International Woman of Mystery

Dating is complete madness and totally for the birds. I don’t like it. End of story. However, after my recent break-up, I was 100% ready to give the dating thing a try. Friends kept telling me they knew a great guy I could go on a date with. I was even willing for one friend to hook me up with a ginger. Alas, that didn’t happen. For this my soul is happy. I will have you know that not a single on of my so called friends came through on this whole dating thing. I even signed up for an online dating site. It was horrible, and only lasted a week. I’m not sure why men on dating sites can’t take a selfie without looking like they are either constipated and taking a shit, but they can’t. It’s an epidemic. So where do I stand now? Well, I’ll tell you.

I have a date in 35 days. When the date was first set up it was over 65 days away. I have to say that I have shocked myself on this one. I like to have things planned out, but this is a bit ridiculous. However, due to the school year, time zones, plane tickets, and international travel, there is no way for this date to happen any sooner. You see, Craft (as he shall be referred to from now on), lives in Canada-eh…on the other side of the continent. Yup, it’s kind of an issue, but we’re working through it. For now we Skype more than normal people should and text so much my fingertips are callused, but it’s working for us for now.

What do two people who live 3,000 miles apart do on their first date? They spend an entire week together. Trust me, no matter how wonderful he is, it’s not worth it to fly all the way out there for one dinner. Instead I’m flying all the way out there for seven dinners, six breakfasts, six lunches, and 160 hours of getting to know you. In short, this is going to be one hell of a first date! So stay turned as I become the International Woman of Mystery, flying across continents, whizzing through boarder patrols, and pretending to Canadian-eh. Wish me luck.

Drop Off Line Twats

I long for the day when the drop off line at school is nothing but a distant memory. When I can sit back and reminisce about all the times I almost got out of my car and stabbed people for treating the drop off line like the entryway to their house. When I can rejoice in never having to watch mother’s clothe their children in the car, shove poptarts down their throats because of piss poor time management at home, or just sit and have a casual conversation with the 10 kids sitting in the backseat ever again.

Until then I will have to continue sitting through the daily agony of the drop off line. Teaching my own children the beautiful art of cursing someone out when they can’t even hear me and daydreaming about following certain people home and slashing their tires for being drop off line twats. Every day the same people mess it up for the rest of us. They sit, blissfully numb, in their minivans and Subaru Foresters as they pull up in front of the school, turn their engines off don’t tell me they are trying to save the environment, get out of the driver’s seat, pull school projects out of the trunk, jam lunch boxes in backpacks, brush wayward hairs from faces, and pull fairy dust out of their ass before they finally get back in the driver’s seat and drive off in a puff of glitter and purple clouds.

To them, the drop off line is a time for gathering thoughts and belongings before sending their young on their merry way. For the rest of us, the drop off line is for dropping kids off and getting the hell out of dodge! The majority of parents rolling through the drop off line have their kids fully dressed, armed with lunches, school projects piled high on their laps, and ready for departure. Most kids are lucky parents even come to a full and complete stop when letting them out. I am sure I am not the only one tempted to slow down to a crawl, and let my kid tuck and roll into the schoolyard.

So, if you’re a drop off line twat, quit it. Get your kids ready before you leave the house like the rest of us, and stop doing whatever it is you’re doing in the car. Learn some time management skills, stop treating your kids like little morons who can’t do anything for themselves, and kick those little shits out of the car already!!! Because the truth is, the rest of us know who the repeat offenders are, and have come to the conclusion that you make every morning feel like a Monday morning.

Meandering Mommy Madness

Er mer gerd you guys! I can’t even begin to tell you just how crazy things have been! So much has been going on, I don’t even know where to begin. I hate doing bullet points, maily because I do them every day at work and lists freak me out, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you the cliff notes version of things until I actually get my rear in gear and jestfully fill you in on all my meandering mommy madness. Get ready. Get set. Here come the bullet points! Chill out, there are only four.

