After our long, uke-filled car ride, we were eager to get settled into our room at the world famous Hampton Inn of Fruitland.  A ridiculously chipper blond manned the desk.  I plopped Herbert, sheathed in his powder blue bag, atop the counter and began rummaging through my bag.  “Checking in,” I [...]]]> Maryland is a strange place, Interwebz.

After our long, uke-filled car ride, we were eager to get settled into our room at the world famous Hampton Inn of Fruitland.  A ridiculously chipper blond manned the desk.  I plopped Herbert, sheathed in his powder blue bag, atop the counter and began rummaging through my bag.  “Checking in,” I mumbled, barely raising my eyes to meet hers.

They were the size of saucers and trained on poor Herbert.  “Is that an honest to God ukulele?” she squealed, clasping her hands to her mouth.

“Seriously?” I asked, dropping my wallet onto the faux marble tiles.

“I’ve never seen a ukulele in real life,” she panted.

“Ok.  Yes?  It’s a uke.  His name is Herbert.  Do you…um…want to touch him?”  It all felt incredibly dirty and weird.  So obviously the only way to make the situation better was to add my little brother into the mix.

“Say, you probably get this a lot, but did Hampton ever really stay here?” he quipped, rescuing Herbert and plucking away on his strings.  The blond girl’s gaze vacillated from confusion to delight as she followed him around the lobby.

“Is this hotel pager friendly?” Rocco contributed to the quickly unraveling situation.

“Lonon.  Last name is Lonon.  Is our room ready?” I interjected.  Be damned if I was going to spend another hour in a car with Thom if he didn’t get his much needed opportunity to crap.

Eventually we made it to our room (and Thom to his all-tile room) without further incident.  Though be advised, there’s nothing quite as disturbing as having your little brother emerge from fifteen minutes of shower-less bathroom time and announcing, “New product idea: soft serve carbonated ice cream!”  I don’t think I ate again until we made it to Ocean City four days later.

Lime is Sublime

Speaking of Ocean City, there were two boardwalk moments I need to share with you.  First, Rocco was faced with a tremendous fashion dilemma and I (due to that damn Fail Whale ruining my plans) was unable to ask the Interwebz for advice.  So now, far too late for your input to matter, I’ll share his original question – “Are these my color?”  In the end, we decided they’d be far too baggy and moved on.

Second, remember how I found Jesus in Ohio a while ago?  Then He was struck by lightening and burned to the ground?  Well hold on to your inappropriately tight, neon green ladies running shorts, people.  I found Him again – right alongside the boardwalk in Ocean City, MD.  I’m starting to think I need a restraining order.

Actually, I counted at least five Jesuses.  (Is it a sin to pluralize Jesus?  If so, it has to be a lesser sin than sticking a metal pole and floodlights in his forehead, right?)  Obviously someone fed him after midnight then got him wet.

Hallowed Be Thy Forehead

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While it's not Central Park, it's still quite lovely.

…which brings me to today’s story.  Yesterday we had yet another open house (this time TWO WHOLE PEOPLE [...]]]> “Shuttlecock” is probably my most favorite word ever.  It’s that or “Omaha.”  Then again, I really like “Texture,” too.  It’s possible I just like words.  And excuses to say shuttlecock.

While it's not Central Park, it's still quite lovely.

…which brings me to today’s story.  Yesterday we had yet another open house (this time TWO WHOLE PEOPLE showed up) so the boy and I decided to stroll down to the Pier and enjoy the nice weather.  Rocco parked himself on a bench and perused the newspaper while I sought out a clear chunk of grass on the highly populated lawn.

Eventually I found a sunny spot free of both pasty wall-street brokers and petrified goose poo.  Remembering my current tan lines and the halter cut of my old married hag of honor dress, I wormed my arms through my bra and tank top straps, freeing my shoulders from future white streaks, then tucked the loops into the cups of my bra.  For good measure, I hiked up my skirt and leaned back to collect my vitamin D.

