Passport Hell Part I

I had a passport once long, long ago. I needed one to get to and from Germany. I was probably around 7 or 8. That passport expired around the same time I started to grow boobs and pop zits. And I never applied for a new one.

Until now. Why? Because I’m going to Canada in exactly 9 days. No, I didn’t wait until the last minute. I applied for it back in January, when we decided we would be taking this trip.

I swear my hair looked good in my mirror at home.
I swear my hair looked good in my mirror at home. Although my hair isn’t the biggest problem here.

I went to the local pharmacy and paid 15 bucks for the ugliest picture anyone could possibly have taken of me. An orangutan could have done a better job with his feet.

I meticulously filled out the paperwork, checked and double checked that I had all of the correct forms, proof of citizenship, a pint of my blood and first born. I crossed my T’s and dotted my I’s.

I trekked my ass down to the post office. No, not any post office. It had to be a special post office that processes passports. Luckily for me, there was one in the next town.

After forking over $110 plus a processing fee that I blocked out because what difference does it make? A passport could cost $5,000. If you need a passport, you need a passport. Does the government or world or whatever have us by the cajones or what?

Umm, what was I saying? Oh right…

After forking over some moola, and spending an exorbitant amount of time in line as well as with the man behind the counter, I felt a sense of relief rush through me. It was on its way. Done. Complete. Check. Now I just had to wait the four to six weeks it would take to come in the mail. This was on January 21st. I had plenty of time.

Or so I thought. On February 13th, I received an official looking letter from the State of Connecticut. This envelope was too small to fit a passport. Although with the way technology is these days, who knows? This envelope could contain a chip. To be planted in your ear. I could only hope. I ripped it open. Eager to find out what was inside.

“The evidence of U.S. citizenship or nationality you submitted is not acceptable…the full names of your parent(s) are not listed…”

WHAT? I made a panicked phone call to my mother. Because my mother is the all-knowing, keeper of everything go-to person (I’m not kidding either. If you want her number, let me know). “OH-MY-GOD-MOTHER-MY-PASSPORT-APPLICATION-GOT-REJECTED!!!” I screamed into her ear.

Here’s a little birth certificate lesson for all of you: Apparently there are TWO types…the long form and the short form.

My dear all-knowing mother keeps a copy of everything from the receipt of a pack of gum she bought at CVS in 1994 to…you got it, all of her children’s birth certificates.

After a quick discussion with her, we figured out that I sent the short form. But guess what? The short form DID have my parents’ names listed on it because she checked. You know, on her copy. The State of Connecticut is blind. And my mother is never wrong. Plus she can read. She is not blind.

Unimportant Note: In case you are wondering why I didn’t just send the long form, it’s because I don’t have it. It got lost in a move. Or I probably took it out of our fire-safe lock box for one reason or another and didn’t put it back. I’m betting on the latter.

Most people would have called the State of Connecticut Passport Agency and demanded an explanation. But alas! I am not most people. What did I do next? Stay tuned…this is compelling stuff here. You won’t want to miss it. Or maybe you will. You be the judge.

Warning: I’m In a Bad Mood.

I suppose you’re wondering where I’ve been. Or maybe you haven’t been wondering at all. Perhaps you are happy that your email box or your Facebook timeline has been lighter.

It’s been a while. My brains are stuck on total freeze mode and cannot, will not, function. I am forgetting about appointments, or thinking I have appointments when I don’t.

I have a to-do list that is longer than Santa’s Naughty list. I have writer’s block so bad, I need a chisel. And I want to get out of bed about as much as I want to eat goat livers for breakfast.

Just the thought of the act of moving makes me want to cry. Sometimes I will sit and stare at the remote on the coffee table. Willing it to levitate in my direction. And if it doesn’t (it doesn’t)? Meh. Watching that episode of Friends when Ross whitened his teeth too much for the forty-second time won’t kill me.

My house is flooded. I have holes in my ceiling from ice damming and buckets strewn all around. It looks like one of those kiddie water parks in here but really, I live in a cave.

