(Everyone knows Dick in a Box, right? Because you should.)
Showing posts with label Hey Diddle Diddle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hey Diddle Diddle. Show all posts
Monday, December 10, 2012
Thursday, August 13, 2009
I Ate Chicken and Then It Burned When I Peed
In early June I was feeling super exhausted and having super bad icky feelings so I hauled ass to the doctor with screaming daughter in tow while son with big ears was at a summer program.
My doctor and I both assumed I had a UTI. My symptoms were not quite textbook, and my initial test results a little odd, but whatever. As he pointed out I've been under extreme stress too. I was sent away with a rx for antibiotics.
Six days later his nurse called.
"We got your final test results back. And may I just say wow! Talk about rare! It's like really, really rare! First case ever in our office! And it doesn't normally show up this way either. That makes it even more rare!"
The diagnosis was a little scary and way confusing. I called one of my bestest friends, who besides having been a nurse just knows everything. She already knew I'd gone in and about all my symptoms, even made me a special tea to drink. (Insert warm fuzzy smile.) Now with my new surprising diagnosis we went over it again because it just didn't add up. Why wasn't the doctor asking questions to find out how I'd gotten a rare typically food-borne illness in an even rarer place?
My amazing friend Dr. Googled a few key items, translated a few medical articles back into English, and took a moment to think.
"Okay, so you totally know you don't have to answer this, but have you and J recently done it doggie style?"
OH. MY. GAWD. Just like two or many more times a day for the last solid week before getting sick! HOW DID SHE KNOW? Last time we'd talked silly girlfriend sex I'd still been a fuck me in a bubble bath phase. Stupid 30-something hormones and buzzy cock rings.
SALMONELLA. Confirmed on two separate occasions by two separate labs by four separate tests. And let me just tell you that nothing will make you feel like a skankier ho than having the state Health Department call and grill you. The nurse was really nice about it, but c'mon, salmonella as an STD?
And because everyone always wants to know: bbq chicken. At a friend's house.
But not the sex. That was at home.
My doctor and I both assumed I had a UTI. My symptoms were not quite textbook, and my initial test results a little odd, but whatever. As he pointed out I've been under extreme stress too. I was sent away with a rx for antibiotics.
Six days later his nurse called.
"We got your final test results back. And may I just say wow! Talk about rare! It's like really, really rare! First case ever in our office! And it doesn't normally show up this way either. That makes it even more rare!"
The diagnosis was a little scary and way confusing. I called one of my bestest friends, who besides having been a nurse just knows everything. She already knew I'd gone in and about all my symptoms, even made me a special tea to drink. (Insert warm fuzzy smile.) Now with my new surprising diagnosis we went over it again because it just didn't add up. Why wasn't the doctor asking questions to find out how I'd gotten a rare typically food-borne illness in an even rarer place?
My amazing friend Dr. Googled a few key items, translated a few medical articles back into English, and took a moment to think.
"Okay, so you totally know you don't have to answer this, but have you and J recently done it doggie style?"
OH. MY. GAWD. Just like two or many more times a day for the last solid week before getting sick! HOW DID SHE KNOW? Last time we'd talked silly girlfriend sex I'd still been a fuck me in a bubble bath phase. Stupid 30-something hormones and buzzy cock rings.
SALMONELLA. Confirmed on two separate occasions by two separate labs by four separate tests. And let me just tell you that nothing will make you feel like a skankier ho than having the state Health Department call and grill you. The nurse was really nice about it, but c'mon, salmonella as an STD?
And because everyone always wants to know: bbq chicken. At a friend's house.
But not the sex. That was at home.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
It's Not a Penis, It Just Looks Like One On the Internet
For Mother's Day my amazing son wrote (in Kindergartenese), illustrated (in green highlighter*), and bound (with staples) a book for yours truly. And quite the egocentric flip book it was.
Awww...he made a flip book!
"This is me! And this is me! This is still me too!" Flipping, flipping, flipping. Uh oh. This page no writing.
Phallic art! My favorite!
"And this is our house!"
Ehh...
This is our house. Where do you live?
Somehow my dear husband senses that I'm thinking about peni and comes running.
Seriously dude, there's no fire. Go on now and run back to wheres youse cames frum.
"Look at this beautiful representation your son made. OF OUR HOUSE."
"Our house?"
"OUR HOUSE."
