Touch Me And You Die

Most people wouldn’t look at me and say, “Wow, you’re fat.” Actually, most people wouldn’t look at people in general and say that. Unless, of course, the person saying it is a complete asshole with no compassion or verbal filter. I was casually dating a guy a few years ago and he creatively told me I was fat. His exact words, “You’re not exactly the most petite woman. You  know that, right?” Shortly thereafter I casually dumped him. Regardless of how big I actually am (pushing 200 pounds on a 5’6″ frame), my weight, coupled with my Northern European bloodline, make me and summer not the best of friends.

As soon as temperatures hit 80 degrees, my mom thighs stick together and rub like a Japanese Sumo Wrestler competition and my body swells as it retains all the water it can on the off chance I find myself in the middle of a desert. I look at the summer sun and sob. I will sit there and curse that yellow bastard until I realize I’m still standing outside like an idiot when all I have to do is walk five steps to go inside where the AC is waiting to greet me with open arms.

My fiancee hates driving me anywhere in his car because he doesn’t usually put the AC on. This means he has to put up with me moaning in agony as if I were on my last breath after a horrific, life-threatening accident all because I’m fucking hot. I’m sure this makes the three-minute drive to the store feel like an eternity. I’m not even sorry. This also explains why he looks at me with panic in his eyes before we go anywhere, and asks me which car we are taking. I know his internal monolog is saying, “Take her car, please God, take her car. Don’t let her say my car.” We may actually be one trip away from him making me take a separate car altogether. Which is fine, as long as I get to have the sweet cold air of the AC blowing on my overweight body like a chocolate fountain.

When you’re a bit overweight like I am, summer helps you discover all these hidden parts of your body you didn’t even know had sweat glands. Like my belly apron. I had no idea I could sweat out a shot glass of sweat from there just by looking at the sun. You want me to sit in a lawn chair…outside…at the beach? There are another 2 ounces. Walking in the sun makes the back of my knees sweat. Suddenly it feels as if my armpits have moved down to my legs and I spend the entire walk wondering why I didn’t put antiperspirant behind my knees…again. It’s not long before my shoes start to fill with sweat droplets, causing them to squeak and cause blisters. If I were to lay out in the sun, after 5 minutes you would think someone had snuck up on me and sprayed me with the garden hose. 10 minutes, I’ve basically melted into the chair, never to be seen again.

That’s all just because of heat. Add in the humidity and I basically turn into a Disney villain on crack. Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, and sure as fuck, don’t TOUCH me. Touch me and you die. I am not afraid of going to prison because someone touched my skin or tried to hug me when it is humid out. I don’t even let my children touch me during these times. I will look right into their dark brown eyes and tell them to piss off. They can touch me again in October.

The only time I enjoy the heat is when I am in the water, preferably a lake, river, or the ocean. Even then, you won’t typically see me above the water. I am usually the one floating, doing my best impression of a Sunfish or Harbor Seal. I have actually reached a body size, mainly because of my monstrous breasts, where I am able to float upright without the use of a floatation device. I don’t even have to spend money on a fancy river tube, I could just float down the river using nothing but myself. I have basically become a buoy and I am ok with that.

So, until the air grows crisp again and I can wear clothes without feeling like I’m wrapped in plastic wrap, I’ll be sitting in the AC or shade, dreaming of the days where I can build a snow chair. One I can sit in throughout the day with my Bailey’s and hot chocolate while wrapped in a winter jacket, snow pants, and my latest crocheted scarf. If you need me, I will probably be in my room talking to my jeans and sweaters, telling them how much I miss them and how will be together again soon.

Valentine’s Day Bull Shit

Ok, so you hate Valentine’s Day…we get it. Someone pissed in your Cheerios and now you’re all kinds of upset. It sucks to be you, truly. All you have done for the past week is bitch and complain about how single you are, how you won’t get any presents, how stupid the cards are, and how you should show someone you love them all the time. I get it.

What you don’t get is that this day actually means something to some people. However, you shit all over their little heart filled day so you can feel better about your current situation. Let’s take a look at why this day of red, white, and chocolates is so important.

