I just woke up. This means that the coffee has yet to take effect and I am still all puffy and middle-aged looking and the mascara I forgot to wipe off with the neat little cotton ball and the overpriced Mary Kay makeup remover I got suckahed into buying is caked under my eyes and getting stuck in my crows feet.
Whew! That was a mouthful.
So, here goes with the dream. I am pregnant with my gay cousin's baby and getting married to my boyfriend, who kinda understands my 'indiscretion', because, really, it was with my gay cousin. Then I am going to a fitting for my 'maternity wedding dress' and the tailor happens to be my ex mother-in-law, who insists I wear a white suit like Ellen did in her wedding because it's 'in right now' and will 'be more flattering'. The fitting is in a bathroom in my ex mother-in-law's house, by the way. Not that that means much. or maybe it does.
Your thoughts, my readers.
I have a date with a great bowl of coffee now.
Kisses.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Kick to the head
I should not let my daughter see me naked anymore. It just opens me up for all kinds of ridicule and pokes a million pinholes in the ever-thinning membrane that is my self-esteem.
Tonight she covered her eyes, scandalized by the very eye-raping that is viewing my nude form. "Gaaaah! You got hair!"
In my defense, funds are tight and brazillian waxes have been put on the back burner. Plus, I'm lazy.
Then she goes, "And your legs are all jingly! Look at them! Jingle! Jingle! Jingle JINGLE!"
I think she meant 'jiggle'.
Oh, just you wait, Lil' Miss Six-Pack. I'm gonna show up at your house on the eve of your 37th birthday and hide in the bathroom and surprise you when you're getting out of the shower, and laugh and laugh and laugh...
wait, that's really creepy.
Tonight she covered her eyes, scandalized by the very eye-raping that is viewing my nude form. "Gaaaah! You got hair!"
In my defense, funds are tight and brazillian waxes have been put on the back burner. Plus, I'm lazy.
Then she goes, "And your legs are all jingly! Look at them! Jingle! Jingle! Jingle JINGLE!"
I think she meant 'jiggle'.
Oh, just you wait, Lil' Miss Six-Pack. I'm gonna show up at your house on the eve of your 37th birthday and hide in the bathroom and surprise you when you're getting out of the shower, and laugh and laugh and laugh...
wait, that's really creepy.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Cheerleading
I have officially turned into my mother. I enjoy Lily's basketball games more than is probably appropriate, but there is something about sitting on the sidelines, clutching my industrial-sized travel mug of FREE coffee (thanks, YMCA!) with the other mothers, watching our kids run around and bang into each other during what is maybe the most entertaining 45 minutes of controlled chaos I have ever seen, that makes me really happy. Lily stands off to the side with her hands up, not really sure why, hopping from one foot to the other, scratching her legs, fixing her socks, wiping her chapped lips with the bottom of her shirt, and flinching when the ball comes near her (awww, just like mama), and I hear myself going, "GOOD TRY, LILY!!!" just like my own mom did so many years ago when I slouched on the soccer field, checking my watch, picking underneath my nails and trying hard as I could to avoid the ball.
Still, Mom was at every single game, the loudest voice of everyone, cheering me on. "Go, Krissy! Almost, almost!! Nice try! Get in there! GOOD FOOT!!!"
I knew she was bullshitting, and I loved her even more for it. Because I knew she got a big charge out of bringing her portable chair and pack of smokes (or 2 lb bag of sunflower seeds, after she quit), and just watching her daughter be a part of the game. And lets face it, there are some talented kids out there. I love watching the little guy who looks like a pint-sized John Starks literally smack the ball out of the opponents hands and shoot a basket from half court. I swear, this kid is 3 and a half feet tall and very possibly will grow up to be a midget, but he's a powerhouse.
And there's an excitement in hoping that one day, just maybe, Lily might actually get a breakaway and shoot that one-in-a-million shot for the team. Most likely not. I mean, really, yeah...no. But she's having fun either way. And a mother can dream.
Oh, and PS...to avoid ball-busting from my dad who inevitably will read this post and leave me a voice mail on my cell: "Ah, Kristin..." (professional-sounding throat-clearing), "I, too was at all of your games...what a selective memory my older daughter has..." it's true, he was. So there. Kisses.
Still, Mom was at every single game, the loudest voice of everyone, cheering me on. "Go, Krissy! Almost, almost!! Nice try! Get in there! GOOD FOOT!!!"
I knew she was bullshitting, and I loved her even more for it. Because I knew she got a big charge out of bringing her portable chair and pack of smokes (or 2 lb bag of sunflower seeds, after she quit), and just watching her daughter be a part of the game. And lets face it, there are some talented kids out there. I love watching the little guy who looks like a pint-sized John Starks literally smack the ball out of the opponents hands and shoot a basket from half court. I swear, this kid is 3 and a half feet tall and very possibly will grow up to be a midget, but he's a powerhouse.
And there's an excitement in hoping that one day, just maybe, Lily might actually get a breakaway and shoot that one-in-a-million shot for the team. Most likely not. I mean, really, yeah...no. But she's having fun either way. And a mother can dream.