  • I had the honor and privilege to sit down and talk with an absolutely amazing man from Curacao who is making a difference, not only environmentally, but in the lives of the people around him. Other than this man being pretty fantastic, ladies, he’s pretty darn cute too. Just saying.
  • The kids and I bought a pig. Her name is Bacon Seed. She should be in our freezer by Thanksgiving. In the meantime, be prepared for photos of the growing swine, llamas licking my son’s head, and my daughter being terrified of free range chickens. I may even throw in a few mentions of me being covered in pig shit and how difficult it is to teach children that pork scraps CANNOT go into the pig slop. We are now pig farmers after all.
  • I promised you all updates about my dating adventures, and i have given you one. Which was a complete bust. Well, it’s not so much of an adventure so to say right now, but it will be in a few short weeks as I take my travels across international borders, and see just how well a certain man can deal with my farting and impromptu naps after a few beers. He has been warned, but you never know because he has never smelled one of my farts.
  • My quest to shrink my ass from a size 14 back down to a size 12, as well as actually braving a bikini in public. Add a hint of trampoline fun, where I learn my ass cheeks can hit the back of my head if I jump hard enough. Worst case scenario, my ass doesn’t shrink, I’m stuck wearing a bikini to the beach, and my kids use me for shade from the hot summer sun. At least someone wins.

So there you have it. I PROMISE to get my act together this week and pump this stuff out for you. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You may even stop reading all together. Then I will hunt you down, steal your first born, and strategically place glitter bombs around you house and inside your car. Your choice, really.

The Vagina Ledge

I’d like to have a little discussion about my vagina. No, you perverts, not that kind of discussion. She doesn’t do parlor tricks like shooting ping pong balls across the room or lip sink to popular tunes from the 80’s, so don’t get yourselves too worked up from the excitement.  My vagina and I have had a long standing love hate relationship. I should re-word that, we have a long standing hate relationship. I hate her, she hates me. Every once in a while we get along, but it’s more like how a prison inmate gets along with their lawyer during visiting hours. We’re there for one reason, and one reason alone. It’s not a pretty relationship, but we live with it, and it works.

I’ll start off by saying, she’s dramatic. Always getting herself twisted about one ting or another. Her period, UTI’s, baby fever, new penises…you know, the usual. She tenses up, swears at me, and all but packs up to leave. It’s kind of her thing, I let her have her moment, and then we carry on with our day. Ops normal, move along, nothing to see here. We go through this, day in and day out. It’s a constant struggle, but we manage. I have noticed, however, that in her old age she is a bit more prone to suggestion. I see a baby, she swells up and starts ovulating. I mention UTI, and she won’t let me go near a bathroom for hours. New penis? Forget about it. She shuts the steal doors, and swallows the key. There is no way a new penis is ever visiting again. Believe it or not, I’m usually ok with all these little quirks of hers. It is what it is, and I can manage.

Her newest thing because new is awesome is really what’s bothering me. A good friend of mine always gets her period the week before me. Always. She finishes, three days later I start. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to have a friendly heads up as to when the demons are coming to eat your uterus. What I don’t like is when her vagina, who is obviously a bitch, decides to start her period a whole week early. Yes, a whole week. I keep track. My vagina heard this on Sunday, and was cramping up like she was ready to die by Monday night. I sat there on my couch, hunched over, trying to sweet talk her away from the dark side. By 1 a.m. the cramps were waking me up, and my back was hurting. I was convinced my period would be starting with the sunrise. Alas, I woke up the next morning to nothing, nothing but mild cramps. By the time I left for work, I had finally talked her off the ledge. The day was then littered with mini menstrual moments, of which I assume, will continue for another week until the actual day arrives. Oh joy is me. Oh joy to my vagina, as she teeters on the ledge taunting the uterus eating demons.

As I said before, I’d like to have a little discussion about my vagina. I hate her, she hates me.

I Should Love My Body, But I Don’t

Reasons I should love my body:

  • I gave birth to two amazing human beings.
  • My curves tell a story.
  • At 35 years old, I still turn heads.
  • Every stretch mark and every sag is there for a reason.
  • My body is mine.
  • It’s the one thing I have complete control over.

Reasons I don’t love my body:

  • As soon as I started to develop, the older boys on the bus started inviting me to sit with them in the back. There they would grope and fondle me as they laughed among themselves, all the while telling me to stay quiet.
  • In 1994 a much older teen-aged boy thought it would be fun to get me drunk, have sex with me as I cried, and leave me in a pool of my own vomit, I was 14.
  • In 2001 a man in a bar slipped something into my drink, brought me to a hotel, took advantage of me while I was passed out, and then forced himself on me when I woke up in the morning.