Please Mr. Postman, look and see...if there's any way you can MAKE IT STOP SNOWING!
Please Mr. Postman, look and see…if there’s any way you can MAKE IT STOP SNOWING!

My hair is overgrown, I need a dye job. I could use a good wax to my lip. I haven’t put on makeup in so long I don’t even remember where I keep it. My shaver has rusted out from lack of use. And my butt hasn’t seen a pair of jeans in 45 days because I know they won’t go above my ankles after sitting and eating nothing but pulled pork sandwiches and Smiley fries all season.

It won’t stop snowing and the temperature doesn’t seem to want to reach 30 degrees. If it does reach 30 degrees, people are out in shorts and t-shirts like we live in the middle of the Sahara. Which just pisses me off even more.

The snow is piled so high that the simple act of walking out to fetch the mail from the mailbox takes twice as long. That is if I can even reach my mailbox.

I’m bitchy and grumpy.

Yes, I am ashamed to say that I have let this horrible winter win. It got the best of me. I have the energy of a sloth. The brains of a goldfish. And the attitude of a bi-polar Princess Aurora.

But, it is March. That means it’s a little closer to something besides winter. We put the clocks ahead an hour this weekend which translates to “there will be light.”

So, as I stare out my window, looking at the snow that is edging up to eye level, I am grateful for March. Are we getting up to 9″ of snow by Thursday? Yes. So they say. But it’s March. There is a light at the end of the tunnel.

I will pull my head out of my ass and will become one with humanity.

On second thought, check back with me in April. Yeah. April seems more attainable. After all, isn’t that when bears come out of hibernation?

Why Winter Sucks More Than a Hoover

NOTE: As I am writing this, I get an email from our local Patch with this headline: “A Little More Snow, Dangerous Winds, 25 Below Zero Wind Chills.” It’s time to move.

I realize not everyone has the distinct pleasure of living in a place where you get projectile vomited on with the white stuff before winter has barely started. But I do. Which gives me the qualifications to get my bitch on.

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Don’t be fooled by it’s beauty. It’s really just a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

I have lived in the Northeast for about 40 of my nearly 48 years of life. Which is a strange choice seeing that I have no outdoor winter skills to speak of whatsoever. I don’t ski, I can’t stand up on a pair of ice skates, and snowboarding? The thought makes me hyperventilate and I’m not even claustrophobic. I used to be able to build a mean snowman, but I lost that skill somewhere around 1982.

With that being said, I usually don’t mind a good snowstorm. As long as I have a bottle of my favorite wine, some french fries and working WiFi. Which, by the way, can be touch and go if the storm is bad enough.

But something happened to me this year. I snapped. And I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m just about ready to join the Snowbirds in Florida. Hell, they have it right with their afternoon cocktails, early bird specials and bed by 8.

Also, I realized the other day that I was in dire need of some sunshine when, while watching television, I paused the TV on a commercial advertising an island vacation and I put my face up to the screen to get a dose of some Vitamin D. Just so you know, it didn’t work so don’t bother.

Anyway, I’ve devised a list of why I just can’t take it anymore. It wasn’t hard to come up with.
  1. Static. If I get shocked one more f***ing time when I touch anything, I will kill something. Same thing goes for my flying hair, sticking clothes and the blankets on my bed. Every time I move, I fear going up in flames. It’s a good thing I’ve got 911 on speed dial.
  2. Slipping. I wonder how many people wind up in the emergency room this time of year? I swear Mother Nature and the medical industry are in cahoots. It doesn’t matter how careful I am, it’s a constant struggle to keep myself in the upright position when I venture out-of-doors. It may look funny but it doesn’t feel funny because I’m not laughing.
  3. Mud and slush. It’s on my car. My coat. My shoes. The back of my pants, my butt (okay, so that’s when I do #3). There are footprints all over my house, and that’s after everyone has taken off their shoes at the door.
  4. IMG_0229Piles of snow. Every-freaking-where. The piles are so big, I can’t see around or over them. I run the risk of getting slammed by a car because I can’t see it coming. And space is running low. What I like the best is when you ricochet off of one of these guys. Last time I checked, I wasn’t living in a county fair on a bumper car ride. If I was, it’d be warm out. And I’d be happy.
  5. Cold. The cold is permeating through the windows and doors as if there are no windows and doors. Making my oil bill go through the roof. My house isn’t built like Alcatraz. Even if it was, I don’t think it would help.
  6. No school. Please. Just go to school. Enough said.
  7. Dry everything. The mucus in my nose has hardened up so bad from the dry air that I need a chisel to remove it. The skin on my heels so sharp, I’m afraid I’ll stab my husband to death in our sleep. The skin on my legs flaking so much that I can feed the entire population of bed bugs. Yeah, that was gross. The truth is ugly.
  8. The prep. It takes a half hour to get ready to go outside. And although you are wearing a t-shirt, a long sleeved shirt, a sweater, leggings, jeans, your parka, a hat, scarf, gloves, two pairs of socks and boots so big and heavy it’s almost impossible to walk, you still run the risk of hypothermia.
  9. Shoveling. Although shoveling does burn a lot of calories, the process is a major pain in the ass. After you get dressed (see #8) you have to fight to stay upright (see #3) and then have nowhere to put it (see #4).
  10. Not enough sun. Wait. What? What is the sun again and where does it come from?