After twenty minutes of watching an awkward man in a suit try to pick up a bombshell in a bikini, I flipped to work on my back.  With the smell of fresh cut grass filling my nose and the warm sun beating on my back, it didn’t take long for me to drift off.  I flitted in and out of consciousness as different sounds enveloped me – salsa music on a boom box, skateboard wheels against cobblestones, two female voices giggling, the sniffing of a dog near my ear, a cell phone ringing, the crisp snap of a can of soda being opened, a helicopter passing overhead.

…and then a cool springy something flew under the hem of my skirt and lodged itself between my thighs.  My eyes flew open in the darkness beneath my ball cap.  I wasn’t expecting THAT. I pulled off my hat and looked towards Rocco for some sort of visual cue.  My noble protector was fingering his belly button while engrossed in whatever was happening on his cellphone screen.

That's what she said - wait that doesn't make any sense.

I signed, rolled over, and retrieved a shuttlecock from my crotch.  A giggling, middle-aged woman with wild curly hair and thick plastic glasses was walking towards me with a badminton racket tucked behind her back.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess this is yours?” I smiled while extending the shuttlecock toward her outstretched hand.  (Seriously, it doesn’t get less fun no matter how many times I say it.  Shuttlecock.  Now you try it.)

“Yeah.  Sorry about that.”  She erupted in laughter, trying to cover her mouth with the shuttlecock.

“It’s cool.  You just caught me by surprise.  Normally I score a free drink or two before I’m pulling shuttlecocks out from under my skirt.  I’m pretty sure you owe me a drink.”

“Technically, my daughter is the one who…hit the shut…hit you.  She just took off running after impact.”  I followed the ladies pointing finger until I saw a young girl cowering on a blanket, surreptitiously stealing glances in our direction from behind her racket.  She pulled the blanket over her head a mere instant after she met my gaze.

“I’m fine, I promise.  I went to college, after all.  That area has seen far worse.  In fact, you might want to boil that thing.”  She pulled the shuttlecock away from her mouth reflexively, then caught herself and laughed.

As the woman wandered back towards her daughter, I put my straps back in place and walked over to Rocco’s bench.  “Way to defend my honor, Babe.”

“Huh?” he asked looking up at me.

“I just took a shuttlecock to the crotch,” I scolded.

“I was reading the paper!  I wasn’t watching…wait.  What?  Say that again.”

“I just took a shuttlecock to the crotch,” I repeated.  (And I’ll repeat it as many times as you’d like because shuttlecock, shuttlecock, SHUTTLECOCK!)

He gave me the usual sometimes-I-swear-you-make-my-head-hurt face and said, “In Ohio, we call those birdies.”

“Why on Earth would you do that?” I asked, incredulous.

“We tend to avoid using the word ‘cock’ unnecessarily,” he replied.

Add Ohio to the list of places I should probably never live.

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“healthy shit” Obviously someone is really pumped about embracing a more health conscious lifestyle.  Good call because this site is obviously the place to go what with all the references to wine, beer, and [...]]]> It’s time, yet again, for the monthly wrap up of seriously disturbing search terms that landed people in my tiny little Buggin World.

“healthy shit” Obviously someone is really pumped about embracing a more health conscious lifestyle.  Good call because this site is obviously the place to go what with all the references to wine, beer, and ranch dressing.  I suppose it could be interpreted another way, but even I draw the line at documenting my bowel movements….so far at least.

“poconos kill polish“  During my brief stay in the land of champagne glass shaped hot tubs, I didn’t see anyone kill anything.  There were a lot of burly men clad in bright orange vests, but I doubt they were hunting little metal tins of tinted wax nor people whose ancestry can be tracked back to Poland.  I think both groups can visit the area without fear of assassination – unless they strap on a pair of antlers and loiter in the woods.

