The Mystery Cough

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") has a mystery cough.

If I'm being honest, mystery cough is putting it delicately.

More like, mystery wretch.

He coughs with such force and so frequently in the mornings that I can hear him gagging and dry heaving downstairs. He tries to hide it, but I know it's happening. The sound of someone almost vomiting is very distinctive.

My favorite coughs are the ones MSMF tries to suppress in bed while laying next to me. Suddenly his body will seize up and he stops breathing. To get him to breath and cough I tease him by saying "cough cough cough cough". It always gets him laughing... and coughing.

It's like this day in and day out.

What makes his cough a mystery is the fact that it only happens here in the Westside and only when MSMF is in bed. When he stays in Ventura or we travel somewhere else his hack disappears.

I'm betting on the pillows or dust but he thinks it might be my hair products.

I have no clue what the hell could be causing it but it seems to me the only way to figure it out would be to come up with a list of suspects and start testing solutions. You'd think MSMF would make a list and get to it but so far he hasn't; he just self-induce vomits instead.

After two days of dry heaving I'd be over it. I guess everyone has a different cough till you puke tolerance.

Here are my theories and suspected likelihood that I'm right:

1. My Shampoo/Conditioner    0 out of 10

I'm not buying this one. For starters, MSMF would never be able to take a shower with me which he often does. As soon as I lather up, he'd be throwing a lung and falling out of the tub wrapped in the shower curtain. My second line of reasoning for my hair products not being the root cause is the simple fact that we snuggle on the couch together all the time. I sit between his legs, leaning back onto his chest. His face is practically IN MY HAIR. Yet he doesn't cough on the couch! MSMF thinks that because he sleeps so close to my hair that it must be the reason he coughs. Unless he's huffing my golden locks I'm just not buying it.

2. Pillows    5 out of 10

I feel slightly ashamed to admit how old my pillows are. The body pillow at the top of our bed that the cat sleeps on is from... college. I graduated in fucking 01', so yeah, there's that. I said it. I just aged myself and the body pillow. While the pillows we put our heads on are much newer, they miiight not be from the last decade. That's a lot of drool and tears and God knows what else built up over the years. But could they be causing MSMF's cough? Maybe.

3. Dust    6 out of 10

I'm ashy. Like, really ashy. No matter how much scrubbing or lotion I put on this body, I shed. Horribly. Dust is mostly made up of dead human skin cells, so there's nothing shocking here. And as often as I'd like to say that I keep the house perfectly clean, the truth is downstairs, yes. I vacuum and dust at least once a week. But upstairs... meh. What can I say? I do the best with the time I have. A few months back I deep cleaned the bedroom. There wasn't a dust bunny that I didn't take care of. MSMF said that his cough improved, I noticed a slight change. If his coughing subsided for a week, he was certainly back at it on week two.

4. Nasal Drip/Stomach Reflux    7 out of 10

Ultimately my money is on nasal drip or some nighttime version of acid/stomach reflux. I should know, I had this issue quite a few years back. I'm sure going to bed after drinking a bottle of wine by myself didn't help, however, every morning I would wake up and have to clear my throat for the next hour or so. It just felt raw. Like I was snoring with my mouth open all night or something. A trip to an ear, nose and throat doctor exposed my leaky stomach valve; I needed to stop drinking (anything) late at night and I had to elevate my bed 3-6 inches only at the headboard. This produced the weirdest feeling. You wouldn't think just a few inches at the top of your bed would make such a big difference but it did. If I didn't feel like I was being raised out of bed for lift off, I felt like I was slowing sliding off the bed.

The type of cough MSMF has just sounds like and convicts me to some version of 4. Dust and old pillows also might be playing a part. But who the fuck knows!? MSMF actually has to give a shit enough about this himself to figure it out. I'll help but dude some shit you have got to instigate on your own.

Cough cough cough cough.

C Word vs. B Word

Which is worse?

Calling someone a cunt or calling them a beaver?

Most often these terms of endearment are reserved for women but I'm an equal opportunist when it comes to name calling.

Let's start with cunt. At best, most people can't stand the word and I would argue many of those same people wouldn't use the word at all. It might even bother you, dear reader, to see the word because you're hearing it in your head - aren't you? Cunt. Cuuuuunt. Cunt cunt cunt.

I don't remember the first time I heard the word let alone the first time I used the word but I do fondly remember the time I called my former boss a cunt.

My work husband and I were on our morning break and I was at my breaking point. He and I had spent years under the same boss' constant scrutiny, ruthless judgement and general tyranny. I don't remember how it exactly rolled off my tongue but it was something to the effect of, "God damn it. She is such a fucking cunt!" Oxygen left Earth for the split second my work husband inhaled - he was aghast. Of all the wrongs he and I suffered he still couldn't compel himself to hear the word let alone accept the use of it to define our boss, as a woman or her unacceptable behaviors.

What's funny is the sheer impact and force of the word cunt in his mind must have been so great that he ended up using it to describe our boss a few years later. It was my turn to be shocked; mostly because it conveyed to me just how pissed and disgusted he was with her. It took time but she wore him down.

Now, I've never called anyone a beaver. But My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") has. Many times.

The first time I heard him say, "Oh, those beavers" I was like "Oh shit! Dude. Duuude. No" Then we both awkwardly stared at each other like, what? What did I say? Turns out MSMF loves the term beaver and what's funny, he doesn't think there's anything wrong with it. Well, not until recently.

