Bert and Ernie

Remember that song, "Who are the People in My Neighborhood?" From Sesame Street, one of the great shows of our time. It was all about the people that you see each day. I'd like to take you through my day a little bit in the same vein, but instead of the people in my neighborhood, it will be the people I encounter in general that stand out to me either by being fucknuggets or standing out in some less reprehensible way.

Guy in my Plant class with the offensive beard: Guy, you are nice, it seems, with your uncertain area of interest in biology. You take careful notes and do not pick your nose in class. These things are in your favor. Sadly, though, that beard is not working for you. It is more of an example of what hair does when left to its own devices than a deliberate statement of self. The color does not lend itself to camouflaging your bad beard-scaping, no, instead it accentuates the individual hairs that have become long and unruly. It is distracting talking to you because my eyes cannot resist looking at the hair disarray that adorns your chin and mouth and the three dimensional space around them. Even walruses have some order in their whiskers. Yours is like chaos theory, in facial hair. Time to look in the mirror, guy, and look within. But first trim those fucking renegade hairs so you can see the within part.

Physics professor: Never have I heard a monotone that was so truly of one tone and unvarying. It is almost as if you have attached a negative feedback monitor to your voice box so that if you vary your inflection even a slight amount, you will be shocked by the charge of a trillion Coulombs. Traditionally physicists are not known for their outrageous personalities so that monotone may be working for you socially and professionally. I only mention it here, not to criticize, but because it is of note in my day. Thank you, flat voiced professor, for your interesting quirk. It's good that you are not a Mandarin speaker or they would never understand you, atonal as you are.

Girl who runs down the overpass for pedestrians hill: At first I thought you were in a hurry, but then you stopped to catch your breath after your flailing exuberant run down the hill. When you started up again with a similarly fast and awkward run across the parking lot, your backpack swinging back and forth upon your back, I realized that you had some type of what we call special needs. To me it seemed like your special need at that moment was to run, at first down the hill because you could go fast, and then across the lot because you like running, a lot. You looked free and happy, and I envied that part of you that forgot to care how you looked to the world at the moment when the need to run grabbed you. You made me smile. May your feet always have wings.

College students at my college, except for maybe 0.05% of you: Students, you are predictable and annoying. I do not like you, not just because of that, but because of the reminder each day of how obnoxious I must have been about 13 years ago. You text a lot, all of you. And your cologne, it is bad. You will never mate if you continue to apply so much. 

So that was a brief overview of some of the people of note in my days. Since I am uncommonly bitchy and observant, there will be more, often. If there's something that can drive me nuts, it's people. Of course, that's until I get to know anything, really anything at all about them that trips my sympathetic side. My inner cynic is weak and easily defeated, I guess.

Impressive

I recently saw some truck balls. Seen those, internet? They are anatomically correct balls, as in man-balls, hanging from the hitch of a truck, and once, an Accord. Now, it took me a moment to assimilate what I was seeing, since trucks do not have genitalia. So it wasn't like I was all, "Hey, that truck's balls are showing, how embarrassing." It was more like, "What in the fuck is that because it cannot possibly what it looks like, which is balls." 

Once I figured it out, that it was very detailed and anatomically correct testicles dwelling inside a veiny ball sack, rendered in plastic so as to be impervious to weather and small rocks, I thought about why someone would have them and what they were trying to say. Are you saying that your balls are so awesome that you have placed a facsimile of them on your truck because yours are not visible in your pants? Or are you wanting people to know that you have extra balls, like in case you need more (and if that's the case, ew. Four balls. That's one crowded scrotum.)? Or do you think trucks are tired of being neither male nor female, but just genitally neutral? 

No answer satisfied me, internet, so I am open to suggestions. I am also open to any explanation for the balls on the Accord, because that seems like an extra-special ball situation. At least trucks are kind of known for being penis-enhancing vehicles. But an Accord? Just doesn't scream testosterone to me, but I may be missing something.

It's happened before.

The Nose Knows

It's been said that I can be immature. Well, it's been said by me. Because, readers of the blog, I have been known to do and say some pretty juvenile things, all in the interest of cracking myself up. Which is important, really. I'm all about enjoying life.

