I’m clearing “browsing history” for the 15th time in 2 minutes while listening for a car pulling up in the driveway) For me, it’s more about feeling like I don’t have to tell them everything that I do in my life.
They would not approve.
They would be offended by the things that I write.
So, what benefit would it be to me or to them to tell them about it?
I know there are people reading this who don’t understand what the big deal is, but you don’t know my parents.
They are good people, but they have ZERO tolerance for anything that does not align with their beliefs.
I was 30 years old when my parents found out that I “drink devil water” (thank you for ratting me out, SON.) and OH MAN, you people do not understand what I had to listen to for days and even now, five years later.
Maybe I am hiding, but I think of it more as “choosing not to deal.”
Does your family know about your blog? If so, does it affect how/what you write? I know that if I KNEW my parents were reading, I’d certainly feel the need to censor myself.
And, honestly, is that what you want?
I don’t think that it is.
In the 16 years that I’ve been married to PigHunter, I’ve never played an April Fool’s joke on him.
That all changed today, because today I got up at 6 in the morning, drove his car around the corner and parked it there. When he wakes up, I’m going to ask him if he’ll pretty please go buy me a coffee. When he sees that his car is not there, he is going to shit his pants and I am going to pretend to be very upset because “OMG! We do not have theft on our insurance policy! What are we going to do because we have no moneeeeeeeey?!”
I realize this isn’t the greatest April Fools Day joke, but I was too lazy to go buy a pregnancy test and draw a purple line in it.
THAT would have been the greatest April Fools Joke because, you know, he had a vasectomy.
Maybe next year.
I do know that he’s going to fuh-reeeeeeeeak out. We had one of our cars stolen when I was pregnant with our first child and oh my God, my husband turned into some kind of Mutant Super Hero.
He was hell bent on finding our car and “the perpetrators” who stole it. We’d be driving and he would think he saw our car traveling in the opposite direction and he’d scream “THERE IT IS!” make an illegal u-turn and start chasing the car. Once he’d realize it wasn’t our car, he’s apologize for giving me whiplash and say really dramatic things like “I’m sorry, hon, I just have to catch whoever did it, they can’t get away with violating us like this. I have to find these assholes.”
One day he actually called the police and asked them this question. “How much force can one use by law when making a citizen’s arrest?”
The dispatcher was like “Sir, why are you asking this question?”
And PigHunter was all “because someone stole my car and if I happen to see them driving around in it, I plan on making a citizen’s arrest and holding them until the police can come.”
Citizen Nerd says “Fuck with my Datsun 210 and I will hunt you down like a pig and CITIZENS ARREST YOU.”
You have no idea how badly I wanted him to find the thugs who stole our car and watch him take them down in a completely legal manner so as not to be sued or arrested him self for taking the arresting of a citizen too far.
God, I can’t wait for him to wake up already.
While I’m waiting, I think that you should tell me the greatest April Fools Pranks you’ve ever played on someone, or have had played on you.
So, this is how it went down…
So, I have this “friend” who is a little worried because whenever she works out, her under boob sweat smells exactly like yellow cake mix.
She is concerned that it might not be “normal” so she asked her husband, who thinks he is very funny but is actually NOT and he told her that she was probably just “sweating out” all of that “extra caramel” she gets on her “fancy lattes”.
I told her I’d ask The Internet, because that’s what a good friend would do.
So, um, is it normal for underboob sweat to smell like yellow cake mix?
My friend really wants to know.
So, um, what do you think the chances are that the chair you’re looking at, the one that has absolutely ZERO padding left, has actual METAL protruding out of it and is all crooked with zero back/neck support is the reason that my back IS JACKED AS ALL HELL?
I’ve been blaming “stress” and “a pinched nerve” and everything else under the sun, but until PigHunter sat on it last night and shouted “OUCH! MY ASS! THERE IS METAL STICKING OUT OF THIS THING! HOW DO YOU SIT ON THAT, WOMAN?” it never occured to me that the reason I’m in constant pain might have a LITTLE SOMETHING to do with this piece of shit chair.
I know that I need a new one, I’ve known that for a long time. I mean, look at it
. The thing is, I haven’t really cared because a)I never have company over, so I’m not worried about anyone ever having to see it. b)although there is metal protruding from it, I can’t feel it thanks to the “extra padding”
that I currently carry on my ass. c)I have 3 kids who need things and I can’t seem to justify spending money on a stupid computer chair
However, now that I have to take 1,500mg of Robaxin just to sleep at night and be able to (somewhat) function during the day, I’m thinking that it’s time to work “a new computer chair” into the budget.