Every time he's referred to a good friend or mutual acquaintance as a "beaver" I've just laughed because I know he's just saying "that girlfriend" or "that chic".  And I've tried to tell him calling someone a beaver, especially a woman, is probably NOT the right nomenclature but shit, who am I to be the Politically Correct Police? Jesus, I am the last person. Remember, I'm Borat.

https://thesillyshitwesay.blogspot.com/2020/12/youre-like-borat.html

The cunt vs. beaver debate reached a crescendo on St. Patrick's Day. We met JZ and Beyoncé out for a drink and figured we'd consult two decently level headed humans to see what they thought. 

They thought we were both inappropriate and fucking insane.

In fact JZ insisted we stop the debate altogether, sighting his disgust with us due to his having gone to cotillion and finishing school. He also warned MSMF, "I would avoid any discussion involving another woman's reproductive parts." MSMF and I were already a few drinks in, so we just laughed and kept arguing with one another under our breath.

What I found even funnier is that MSMF finally realized that calling someone a beaver was pretty fucking offensive. He didn't believe me when I told him to slow his roll on the use of the term, ooooh no. He only realized and accepted the severity after someone else schooled him on his beaver sensibilities. Thanks babe.

MSMF now swears he won't say beaver anymore but now I'm on the warpath. I find it so damn cute and funny that there's no way I'm letting the use of it die.

Ultimately, use of any offensive word or misdirected/misunderstood name calling hinges on who you're talking to. Before the great beaver debate, MSMF and I discussed the use of cunt with my New Zealand girlfriend and she found absolutely no problem with it. And I quote, "People use it all the time in Europe. It's almost normal, cunt this and cunt that. People will walk up and be like, 'Oh hey cunt!'"

So, what say you - are you on the cunt side of the fence? Beaver side of the fence? Both? Neither?

Why So Derpy?

Ok, I gotta rant here. I have the derpy-ist fucking roommate. Seriously.

There. I said it.

I know My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") is probably saying "Baby..." and silently judging me for being a judgmental, name slinging biatch but damn it. Home slice cannot go one day without doing something fucking stupid!

So, I made the painful but adulting decision to take on a roommate for a few months two weeks ago. And ever since Ms. Thang moved in, she's been hell bent on a mix of obnoxiousness and fucking shit up around the apartment. Now, I may be a grown ass working professional woman living in an apartment that had to take on a roommate but God damn it that doesn't mean that I don't care about my place looking nice or that I don't have nice/expensive things in said place!

If something is going to get fucked up it better be me doing it. And trust me, I have messed up before. But it's rare. *que some better than thou anthem song*

Ok, here's the list of charges so far... IN JUST TWO WEEKS!

(Technically a week and a half because she didn't move in right away.  Noted, in my defense).

1. She broke my outdoor hanging lamp while moving in.

Technically, it wasn't her but some dude. This gets better. I'm not sure exactly how it happened, however, after hearing a massive crash and Ms. Thang leaning into the front doorway saying "we broke your lamp" I find her (without a mask) and some dude (also not wearing a mask) carrying a massive computer desk monitor. She called him a "good Samaritan" that was just there to help her out but all he did was help himself into my damn lamp! I've had matching lamps hanging on either side of the front door since I moved in and sadly with one broken, both have to be replaced. Ugh.

(Fun Fact: Now with the glass missing from the lamp, the property repairman broke the candlelight timer inside the lamp a few days later because he knocked into it causing just the light to fall out)

2. She tracked dirt on the floor and carpet on the stairs.

MSMF and I loosely follow a no shoes in the house rule once you clear the front door hallway. Ms. Thang was aware of this but somehow managed during her first morning at the apartment to muck up the hallway floor and stairs. I knew it was her and waited until she got home to mention it; I'm not her Mom so I wasn't going to clean it up. Even MSMF commented on it when he got to the apartment that evening. So what happens when she gets home? I point it out to her and she goes, "oh. ok!" and goes up to her room. Hello! Earth to derp?

3. Her general curiosity and banter.

As I said to a girlfriend of mine this past weekend, the Derp and I are not friends. Nor do I want to be. Sure I want things to be respectable and easy between us but for the most part I want her to stick to her room or to her own shit and stay out of ours. She also has this weird giggle laugh that just makes me want to say, "Guuuuuurrrrrrl." Any time MSMF and I are cooking or watching TV, we get 20 questions. I don't want to play 20 questions after a long day and just want to relax in silence doing whatever MSMF and I are doing. And the tough part is MSMF is all for engaging her, which just makes her engage more! 

4. She soaked the bathroom floor mat.

Again, I'm not sure how she managed to pull this off. But literally I came home from sushi one night and found the bathroom rug soaked. When I left for dinner she was taking a bath. Ok, cool. I like baths too. No big deal. But what the hell was she doing in the bath? Water aerobics!? Now, I've gotten out of the shower before without a towel and yes, you get the floor mat wet. This wasn't wet. To repeat, THIS WAS SOAKED! I can only imagine she was replaying scenes from Splash or Free Willy in there.

5. She has no sense for turning lights off.

I guess when people don't pay the bills for things they don't have an appreciation for the thing they're not paying for. Home slice's internet and electricity is included in her rent. Since moving in, I've had to remind her and/or turn the lights off myself almost every time she turns them on. I wait the cursory 5-10 minutes hoping "she's coming back" in my mind but no. She ain't comin' back! She's thoughtless and careless to the ways of the light switch. You know, that thing you flick up and down and the lights go on and off? I'm sure if I start charging her for part of the electric bill she'll turn the fucking lights off.