“creamed corn panties“  Ew.  Seriously ew.  Though the phrase does remind me of a NC band I use to love back in high school – Picasso Trigger.  The lead singer would wear a huge Depends undergarment with the words “Surfs Up!” scrawled on her crotch.  The bass player would spit water on the crowd while the guitarist would chug cans of creamed corn until he hurled on stage.  *blink, blink*  Ahem.  That was in interesting trip down memory lane.  In hindsight, maybe I can understand why Mom was a little weirded out by my musical taste.

“shamrock pasties“  What else would you pair with creamed corn panties?  I know what somebody’s getting for Valentines Day!   Thank Vishnu its still frickin’ cold here on St. Patrick’s Day.  The last thing I need to see is a bunch of stumbling co-eds wiping green vomit off their chests while trying to keep their pasties in place.

“I found God in Ohio“ Well, duh.  As Rocco always says, “If the end of the world comes we’re going back to Ohio.  They won’t know about it for at least another five years.”

“my date vagina face“  You really do need to distinguish between this and your “every day vagina face.”  How many of your first dates have gone down (that’s what she said) in flames when you accidentally whipped out your “waiting in line at the grocery store vagina face” or your “what the hell did I just bite into vagina face.”  This is a fun game!  I’m going to start substituting “vagina face” every chance I get.  What?  Don’t judge.  I see you making that scowly vagina face at me, Mom.

“dyed ferret“  See?!?!  You guys (and by you guys I mean Falling) had me thinking that ferret dying was not a typical past time.  Obviously, I’m not the only one doing it.  Maybe I’ll abandon blogging and set up a punk rock ferret shop in my apartment.

“I’m that baby mama I’m that baby daddy“ You’re also a hermaphrodite and will doubtlessly be contacted shortly by TLC for a new and groundbreaking reality TV show.  Congratulations.  FYI – I’m more likely to watch your new show if you hire The Situation as your doula, k?

“shhh its almost over“  That one ranks pretty high on the creepitude meter.  It puts the lotion on its skin or else it gets the vagina face again.  Maybe I should stop watching so much SVU.

Speaking of which, this post is almost over.  I’m not even going to touch “Husker Du Gallipoli” because it just makes my head hurt.  Also, to the person that sought “where should Ellie rub me” – I’m not rubbing you nowheres if you can’t even spell my name right.  I’m totally giving you the stink eye vagina face right now.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go research ferret restraints and non-toxic dyes.

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Just to recap, it all started with a relaxing dinner where I sucked royally at preparing a family friend for his first round of chemo.  Then I held my friend’s hand as she looked at her sweet dog’s [...]]]> It’s cold, rainy and brutally depressing here in the North East.  Yay.  It’s been a long hard week, Interwebz.

Just to recap, it all started with a relaxing dinner where I sucked royally at preparing a family friend for his first round of chemo.  Then I held my friend’s hand as she looked at her sweet dog’s unmoving body riddled with tubes and had to make the tough decision to let her best friend go.  Last night I traded war stories with a fellow Lymphoma survivor over one too many glasses of wine.  If you’re keeping count, that’s a whole mess o’ traumatic flashbacks for this gal.

I’ve also managed to get myself sick.  The week I’ve had coupled with today being Friday the 13th had me planning on laying low and embracing my inner vegetable.  Why tempt the fates?  I was going to bust out my full wallowing regalia (complete with my fuzzy velour tracksuit a la Jennifer Lopez in 2000) and watch Twilight for the 917th time while drinking hot tea and blowing phlegm into whatever absorbent material was near.  I was toying with skipping today’s blog post all together – GASP!

But then I went traipsing on over to another blogger’s site and found an excuse to use a photo I’d taken eons ago but had yet to use.  She’s calling her new Friday ritual “Flashback Friday.”

Find an old picture and share a story about it or why you wanted to share it now. Flashback Friday has no real rules other than to have fun.

I like fun.  I suck with rules.  She might be my soul mate.  Dude, I’m in.