  • Chocolate: Women need chocolate to function much like men need steak. Can we live without it? Sure. Is life better if you give it to us? Abso-fucking-lutely!
  • Cards: They’re dumb and we don’t need them to function like normal humans. However, have you ever noticed how horribly most men describe their feelings? Let’s be honest, 80% of them are shit at it. Therefore…cards. Hallmark does fabu job at putting words in their mouths…words that won’t land them on the couch again this week.
  • Lingerie: What says “I Love You” more than a push-up bra, crotchless panties, and a piece of string up her ass? Pretty much nothing. Don’t deny it, men. If your woman walked into the bedroom tonight wearing see through anything with her nipples showing, you would want Valentine’s Day every fucking day of the year. Also, women rarely get headaches when wearing lingerie. You’re welcome.
  • Flowers: They wilt. They die. Dumb, right? Well, kind of. I’ve said this about flowers before, it’s not the actual flowers that mean something, it’s the act of getting them that means something. It means that someone took a moment out of their busy day, thought of you, and then acted on that thought. That’s pretty fucking cool because how often do people actually ACT on their thoughts? Other than serial killers, not very many people. She doesn’t like flowers? Fine. Whatever. Remember what I said about chocolates?
  • A night out: Sure, you can go out any night and, chances are, you will probably have a better chance getting a reservation at that place she likes any other night as well. Unless, of course, Metallica is in town. But answer me this, how many places are set up to be all romantical shit every other night? That’s right, none. They probably won’t have that Prosecco she likes either. Suck it up, dude, and take her out. You can complain to your fellow penis people about it on the 15th.
  • Oral sex: Steak and a blow job day is on the 15th. I think you can take the plunge into her nether regions for a few minutes on the 14th. She will thank you tomorrow.
  • Sex: I don’t think I have to explain this one, but as a warning, if you don’t do at least one of the things above…you’re probably not getting the sex tonight and you can kiss your steak and a blow job tomorrow goodbye as well. Whispers: Lingerie doesn’t cause headaches.

Basically, all roads lead to sex and sex is important to couples and booty calls and one night stands. Our world revolves around sex. THIS is why Valentine’s Day is so important to some people. Some of us want to get our rocks off tonight. Some of us NEED to get our rocks off tonight! So, while you’re all over there getting pissed off at people for being in love on a Hallmark holiday, remember we’re all just trying to get laid over here. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go shave my everything because I’m planning on a little V-day lovin’ tonight.

OES: Old Egg Syndrome

I need to explain something to all of you. It’s something I feel goes unnoticed on a daily basis by the majority of people, but it’s plaguing more than most people realize. I’ve only just come to terms with the fact that I myself am struggling with it on a daily basis. Because it is my struggle, it is also my family’s struggle because they have to live with me. This struggle is called “Old Eggs Syndrome.” I am now in my 6th month of being 37 and Old Egg Syndrome has taken hold of me and my life. It makes me confused, anxious, and weak.

Symptoms of OES include:

  • Weeping when seeing pregnant women
  • The urge to adopt all the cats
  • The urge to adopt all the dogs
  • The urge to adopt all the rabbits, guinea pigs, hamsters, mice, and chinchillas
  • The urge to hatch chicken eggs in your kitchen
  • Rubbing your belly when someone talks about babies
  • Feeling your ovaries try to lash out when you ovulate
  • Excessive hugging of small children who aren’t yours
  • Excessive morning kisses for your own children
  • Holding your 10-year-old like a baby
  • Failing at reminding your 7-year-old what it was like when she was a baby
  • Fighting the urge to suddenly let all your kids sleep in bed with you because pretty soon they won’t even try to come into your room unless they are looking for your hidden whiskey stash
  • Asking your kids if you can  hang out with their friends while they all still think you’re a “cool mom”
  • Insisting your kids listen to your 90’s grunge playlist because Kurt Cobain was the shit
  • Staring at your old maternity photos in bed while sobbing into your wine glass after the kids go to sleep
  • Talking to all dogs like they are toddlers
  • Cradling your bottle of wine before opening it
  • Warning your significant other when you are ovulating
  • Wondering if this will be the last time you ever ovulate
  • Thinking you’re having a hot flash every time you break a sweat
  • Wondering if your IUD is destroying your ovaries

I see pictures of babies, and I want all the babies. I see pictures of goats, and I want all the goats. I go to a friend’s house where I am approached by their dog…I now want all the dogs. I sit on my couch at night thinking back to the cat I saw at the animal shelter last month and can picture myself covered in all the cats. This morning my left ovary whispered to me, “Time’s almost up,” and then kicked me.

My kids already tore my stomach muscles and gave me arthritis in my hip, but my ovaries don’t seem to give a shit. They just keep pumping out little old eggs like it’s nobody’s business. Other people drink because of life’s stresses and struggles. I drink to shut my ovaries up. The struggle is real. So, if you know someone suffering from OES, do at least one of the following:

  • Buy them the world’s biggest box of condoms
  • Buy them a vibrator that will put all penises to shame
  • Call them every time your baby wakes up in the night to remind them what no sleep feels like.
  •  Offer to pay for their hysterectomy
  • Bring them all your poopy diapers
  • Keep them drunk until they are done with menopause

Oysters, Fortresses, And Love

I met a man in my early twenties while shopping at LL Bean. He was, simply put, gorgeous. He had eyes that could reach way down inside of you, and lips you couldn’t help but want to kiss. To my surprise, he asked me for my phone number. A week later we had our first date. I remember being so nervous. Dating wasn’t really my thing it still isn’t, so I had absolutely no idea how to act. Add the fact this guy was a dreamboat, and I was pretty much a blubbering idiot the entire day leading up to that night. Being young, dumb, and a college student, I was beside myself over the fact he was going to come to my apartment and pick me up. Like in a car and shit. Weird, right?