The other night I was hanging out with my two awesome boys, one of whom has a cast on his foot that goes up to his knee. He was doing some radical moves in his aunt's rec room and he fell with his foot under him. We got him off to Children's and sure enough, broken it was. I was totally bummed, not just because the dude was hurt, but because he's had a cast before and it was a royal heavy pain in the ass. 

So there we were, hanging out, the two boys and me, their mom. It had been 3 weeks with the cast on, which, in case you did not know, means three weeks with no bath. Of course we wipe down the crucial areas but one can only do so much without total submersion. It gives you new insight into how much it must have sucked to be a medieval castle-dweller, not so into actual bathing, and also trapped in many layers of clothes. They all must just have reeked and frankly, I'm surprised any of them ever got laid.

I had caught a whiff earlier in the day of some cast-foot. It smelled not just like ass, but like ass that had been left to die inside a heated cave of wrath and despair. I'm actually concerned that the cast might melt soon. So I told my older, non-casted son that he could choose what we would have for dinner if he would get right in there and smell the foot of the younger, more putrid child. He felt like that was a pretty good deal.

Well, he went for it. He totally stuck his face in that mummified ass-foot and really sniffed. There is no way to describe how quickly he recoiled in horror, nor the look on his face. There is also no way to describe how hard I laughed, how awesome it was to witness that, and how much it still cracks me up each time I relive it. He seriously looked like he was not only going to puke, but would look forward to puking just to have a new smell in his nose. And that if some of the puke landed inside the cast it would be an improvement.

Fortunately, he realizes that bad smells are fairly hilarious and after he gagged, threw up a little in his mouth, and then regained control of himself, he pretty much fell apart laughing. Which is good, because otherwise what I did was mean. The little guy, Smelly Ass-Foot we call him, was inordinately proud of his stench, and was glad to be getting some mileage out of it. All in all, it was a good time for us. Family, you know? It's everything.

And the dino nuggets were pretty good.

Political Analysis

My last two posts have been so pedestrian, so benign, so non-biting that I am about to erupt. I need to release my more usual inner self, the bitchy, swearing one. I like her a lot.

In order to do that I need a topic of interest. And I have one, boy do I ever. There's this woman, I'll call her Axis of Evil, who is the president of a parent organization for one of my kids' activities. She is drunk with power and acting a whole lot like the Mean Girl in high school, with a minion and everything. All of her ire is currently directed at my friend, the Treasurer. I'll call her the Treasurer.

Axis of Evil, you suck. I see you, yes I do, from my position on high in the kitchen above the gym with the large glass windows. I see you scoff and belittle and even snub. And I think, Axis of Evil, that you are too old for that. Your machinations against the Treasurer are not working, mainly because she is nice and honest and you are mean and lying. And your pressing of the flash drive into her husband's arm when he could not refuse as his hands were full, well that was just dirty. Who does shit like that? You, Axis of Evil, that's who.

I do not like your methods. You have decided to "get all up in her shorts", her meaning the Treasurer. What does that mean, anyway? I think you meant you would try to irritate her and make her life miserable, but that was a really stupid way of saying it. You sound like a wedgie or a thong with rough edges. 

I notice that you do not cheer for the Treasurer's son at meets. That is even more juvenile than if you were actually a juvenile, with acne. Do not bring this down to the kids because then you are crossing a line, and when you cross a line then you are on the other side of the line. 

Here is what I wish upon you, Axis of Evil. I wish that you have a large hemorrhoid, one that simultaneously itches and causes great ass pain. I also wish that when you bake cakes they get really dry and hard on the edges while remaining uncooked in the center, because that is the worst cake situation besides outright burning. But even if these things do not come to pass, you will not have that much fun in your life because you are bitchy and mean, and super bossy. People do not like that, Axis of Evil. Consider that a public service announcement, spoken loudly into a bull horn, directly over your ear. And heed it, because you suck right now.

S.O.S.

