Antibiotics, Potential Projectile Vomiting & Shit Smears

I can't make it up.  Some days it's just antibiotics, potential projectile vomiting and shit smears.

That is the sum of my life, on that day.

You have never lived until you've had a Urinary Tract Infection ("UTI"). True story, my first UTI was almost 20 years ago.  I got it from too leisurely a bath, shaving my legs, in preparation for a sexy fun filled trip to Canada with my boyfriend at the time.

Nothing turns a trip more sexy than a trip to the Canadian Emergency Room.

Pissing blood and kicking your legs around while holding your crotch to try and distract yourself from the searing pain piercing your peeper is not how you want to spend time alone, let alone with anyone else. Thank God for free medical care in Canada.

About two weeks ago the lady bits were searing a little bit as I tucked into bed. I had a faint, distant fear rush over me - dear God! I hope this isn't what I think it is... Stubborn, I tried to tuck in and get some sleep for the 6:30am conference call I needed to be on. At 1:30 I woke in a sweat, needing to pee and knew - I. AM. FUCKED.

I called my General Physician's ("GP") emergency line, desperate to reach her or the doctor on call, to phone in a prescription to my local 24 hour pharmacy. This is the kind of shit I have to take into consideration when dating or moving; is there a 24 hour pharmacy nearby for when some dumb bullshit comes up? My ex before My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") lived in Santa Barbara and let me tell you, there isn't a mother fucking 24 hour CVS or RiteAid anywhere remotely close to that town. I should have known it was doomed.

Luckily my GP got the pleading message and called in an antibiotic. It took a few restless hours for the over the counter pee pain reliever and the first dose of meds to kick in. It goes without saying I was not on that early morning conference call. And whoever scheduled a call that early - no one on the Westcoast wants to be up that early asshole! 

7 days later I finished up my antibiotics.

But something just didn't...feeeeel right.

Turns out my hunch was right about the not feeeeeling 100%. After a physical visit to my GP we found out I had another form of bacteria still lurking around the lady bits. Cue another visit to the 24 hour CVS for more meds. Now, due to COVID but mostly due to the sick and gangly people that you see inside a CVS, I typically snatch whatever the pharmacist slides across the counter to me and high tail it out of there. This time though, the lady asks me if I've taken the medication my doctor prescribed me. Stupidly, I answered no which resulted in her pulling back my meds, placing it in a little plastic tray, and sliding it over to the "Consultation" window for a different pharmacist to come talk to me.

In hindsight I'm glad second pharmacist lady and I had a little chat. At first I thought damnit she's wasting my time, telling me to take two twice a day with water blah blah blah, all the while the line of vacant, scraggly looking people lingering around the pharmacy are starting to pile up... Right as I'm ready to say yeah, yeah give me the fucking meds before The Walking Dead breaks out in here, she proceeds to tell me "and don't drink while taking the medication and for an additional 3 days after finishing the medication. You'll have PROJECTILE VOMITING."

I'm sorry, what? 

It's not every day some warns you about the threat of potential projectile vomiting. I figured, shit. This bitch is onto me; although I've been doing dry January for the first time in ever she must know I love to mix my meds and my drinks. Together.

And no, if you're wondering, I'm not planning on drinking for the required 10 days but damn it all if I didn't really need a drink this week, particularly that day.

I was already stressed out by work at 10am. I had to rush to the doctor on a cancellation appointment to find out I was still sick. And raced back home to get on a conference call...

All to have the cat jump up on me and smear liquid kitty shit across my hand.

While the Vice President is telling you how to get something done you can't exactly say, "I'm sorry, can you give me a minute? My cat just smeared shit across my hand." 

I mean, you can. But I didn't. I just put the call on mute, freaked and grossed out a little bit, washed my hand, and grabbed a wet wipe to address Jaja's backside.

For more on my cat's booty: https://thesillyshitwesay.blogspot.com/2021/01/i-want-assquatch.html

So, yeah. Some days are not for winning.

Some days it's just antibiotics, the potential for projectile vomiting, and fur baby shit smears.

I Want An Assquatch

I want an assquatch. Bad.

Ever since my Mom sent me a text photo of some hideous mutated deer ass taxidermy at her local auction house in VA I've been in love. You gotta see this thing.  Look!

Isn't it marvelous?! She didn't think anyone would bid. I knew better and told her to bid up to $100. It sold for $175.

If I knew then what I know now I would have found the extra money to go higher. But buying silly shit like this is exactly the reason why I'm driving a 94 Toyota Corolla with 300,000 miles and living in an overpriced apartment, rather than owning my own condo and driving a car made this century.