So there you have it. I’m sure there is more but I’m too depressed to think any more. I’m going to go sit under my desk lamp and pretend I’m in Cancun. Or hibernate like a bear.

PS – After the writing of this post, our furnace died. I believe it tried to hibernate as well. What sucks worse than winter? Having no heat when it’s 7 degrees outside.

PPS – You know what also sucks? Ice DamminIMG_4225g.

 

Girl Scout Cookies. The Bane Of My Existence.

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You can suck it.

The Kid is a Girl Scout. She has been since she was an adorable little Daisy at 5 years old. She used to LOVE the Girl Scouts. She’s 16 now and of course, she isn’t in love like she used to be. She’s hanging in there though because she only has another year left and let’s face it…it looks good on the dreaded college resume.

It is GS cookie time. It has been for over a week but I keep forgetting. Somehow the job of selling cookies always lands on my shoulders. She used to love going door to door (with me, of course) up and down the neighborhood streets. Asking people to support her troop.

She also wanted the cheesy awards you got if you met certain goals. You know those awards that probably didn’t cost more than 50 cents to make in some third world country? Totally worth it.

When she was old enough to start selling cookies, her form would be practically full. Now? There’s so much white space you can write an entire novel on it.

Anyway, I forgot about the cookies until someone posted something on Facebook about them. So, I wrote this status on my wall:

“Aww crap. I keep forgetting it’s Girl Scout cookie time. Ugh. If anyone wants any, let me know. But you have to be within driving distance because getting them to people is a major pain in my ass and after over 10 years of this I’m kinda done. How’s that for customer service? Lol! (sssh, don’t tell our troop leader…). But I will gladly place an order for you with a smile!! xoxo”

Yeah, I know it was snarky. I know my friends are going to say I’m being mean and bitchy. Maybe I was a little rough. But I’m not kidding when I say I’m done. You don’t even need to put a fork in me to tell. It’s obvious because I have the appearance of a piece of chicken that was left out on the barby for too long.

Girl Scouts is an absolutely awesome organization. I don’t regret for one minute, the day I signed up my little angel. She has learned about respect and commitment. She has formed great friendships. She can pop up a mean tent and make chicken parmesan out of a cardboard box oven that would rival that of Martha Stewart’s.

But anyone who knows me, knows that I am not a lover of volunteering. And it pretty much takes a village to run a troop. Yes, her leader is awesome and does 99% of the work (thank you Miss K. You have literally helped raise my child, I am forever grateful to you) but I believe I have paid my dues. Both figuratively and literally.

Years of being cookie mom, running magazine drives, filling out those address books so your troop can have an extra $2 added to the account, having to be a chaperone at meetings, encampments, field trips. The f*cking permission slips for every dang thing. My hand a throbbing hot mess after writing out multiple forms in a row. I swear it takes an hour for the blood to start circulating again.