I had never had oysters so he insisted we go to a tiny little oyster bar down on the docks. When we walked in the smell of salt and ice filled my nose as he gently took my hand and lead me across the dimly lit bar. We sat at the bar between two burly fishermen just in from their day. Growing up in a fishing town, in a fishing family, this place felt oddly like home. The sounds. The smells. All coupled with a man I couldn’t take my eyes off of.

We sat bellied up to the bar, eating oysters and drinking beer, for hours. We talked about where we were in our lives. What our hopes were. What had brought us to this point. Conversation came so easy and smooth, as he sat there with his hand on my thigh the entire time. At one point I had explained to him about my rocky sexual past. The rape and molestation, and my inability to form valid physical relationships. I was afraid I was falling into a trend of only wanting to have sex with men instead of getting to know them and forming something meaningful. He took both my hands into his, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Let’s not let you slip away like that. No sex. Not tonight. I promise.”

Shortly thereafter we left the comfort of the salty smell and burly fishermen, and he drove me home. He walked me to my door, and I asked him to come inside. Our date continued as we sat on the couch and talked until we could barely keep our eyes open. I invited him to stay until morning. I felt secure in his words about not having sex, and I wanted to experience what it truly meant to sleep next to someone with no expectations. As we laid in bed, limbs entwined, he pressed his body against mine and kissed me gently. Every ounce of me wanted to rub my body against his, pull his clothes off, and feel him inside me. But he had already said “not tonight”. So we didn’t. We simply rubbed gently against each other and fell asleep.

The next morning he kissed my lips as he walked out the door saying he would call me later.

He never called.

When I saw him a few weeks later at LL Bean he pretended he had no idea who I was. He was polite, but still would not acknowledge that he had ever even laid eyes on me before. I was upset, as most people would be. I had felt something I thought was sincere. Something I didn’t know existed. I was suddenly left standing there wondering if it had all been a dream. I often went back to the oyster bar on the docks, looking for that same comfort I had felt that night. I went there with different men, my roommates, and even by myself. The salty air and the burly fishermen were all still there is the dim lights, but the comfort was not. I’m not sure why, but it took me a long time to get past the feeling of lost hope from that night.

I’m past it now, but there are times I look back and wonder what happened. So smooth and cunning. Easy going and handsome. I’ve never met a man like him since. Not one to that level of comfort I felt anyway. Perhaps it’s from the walls I built up after, or the hardening from military service. Now, however, I’m working on knocking down those walls. I’m working on finding that comfort with someone. I’ve learned it’s not the sex, or the lack there of, it’s the ability to let people in. The ability to be confident enough in yourself to open up without being afraid of the hurt that may follow. We are all our own fortresses, and we guard ourselves well. However, every now and then we have to let someone in because living in a fortress by ourselves can be very lonely. Life is, after all, better spent with love.

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.

Surprise! Vagina!

Come one, come all!

You are cordially invited to the annual viewing of:

SURPRISE! VAGINA!

Join local doctors and medical interns as they gather around my vagina and discuss labia lengths, cervical displasea, HVP, the effects child birth has on the average American vagina, and so much MORE!

The cold hard plastic duck lips will once again be the guests of honor as they force themselves down the deep, dark cavern to the magical jewel, the cervix. Their escort for today’s viewing will be, once again, hospital grade lubrication.

Please feel free to bring a cotton swab to poke around with, as this is the most anticipated moment of the show.

Curtains will open at 1pm-ish

Unfortunately, alcoholic beverages will not be allowed during the show, but are welcome promptly afterwards.

So, if you’re free; slap on a med coat, grab your PAP kit and prescription pad, and get on down to my doctor’s office. This is an event NOT to be missed! I look forward to seeing you all there!

I Missed Your Taste On My Lips

I  missed your taste on my lips.

The way you sweetly touched my tongue.

Your roughness on my finger tips makes me tingle as I close my eyes.

I can feel you go through me.

Flowing.

Moving.

Your warmth fills me.

My mouth is on fire as I take you in again.

More.

More.

Give me more!

When you were gone, I dreamed about you.

I saw you when I closed my eyes.

I’ve longed for this moment for so long.

I want to saver every inch of you  touch.

I want this moment to last forever.

Wait!

No!

Where are you going?

Please don’t leave me all alone again, I can’t take it.

My dear sweet jalapeno pepper combos, you always leave too soon.

combos