Assquatches are not a new thing. In fact, they made their mysterious debut in Star Wars - Return of the Jedi. Check it out...

My VA assquatch isn't looking so fucking terrible now, is it!?

Not only are assquatches not a new thing but my odd draw to taxidermy isn't a new thing to me. I bought a squirrel butt to take with me to Burning Man in 2014. It was a great addition to our camp, United Squirrel Army, bar front. I'd love to add more ass taxidermy to my single squirrel butt but as it turns out taxidermy of any sort is expensive, especially assquatches.

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I have been talking about a particularly controversial piece of ass - my cat Jaja's cute little behind. We can't quite figure out if we're horrified by the idea of taxidermy-ing her backside or love it. She is a really special little beast to both of us and the thought of her not being in our lives is both inevitable but unimaginable. Jaja's pooter has always been a source of laughter and truth be told her best ass-et.

Jaja got her little chicken legs nickname from the funny way in which she crawls up and hangs off of my shoulder, her tail and legs dangling limp and freely down. Just begging to be pulled at and pinched. Nothing like pinching a little cat butt.

As Jaja has gotten older she has decided that she's just too old to give a shit enough to squat while peeing in her box, let alone clean up her feet or backside. Yesterday morning for example, MSMF, Jaja, and I were being lazy in bed. She got up to stretch, so MSMF gave her a pet followed by a few pats back and forth on her rump. As if on queue, a small clinger plopped down on the pillow right in front of my face! After the gross out passed, MSMF and I both joked it would be funny to put little seasonal clingers on her taxidermy butt; little gift box for Christmas, little heart for Valentine's Day... you know, dressed up cat ass taxidermy. Not to mention the endless cat butt/leg pinches I could get in.

Though the price of adding Jaja's rear to the wall may ultimately be the deciding factor, I have looked into it. I know my Mom would be horrified. MSMF and I also floated the idea to a few friends, all of whom just looked at us horrified and quickly changed the subject.

Sure, it's slightly disturbing to think about my little fur baby's ass on the wall, dressed up or not.

But(t) come on! Nothing can be quite as horrifying as an assquatch, right?

And in case you haven't had enough of the weirdness, here's an article with more examples of assquatches from Sad and Useless:

https://www.sadanduseless.com/assquatch/

And for those of you that are just dying to know how to make an assquatch, check out Awkward's article:

https://awkward.com/meet-the-assquatch-a-taxidermy-creation-made-from-a-deers-butt/

Adult Acne

Adult acne. No thanks.

I get a bump here and there every blue moon but nothing like I did through high school and even into college.

My family has always had weird skin issues; moles, discoloration, acne, and cysts. My poor Uncle's back looks like Swiss cheese, with deep nasty scars from baseball sized cyst removals. Though I don't have any cysts I had cyst-like acne in college, induced by Accutane use. It was so awful and embarrassing. Apparently it's no longer available for treatment of acne and has been plagued by law suits. So happy I took it... 

Random Fun Fact about me: I love zits.

Not having them but popping them. I definitely missed my calling as a Dermatologist. Though in my own defense I would've never made it through medical school. Math and Science and I don't mix. But I would love to have a show like Dr. Pimple Popper. The videos are so gross and yet I can't seem to look away. Get paid to slice and poke and pick at people's weird bumps and lumps all day, hell yeah! I could finally be one of those annoying fucking people that says, "I love what I do all day." Until then, fuck you guy.

No one wants to hear that shit and feel bad about their sad ass job that doesn't pay them enough and sucks their soul out of a straw from their butthole.

My boyfriends were always harassed for a pick here or a pop there from me. Though there were varying levels of tolerance, nobody liked it. My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") is no exception but puts up with my irritable and painful picky proclivity.

I'd say he's a 6 out of 10 on the patience pimple meter. Not the best but not the worst either.

MSMF gets the worst (best) ingrown hair bumps and leaves them for weeks to torture himself and me. Drives me crazy. A few have gotten so bad MSMF really needed a needle and tweezers but like me hates needles and won't have any of it. So instead these things just rupture on their own or live like squatters you can't kick out of a beach side apartment for months at a time. Any time I try to get near one he squirms and squeals to the point that there is no point in trying. Takes all the enjoyment out of a good pop.

They say that partners reach that point in a relationship where they know one another so well that they can both delight and annoy the other with little to no effort. Well, this is MSMF's way of delighting in annoying the shit out of me. Good pickings that I can't have that go to waste...

Sigh.

Maybe I need to supplement my puss impatience with one of these Shark Tank featured gadgets; a zip popping toy:  https://popitpal.com/

Kinda feel like I'm good though. While I'm intrigued, I also feel like I need to go barf a little...