After being involved in the Girl Scouts for almost 12 years, I am tired. I will give to the poor, I will volunteer my time at the soup kitchen, I will make coffee for the parishioners at church. But please don’t ask me to sell one more god darn Girl Scout cookie. I just can’t do it anymore.

So, who wants some? We have Trefoils, Do-si-dos, Thin Mints….

Stop Trying To Sell Me Something Dammit!

I had to run a quick errand this afternoon. I didn’t want to. I was comfortable in my nice warm house. Outside it was snowy and cold as hell. The last thing I wanted to do was go out. Or get dressed.

I walked into Stop and Shop. I saw her in the corner of my eye. I tried to avoid her by turning toward the pineapples. My mistake was that I wasn’t fast enough. And also that I answered her.

Her: Excuse me, ma’am?

Me: (here it comes…shit. What do I do, what do I do?) Yes?

Her: Do you own a home?

Me: (I should lie. You know, tell her no.) …uh, Yes?

Her: Have you ever thought of solar panels for your house?

Me: No and I’m not interested. (I should have said I already have them, but lies always lead to more lies and before I know it she’s asking what manufacturer and I’m saying “The Solar Guys” and she’s all like umm, I don’t think there is such a thing and I’m saying you must not know your stuff and then she’s googling it to prove I’m wrong and then I’m feeling super bad and will need to stop into the local church on the way home to confess my sins.)

Her: Why?

Really? Did she just ask me why? Because I’m not, that’s why. Because I’m here for a f**king fruit basket I need to buy for a neighbor whose husband died 3 weeks ago but because my head is so far up my ass, I didn’t know so I missed all the services and I feel really bad so I’m going to say I’m sorry through apples (I’m not alone – yes, I just threw you under the bus my other 2 neighbors who also didn’t know).

I waved at her like those angry old men you see at the mall who are irritated by the teenagers playing their iPods too loudly. I heard her snicker under her breath. I have officially crossed to the other side. And I thought my wrinkles were bad?

I have to say I’m kind of tired of sales people who are put where they shouldn’t be. I get the Girl Scouts selling cookies outside of Office Max. I get the veteran’s looking for donations for the wounded soldiers outside of the market. I get salespeople. This isn’t about slamming the salesperson. These are jobs. There need to be salespeople for the world to carry on.

But the people that are set up inside of stores that have nothing to do with the store itself? Bothering the customers? Come on.

I understand that the kiosks at the mall are just running a business. So are all the other businesses there. But I don’t see some chick from Victoria’s Secret running after me with a pair of thongs promising that I will feel 30 years younger if I try them on, do I?

There’s the guy with the hair straightener. He’s coming at me so fast and furious, I swear he’s going to club me in the head with it.

There’s the lady who promises my hands and cuticles will be softer than a baby’s bottom if I buy her lotion. I actually fell for this once. It still sits in the cabinet in my bathroom. It started out blue. It is now green. And full to the brim.

The one that gets me the most is the guy pawning his e-cigarettes. What even is that? Whatever it is, please don’t assume I’m a smoker and try to sell them to me. It’s an insult.

If I’m interested in your wares, I will approach you. Otherwise, I will avoid you like the plague.

I actually have a route that I take so that I can avoid them. Which really sucks. I don’t want to have to avoid these people. I want to be able to go to the mall or the grocery store or even the gas station without being pounced on. I want to be able to shop in peace. It’s bad enough that my home phone rings all day and night. And they aren’t friends or family calling either.

Everything has gotten out of control. Technology, although grateful for it, has gotten out of control on some level. The way we live, has gotten out of control.

I long for the easy days of corded phones and playing outside. When the only people who called were your friends or grandmother. Easy shopping and writing letters. That’s what I want.

I kind of feel bad for our kids. They don’t understand. They don’t know who Paul McCartney is and that it’s not okay to talk to strangers on the internet.

When did that happen? I don’t know. But please. Can’t we at least keep sales to the sales office? It really would make me so much happier.

And making me happy is what it’s all about, right? Did I mention that we also live in a self-absorbed world? Houston, we might have a problem.