And for her Derpy Coup de Grace:

6. Ms. Thang dumped her coffee all over the bottom half of the stairs.

I heard it happen. I was sitting at my makeshift work desk when I heard the tell-tale signs of derpy shit happening downstairs. The sound of blundering, fumbling, and ultimately - "oh no". I was already too pissed to get up and see what happened. After 5 minutes of hearing her walk back and forth from the kitchen and the paper towel roll depleting, I hear "hey I spilled some coffee but everything's good". Bitch you KNOW everything is not good. But I walked downstairs and didn't immediately see anything wrong. She holds up a towel she got under the kitchen sink and asks, "what should I do with this?" Seriously? What do you want me to do with it?! Channeling the Buddha I say to her, "just wash it the next time you do laundry."

She pops off to work and I jump onto a conference call. But something told me that wasn't the end of the derp.

Sure enough, I went downstairs to inspect the cleanup and found a fucking disaster when I turned the lights on. There was coffee splattered on the fabric storage boxes, coffee INSIDE the storage ottoman that functions as a seat near the front door, coffee on the wall and underneath the ottoman... seriously a coffee bomb went off. And yeah, I was left to clean it up because what was I going to do? Let it sit there all day and screw shit up even more?

All she had to say about it when I sent her pictures of the mess she left behind was, "oh I'll be sure to check next time". Next time? NEXT TIME? There isn't going to be a next time Queen Derp!

Good lord, what else does she have in store?

In an insanely short amount of time she has helped me realize that my ability to tolerate a roommate is nonexistent. That ship has sailed. Or I should say my ability to handle a 20-something derpster has left the building.

The perfect sound that describes what I think about when I see or hear her is the little jingle Beaky Buzzard sings to himself while flying.

Peep the clip around the 1:09 mark. The derp and character is spot on!

The Westside Hot Chicken Rumble

There's a hot chicken rumble goin' down in the Westside!

A few months back My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") said he spotted this hot chicken place he wanted to try for lunch. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what place he was talking about... I have walked as well as rode a million times up and down Venice Blvd and I've NEVER seen a fucking hot chicken place.

Not that that's surprising. I have a strong visual memory but everything from Overland Ave to at least Sepulveda Blvd is a blur because I'm convinced that every building between those blocks is a front for something.

What, I don't know. But each spot is shady as fuck.

You've got the odd dentist building with faded signage. Next door to that is the Techno Mexican seafood place with blaring music and no customers. Then there's a bean bag place. Seriously. Bean bags. And to make sure that you know there's a bean bag place there to, you know, buy all your bean bags, they have hung 3 or 4 from the store front. But they're not fresh, shiny bean bags. They have definitely been hanging there since bean bags were a thing, so... the 70's?

Somewhere between the techno ceviche and the withered sad bags there apparently is a hot chicken place. Al's Hot Chicken. I was just excited to eat fried chicken and french fries for a meal, since MSMF and I had been dialing it in after quite a few decadent weeks of eating. While I do love chicken tenders and even on occasion make them at home, I've never had "hot" chicken before. Al's was decent. Toasted but soft buns, crispy flavored hot chicken and fresh crunchy fries. Forget the slaw because you know, white sauce.

Fast forward to two weeks ago. While MSMF and I were riding home from the beach we spotted a new place was taking over the old Umami Burger spot - Dave's Hot Chicken. We were like "OH SHIT!" Al has competition! It's going to be an all out hot chicken turf war in our hood! Que the hot chicken cock fights!

I noticed Dave's had finally opened, so it was time to do a taste test. Thing is, the place has had a massive line every time we've passed by. When we mentioned going to Dave's later that evening for dinner to a girlfriend of ours she went on and on about their sauce and the honey and the hotness. It just built up the fried chicken suspense!

Last night was the night. We bought all the things Dave's Hot Chicken had to offer and what can I say?

We're both sticking with Al!

Our final conclusion: While MSMF and I both liked the seasoning and moist chicken at Dave's, Al's is just as good. Isn't a chain and is less expensive. Gotta rep your local hood and support local. Fuck you Dave!

And for some finger licking reading on how hot chicken really happened, per The Bitter Southerner:

https://bittersoutherner.com/how-hot-chicken-really-happened

Beef Teki Disco Steki

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") is half Greek half Italian.

But you wouldn't know that by the way he eats or who he associates with. He's definitely not an Italian Greek or frankly Italian at all, which makes me sad. Don't ask me why because I don't know why. It just does.

He loves Greek shit, particularly Greek food. Can't get enough of it. Probably wishes he were eating it right now. Sadly, I don't think I'd ever make it as the poster child for Greek food lover. Most of the shit he's tried to get me to eat, like lamb or Mick Jagger, has never been a part of my grocery list nor something that I'd seek out to eat. Like, ever.

Mick Jagger is our slang for tzatziki, inspired by MSMF and his friends calling it John Jaggi. It's their way of making fun of how most people can't pronounce the word. I don't find it the hardest thing to say in the world but I loved the John Jaggi nickname and figured I'd put my own spin on it.  And to me it sounded a lot like Mick Jagger.

And for the record, I hate the shit. I'm not a big fan of dill but even less a fan of cucumber and white sauce. White sauce of ANY kind. Yogurt, mayo, whatever.

Yes, in case you're pondering it. ALL WHITE SAUCES!