Spam - The Emails, Not The Canned "Meat"

Fucking spam.

Seriously. The shit drives me crazy.

I have an old Hotmail account that I've had since the age of dinosaurs. Over time the spam has grown to unreasonable levels; I receive about 100+ emails A DAY in my junk mail.

Sadly these fucks are just automated and whoever sets them up are so good, that if you block them or report them as phishing, they just come right back. Minutes later I'll have another email from the same blocked spammer, just from a slightly different account all made of gibberish.

It's infuriating and exhausting to go through every day. Most days I don't actually check my junk mail, so this shit piles up to the point that I'll never truly know if some long lost illegitimate child has tried to find me. Or what if my name is drawn for that grand prize Kia nobody really wants but that I filled out a drawing slip for at the mall two years ago?  The only email I ever got lucky to find among the spam, that I wanted to see at the time, was from an ex apologizing for being shitty. Any attempted emails now can happily be lost in the void, asshole.

The most annoying, though funniest part about all the spam I receive, is that 99% of it is for penis enlargement and women that are "hot" and "wet" for me. Not kidding. Whatever company or bot or however this tech shit works thinks I'm some middle-age would be home wrecker. It's awesome. I sometimes look at the subject line and wonder to myself... 

Maybe I do want a harder, bigger dick... 

Maybe I do want to meet HOT and SEXY ASIAN WOMEN...

And who is Jenna and why does she love me?

Maybe my junk mail is trying to tell me something. While trying to look up a funny pic for this post, I happened up on cool article on how to reach more than my two current subscribers.

https://medium.com/better-marketing/how-spam-emails-taught-me-to-write-viral-50k-view-articles-51e0698483a8

While I don't think banging Jenna with my harder, bigger dick or chatting with hot sexy Asian women will teach me anything, maybe the spammers non-stop harassing me will.

Fingers crossed this blog makes it big. Harder, longer lasting big. Yeeeeaaahhhh.

Ballerinas Are Made From Cigarette Wrappers

It is my belief that ballerinas are made from cigarette wrappers.

Not literally MADE of them but born of them.

Let me explain.

I don't have many memories of my childhood. Hell, I don't have many memories from what I did last week let alone what I did 30 plus years ago. What I do remember is horrific and the rest I've conveniently blocked out thank God.

To fill the gaps I rely on fun, amusing stories about me. Mostly told by my Mom and my Aunt ("Fav").

There's my love of being naked and pushing a plastic shopping cart around the yard. There's the infamous T-Rex definition or the rubber hotdog story. But when I think about my failed career as a ballerina and the foot/leg problems that have plagued me my entire life, I think about the baby jumper and cigarette wrapper story.

Due to finances and other sad reasons I won't bore you with, my Mom and I lived with my Grandmother for many years at a really young age. Like really young, 1 or 2 maybe. Naturally when you have a baby in the house and you need them to amuse themselves, so Mom 1 and 2 can both go to work or do whatever it is that a 21 year old and a 50-something year old not wanting to deal with a kid would do - you put the kid in a doorway jumper. Hours of unsupervised, self amusement.

I must have been in the doorway jumper quite often, chilling by myself, because I made an olympic baby sport out of fishing for my Grandmother's cigarette wrappers on a nearby table.

To even touch the ground you need to get a little bounce to the baby ounce. Once I got that down, I had to add the bounce with forward and backward momentum. That meant stretching my fat little sausage legs down as far as I could to tip toe on the ground.

With my tiny little cocktail weiners skimming the carpet, I'd push myself backward in the jumper as far as my toes could go and would let go. Swinging forward, I'd kick my legs as fast as I could to propel me toward the crunchy, flashy wrapper on the table. And just before the jumper swung me back, I would reach out with all my might. It didn't take long before I'd snatch the suffocation devise from the table.

Amused, my Mom or Grandmother would move the wrapper further and further down the table. Requiring more bounce, tip toeing, and determination. Apparently this would go on for hours, day in and day out.

I didn't have a smoking problem. I had an addiction to the cigarette wrapper.

Little did cigarette companies know they were missing out on a whole new, younger generation of non-smokers to market to and get them addicted. You always hear about how revolting it is that cigarettes are targeted to teenagers. Shit. Cigarette companies need to run a campaign marketed to preemies - 2 year olds. Wrappers in different colors and flavors. Hello!?