Really Stupid Post About Why Today Kinda Sucked For Me

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What’s left of my next best thing to a “Cronut”

I had a really off day today. Actually, it was more than just “off.” It was downright B.A.D. I don’t know if it’s the weather, the fact that Christmas is 2 weeks away and I’m not ready for it or if my PMS is working double-time.

Every-freaking-thing is annoying me. Ev-er-y-thing. From the sound of human voices to the oil man in my driveway giving us $23,000-an-ounce liquid so we don’t freeze our asses off during this ridiculous winter that technically hasn’t even started yet.

What else is pissing me off, you ask? Let me tell you…

  • The fact that I have 100 Christmas cards sitting in Costco waiting to be picked up so I can spend an entire day (note the exaggeration there?) addressing and licking envelopes to send out to people. Some people who we haven’t seen or heard from in 22 years. People who will most likely take the card I spent 2 hours making sure was perfect and just throw it in the trash on January 1st (guilty).
  • The fact that I signed up for a cookie exchange and I committed to making 8 dozen cookies. Do you know what that involves? Shopping for ingredients like almond extract that I will use an 8th of a teaspoon for and then never use again. Not to mention a full day standing on my feet baking. Can’t I just go and drink wine and eat? I’m really good at drinking wine and eating. I am. You can ask anyone.
  • The fact that I have to get down on my ever-loving hands and knees to water a Christmas tree that, no matter how much aspirin or TLC we put into it, seems to die 2 days after putting it up. Have you seen a 47 year old woman with bad knees try to extricate herself from under a pine tree that is in a house and then proceed to try to get up from a half lying position on the floor? It ain’t graceful, I can promise you that.
  • The fact that I had 2 thousand phone calls to make today. I don’t want to make phone calls. I hate making phone calls. Why in the hell are there always phone calls to make? Does someone have an answer to that one? Because I’d like to know.
  • The fact that I have three loads of folded laundry waiting to be put away and just as many loads waiting to be washed.
  • The fact that 2 of the 3 toilets in my house need a scrubbing. Rugs that need to be vacuumed. A coffee table that needs dusting.
  • The fact that I sat in my PJ’s all day long, didn’t pick up my 100 Christmas cards at Costco, didn’t make but 1/2 a phone call. Or did the laundry. Or any of the above.

Do you know what I did do today?

When The Kid got home from school, it looked like she was having a bad day too. So, instead of saying, “it’s okay, shake it off, have an apple.” I say, “freak this, let’s go get french fries. And when we’re done with that, let’s get some of those new croissant donut things at Dunkin’ Donuts.” So we did.

Except DD didn’t have any croissant donut things left so I freaked and almost died right there in the drive-up lane. All I can say is that it’s a darn good thing they sell other flavors.

Now I’m pissed that I didn’t have the willpower to say, “let’s have an apple.” You know, as I watch my muffin top grow larger with every bite.

Oh freak that, no I’m not. I’m not pissed. Not at all. I enjoyed every minute. And The Kid and I laughed so hard during our little jaunt. We both needed it. Even if at the cost of a pound or two. Eh, maybe three (for me, not her).

(Yes, that’s me eating a donut in slo-mo, because why not?)

Yes, I appreciate my life. Yes, I’m grateful for our health and safety. Yes, I love Christmas. Still, I’m allowed to have a bad day.

So, I’m going back to bed. And starting over. Tomorrow. I hope.

If I’m lucky Dunkin’ Donuts will burn to the ground while I sleep. But then I will never get my Cronut. Looks like I may have a problem, Houston.

Oh Sleep, Why Do You Forsaken Me?

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Yeah, I’m pretty sure this isn’t true.

I am a sleeper. Except for the very rare occasion that I cannot get my slumber on. When I say “rare,” I mean “rare” as in the number of kangaroos there are in Connecticut. In other words, I sleep. And I do it well.

I am of the laid-back ilk. Sure, I could have things on my mind, but once my head hits that pillow, it all goes into a little secret compartment somewhere. I’m not really sure where that compartment is. I think about that about as much as I do my thoughts when I’m sleeping. In case you missed it, that is never.

Anyway, at 3am this morning, my eyes flew open like a pair of French doors during a Texan hurricane. And every freaking thought known to man came crawling out of that little secret compartment, wherever it is, and started mocking me.