MSMF and I hadn't eaten anything Mediterranean in awhile, so he was ready for a fix. When he offered to cook "beefteki" the other night I said fine. Balls of onion meat with feta in the middle popped into the oven with a tray of potatoes didn't sound like the worst dinner. Problem was I couldn't understand what the fuck he was saying.

Me: "What are we having again?"

MSMF: "Beefteki."

Me: "Beefsteki."

MSMF: "Beefteki."

Me:"Beefsteaky."

MSMF: "Beef. Teki."

Me: "Beefy steaky disco techi."

MSMF: laughing "Beef teki."

Me: "Beef steki disco teki."

MSMF: "Nooooo..."

Me: "Beef teki disco steaky."

MSMF: "YES! Yes. Beef teki."

Me: "Beef steki."

MSMF: "Babe. Beef teki. No 's'."

Me: "Oh! No s. So beefteki."

MSMF: "YES!"

Me: "Beef teki."

MSMF: loling "Yes."

Me: "Beefteki."

MSMF: "Beefteki."

Funny thing, I looked it up. It's not even "beef" teki. It's bifteki. BIFTEKI! With an I. And definitely no damn s.

Unlike Mick Jagger the bifteki was really good. I would totally have beef teki disco steki again.

*Que obnoxious bangin' Euro tech-disco sounds*

Prison Hobby

MSMF: "What would your prison hobby be?"

Me: *rolls over sleepily in bed* "Whaaaat...?"

MSMF: "What would your hobby in prison be?"

Me: "God, I don't know. You can have hobbies in prison?"

MSMF: "Sure."

Me: "I know. I don't know. Ok, I got it. I would cross stitch. What would you do?"

MSMF: "I'd paint."

Me: "Painting?"

MSMF: "Yeah. Like, super religious paintings. I'm gonna get really good at the Crucifixion and the Virgin of Guadalupe."

Me: "Oh my God babe."

MSMF: "Exactly."

Me: "Thing is, I wouldn't be allowed to have a needle."

MSMF: "What are you going to do, poke someone to death?"

Me: "It would take a few weeks but maybe I could work on a main artery or something. Come to think of it, you probably can't have a paint brush either. Prison paint brush shiv all the way."

Now we're both laughing. Figuring out what you'd do in prison for a hobby isn't easy. We both agreed spending our time in the library to get a law degree and get out of prison would be the way to go. Or learn another language.

What would your prison hobby be?

Why Is Anal Bleaching A Thing?

It's not every morning I wake up thinking, why is anal bleaching a thing, but it's what I had on the brain last weekend.

I laughed My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") right out of bed with my uncomfortable, odd line of questioning and reasoning around anal bleaching. He's not the only one that says silly shit. But apparently doesn't ponder this kind of silly shit.

Seriously though. Why is anal bleaching a thing?

How fancy does ones asshole need to be?  Or white for that matter?  Are our buttholes dark? Is your butthole or for that matter my butthole in need of whitening?

I've heard of teeth whitening. Face whitening. And yes, sadly anal whitening.

But as I asked MSMF - When? Why? When and why would someone ever learn what anal bleaching is!?

He confessed he knows what it is but couldn't quite tell me when or why he knows that people lighten their pooper. I can't tell you when or why either.  Isn't that weird? It's weird.

When I Googled "why is anal bleaching a thing?" here was the response:

Bleaching is a way of lightening this area temporarily. It can help the color around the anus appear more uniform with the rest of the body. Some people find that this helps them feel more confident in their appearance.

Ok fam.  Serious talk.

Who in God's name is looking for confidence from the appearance of their ass hole!?

If anal bleaching is a confidence booster then what the hell does the rest of the person look like!?  Bleaching your booty is NOT going to boost your confidence if that's what's needed to feel good about yourself. Game over.

And according to a Cosmopolitan poll from 2020, 83% of readers said they'd consider bleaching their brown eye. Ladies, or men, what in the fuck is wrong with you? I could have a fluorescent blue booty hole down there and not think to myself, hmm, better set up that salon appointment this weekend to get my anus bright and white!

https://www.cosmopolitan.com/health-fitness/advice/a3634/anal-bleaching-trend/

And I know, I know sex work and porn and blah blah blah. But Christ, who cares if the skin is slightly different colored? It's au naturel.

So dear reader, why do YOU think anal bleaching is a thing?

I just couldn't help this anal bleaching doughnut pic, especially in light of my last blog post about molested Instagram doughnuts:

https://thesillyshitwesay.blogspot.com/2021/02/molested-instagram-doughnut.html

Molested Instagram Doughnut

I loved doughnuts as a kid.

My Grandmother and I would go to the local doughnut shop every weekend. I can still smell the inside of the shop, tucked into a dingy little strip mall next door to a 7-11. My childhood tastes were simple - standard bar chocolate iced or raised ring with sprinkles.

It's been at least two years since I got my hands on some fried, doughy goodness and sadly it wasn't memorable. Some chocolate, sugar glazed hipster doughnut from an overpriced shop on Abbey Kinney in Venice. Took a few bites and tossed it in the nearest trash can. My enjoyment didn't match the caloric intake and guilt I felt, so the doughnut had to go!

On our walk home from brunch a few Sundays ago with JZ and Beyonce, My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") entertained us with the silliest doughnut story. Inspired I believe by a local bakery we stopped into on the walk home. We only window shopped, due to the french fries and massive stack of pancakes we both ate, but God damn the cinnamon buns looked delicious.