Sure, her photo is nine years old and mine is not even nine months.  There are no real rules, remember?  I’m not sure there are even fake ones – so game on.

I Found God in Ohio

I know.  There are no words, right?  Yeah, I thought that, too.  But then I decided it’s rather silly to post things on your blog that you can’t write about.  So I came up with some words.  Here’s three to start you off: WHAT, THE, and FUCK (question mark optional).

It’s just plain weird.  And disturbing.  And a little bit funny.  Ok, mostly funny.  (Pause to nervously look out window to check for sudden bolts of lighting that might strike my ass down for blasphemy.)

We were just cruising on down the highway as we headed towards Dayton, sipping our water, minding our own business.  Rocco howled a particularly painful note never before heard by human ears while bopping along to Borderline.  Reflexively I turned towards the window to shelter my one good ear from the onslaught.  There He was.

He filled the entire window in all His concrete splendor.  I blinked once…twice…still there.  As the shock passed, the giggles erupted in waves.  I paused briefly to peer through the sunroof, searching for thunder clouds in the bright blue empty sky.  Reassured, I giggled some more.  “We HAVE to get a picture of Him on the way back to Cincinnati,” I sighed wistfully.

I can’t decide if he’s coming out of the water like some slinky supermodel emerging from a swimming pool in a beer commercial, or if he’s sinking into a pit of quicksand.  Then again, maybe it was a really impressive field goal.  I suspect I’m missing some deeper meaning here.

I applaud their bravery and disregard for convention.  Most people with man-made ponds would limit themselves to EITHER a fountain OR a giant three-story sculpture of their Lord and Savior.  Kudos to you, Random Highway Church in Ohio.  You just go ahead and have BOTH.

I tell you, this is going to be the next “it” thing for the lawn and garden set.  Half Jesus-es are going to be popping up in yards all over the Midwest.  Maybe they’ll even produce little mini ones for us city dwellers to shove into our one potted plant rapidly turning yellow from lack of sunlight.

I didn’t get the chance to see Him after dark, but I’m quite curious.  Do they stick with a plain wash of white or do they douse Him with red spotlights for a fully terrifying effect?  Do you think on Sunday they synchronize the fountains for a water works show reminiscent of the Bellagio in Vegas?  Oye.

Woof.  Aren’t you glad I didn’t slack off today afterall?  How could you have made it to the weekend without a peek at that photo.  You’re welcome and Amen.

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It’s sort of like when you spend the whole summer walking around in flip flops, then spend a few weeks coddling your feet in [...]]]> I’m getting soft.  Three weeks of traveling through the Midwest and down to Virginia has buffed off my city shell.  My inner, unsuspecting, small town, southern gal is rearing her nasty, pig-tailed head.

It’s sort of like when you spend the whole summer walking around in flip flops, then spend a few weeks coddling your feet in sneakers.  When you try to start wearing flip flops again, your toe-gina callous is all gone and the miserable thong chafing is as torturous as it was back in May.  You’re suddenly faced with a dead sexy puss-filled blister smack in the middle of your foot’s precious place.  The same thing goes when you spend three weeks away from Manhattan.

Lucy had ceased hurling, the sun was shining, and I had already devoured this week’s Us Weekly.  I HAD to get out of the house, so I made plans to meet Rocco and our friend Danielle for dinner between shows.  It wasn’t a full moon.  It wasn’t Friday the 13th.  No parades where scheduled.  There was no reason to expect any weirdness.

I made it to Port Authority in record time, debarked the bus, and managed to make it down the first flight of stairs without even tripping.  I side-stepped the sickeningly sweet (yet still so tempting) smell from Mrs. Field’s cookies and cruised towards the 9th Ave exit.  I conquered yet another flight of stairs without incident, and then I saw the crazy lady…but I didn’t know she was crazy yet.