Two days ago I had a small, tiny dilemma. I had to drop Offspring I off at the gym and come home and snowblow the damn driveway. The problem was that then Offspring II would be in the house all alone while I was outside, and he's a bit of an opportunist in addition to just being young. My concern was that he would need me and come running out to get me, whereupon I would snowblow him into so many tiny bits since I could not hear his approach. I have the same fear with the lawnmower, but it's more graphic and juicier in general.

So I went over The Plan with him. If he needed me, he was to get the heel of the bread from the counter (left out with the intention of feeding the birds--I'm a giver), open the back door, and toss it out into the driveway. I would see the bread on my next pass with the snowblower, and then come inside and help him.  

As it turned out, I could not start the goddamn snowblower. I yanked its stupid yanker like 20 times and the accursed machine would not even act like it was going to start. I may or may not have kicked it. So I was just shoveling away, when Offspring II decided to enact The Plan. I heard the back door open, caught a glimpse of a frenzied throw, and heard a slam as he scurried inside. Perfectly executed all around, notwithstanding the fact that I was standing right there and really did not need thrown bread to catch my attention. I went inside to find out the reason for implementing The Plan. As it turned out, the pressing need (ha!) was for cider. Could he pour some cider please Mom? And the cuteness overwhelmed me, and I smote him with kisses on his upturned face.

Milwaukee Ink

From time to time I think about tattoos. What I would want to get if I ever got another one, possible meanings of tattoos, and just tattoo design in general. Also I think about funny and ridiculous tattoos that would crack me up if they existed. On someone else, of course, I'm not willing to deface my body for humor. But I sure would appreciate it if somebody else did. Like that one guy who got a cat tattooed on his big fat gut so the cat appeared to be walking away from you, showing its cat anus which was really the guy's belly button. Oh, here it is. I bet he gets lots of ass.

My all time favorite idea for a tattoo ever would be eye spots on one's shoulders. Especially if you were a really bad dork. Like if the popular people were picking on you and you just lifted up your shirt and exposed your shoulder blades, kind of crouching over. You'd be all trying to look bigger than you were, to scare the predatory mean people. That would just kill me. Hey, I think that's actually a Gary Larson Far Side cartoon. Couldn't find it, though, anyone? Anyone?

Another thing that would crack me up is if you tattooed internal organs on your thorax and abdomen. I would really enjoy going on a call, cutting open a patient's shirt, and finding a beautiful illustrated anatomy text right there. That would rock.

As it is, I have a very meaningful, awesome tattoo. Small daisy, right hip. I am just so glad that I realized at age 20 how important it would be to make sure I always remembered my general awesomeness at that age. And a daisy is probably the most meaningful, profound flower out there. So it's really good that I knew, at age 20, how deep and significant that tattoo would be to me, always. And the stretch mark right down the middle of it, from when I was pregnant and it grew to the size of a mutant sunflower, just adds to how much that daisy means to me.

Daisy--it says what I feel. 

I'm Going To Brazil

One thing I think the world should analyze more is the Brazilian. As in, the Brazilian bikini wax. Apparently in Brazil they value hairless cooches enough that the procedure to get one is named after the country. Impressive accomplishment, really, to have all your citizens agree that smooth vulvas are important enough to undergo severe pain and humiliation.

As a triathlete, one is in a swimsuit enough that one has to pay attention to the state of one's cooch hair and whether or not it is extending outward from said swimsuit and offending other triathletes. So one year I was all about the bikini wax, peripheral only. Then the next year, as part of my preparations for a trip to Cancun, I decided to go all out and have a Cancunian. Which is what resulted from me attempting a Brazilian--a slightly unfinished, and non-symmetrical yet mostly smooth coochie.

Here is what we do for love and beauty, men, so pay heed and you will prosper:

First, you have to strip from the waist down. Then they give you what could only be called a pseudo-panty, a paper impression of modesty. It's useless, and modesty is just an illusion at this point. Then you have to get up on a table whereupon the girl shines a light directly on your crotch that is at least 100,000 lumens. One hopes at this point that she does not gasp, or tut, or or otherwise show any other sign that you have some kind of vulvular weirdness. 