Mouths watering, MSMF proceeded to tell us about the last time he had an "Instagram" doughnut.  A few years ago his two childhood friends sent him a photo of a dozen doughnuts they picked up saying he should come over. MSMF was only half way to his buddies place when a second text came through - a photo with most of the doughnuts cut in half and sampled and the threat that he "better show up soon!"

By the time MSMF arrived there was only 1 doughnut left.

Us: "NO WAY!"

MSMF: "YEAH!"

Us: *general shock and laughter*

MSMF: "RIGHT!?"

Me: "They almost ate a dozen doughnuts between the two of them?"

MSMF: "I know. Crazy right?!"

Us: "Yeah."

MSMF: "We argued for, like, two hours about it. I was pissed."

JZ: "About what?"

MSMF: "That they didn't leave me any doughnuts."

Beyonce: "Wait. Didn't they leave you a bunch of quarter pieces of each doughnut?"

MSMF: "NO!"

Me: "So, hold on. What was left?"

MSMF: "Just a single molested Instagram doughnut."

Three words I never thought I'd hear spoken together: molested Instagram doughnut.

Beyonce: "What made them 'Instagram' doughnuts?"

MSMF: "They were from some famous shop for making artisanal doughnuts or some shit."

Me: "Whatever the fuck that means. So what made them 'molested'?"

MSMF: "They cut a piece off of it!"

Me: "So, hold on. What were you mad about; that there weren't any doughnuts left or that the one doughnut that was left for you was molested?"

MSMF: "BOTH!"

Us: *uncontrollable laughter*

Me: "Oh babe, you are hilarious."

So what molested Instagram doughnut was MSMF left to eat in anger, you're wondering?

It was the maple iced bar with a strip of bacon on top.

Gross.

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.

Flap Meat

While My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I were in Virginia over the Thanksgiving holiday we did some amazing cooking with my Mom.

Chicken and dumplings. Steak, lobster, and scallops. Two turkeys, one fried one in the oven. Not to mention all the side dishes - spinach cheese balls, deviled eggs, cookies, etc.

The one dinner I was not too thrilled with was my Mom's Sichuan chicken. I love spicy food and love Chinese, so what's the problem? I didn't have one until I offered to help prep by trimming the fat off the chicken. Cutting the bags of chicken open I was horrified to find that it wasn't breast meat.

It was flap meat.

Seriously, what the fuck is flap meat? Where the hell is the flap of a chicken?

There was so much fat and gristle on the little bits of meat that it was impossible to trim. That kind of meat grosses me out and certainly isn't something I would want to eat.

To make light of the situation, MSMF and I started teasing one another about the flap meat - calling it the slappy flappy. Flappy yappy. Ol' flappy slappy.

This goes a bit further back than the janky chicken. MSMF can't stand to touch raw meat with his hands, which I find unique and totally hilarious. He also isn't the biggest fan of being teased by the sounds meat makes slapping together in your hands. You know the sound, that thick, funky slappy slappy sound like two people bumping uglies.

Thaaat sound.

So now we tease each other about our own private flap meats. Our shared flap meats. Our ol' flappy yappys.

I just have to remind myself not to make that sucking meaty sound with the inside of my mouth to accentuate our slappy flappyness. MSMF hates that and will give me a stern, "Baby!"

You're Like Borat

"You're like Borat."

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") lost his mind the other day. He denies that he said but he said it.  Or something like it anyway.

Me: "What!?"

MSMF: "You're like Borat."

Me: "BORAT!? You gotta be fucking kidding me."

MSMF: "I didn't say you are Borat. I mean your sense of humor or way of saying things for shock value is like Borat."

Me: "Seriously!? You're really comparing me to Sacha Baron Cohen?"

MSMF: "I'm not comparing you."

Me: "Dude. No. You said 'you're like Borat'."

MSMF: "Honey I didn't say you're Borat."

Me: "I know what you're saying but Jesus, am I really that crass and offensive?"

Honestly I was amused more than anything else and genuinely laughed at the comment. But it gave me pause to contemplate... Am I really like Borat? I'm not the biggest fan of Cohen or any of his characters. They're too obvious and obnoxious and only serve to upset or cause discomfort. That being said, I wondered to myself; am I obvious or obnoxious and do I try to upset and create discomfort with my humor?

I don't TRY to be any of those things. But I'm sure I have been. On occasion.

Here's a fun recent example that you can use to judge for yourself.

A few nights ago MSMF, JZ, Beyonce and I were at my girlfriend's place to help trim her Christmas tree. I gave her an awesome cat scratcher about a month ago that my own silly elderly cat couldn't figure out how to use and I was curious if her kitties took to it or not. She said one of her cats was into it but her other cat not so much. JZ and Beyonce suggested that she put a dirty sock on it, to associate her smell with it. I know that's a thing with pets but the comment struck me as funny, so I blurted out - "Yeah, I'm gonna go rub my asshole on it..." JZ and Beyonce just laughed but MSMF looked horrified and blurted out "BABY!"

The best part was the comment didn't die there; as MSMF said later we put our wadders on and went further into the muck of my inappropriate comment. We couldn't stop laughing while babbling about what things we could rub and grind on. I'd like to blame the eggnog martinis we were drinking but I'm sure it was simply the ridiculousness of my remark.

So...

Am I like Borat?

Ho Fuckin' Ho

Ho Fuckin' Ho!

The holidays are upon us with all the happiness and madness that the season inevitably brings, year after year. Christmas is always my favorite time of year, though truth be told, my love of the winter season starts just before Halloween.