Her name was Susie, I later learned.  She was wearing a tomato red t-shirt, brown capris, practical brown slip-on sandals…and an Ikea box three times her height on her shoulder.  She made it all of three steps before the box toppled forward and onto the ground.  She then proceeded to drag the box behind her the remaining length of the main floor.

Then she reached the escalator.  As I got closer, I could see her blond, kinked-out, frizzified ponytail was only slightly less frazzled than she was.  I picked up my pace as she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with the heel of her palm and bent towards the box again.

Before I could shout “Wait!” she was attempting to set the drag-damaged edge of the box onto the top step of the escalator.  As I broke into a sprint, I watched the box split open and the long pieces of laminate dive from view.  The clatter in the enclosed space was deafening.  I rushed down the stairs and turned towards the escalator to watch a wailing Susie slowly descend.

She was inconsolable.  “Why did I think I could do this on my own?  How could my friend screw me like this?  Did I break it?  Why me?  WHY ME?!”

Oh dear.

I tried to comfort her as I collected the scattered debris. “It’s just nicked in a few places.  You’ll never notice once it’s all assembled and you’ve got your stuff on the shelves.”

“You really think so?” she whimpered between sobs?

“Oh sure!  That’s the magic of Ikea!”

By this time we’d attracted another concerned New Yorker.  Tony was an older Hispanic gentleman employed by Port Authority.  He’d rushed out of his office when he heard the commotion and feared Susie herself had taken the fall.  He bent down to try and reassemble the box.

Susie meanwhile ramped back up her wails.  “How am I ever going to get this home?  I’m never going to forgive my friend for doing this to me.  NEVER!”

“You might be able to get a cab,” I offered.

Susie mulled this over and I looked at Tony, slowly shaking his head and holding his arms wide.  Too long.  Damn.

“Where do you live?” I asked, avoiding Tony’s eyes.

“43rd and 10th,” she responded.

“Oh!  That’s super close.  I’ll just help you carry it!”

“Wait, don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“I’m early!  I’ve got twenty minutes to kill.  No worries.”

I gathered the shorter pieces in my left arm and moved towards the back of the long box.  Tony beat me there.

“I’ll carry this box,” he smiled.

I was relieved.  I mean, Susie could be a serial killer.  Tony could have four felony convictions for kidnapping.  But they couldn’t BOTH be whack jobs, right?  Even Rocco wouldn’t be able to argue with that logic!  I decided the situation was totally safe.

We ambled towards her apartment while Susie continued to ramble.  “I don’t have any money.  I can’t pay you.  I paid for this with a credit card.  I’ve got absolutely no cash.”  Clearly Susie feared we also might be whack jobs.

“Don’t worry about it,” both Tony and I replied.

Turning down 43rd I overheard a group of older men playing checkers on the street.  “Yes but the Israeli’s have a totally different word for it,” one said to the guy on his left.  He turned to his right, cocked his head and asked the third guy, “How do YOU say Fuck?”  I shook my head, giggling, and caught back up to Susie and Tony.

We got her all the way to the door of her apartment before Susie started to twitch.

“Um,” she hesitated and put her keys back in her purse.  “You can just leave it here in the hall.  I can pull it in from here.”

“I don’t mind just pulling it inside,” Tony offered.  I elbowed him lightly in the ribs.  I had no desire to see the inside of her home (doubtlessly filled with stuffed birds, toothbrush art, and a small child chained to her radiator)  and I’m sure she had no desire to let potential robbers into her home, either.

“Great!  We’ll be on our way then.”  I took a step backwards towards the elevator.

“Well, I do have five dollars.  You two could get a beer…”

“Yeah, Tony and I are going to sit down and split a single beer while he’s still working and I’m supposed to be at dinner,” I thought to myself.  Instead I just called “No worries!” over my shoulder and held the elevator open for Tony.

Once the doors closed and our descent began Tony turned to me, raised his eyebrows and simply said, “Five dollars?”  We guffawed all the way to the ground floor and said our goodbyes.