Oh, and PS...to avoid ball-busting from my dad who inevitably will read this post and leave me a voice mail on my cell: "Ah, Kristin..." (professional-sounding throat-clearing), "I, too was at all of your games...what a selective memory my older daughter has..." it's true, he was. So there. Kisses.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Wow! Nice cover, SI!
I didn't know 'women on skis' was code for 'women getting fucked up the hiney'.
Did you?
Did you?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Why, it's 100 Days Day!
Wasn't sure what to do to celebrate Lily's 100 Days of School Day on Friday, as parents were instructed to glue 100 things of the same kind to the top of a shoe box and attach strings so that they could pull them like mardi gras floats in the "100 Day" parade. At first I was thinking 100 bottle caps, because we have a 10 gallon pickle tub's worth of discarded caps that Jeremy is saving for a project (not this project, I can assure you), but I didn't wanna nick them while he was away on a crappy business trip, that seemed doubly cruel. Also, though I could give a swollen rats ass how my family and I are perceived by strangers, there is a certain stigma attached to being that kid that brought in all the Sam Adams caps.
100 qtips seemed gross. 100 rubber bands was trite. So we opted for 100 pennies. And omg, my hands smell like a freakin' homeless shelter now.
100 qtips seemed gross. 100 rubber bands was trite. So we opted for 100 pennies. And omg, my hands smell like a freakin' homeless shelter now.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Feels like the first time...
I love books on tape. Well, books on CD. Because my car has a CD player, which is AWESOME. I just finished listening to Augusten Burroughs' Magical Thinking for like the 20th time, and then started listening to something kind of lame and forgetable by Elizabeth Berg. Anyway, its a collection of stories. And in one of them, an 80 yr. old woman locks herself in the bathroom because she wants some 'alone time', and reminisces about when she and her husband first had sex. Gross. The story even describes how he slid her garters down and everything. Too much information, Elizabeth Berg.
So of course this got me thinking about my own first experience with sex. Because, you know, everything that happens to everyone else in the world has to lead back to me somehow. Or it just wouldn't be right.
Well, my first time wasn't that romantic, really. I mean, it was sweet in that the boy I did it with was my first boyfriend, my first love, my first experience with throbbing-hot-dry-humping-through-the-jeans-till-the-thighs-are-bleeding, and he was a virgin like me, so the fact that we lost our innocence to each other was sort of nice.
The experience itself was not quite as nice. Of course we'd been dancing around the idea of having sex for months. And by dancing I mean rubbing against each other in every room of my parents house, in the garage, the backyard (yes, mom. I'm sorry to say we were not looking at constellations; we were drinking Bartles and Jaymes stolen from 7-11 and outercoursing up against the fence). When it finally happened it was wickedly underwhelming. I'd gotten hooked on "Beverly Hills, 90210", and had smoldered with jealousy and longing at the way Brenda and Dylan first did it in a 5 star hotel during a high school dance. Siiiiigh. Does it get any better than that?! Afterwards they put their expensive prom clothes back on and went downstairs, smirking and giggling and everybody was like, "Awww right!"
I wanted this. I wanted a romantic first time, with candles, chocolate, and rose petals scattered on my twin bed. Buuuut, it didn't exactly happen like that. At all. It actually kind of happened by accident, really. My parents were out to dinner and we were fooling around on the living room floor, and it just, well, happened. It was quick and a little shocking but nothing like what I'd expected. What happened next, though, really sucked.
I looked down and his face was twisted into a mask of utter horror, like he'd just seen a puppy get clubbed in the head with an aluminum bat. "I...I..." he stuttered.
"You... didn't." I said, shaking my head. I narrowed my eyes. Oh, sweet Jesus. Didn't they tell us about this in health class? I remembered a pamphlet with a hippie type girl on a swing, looking forlorn and confused and sad..."You can get pregnant the first time..."
So I hauled ass upstairs and turned on the shower and jumped in, trying in vain to wash myself or something, while he ran, naked, into my bedroom and knelt at the foot of my bed and started praying. "That's not gonna help us now, fucker!!!" I yelled. "Get dressed! We're going to the Emergency Room!!!"
And that's what we did. We really did. We drove to the local hospital and I stayed in the car biting my nails and muttering to myself and trying not to picture how I would look walking down the halls of my all-girls Catholic school with a giant stomach (would they fit me with a special uniform? Would I have to wear...gasp...SWEAT PANTS?!). He asked the lady at the front desk if perhaps the 'morning after pill' might be available and could we, two dumb teenagers who had just made a fatal mistake, procure it? Just this once?
The woman behind the desk, as was told to me later, was kind and soothing, but explained that no, that particular pharmaceutical was not yet available in the United States (this was 1991 or something). She advised us to go home and relax and take a pregnancy test in a few weeks if we really got worried.
And, as it turned out, there was nothing to worry about. We still swore off sex for the rest of our lives (which lasted about a week and a half), and tried to do things safely from that moment on. But wow, that was a bummer of a first time.