Halloween and Christmas are just the best, with my birthday falling in between the two. Making the holidays that much better this year, I'm happy to say that My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I are back together. I came to my senses and realized this blog is just shit without him.

Strike that.

I realized that my life just wasn't the same without him. And that, yeah, the blog was shit without him.

It's not the silly shit I say; it's the silly shit we say.

Already the season is brighter and fuller with MSMF. More love, more laughter. I want to see him and sit together, looking at our gorgeous Christmas tree, every night but most of the week we're in two different places.

There's a longing in general that consumes me during Christmas. Nostalgia and memories of Christmas' long, long ago with my Grandmother affects me in strange ways. I feel so happy and excited for Christmas morning, as I did when I was a little girl, but as I've gotten older there's an underlying sadness to the season. My Grandmother has been gone for more than 20 years and with her my fading memories of Christmas' together. The sadness intensifies by the feeling and want of perfection because Christmas perfection is not real. As a child, one knew no better. But now, that adolescent innocence of Santa coming down the chimney and all being right with the world has grown into adulting. You try to banish the worry of finances and the future, rubbing the tiredness from your eyes after a long work day, clinging to the smell of the tree - the glow and warmth of the fire - and the embrace of someone you love next to you. Not wanting to let any of it go. Hoping that someone else understands the twinge of contentment and pain that these fleeting feelings and moments bring.

How Nat King Cole's Christmas Song and parts of Alastair Sim's A Christmas Carol can make me cry on cue.

I'm always giddy to give gifts - I'm an awesome gift giver - but I also feel a little gloomy, knowing that I'll wake up to find an empty stocking. I am Santa now. I'm always looking out for others, to be their Santa. To bring a small thrill to anyone I spend Christmas eve and Christmas morning with, by staying up later than anyone else or waking up the earliest so I can sneak over to the stockings and illicit that feeling of wonderment when the stockings are found filled Christmas morning.

The stocking was always my favorite part of Christmas. My Mom would stuff mine full of all kinds of goodies, including a single children's book. Two years ago, after my Mom and her husband moved away to Virginia, she sent me a box full of gifts including my childhood stocking. For weeks the box was missing by the postal service. I thought for sure my Mom and I were going to literally go postal. Luckily the box showed up, intact. The following year I visited her in Virginia, stocking in hand, telling her never to fucking send it to me again. If it had gone missing our hearts would have been shattered. Silly, such a response for something seemingly so small.

But holidays and memories are like that. They're not small and they're not simple.

I dread the arrival of Christmas eve and Christmas morning because as much as I look forward to those 48 hours I dread the vacancy left in its wake. All the songs and lights and dressing up and eating and drinking and feeling overall more merry and carefree comes to a screeching halt.

Until then I'm going to keep binge watching Christmas movies (MSMF and I are watching as many versions of A Christmas Carol as we possibly can - I think we're currently at 7) and bask in the reason for the season. No, not Jesus. Indulging in all the things and gaining weight while being blissfully thankful that I have MSMF by my side to laugh together while riding the highs and have one another to hold when the seasonal lows try to steal our joy.

Doin' It Way Big

DISCLAIMER - Wrote this weeks ago. Just now posting.

Have you ever had that day? That day or night where you just did it way big?

To quote Lil Kim - "Doin' it way big."

A week before my birthday I went way big.

I didn't apologize for saying or being who I was because I had my crew around me.  The same people that have torn me down but also the same people that can respect me.

And I dished it out too.  I probably used "cunt" and "fuck em" way too loosely but then again who doesn't say some stupid shit. Who wants to be taken too seriously? Seems everyone's lives are so serious these days.  If you don't have COVID you either don't care, care too much, or are going to get it.

I personally would like to just get it and move on but I'd probably be one of those sad mother fuckers that gets the worst version of it.

Tonight, on the almost week of my birthday, I talked about all the things.

I grew up poor.  My family suffered. And tortured one another, and still do, because they don't know any better. I shared my random socio-anthropological beliefs with the group because God damn it I'm unique. 

Or at least I was.

But as the years add on and my skin sallows, I realize that I refuse to age. Refuse to slowly die. I took a stand tonight because damn it all I matter. My life matters. This fucking frustrating no seeming result life matters. To me. I'm trying to scrape by, paycheck to paycheck, and act like I know what the fuck is going on.

And everyone at the table just smiled at me and we all finished our over priced beverages because that's what responsible adults do. 

And because I'm being open I'll tell you - we lied about having a kid in our 5 person pre-lockdown crew because we wanted chicken fingers.  This God damn mother fuckin' place wouldn't give us chicken fingers because it was a kids menu item. And we seemed to NOT fit the bill of having a kid status. So we made up a kid that we had to "take chicken tenders home to". 

Of course we proceeded to eat them at the table, secretly, the moment they served them up in the to-go container.

I resent leaving them 20%. Honestly.

But that's what you do when it's COVID. And that's what you do when you're goin' way big.

You say and do shit you shouldn't but I'm not going to look back and think - meh, I shouldn't have said or did that. I knew exactly what I said and did all night. And frankly...

I did it way BIG.

Poop Knife

Ok fam. Real talk.

Have you ever heard of a poop knife? Seriously. I'm not shitting you. Barum barum tss.

Poop knife. Two words I never thought I'd ever read or say aloud together.

I'm part of a strange and fun Facebook group, Weird Secondhand Finds, and one day someone posted a cool metal object. It looked like an antique letter opener but wasn't sharp or pointed enough and had a loop at the top. The poster said they weren't sure what it was but bought it because of the cool ram/calf head on it (see below).