Sexual assault comes in all forms, and beats a person down mentally and physically. It leaves scars that won’t heal. It brings us a lifetime of pain, and makes it difficult to carry on meaningful relationships. Many of us end up lashing out sexually, thinking it will somehow ease the pain. Sex becomes a series of motions instead of e-motions. We are angry. We feel alone. We are scared to open ourselves up. We end up in bad relationships where we don’t matter. You only have to be the victim one time to feel completely lost. One time to think you’re ugly. One time to hate yourself. As a victim I have spent time drowning my fears in drugs and alcohol. There was a long period of time where I used men for sex, and didn’t care who got hurt. I’ve been through years of counseling and therapy, but the scars sexual assault have left me with will never go away. Every time I look in the mirror all I see is ugliness and hate. Every day is a struggle, learning to love my body because of all the wonderful things it has done. I hope that one day I won’t have the constant pain I carry inside, that one day I will love myself again.

April is sexual assault awareness month. This month, take a moment to educate yourself on the facts of sexual assault and the affects it has on victims and their families. If you or someone you know has been sexually assaulted, contact the authorities, and get help. No one should have to live a life of pain and self doubt because they were taken advantage of.

Cock Swabs and Steamy Penis Creatures

I thought raising a penis person would be easy. I mean seriously, what’s there to know? Yes, there’s that whole spontaneous erection thing and wet dreams, but I didn’t think it would be much more than that. Now men, before you get your boxers in a bunch, I want to start off by saying women are complicated messes. We are like a magnetic compass, without the magnet. We tend to spin in circles, talking ourselves into a tizzy and crying because little Johnny killed a spider. With that being said, men…are simple. You grunt. You puff up your chests when another man looks at your woman. Do you even lift, bro? You compare penis sizes in the locker room. Girls do this as well, but with their boobs. It’s all so simple, or so I thought. What I didn’t know, is just how fascinated males, as a whole, are with their penises. Not to mention how literally they take the saying, “Reach out and touch someone (or something).”

As I’ve learned in my eight and a half years of raising a penis person, nothing about the penis is normal. Flash forward past the days of failed attempts with pee pee tepees, and watching my infant son pee in his own mouth and my eye at the same time. Past the point where I could trust my little guy to run around the house completely naked without the fear of him peeing in the cat dish. This is where I first started to notice just how fascinated with the penis these people are. There I was, a young mother of a two year old boy,sitting on the couch in the early morning hours feeling like death warmed over, and probably looking ten times worse. I watched as my son, completely oblivious to the fact it wasn’t even 5 am yet, joyfully frolicking about in the living room. I had since given up on drinking one cup of coffee at a time, and wandered into the kitchen to find a straw to stick in the pot. When I came back into the living room, coffee pot and straw in hand, I noticed my son doing push-ups in front of the tv. Baffled and amused, not to mention completely caught off guard, I couldn’t figure out why my toddler would be doing push-ups before the sun even came up. Of course I had also been trying figure out why his little mind thought it ok to be up for the day at 4 am for two years prior to this sudden oddity in behavior. Carry on, dear boy. Finish your push-ups and let’s have some breakfast. Then it hit me, he wasn’t doing push-ups. Oh, no! He was cock swabbing my carpet!!! I can only imagine this was all brought on by a quick tumble to the floor while I was in the kitchen, thus resulting in an unexpected “feel” of said carpet.

I have a vagina. I don’t “feel” anything with it. At least not randomly. It stays tucked away where it belongs. Away from random objects. Away from the elements. Away from, well, carpet. As my son continues to cock swab the perimeter of the living room,I can do nothing more than watch in disbelief. Perhaps this is why people call the penis a “third limb”. Either way, it’s gross and it’s weird.

Flash forward, yet again. Past the moment where little boys discover that nut shots are funny, as long as the shot isn’t on them. Past where they start pitching little tents in the morning, and you question why you have yet to buy them their own alarm clock. Let’s flip to last week. My son loves taking showers. The only argument we come across in the bathing aspect is what time of day to do it. He prefers night because it doesn’t waste his time in the morning. I prefer morning because it actually forces him to haul his carcass out of bed. Because I’m awesome and always win last Wednesday my son agreed to shower in the morning. Win! This is where I should add how he likes his showers so hot, I am amazed his skin doesn’t slough off while in there. As you all know, extremely hot water creates a LOT of steam. My bathroom often ends up resembling the Amazon Rain Forest in summer. It’s any wonder my son can safely climb out of the shower when finished, seeing as how one can barely see the edge of the tub through the steam.