The remaining walk to the restaurant was uneventful.  Dinner was fun and the food was ok.  I shared my story and we all giggled about the weirdness that is NYC.  After the meal we left the restaurant and paused on the sidewalk to chat a bit longer.  Some crazy dude wandered across 9th Ave screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs and lurching at the passing cars.

“Ah…home again, home again, jiggity jig,” I recited.

“In a city of 8 million people, you’re bound to run into a crazy person or two,” Rocco observed as we three turned to watch which direction the whack-a-doodle  guy would take.

“True.  I’m just out of practice.”

We continued chatting and making plans for next weekend.  Again our conversation was interrupted by the same guy walking back down 9th Ave.  Now he was barking loudly at pedestrians and shimmying.

Rocco turned back to us smiling and said, “Stay in the same place long enough and you’re bound to run into that same crazy person twice.”

Home sweet home.

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No one loves food as much as my father-in-law.  Eating a meal with Steve is high entertainment.  Each bite elicits groans of pleasure.  A photo exhibit dedicated solely to the rapturous faces he makes when consuming cuisine could fill the Guggenheim.  Steve has eating down to an art form.  Each meal is as full [...]]]>

Cincinnati Bounty

No one loves food as much as my father-in-law.  Eating a meal with Steve is high entertainment.  Each bite elicits groans of pleasure.  A photo exhibit dedicated solely to the rapturous faces he makes when consuming cuisine could fill the Guggenheim.  Steve has eating down to an art form.  Each meal is as full of simple delight as a sunny afternoon with a garden hose.

He’s one of the slowest eaters I’ve ever seen…and that’s saying something.  I’ve known some ridiculously slow eaters.  But they were all slow as hell because they were too busy talking to be bothered with dining.  Steve doesn’t say a word.  That’s not true, sometimes he’ll mumble a garbled, “Damn, that’s good.”  Otherwise he’s just lost in savoring each morsel.

What makes it all the more magical in my eyes, is it doesn’t matter what type of food it is – he loves them all.  He’ll swoon as mightily for Pringles as he will for portobellos.  All the world halts for the first bite of a Skyline Coney.  At our anniversary dinner at the famous Montgomery Inn, our silverware clattered madly when Steve smacked the table as he filled his mouth with onion straws.  At Culvers he bounced happily in his booth as he inhaled deeply before crushing his butter burger into his mouth.

If you start a topic he finds interesting or wants to contribute to, he’ll actually set down his fork and turn his full attention to you.  Once the conversation concludes, the fork is back in his hand and his eyes dance as he debates where to resume his feast.  He’s anything but rude.  He just wants to enjoy each flavor to its fullest.

In his typically generous fashion, he wants to share every experience with you.  Every trip to Hamilton, OH ends with an expedition to the grocery store to stock up on the “essentials” of Cincinnati dining.

We’ve more than made up for the weight of the concrete ‘shrooms we left all over the Midwest with the case of Skyline Chili we have crammed into the trunk.  There are apparently two rules you must obey when preparing this delicacy.  One – never, never, ever open the can before shaking thoroughly.  Two – never, never, ever read the nutritional information on the side of the can.  (I add my own third rule – never, never, ever consume a can when Elly will be in the apartment within a twenty-four hour period.  Bah-lech.)

Goetta Goodness

Also in the trunk are two tubes of thawing Goetta.  I’m not entirely sure how to describe this stuff.  It’s definitely a breakfast thing.  I guess if ground sausage and oatmeal were songs, Goetta would be Danger Mouse’s mashup.  Yeah, I thought it would be disgusting, too.  Instead, it’s hot, greasy (and fiber-filled) heaven.  This stuff gets lumped in with Deep Fried Oreos under the heading of “Foods I’m Glad I Only Get Once a Year or Less” for obvious reasons.