Then the real fun starts. By fun, I mean hot wax upon your softest skin, canvas strips rubbed onto it, and then the ripping. Often the girl will recruit you to help hold your lower abdominal or leg skin taut, to avoid worse skin trauma. So you are a party to your own torture, basically. 

Now the plan with a Brazilian, and what makes it stand out from your average bikini wax, is that they wax everything, possibly leaving only a small strip of hair on the front of the cooch if you find that aesthetically pleasing. When I say everything, I mean every hair that is on, in, or around the coochular area, including the ass crack. And as if the humiliation of thinking about hairs in your ass crack is not enough, now you have someone applying hot wax to them and tearing them off, all while looking directly into your bunghole in the light of a thousand suns. Oh, and your legs are up in the air. So your ass can be higher and more accessible for the girl who can't possibly be getting paid enough.

So midway through my Brazilian, as she was inching in further and further toward the pinkest parts, I gasped out that I might not want to go all the way in, like totally hairless in the cooch. She replied that she was already done there and we'd be moving on to the frontal area now. The mons, if you will. Well, I thought I knew pain, people, but the waxing of the mons taught me that I did not. And remember, I kick bricks apart and have natural childbirth for fun. Upon the first rip I invented three new swearwords. Second rip, kicked her in the face. Third rip, threw myself through the plate-glass window of the salon in my non-modest half-panty.

That's kind of a lie, none of that happened. But in my mind, it did. And more. Because the pain, oh the pain of the rips on my mons pubis, was the pain of a million cats torn asunder by a million dogs. So I gave up on that area, never made it to the traditional "landing strip" look, instead sporting an off-center rhomboid of pubes.

When she realized I had reached my waxing nadir, she asked if I wanted to move on to the ass crack. I gathered my wits and succumbed to her once more. The pain this time was, surprisingly minimal, but the mental anguish made up for it, for sure. Because of the spotlight on my ass crack like it was the Superbowl National Anthem singer, and also because of the public acknowledgement of ass crack hairs. That hurt, man. It hurt me deep.

As I paid, I was feeling like I lost my virginity all over again. Only this time, instead of my actual virginity, it was my skin, cooch hair, and dignity. And my desire for ass crack hairs to never be acknowledged, much less looked at and removed by someone. I'm still processing, to be honest. I think I need to haiku this one out:

All the pubes torn off

In the trash of the salon

Ass crack hairs--why? why?

Hot wax melts my soul

The pain! The pain! The pain! Ow!

Pubes in a rhombus

Pants are rubbing me

In the places hair is not

70's pube bush come back

(I know about the syllables on the last one. It's my blog, and my haiku. It says what I feel, haters. Let it go.)

The High Road Leads to The Cliff

I try to take the high road in general, just as kind of a life philosophy. Because I have to live with my own actions, right? So if the cashier charges me for a proletariate everyday head of lettuce, and I've really got some sexy, more expensive arugula, I don't really go with the "Hey, their mistake!" kind of action. I usually point it out.

Now, lest you think I'm all smug about being morally superior, I will reassure you I am not. I used to lie with the best of them. But now, for some reason I've developed the most pointy, constant, present conscience in the universe. I feel guilt as a physical sensation, to the extent that I avoid situations that cause me to feel guilty. So I guess it's kind of like that drug they give alcoholics that makes them puke their guts out after a sip of wine.

Anyway, I have an ex-husband. The ex part is mainly because he was a weaver of lie-webs. He would lie easily and often, and usually about things of no consequence. And you know, we fought about it a lot. I'd be all, "Hey, that wasn't true!" and he'd be all "Well, it got us this. Stop being so anal." And then I'd just kind of let it go, trying to brush those types of things under the rug in order to maintain the level of respect I needed to feel for him.

But, readers, as it turns out, little lies are the gateway drug. They lead you into bigger and more important lies without too much trouble. In the case of my ex, it was a long and protracted affair that involved lying to me, himself, the person he was romancing, and, well, everyone. And our lives fell apart because of it. 