What were my thoughts? Let me tell you.

  • “Super Bad” wasn’t as good as people said it was. In fact, it was kind of stupid. But damn, that guy Seth reminds me of someone I know.
  • Ugh, I still have to get my damn Christmas village out. Can’t I skip it this year? No, no. The Kid will get upset. It’s all about her. Oh screw that. I don’t want to put it out. Okay, I will.
  • What kind of dairy free cookies can I bake? But they’ll probably taste like shit. Maybe I’ll do it next year. Ok, I’ll do it next year. Oh, but then I’ll feel bad.
  • I probably should go to church. Think there are any names left on the Giving Tree that aren’t for hotel sized shampoo bottles for the homeless shelter?
  • I should check Facebook. I’m pretty sure I got a couple hundred new followers while I lie here not sleeping. I’m sure of it.
  • I wonder if Kohl’s is having a sale on comforters. I should get one. It’s good to have extra comforters.
  • Speaking of comforters, I need to change the sheets.
  • I used to love roller skating. I should go roller skating. Where can I go roller skating? Oh, I’ll probably make an ass of myself or get hurt. Never mind.
  • My nose is whistling. Why don’t I have tissues on my night stand? But then I might wake up DH. I should just get up.
  • I wonder if I still snore. Hmm, I probably should go see someone about that. But then what if I have to have surgery or something. It might hurt. I can live with my snoring.
  • My nose is still whistling. I have to pee. I should really just get up.
  • I’m not going to church. I’m too tired.
  • Eww, my stomach is really flabby.

And then I got up. I peed and blew my nose. I went downstairs on the couch and looked at Facebook. I didn’t get hundreds of new followers, but I did get 4. I announced to the world that I can’t sleep and had a short conversation with a couple of other insomniacs.

I was amazed at how anxious I felt. I felt the urge to go check on The Kid. Something I hadn’t done in at least 3 months. I had to fight the feeling. Okay, so I did look in her room. But I couldn’t see anything because it was dark.

Then I finally fell asleep. At around 6am (I think). When I woke at around 10, it felt like someone hit me with a Mack truck. The feeling was very reminiscent of when I worked in My Retail Job. Which translates to “I never want to do that again.”

The next time I can’t sleep? NyQuil should do the trick. I’m just hoping I don’t need to start buying stock in it. That would royally suck.

 

 

 

My Wrapped Up Holiday Thoughts

Christmas In October Cartoon

What’s my problem? I mean, when am I going to get it through my thick middle-aged skull that Christmas starts in October? Before Halloween?

Why is it that every single year I blow my shit because I see Christmas decorations in Kohl’s? Or see a guy on a ladder applying lights on the big pine tree on the property of the local jeweler? Or see effing Christmas commercials on TV before Halloween has even happened. Every year. Like I’ve never seen it before. “Holy crap, is that Rudolph?” Surprise, surprise.

Can I at least enjoy the 3 Halloween decorations I put out for a couple of days? I mean, I am definitely not a lover of the holiday called Halloween, that’s no secret. But still. Give me a break.

Everyone is so quick to pull down those decorations though and I’ve always been happy about not having to look at them for all of eternity. Until I figured out why they are so quick to pull them down — to make room for their Christmas crap.

Christmas crap that is left up way too long. We get to drive around town looking at sagging, dead and sunburnt wreaths hanging on doors and windows until April. Deflated Santas and Reindeer lying in yards, even the life sucked out of them.

1ace59493697d4d541a38cadc9a3240fI totally love Christmas. It was a well loved and cherished holiday in my house growing up. My mom would put up those cheesy plastic popcorn figures of Rudolph and Santa.

Dad would meticulously place our million multi-colored blinking lights on the tree. But not before spending an afternoon testing every single one. Making sure they all worked. And if they didn’t? An afternoon often turned into two days because finding the one light that made the strand dead was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Ahhh, those were the days.

But this was done after Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving. One of my favorite holidays. Because, hello? Food. And sitting and drinking and relaxing and laughing with family. No stress. No shopping for months only to have all that work over within 32 seconds by eager and selfish children.