I’m used to my son taking long showers. He likes to stay in to the point where the water starts to turn cold, and he knows he can’t go on any longer without the fear of sudden hypothermia. In all honesty, if I wasn’t the one paying the bill, I would probably do the same thing. However, this past Wednesday, something was off. Yes, his shower used all the hot water in the town, but for some reason he wasn’t coming out of the bathroom. I thought maybe I had a bad mom moment, and missed the sound of a dangerous fall, or perhaps the steam had swallowed him whole. So, yes, I had a slight moment of panic. I ran upstairs, threw open the door…..right into my son’s face! “Theo!” I said, “what are you doing?”

“Mommy! Nothing!” He then quickly wrapped himself back up in his over sized towel, and scurried out of the bathroom, throwing the door the rest of the way open. As soon as he was out of sight, I peeked around the back of the door to where he had been standing, naked. As I looked at the full length mirror, covered in condensation, I could see little marks all covering the area about where my son’s waist would be. Upon closer inspection I could see that the little marks were actually little penises. My dear sweet boy had been standing naked in the nice warm bathroom pressing his little penis against the mirror, so he could feel the coolness of the reflective surface and then get a chuckle out of the little shapes that resulted.

It is clear to me now that the need to stick penises places and feel things on it starts at a very early age. I can only imagine what else in my house has been cock swabbed and stamped. God help me when he figures out what masturbation is, and locks himself into his bedroom for hours. Boys are gross, boys are weird, and I am officially baffled by this thing called a penis.

Towanda! And other things I yell while shaving.

I have unwanted body hair. Surprising, I know. It grows in odd places, and at odd lengths. It grows in pairs, and threes, and fours. I even think I have at least a half dozen spurting from a mole on my face. My pubic hair decided to elope with my thigh hair, as my calf hair has meandered it’s way to my toes. One arm pit grows faster than the other, as it battles on in some sort of hair war. My lower back has become a breeding ground for whatever hybrid my butt crack developed, and my “happy trail” has become reminiscent of an overgrown driveway on an old southern plantation. I even shaved my arms once, in hopes to at least hide some of the hair. Now, in winter, there is no need for a sweater to keep them warm.

This is how it goes when you’re a woman. We climb into our showers in the morning with razors, shaving cream, and soap. We lather up from the neck down, and embark on the endless journey to a hairless life. We’re women, we’re supposed to be smooth and soft. Our skin needs to feel fingertips brush against it, and soft breaths move across it. That’s how we are supposed to feel, and what we are supposed to need. Alas, the reality of the situation is hair. Before getting in the shower we all have just enough unwanted body hair to do a one woman rendition of the famous 60’s rock musical of the same name. Out come the round sunglasses as we gyrate in front of the mirror, tapping into our inner hippie and celebrating free love. Maybe not the free love part, or the round sunglasses, but…never mind.

We would love to be able to leave the burly hairiness to the men so they can carry on with their lumbersexual image, and grunt in hairy masculine unity. However, it seems the older we all get, the less hair men have and the more hair us women get. If at this point you all are sitting there reading this afraid I’m going to go rogue and join the “Lady Pit Hair Club”, chill out. My battle with unwanted body hair will rage on. I will proudly raise my razor high, yell “Towanda!”, and shave every last hair from the neck down. I will continue with my contortionist moves allowing me to reach the hairy areas of the unknown. I will spend hundreds of dollars each year on moisturizing raisers for sensitive skin, and ten different brands of shaving cream. I will do all of this, and do it with pride and purpose because my skin deserves the touch of fingertips and soft breaths.

But men, remember what I’ve just told you the next time you hold your woman close and feel her soft skin. Be thankful she deems you worthy of shower acrobats all in the name of woman. Because the struggle is real, and the hair is unruly. Still, don’t buy us a pack of razors in lieu of flowers. Unless, of course, you want us to cut you.