Before we even get to town, Steve has gone through all the grocery store circulars to find the best prices for our spending spree.  He sometimes even freezes the Goetta in advance.  As sweet as that is, and as tasty as the Goetta is when fried up in Hoboken, it just doesn’t taste the same without Steve’s grinning and moaning.

I can’t wait until his next trip to NYC.  He’s going to go nuts for 5 Napkin Burger!

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Here’s an uncommon economic indicator for you – loads of people doing yard work on a Tuesday morning.  It seemed [...]]]> While in Toledo, I decided to take my booty out for a jog before we spent another five hours in the car.  I strapped on my swift scoots, grabbed Rocco’s ball cap and bounded onto the sidewalk.

Here’s an uncommon economic indicator for you – loads of people doing yard work on a Tuesday morning.  It seemed like no one was off working.  I can’t even begin to count how many vacant store fronts we passed.  Every block had at least one bank-owned home for sale.  It seems the ripples of Detroit’s economic troubles have reached Toledo.

Anyway, as I cruised through the neighborhood, dodging Redwing garden ornaments I was surprised by how many Duke fans were in Toledo.  It seemed every other porch had a flag with the swooping gothic “D” that I’d seen so often back in North Carolina.

People sure weren’t as friendly as back in NC, though.  I took all the scowling and glowering to be the by-product of unhappy unemployed-ness.  I threw back an ear to ear grin at each person I passed.  As blocks went by, I started to notice the negativity was strongest from the men I passed.

Eventually I turned around and headed back to Todd and Meg’s place.  I ended up recovering some ground I’d already walked through that morning.  The house, and the truck in front of it, were covered with sporting paraphernalia.  As I neared the truck, I heard a screen door slam.

“Hey!” the owner called out, “Get off of my property!”

“Um, morning!” I sang in response.

“Morning my ass.  I SEE your HAT.”

I just assumed I was wearing my normal plain black ball cap with a little tiny Columbia Records logo on the back.  I certainly wasn’t aware of any cultures the little walking eye would offend.  I tripped a little from the brain exertion.  If I’d been trying to chew gum with all that multi-tasking, I surely would have nose planted into the angry man’s lawn.

“Go TIGERS!”

Oh yeah.  I’m wearing Rocco’s hat.  The one with a big bright Yankees logo on the front.  Maybe, just maybe, that big ‘ol gothic “D” I kept seeing was for those Detroit Tigers he alluded so subtly to, eh?

Chemosabe strikes again.

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I don’t like to complain.  (I can already hear my siblings and mother smothering their guffaws at that statement, but roll with me, people.)  I mean, I’m pleased as punch that my pubes grew back in and Aunt Flow is visiting routinely again.  And yet, I’m rather annoyed to be [...]]]> Any squeamish men should stop reading now.

I don’t like to complain.  (I can already hear my siblings and mother smothering their guffaws at that statement, but roll with me, people.)  I mean, I’m pleased as punch that my pubes grew back in and Aunt Flow is visiting routinely again.  And yet, I’m rather annoyed to be dealing with this bull shit while road tripping.

First, my uterus hurts.  A lot.  Did cramps always suck this much?  I feel like I’m in that scene from Alien when the little bugger rips out of her stomach.  Actually, that would be better, because then the cramps would end.  It’s more like the little fucker and his buddies are wearing golf cleats and doing double-dutch with my fallopian tubes.  I find myself eying the plastic spoon resting in my empty frosty cup and wondering if I could just dig that bad boy out, ship it home, and deal with it later.

Second, there’s the bladder situation.  It seems those alien fuckers are working on finishing off a keg and utilizing my bladder, too.  Then they use the near bursting balloon as a trampoline.  I’m lucky if I can make it more than forty minutes before I cross my legs and start playing the alphabet game in an attempt to forget about the three glasses of iced tea I drank since our last stop.  I can usually count my teeth with my tongue while siting on my foot for another twenty minutes or so before making Rocco aware of the impending flood.  To his credit, he tries to keep his huffing subtle enough that I don’t notice, but I know he’d rather we didn’t stop every hour for a pee break.  It does slow us down a bit.