So, I’d like to enjoy that holiday too and not feel rushed with Christmas that is so overdone that by the time December 25th is here, it’s all I can do to keep myself from vomiting up jingle bells and reruns of holiday specials.

Where was I? Oh right, Christmas in October. Santa in the mall. In October. When he should be at the North Pole making presents for all the good little boys and girls of the world. When are our children going to smarten up to this process? How many times are they going to buy the whole, “oh, that’s one of Santa’s helpers” bit? Please.

Do you know when this all started? I’m not really sure. But they call it “Christmas Creep.” Because it’s creepy. Like Santa in October.

Now some retail establishments have gotten so greedy they think it’s a brilliant idea to open on Thanksgiving. A day when people should be with friends and family. You know, not shopping and definitely not working. There is plenty of time for that. Shame on you retail establishments. The ones who partake? You kinda suck.

I feel like I’m having a bit of road rage here. Except I’m calling it Holiday Creep Rage or HCR. I think I’ll go pour myself some spiked eggnog. Yes, eggnog. That is also available. But I don’t have a problem with that. Eggnog should seriously be sold all year round. That stuff is good. Especially when added to some rum. Which is what we all need to get through it all. So, ho ho ho. Merry Hallothanksmas.

DRY Should Be a Four-Letter Word

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I have a sad story to tell. I don’t know the statistics, but I’m guessing just about every woman with a vagina will suffer from the ailment of which I am about to speak of.

Last week, I wrote a post about having sex for the first time after baby. If you missed it, you can read it here.

I received a comment from an older woman. Her name is Marcie. She told me about her friend. Her name is Bonnie.

They are both on the other side of menopause. Which means they are dryer than a prune on the equator.

Marcie is lucky. Her hubs doesn’t care much about sex anymore, therefore, Marcie doesn’t have to worry about it. Because, and I quote, “sex after childbirth is nothing compared to what you will face after menopause! It is painful beyond belief! Sex after menopause is like sticking knives AND sandpaper in there.

Thanks Marcie. Glad to know that I have something fun to look forward to. I love the feeling of sandpaper in my vijay jay. Said no woman ever.

Now, her friend Bonnie isn’t so lucky. She happens to be married to a sex machine. Pretty much no amount of KY Jelly will do the trick. There are drugs with dangerous side effects that she has to take so that her man can get his rocks off. And these drugs don’t even work all that great. I just hope she’s able to achieve the big “O” for her troubles.

Why is it that men can go at it like little Jack Rabbits and can procreate until their last breath? I still am amazed at how far Tony Randall went. That little horn dog. May he rest in peace. I just hope he’s not trying to hump my grandmother up there. Oh right, he likes the younger ladies.

What was I saying? Oh yes…sorry about that.

I love men. I really do. This is in no way a man bashing post. I’m just stating the obvious. And, also, I need to say that I’m totally coming back as a man in my next life. Because seriously, if I don’t have to have my ass ripped open by a human head ever again, I wouldn’t be happier.

Anyway, I did a little comparison. Correct me if I’m wrong.

What women have to endure:

  1. Painful periods with mega bleeding out of their down between, cramps, nausea, migraines and mood swings for 7 days or more each month from adolescence until — dear God — too long.
  2. Childbirth. 9+ months of carrying a person on the inside of our bodies like an alien and then enduring hours of having to push this person into the world through a small hole. It doesn’t seem natural. But yet, it is.
  3. Menopause. Why do they call it this? To pause the menses? Then just pause it Mother Effing Nature and move along.
  4. Atrophy of the Vagina or Dried Vagina Syndrome. Sure, maybe that should fall under menopause but I truly and deeply in my heart feel that it needs its very own bullet point. No further explanation needed.
  5. Sagging butt, boobs and mid-life gut (or as the kid likes to refer to it as the “fupa” (pronounced foo-pah — pretty huh?)).

Just so you know, my husband looks better than the day I met him. Why does the gray hair at his temples look sexy when my gray hair just makes me look like an unkempt old maid? I have to pay hundreds of dollars a year to prevent this look from taking over my life. That is not a lie. But I digress.