How about y'all? What was your first time like?
Spill it!!!
So of course this got me thinking about my own first experience with sex. Because, you know, everything that happens to everyone else in the world has to lead back to me somehow. Or it just wouldn't be right.
Well, my first time wasn't that romantic, really. I mean, it was sweet in that the boy I did it with was my first boyfriend, my first love, my first experience with throbbing-hot-dry-humping-through-the-jeans-till-the-thighs-are-bleeding, and he was a virgin like me, so the fact that we lost our innocence to each other was sort of nice.
The experience itself was not quite as nice. Of course we'd been dancing around the idea of having sex for months. And by dancing I mean rubbing against each other in every room of my parents house, in the garage, the backyard (yes, mom. I'm sorry to say we were not looking at constellations; we were drinking Bartles and Jaymes stolen from 7-11 and outercoursing up against the fence). When it finally happened it was wickedly underwhelming. I'd gotten hooked on "Beverly Hills, 90210", and had smoldered with jealousy and longing at the way Brenda and Dylan first did it in a 5 star hotel during a high school dance. Siiiiigh. Does it get any better than that?! Afterwards they put their expensive prom clothes back on and went downstairs, smirking and giggling and everybody was like, "Awww right!"
I wanted this. I wanted a romantic first time, with candles, chocolate, and rose petals scattered on my twin bed. Buuuut, it didn't exactly happen like that. At all. It actually kind of happened by accident, really. My parents were out to dinner and we were fooling around on the living room floor, and it just, well, happened. It was quick and a little shocking but nothing like what I'd expected. What happened next, though, really sucked.
I looked down and his face was twisted into a mask of utter horror, like he'd just seen a puppy get clubbed in the head with an aluminum bat. "I...I..." he stuttered.
"You... didn't." I said, shaking my head. I narrowed my eyes. Oh, sweet Jesus. Didn't they tell us about this in health class? I remembered a pamphlet with a hippie type girl on a swing, looking forlorn and confused and sad..."You can get pregnant the first time..."
So I hauled ass upstairs and turned on the shower and jumped in, trying in vain to wash myself or something, while he ran, naked, into my bedroom and knelt at the foot of my bed and started praying. "That's not gonna help us now, fucker!!!" I yelled. "Get dressed! We're going to the Emergency Room!!!"
And that's what we did. We really did. We drove to the local hospital and I stayed in the car biting my nails and muttering to myself and trying not to picture how I would look walking down the halls of my all-girls Catholic school with a giant stomach (would they fit me with a special uniform? Would I have to wear...gasp...SWEAT PANTS?!). He asked the lady at the front desk if perhaps the 'morning after pill' might be available and could we, two dumb teenagers who had just made a fatal mistake, procure it? Just this once?
The woman behind the desk, as was told to me later, was kind and soothing, but explained that no, that particular pharmaceutical was not yet available in the United States (this was 1991 or something). She advised us to go home and relax and take a pregnancy test in a few weeks if we really got worried.
And, as it turned out, there was nothing to worry about. We still swore off sex for the rest of our lives (which lasted about a week and a half), and tried to do things safely from that moment on. But wow, that was a bummer of a first time.
How about y'all? What was your first time like?
Spill it!!!
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Just call me Lady Petrol
I did something retardedly retarded today, even for me.
I was pumping gas, and I flicked that little metal lever thingy where you can set the nozzle to auto and actually walk away whilst your gas is pumping. Got distracted when Lily came out of the car and started talking about something totally inane and random, like how she pronounced the word 'potato' when she was a baby or something, and then I heard the little 'click' that told me the tank was all full.
So then I did this.
Wait for it...
I yanked the nozzle out of the hole (thatswutshesaid) but the gas was still flowing, right? So out it came squirting like a hose on a 4-alarm fire, spraying my whole car door, all the cement near us, and both Lily's and my boots.
So, I went to work smelling like a concentration camp. Good thing my office mate is staunchly Christian (as I've inferred by the giant wooden cross on his desk and neatly framed scripture quotes), so I don't think I offended anyone. Except me.
I might even be high right now. Clearly I must be, if I thought this was worth blogging about.
Happy Tuesday, Lovies!
I was pumping gas, and I flicked that little metal lever thingy where you can set the nozzle to auto and actually walk away whilst your gas is pumping. Got distracted when Lily came out of the car and started talking about something totally inane and random, like how she pronounced the word 'potato' when she was a baby or something, and then I heard the little 'click' that told me the tank was all full.
So then I did this.
Wait for it...
I yanked the nozzle out of the hole (thatswutshesaid) but the gas was still flowing, right? So out it came squirting like a hose on a 4-alarm fire, spraying my whole car door, all the cement near us, and both Lily's and my boots.
So, I went to work smelling like a concentration camp. Good thing my office mate is staunchly Christian (as I've inferred by the giant wooden cross on his desk and neatly framed scripture quotes), so I don't think I offended anyone. Except me.
I might even be high right now. Clearly I must be, if I thought this was worth blogging about.
Happy Tuesday, Lovies!
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