Third, I’m having pad issues.  I did not pack wisely for this outing.  I wasn’t paying much attention to the calendar and how my reproductive cycle might impact our traveling situation.  In other words, I didn’t pack supplies.  Fortunately for me, I still have a pile of “second string” pads stowed away just in case.  Unfortunately for me, they suck.

I bought them in a hurry on some other outing back when all my “lady parts” (as poor Rocco insists on calling them) still weren’t working from the repeated nukings.  Suddenly, out of the blue, someone opened the fire hydrant and I had to find supplies STAT.  So we rushed into some closet sized convenience store and purchased the one option they had.  I suspect they could also work as Depends based on the size of these mattresses.  I think I sit a full two inches taller in the car seat when one is in use.

I have no idea how long they sat on the shelf in that convenience store before I swept them into my toiletry bag.  I do know that they’ve lain dormant in my bag for at least another four months.  Regardless of their age, I can definitively say the adhesive is breaking down.  I’ve been having minor issues getting them to stick to my bloomers, but I thought is was just a mild annoyance…until our rest stop en route to Kentucky.

As per usual, as soon as Rocco slowed Ginny down to under seven mph, I was out the door, flip flopping my booty across the parking lot and into the bathroom.  I’d hardly punched the doorknob lock and flung my purse onto the counter before I was shucking clothes.  I grabbed my waistband and got in two good shimmies before yelping in pain.

Yes folks, the front of my pad had flipped over, sticky side up.  I’d been smooshing my newly full pubes into the adhesive  strips (which apparently work perfectly fine on flesh and hair) for at least two solid hours.  I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say I’ve got a new hair-growing challenge ahead of me.

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Todd and Meg have one of the ugliest kitties I’ve ever seen.  Even they admit that she’s one ugly kitty.  Their reasons for picking Josie were two fold.

One, no one else would.  All the people that walked through the shelter giggled and turned up their noses when they took a gander at this girl.  Meg felt plain old fashioned [...]]]>

Ugly Josie

Todd and Meg have one of the ugliest kitties I’ve ever seen.  Even they admit that she’s one ugly kitty.  Their reasons for picking Josie were two fold.

One, no one else would.  All the people that walked through the shelter giggled and turned up their noses when they took a gander at this girl.  Meg felt plain old fashioned guilty and was worried (justly) that no one else would adopt her.

Two, they’d already adopted and lost a certifiably cute kitten.  They’d tried everything to save that little thing and were more than a little bit shell-shocked.  They figured Josie was just far too ugly to die.  Their theory seems to be holding true so far.

Just to take it up a notch, they shaved the poor thing for the summer.  They call it the lion cut, but it’s just disturbing.  It’s kinda like a backwards mullet, but I can’t decide which end is business and which end is party.  I’m trying not to put a whole lot of thought into it honestly.  I don’t need any extra nightmares.

Girlie’s got some girth, too.  They’ve got another kitty that used to kick her ass and keep her a little more fit.  Since he got diabetes, he’s really slowed down and she’s significantly chunked out.  She’s like a hairless, calico sausage casing.  If she was a kitty porn star, you’d only find her work distributed on the internet from some concrete bunker in Germany.

Poor Josie has absolutely no clue she’s hideous.  She likes to take over the arm chair and prop herself up on her back in a somewhat seated position.  She then lets her paws splay apart to display her shaved belly.  Once situated, she twists her top half over one of the arms and crosses her front paws in a demure nod to her propriety.  Of course she won’t strike the pose when I’m holding the camera.  Josie doesn’t work for free.  If you want to see her junk, you’ve got to put in your credit card info before viewing the live video stream online.

No Thom, you can’t shave Simone while I’m gone.  Don’t even try it.

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