Me, I managed to get clear of the wreckage. I sometimes feel like I grabbed my little dudes and pulled them out with me as our lives collapsed around us. And then got to rebuild it all, even better than before. Kind of survivor-like, if that claim were not so incredibly overused that it has lost all meaning. 

My ex, on the other hand, may just never get much out of life, since he's still willing to weave. I think he might be one of those people doomed to repeat their mistakes. My main hope for him is that he can be the father that the boys need so much. And maybe, just maybe, figure out some stuff along the way. 

We'll see. 

You lose, loser

So one thing I've learned is never challenge an Olympic athlete to a duel of awesomeness. You will not prevail, even if you're sporty and mostly awesome. How do I know this? I will tell you now, reader. 

As part of my black belt training, I took an adult gymnastics class to help enhance my gravity-defying skillz. My older son is heavily involved in gymnastics at a world class gym; his coaches are ex-Olympians. Like Atlanta 1996. And they were my coaches for this class of adult has-beens. Which was painful on several levels, one of which was that I am three heads taller than both of them. They are tiny awesome man-gymnasts.

So I did the class, worked very hard on my excellent gymnastics moves that were probably historical just from my height, and had fun. Made sure the coaches knew that the class was an enhancement to my black beltosity. One day, at the end of class, Andrei (oh yeah, Russian awesome tiny man-gymnasts) asked what it takes to become a black belt. Not wanting to give away all the black belt secrets, I told him only about the general training timeline. Then he asked to see some moves. Well, if there's one thing I have, audience, it's moves. Serious, awesome ones.

I jumped up and showed him a complicated spinning jump kick. He was all, "I think I could do that." I threw it down with a kind of smiling snorty noise. The noise said, "Whatever, tiny awesome gymnast. You are so not on my level of black belt skill." (It was a really articulate, feeling-injected snort.) So he jumped up and shook out his legs like he's not the fittest, most ripped person ever, and did the same kick as I did, ten times more awesomely.

That hurt, audience. So I re-committed to my ego preservation and did another, more difficult kick, kind of pretending that I just gave him an easy one first, to help him save face when I out-awesomed him. He watched closely, all kinesthetically-super-aware-like, and then ripped out a perfect, very ass-kicking jump spin heel crescent. With a lot of style.  

After I pulled out my final big gun, which he proceeded to crush with his tiny-gymnast-turned-karate-master moves, I gave up and shrunk to the floor like a slug sprinkled with salt (give me a moment, I just cracked myself up there with my spectacular simile---and alliterative aside---somebody stop me before I throw in a double entendre! Oh God, I kill me sometimes). Andrei was all smug, like how you'd be if you were an Olympic athlete that out-karateed a mom of two. (That last bit was a bitter way for me to lessen his achievement, and for me to look less non-awesome.) 

It was at that point of lowest feeling that I rose up, felt my awesomeness re-emerge in spite of the recent humiliating kick-off, and told that tiny awesome gymnast what was what.

I said, "I'm taller than you."

Wha-pow!

Setting the bar low

Happy New Year, readers of the blog! I stayed home last night to celebrate the coming of 09, but what I was really most grateful for was to see the hind end of 08 as it turned and ran at midnight. Let's see, in 08 I:

left my husband of 12 years because he had a big fat affair

sold my outrageously awesome house

ended homeschooling my boys

moved (hate moving, hate it hate it hate it)

lost my father-in-law unexpectedly 

had a friend lose her 4 month old baby

two friends' houses burned to the ground

So I'm hoping that 09 will be better. Which is not much to ask, considering, and there are already signs that life is good. And honestly, the only thing that happened in 08 to me that was really bad was losing the boys' grandfather--the rest was more growth-potential bad than really tragic.  I'm all about the growth potential, like a small cancer cell just lying in wait for the moment when if can forgo apoptosis and become renegade and out of control! 

Ok, reigned myself in, got a little excited there. But how can one not get excited when thinking about programmed cell death? It's pretty much on par with non-Newtonian fluid. Which, readers, is almost the reason I live.

Here's to 2009! May you all find peace and joy in life!