Curious what people said the item was, I went into the black hole of comments and practically every post called the not-a-knife a "poop knife".

I couldn't help it. I had to know what the fuck a poop knife was.

Turns out there's a Reddit article that went viral, opening everyone's brown eye to the wonder of a butt blade.

https://www.reddit.com/r/confession/comments/7p8puq/light_i_was_22_years_old_when_i_learned_that_not/?st=JCCSBP5T&sh=f591af5f

Anyone who says they haven't looked down at the porcelain throne, curiosity turned shocked turned impressed, at the sheer size of what their behind is capable of is lying to themselves. Enter the poop knife.

I want to tell you more about it but honestly you should read about it yourself. It's not just about laying big turds and having to chop them up for the toilet to suck them down.

There's so much more silly shit. Literally.

You Outta Know

This post definitely isn't an Alanis Morissette song.

You outta know, all my unsubscribed readers, that I've been away. Duh.

I needed some time off.

Without my big vacation getaway, aka Burning Man aka most people's worst nightmare, I was left wonton for some time off work. Time off from working out and watching what I eat all the time and some time on with people I usually only see at the burn.

I also feel it's only fair that I share with you that My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I went our separate ways prior to my absence.

Shit happens. Sometimes love isn't enough but we loved deeply regardless. Sometimes something is so good in half of your life but completely devoid and inept in the other half. That's how it was for us; perfectly brilliant at home in our downtime but on completely different pages socially. The dichotomy was boggling and eventually created a sink hole.

As I told him, I'll tell you. I'm so utterly grateful and thankful for the time we spent together. He was my first subscribed reader lol!  I thoroughly enjoyed our time together, much of it filled with laughter. He is a wonderful guy that made me feel so loved and special. I'm in the unique position of being happy of our time together, rather than feeling used, embittered, and hurt. I never was one of those people that would write a social media "thank you Dear John letter" for everyone to read, to show how brave and bold and spiritually woke I was to dealing with life's disappointments and bullshit, but here I am. No one was wrong. No one did anything reprehensible. 

MSMF was a constant source of entertaining posts so I don't know what the hell I'm going to do now. 

I'll probably need to regale you with boring stories of my own stupidity or the idiocracy of good friends and family as I've done on occasion. Ya'll are just going to have to bare with me.

And while another man friend may come into my life he won't be MSMF. He'll be known to you all as someone else but he won't be My Special Man Friend. He gets to reserve that special title and I am forever appreciative for the time he spent with me and for inspiring this silly blog that I oddly care so much about.

Thank you.

But Do You Love Me?

It's great to be you. You know, you. All of you.

All the things you don't apologize for and frankly all the things you do.

But do you love you? All of you? And can you expect or hope that someone else will love you?

All of you?

Is it fair?

I have been loved when I shouldn't have. Loved someone else when I shouldn't have. Hated myself and hated others in the name of love.

But when you ask yourself or ask someone else - do you love me? Inevitability the answer is... yes?

Frankly, love is either born out of obligation - family - because we've abused each other enough years to warrant loving someone so long they can't quit you or love is born out of will - self/another - because we've abused ourselves enough to warrant the respect it takes to not quit, to lose is to fail and that is not an option.

I've been me for 40 years. And facing my 41st year all I can say is it has come at a price.

A price seemingly everyone else around me for the most part has been willing to pay.

I have always thought I knew sacrifice, commitment, love, affection, partnership... but apparently I don't.  I'm reminded each time I get it wrong that I didn't know what the fuck I was doing from the get-go. I know so many people around me, friends and family that have "figured it out", but my silly ass is still blowing out in the breeze.

The cruel irony of my life is all I've ever wanted is to be loved. For my love to be enough for someone else.

To be the one. The one. Enough for some one. To change. To be changed. To fall in line. The same line.

They tell you you have to be enough for yourself but the truth is I've been enough for myself for a long time. I grew up poor and alone and I'm sick of it. It's been long enough, scraping and fighting for scraps of love and affection and acceptance. I'm tired of it. 

I've made myself into this fit, beautiful, accomplished woman but to what end? At what price?

I endeavor to love me.

But do you love me?

Another One Bites The Dust

There hasn't been anything silly said or done recently. Sometimes life just isn't funny.

I've been known for finding humor even in the most inappropriate situations. But lately I've got nothin'.

So I'll regale you with an oldie but goodie story.

About 8 years ago my dear aunt's father passed away. I was never close to him personally but I attended the funeral to support my aunt as well as my cousin, who's more like a sister. As we walked out to our cars after the service, the heaviness and sadness of the day started to take a toll on my cousin. By the time we reached our respective car doors my cousin was borderline hysterical, sobbing and cough crying. I couldn't understand much of what the poor thing was saying, so I just stood there nodding, "mhmm-ing" and "I know-ing" through her meltdown.

In the distance you could hear an ambulance.

Barely audible at first but as the sound of the wailing sirens increased so too did the wailing of my cousin. Soon she was drowned out by the deafening sound of the approaching ambulance. We both stared in silence as the ominous and foreboding presence of the ambulance screamed past us. Now silenced we just stared at each other. I don't know what came over me but this is what I said and did next...

Head bobbing back and forth, I sang out "Mm mm mm. Another one bites the dust."

With her face red and eyes swollen my cousin's mouth dropped open. In shock. In horror. I'm not too sure.