Yesterday, I needed to do a little grocery shopping, but I did not feel like taking a shower or putting on clean clothes. That didn’t stop me though. I just picked up the clothes that I had worn the night before, washed my face, brushed my teeth and headed on out to Vons.
The truth is, I don’t really care what I look (or smell) like when I go to the grocery store because, well, it’s the grocery store. I’m there to buy cheese and beef, not pick up hot guys or make new friends! So what if I have toothpaste stains on my shirt or if I smell like butt!
I was about halfway through my shopping list when I heard someone say “Excuse me…”
I ignored it the first time, because I didn’t think they were talking to me. Then I heard it again.
I turned around and saw a woman with a beautiful little girl in her shopping cart.
“Yes?” I said.
“Hi. Are you Y from The Internet?”
(Swear to God, she actually said those exact words and I have the email to prove it.)
I wasn’t quite sure what to say because “Y from The Internet!!!”
I’m not mocking her, because it was sweet and cute and also a little weird because OMG! SOMEONE RECOGNIZED ME FROM MY BLOG! CERAAAAZEEE!”
I think I said “Yes! I am! Hi!”
Or something creative and witty like that.
She went on to tell me how she recognized me, but wasn’t sure, but then she saw “G-Unit” (omg! I call her that on The Internet! And she just used it! Weiiiiird.) and just knew it was me and how she was so nervous but how she couldn’t let me walk by without saying hi.
Because I am a complete jackass, and felt bad that she was nervous to say hi to me, I reached over the display of boxes of cereal and HUGGED HER.
That was wrong on so many different levels. First of all, what if she hated hugs? What if she was uncomfortable with contact from strangers (from The Internet). What if she is allergic to the smell of Ripe Pits?
I couldn’t help it though, my “Impulsive/Gets Overly Excited Easily” disorder took ahold of my arms and compelled me to reach out and hug her! And as soon as I did it, I felt stupid and wanted to say sorry, but didn’t because that would have made it even worse.
She was very nice and actually hugged me back, which made me feel better about having lost all control of my hugging mechanism like that. However, it wasn’t long before my Jackass reared it’s ugly head again. I actually asked her THIS question.
“Not to be egotistical or anything like that, but (are you ready for this!?!) how did you find my blog?”
It actually hurt me to type that out because it’s so LAME.
Seriously. Why did I stop with that question?
“Do you like my blog?”
“Do you think my blog is pretty?”
“Do you ever think about my blog during the day?”
“Would you like my autograph?”
“Does my blog make you hornay?”
We talked for a few minutes and then I told her she should email me sometime. And she did, which was really great because I was sure the hug combined with the stupid question scared her off.
Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I’ve got, I’m still, I’m still Y from The Internet.
Anyway, Lori, if you’re reading this, thanks for saying hi and for being so nice and um, sorry about the body odor.
(You’re probably all “enough with this story! SHUTUP AND SCAN SOME PICTURES ALREADY!” And I’m all “did someone say ‘scan some pictures? I thought you’d never bring that up!”)
When I was pregnant with G-Unit, my husband said one of the greatest things anyone has ever said in reference to My Ass. He said he loved it and that he could “totally rest his cup on it.”
I knew what he meant, like, it was just so out there that it drove him crazy and also, made him want to place a cup on it.
However, I didn’t realize how right he was about the whole “resting a cup on my ass” thing until yesterday.
My ass was seriously begging for someone to place a cup of hot brew on it. I had no idea! I mean, I knew it was big and that it probably deserved it’s own Social Security Number, but I didn’t realize how it “POPPED.”
Like, here’s my ass. “POW!”
(I also didn’t realize on that day that I was singing at my brother’s wedding that my hair matched the wall paneling of my dad’s church!)
I spent a lot of time hating that ass you see right there, but man, what I wouldn’t give to have it back. It no longer gives off the “place a cup on it” vibe. It’s more of a “if you get too close, I will swallow you whole and EAT YOU FOR DINNER” vibe.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that, because having an ass that is capable of swallowing people whole could actually come in useful someday.
Think about it.
Let’s hear it for the boy. Let’s give the boy a hand.