My Mom loves recounting how I'd fling myself around in the jumper trying to snatch my Grandmother's cigarette wrappers. She oddly hasn't drawn the connection to this story and the other story she loves to tell - about the first time she put me in a pair of shoes. You know the ones. Teeny tiny white leather baby shoes the size of an espresso cup? We've all worn them. They're like standard issue baby gear, no matter what race or gender you are. My Mom is always so puzzled when she describes how much I screamed and cried the first time she put me in those little white coffins.

In those shoes I was a flat footed, caged bird. Incapable of doing the one thing I knew how to do by the age of 1...

Fly through the air on my tippy toes.

Now if she had slapped little ballerina slippers on my feet it would have been game on.

There's no doubt in my mind that I would've been a fucking prima ballerina by the age 10. Sure, the youngest to date was 29 by the time she became a prima but I would have had it in the bag. I was snatching cigarette wrappers off tables on my tippy toes before this bitch was even born.

Sadly, the jumper was replaced in time with the flat little white bricks. But in my mind my feet and legs never recovered from the pointe position. And my Mom never put me in ballet. Instead, I've been plagued with foot and flexibility issues my entire life.

Sure, growing too fast was a primary reason but I still like to think there was a missed opportunity early in my life to be a great ballet dancer. That probably smoked.  Maybe.

Happy New Year You Filthy Animals!

Wow. 2021. Seriously. WTF?

It's only 6 days into the New Year and I already feel like it's been three years.

Time is funny like that. One minute it won't speed up and the next minute it won't slow the fuck down. I think it makes us all manic in some shape or form.

I feel like I'm rushed to do this or do that. Be somewhere else. Have some greater answer or purpose figured out. When I stop to look around I realize, Jesus, I'm right where I was before all the mental and emotional brain damage of ending the prior year and beginning the next. I can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

I've never made New Years resolutions.

I don't sit and ponder the year ahead. Maybe that's my fucking problem. I can say I was happy not to be hungover and feeling like shit come New Years morning this year.  Previous years I've spent January 1 watching the Rose Parade on the couch with my Aunt and Uncle, half dead from partying our tits off the night before. Instead, My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I stayed in, cuddled on the couch, and barely stayed up until the midnight video chat we had with a few friends. The awesome part is that we could have been hanging out with them. But that's just not how MSMF and I wanted to roll this year.

As usual change is afoot.

For me, for friends and family.  As I've said before and I'll say again, I've never been a big fan of change. However, this year I feel more ready than ever to embrace it. In all its forms. I think a lot of people are ready for change. Shit. The world was turned upside-down last year due to COVID. But that's just it. We all want to make changes when they are on our terms. Not hoisted or forced upon us.

So here we are. Officially 1 week into the new year. Is it just me or are you also tired? 

Happy to say I've been working out, eating a lot healthier, and not drinking. 

How boring is that shit?

(this meme is for MSMF, who BTW hates memes... weirdo)

Chewing The Bits & 69

Hide yo' wife. Hide yo' kids!  We're gonna talk about sexy things!

I'll get right to the point; I'm not the biggest fan of oral. I don't mind giving it, even though I have a small mouth and jumpy gag reflex. All in all my biggest issue with people chewing on each other bits comes down to two things - smell and cleanliness.

Worries about cleanliness, etc. gets in the way of enjoyment for me. And don't even TRY to go any further. As I once said to a good friend of mine, "What is it with people and butt stuff!?"

I think most men are into both receiving as well as giving. And that's cool. My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") is no exception. I think I hurt some feelings early on in our relationship when I turned MSMF down from going down. Since then, muff rejection has come up off and on. More or less poking fun and teasing between one another.

One morning while cuddling in bed MSMF nonchalantly asked me, "Would you like me to chew on your muff?" Slightly laughing and not wanting to hurt any feelings I blurted out,

"Just because you don't chew on my muff all the time doesn't mean I love you any less."

We both died laughing. We still laugh about it.

Every blue moon one of us will proposition a muff meal and we both chuckle at the teasing.

Continuing with our little inside joke, the other morning while holding MSMF I asked him, "You want to chew on my muff?" Both laughing, I decided to double-down. "No? A little 69 then?" Rolling over, MSMF gave me the usual "Babe!" Out of nowhere he suddenly urged me, "Scratch! Scratch!" While vigorously scratching his back my back got jealous. "Babe, itch itch!"

Laying there, facing each other, we were viciously going to work scratching up each others backs. Moaning, left, right, up downing, and oh yeah-ing each other, I couldn't help but blurt out "This is some good 69." MSMF even took it further by flipping the other way, to do a true 69 back scratch though it wasn't as good.

69. The new back scratch position. Who knew?

And remember dear reader, just because you don't chew on my muff all the time doesn't mean I love you any less.