The crying and hurt and sadness that filled the parking lot seconds before turned into inappropriate cackling. We fucking died laughing. We were now crying from laughing too hard. All of it was just so surreal; death of a family member, the ambulance flying down the street toward someone's fate, and then me - singing Queen. It was so terribly inappropriate and awful of me but so damn fitting. And funny. It brought my cousin out of a deep well of sadness and that's all that mattered to me. Offensive or not, it worked.

We still laugh about it to this day.

Sometimes life just isn't funny. But you can die trying to make it funny.

Startled Into Action - OH SHIT!

My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and Jaja were sweetly cuddled up on the couch together while I was upstairs working the other day. I came down to see how they were both doing and laughed to myself with just how comfortable Jaja was.

I have definitely lost favor with her ever since MSMF and I started dating. MSMF will deny it but it's true.

Jaja is such a daddy's girl now. If we're sitting on separate couches, Jaja will pick laying next to MSMF on his couch. I've even had him switch couches with me and sure as shit she'll get up and move to his new couch. If I leave the room, meh. But if MSMF leaves the room, Jaja is perched at the edge of the couch checking to see where he went. She not only begs him for her treats now but insists that MSMF play fight with her. This was something only I could get Jaja riled up enough to do. Now I'm just chopped liver.

She was completely stretched out against MSMF's leg, her head slightly tilted back with a little kitty smile and her eyes closed in bliss. As she stretched further, grinning as she slowly twisted onto her other side, Jaja must have sensed that I was there watching or caught sight of me because all the bliss left her body as she froze awkwardly in place for a second, eyes bulging out of her head.

If that wasn't funny enough, she started meowing way too loud to fit the mood all while suddenly writhing around, struggling to get up onto her feet. It was as if she was the secret mistress and I came home early to discover them cuddling on the couch - OH SHIT!

MSMF and I both started laughing as it was totally obvious that's what she was thinking, oh shit. MOM! OH SHIT! Meow meow meow meow! OH SHIT! Meow meow. You're my favorite, really. Meow meow. I love you more, believe me. We're just friends. Meow meow meow.

Now any time something happens that we weren't expecting or we're watching a show and someone gets caught off guard, MSMF and I will look at each other all bugged eyed and say:

OH SHIT!

He Just Crawled Away & DIED!

I got bit by something in the middle of the night a few weeks ago.

I can still see the lingering spots left by the huge welts I got from the bites. The bites were not completely uniform but it looked as though something with two mismatched fangs chomped into my upper thigh, about 6 inches from my hip. That or whatever bit me decided the first bite was so good it went in for round two.

Now I don't know about you but shit crawling around, biting you in the night annoys and creeps me the fuck out. I always wonder what it was that bit me and how the whole thing happened. It never fails in the Summer months that a few mosquitos find their way into the apartment, inevitably make it upstairs, and proceed to annoy me all night with little buzzing flybys. It's just insult to injury because they know as soon as you go to sleep you're going to toss the sheets off you, which you've been using as some magically impenetrable fortress. And you know they're going to come and chew on your ass as soon as you let your guard down, unaware and drooling on yourself.

As My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") and I lay in bed the next morning, I felt that familiar twingy itch. A bite itch. Sure enough there were the puncture marks.

Pissed and grossed out, I lamented to MSMF that I didn't want to be chewed on again later that night. Here was his sweet reply:

"He ain't coming back."

"He just crawled away and DIED."

Jesus. Thanks honey.

The way he said 'crawled away and DIED" was dripping with disdain and loathing. What was not so indirectly implied by MSMF was that whatever bit me wasn't coming back for seconds because I killed it. It was dead. Whatever I'm made of, in my blood and bones, sent this thing to its grave. Now, I found this mostly humorous and we've had a laugh about it ever since but am I not worthy of being bitten a second time? Is the poison within better than Raid or whatever the fuck you kill human feeding bugs with?

Again, still think it's funny. But... I also haven't been bitten again. So. There's that.

Shut Up So I Can Hear You

I fucked up tonight.

Big.

I went to an event that I was told was COVID safe and it wasn't.

I was planning to see my two favorite people on this Earth aside from my cat, my partner, and my Mom two days from now and instead I have to cancel with them because I fucked up.

I'm pissed.

Trusting people has come at a massively heavy price lately. And I'm tired of paying it.

I care more about my favorites living, in case I was exposed to the virus, than I am about seeing them Sunday. The disease has never been fully real to me until being grossly exposed to an overly dumb population of people that were being flagrantly nonchalant about the fact that they weren't wearing masks and could potentially be infecting one another - or even infecting the next group of people that they talked to. 

God damn it.

I've always been much more cavalier about the COVID bullshit than My Special Man Friend ("MSMF") but now I find myself having to make the call to tell him to fuck off because I care about him and because I got got. I James Bonded into the lion's den of COVID. It's an intense soundtrack that ultimately has a prophetic ending - Bond trips and falls and succumbs.

I'm the white night without a horse.

You're not doing anyone a favor. You fucked up and now you have to ride into town looking like the asshole that you are. On a donkey no less. It's not heroic or pretty.

No one wants to be the bad guy. The fall guy. The one that got all their family sick with COVID. That's what we've all been fearing right? You'd see some friends or go to the store or do your job that's high exposure and then suddenly - BAM! COVID. No one wants that burden or guilt. God forbid anyone get really sick or worse...

There were so many weird things that happened tonight. Like dominos laid up to inevitably fall. Was I a part of the plan or did I help lay the dominos?

There's so much sound in the deafening silence. Of my experiences these days. Of my mind.

Shut up so I can hear you.