What men have to endure:

  1. Premature ejaculation. I’ll give it to them that this must suck.
  2. Not able to “perform.” Eh. It happens to the best of us.
  3. The fear of someone kicking them in the gonads. I heard that’s pretty painful. Although I have been elbowed in the breast and it’s not like picking daisies.
  4. Wet dreams. I don’t know, it sounds kind of fun, no?

Okay, so we have 5 and they have 4. But can we compare apples to apples? No, it’s more like comparing apples to watermelon. Or even worse, an apple to the Loch Ness Monster. Does that sound dumb and not make sense? Exactly.

Now I am no man. So, I don’t know what it’s like to be one. But my hubs doesn’t complain about anything unless his stomach hurts, he cuts his finger or has a cold. Therefore, to me that means that there isn’t much to complain about.

Unlike us. See above. Yet, we do these things and we do it with dignity. Because, hello? Girl Power, that’s what.

May I just say before I go that may God never change the rules and decide that men should give birth. Because hello? That’s scarier than the thought of the apocalypse. Don’t you think?

Sportster I am Not

tumblr_maiay7h8EL1qeq7r2o1_500 I think today or yesterday was opening day of football. How do I know? Because people on Facebook and everywhere I go are totally pumped up about it.

Do I have to like sports? No, I don’t believe I do. But somehow I feel like a big idiot, and an anti-American whenever I have the conversation with other people. Or more accurately, when other people have the conversation with me. “So, who do you root for, the Yankees or Red Socks? Ice Hockey is so awesome, isn’t it? Did you go to the US Open?”

Umm, my answers? The Red Socks is baseball, right? I wouldn’t know, and the US Open of what? I come from a long line of bathletes. I just made that up…Bad Athletes. Clever, right?

Neither of my parents are good at sports. My mother took I-can’t-even-tell-you-how-many-years of swim lessons but yet she sinks like a rock (my dad can swim, he was Captain of his swim team in high school. Forgot about that. One point for dad).

My dad threw a ball around to my brothers, pretending to know what he was doing. I never played anything unless I was forced to in gym class but then still didn’t because I either feigned illness or just cut the class.

Once, when I was 20, I was on a softball team for a corporate event at work but I ran away from the ball when it was coming toward me instead of running toward it.

DH was quarterback on his high school football team. His father was a coach. All 3 of his brothers are absolute die-hard football junkies. DH hates football. He doesn’t follow baseball. Or basketball. Or hockey. Or golf. He does like motorcycle stuff and some race car stuff and a little cage fighting. But I get the feeling that doesn’t really count either.

What I’m saying is I don’t have, nor have I ever, had any teachers. So, I sit at the sidelines of The Kid’s field hockey games looking as if someone just tried to explain quantum physics to me.

“Why do those referee people keep blowing their whistles? What the hell just happened? If someone hit that ball into that net, does that mean we scored? Wait. Which net is ours? What color is ours? Why is everyone clapping? Did I miss something again?” I suppose if I stopped treating it as a social event I might understand the game a bit more.

Why is The Kid on a sport’s team in high school if there really isn’t much athletic ability in the family? Well, in my side of the family. DH I’m sure is good at sports, I’ve just never seen him in action. But he has no desire. Get my point?

We kind of made her pick something. She’s not bad. She’s not star quality. But she’s not bad.

I got off topic a little. I hate sports. It bores me to tears. Sometimes I wish it didn’t. People get together for football games and baseball games and all that jazz and me and my family just don’t, and have no desire.

Do I feel bad? Kind of. I mean, not enough to lose sleep over. And when all those women become football widows or whatever it is, I’m always so grateful that I’m not one. But, maybe I should know about one sport or another? Perhaps.

What is my pointless rambling all about? Nothing really. Just that I don’t like sports and that I feel stupid. Why is that? I don’t know. I suppose I should be at peace with it and embrace my bathleticism.

So, how about those Harlem Globetrotters?  Can’t wait for the Super Series. Hope they hit a goal. Honestly, I really do like that half show. It’s epic.