"It has grass! See the grass! Hahaha! Grass! No wait! No wait! I meant bush! See the bush! Hahahahahahaha!"
Whatevs. You're a penis.
*Highlighters are still so banned for being NOT washable and having been used as late as 4 to draw on the furniture purposely and more than once. If not drawing with highlighters keeps him out of an ivy league school I'm okay with that.
Awww...he made a flip book!
"This is me! And this is me! This is still me too!" Flipping, flipping, flipping. Uh oh. This page no writing.
Phallic art! My favorite!
"And this is our house!"
Ehh...
This is our house. Where do you live?
Somehow my dear husband senses that I'm thinking about peni and comes running.
Seriously dude, there's no fire. Go on now and run back to wheres youse cames frum.
"Look at this beautiful representation your son made. OF OUR HOUSE."
"Our house?"
"OUR HOUSE."
"It has grass! See the grass! Hahaha! Grass! No wait! No wait! I meant bush! See the bush! Hahahahahahaha!"
Whatevs. You're a penis.
*Highlighters are still so banned for being NOT washable and having been used as late as 4 to draw on the furniture purposely and more than once. If not drawing with highlighters keeps him out of an ivy league school I'm okay with that.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Thursday, October 30, 2008
How I Get My Kicks
Me, holding up a shipping box that would fit my very large head if it were ever to become detached from my body: "Guess what's in here!"
"What?"
"My DivaCup™! Size 2! Because I'm not only not under 30, but I've birthed you some big-headed babies!"
(Anyone else wondering about the circumference difference?*)
(The box also had these, and this in purple, and finally this, which is what I came for because everyone else is out of ribbit. Must have another ribbit. And maybe a pair of Zutano pants for O in red bird print. I've always been a sucker for birds. Sadly this is what I got for myself with my birthday money, and yes, my birthday is still weeks away, but my mom is weird. And I'm actually going to spend a portion of it this year instead of saving it all, because being in trouble for saving money meant to be blown sucks.)
Anywho, ta da the DivaCup™, a surprisingly thick silicone funnel made in Canada, eh, with gradations to measure your flow in ounces AND milliliters. Jackpoooooot! Also included: a kicky DivaCup™ lapel pin, score, and a purple DivaCup™ pouch that I assume is for storage rather than transport as it is not...um...liquid proof. Yeehaw!
*God bless the internet. A size 1 is 42mm wide vs 45mm, though according to Wikipedia, other brands vary by as much as six gaping millimeters! Crikey!
"What?"
"My DivaCup™! Size 2! Because I'm not only not under 30, but I've birthed you some big-headed babies!"
(Anyone else wondering about the circumference difference?*)
(The box also had these, and this in purple, and finally this, which is what I came for because everyone else is out of ribbit. Must have another ribbit. And maybe a pair of Zutano pants for O in red bird print. I've always been a sucker for birds. Sadly this is what I got for myself with my birthday money, and yes, my birthday is still weeks away, but my mom is weird. And I'm actually going to spend a portion of it this year instead of saving it all, because being in trouble for saving money meant to be blown sucks.)
Anywho, ta da the DivaCup™, a surprisingly thick silicone funnel made in Canada, eh, with gradations to measure your flow in ounces AND milliliters. Jackpoooooot! Also included: a kicky DivaCup™ lapel pin, score, and a purple DivaCup™ pouch that I assume is for storage rather than transport as it is not...um...liquid proof. Yeehaw!
*God bless the internet. A size 1 is 42mm wide vs 45mm, though according to Wikipedia, other brands vary by as much as six gaping millimeters! Crikey!
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
The Things They Remember
(Vibrators mentioned.)
"Hey Mom, where's your blue one?"
"My blue what? Oh. Umm, yeah, it broke. Put that back in the nightstand please."
Dude, I had a blue one for less than a week, like, last spring.
"Hey Mom, where's your blue one?"
"My blue what? Oh. Umm, yeah, it broke. Put that back in the nightstand please."
Dude, I had a blue one for less than a week, like, last spring.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Out
If I wait until I have the time and energy to write one big fat post about where we've been so far pursuing an IF diagnosis I think we all know it will never happen. So instead, here are some memorable moments:
Waiting 2 months to get J in for a complete physical with his PCP, only to have him come home and tell me that all they did was check his weight and blood pressure. Oh, and btw, the latter is high. (He has since decided that the doctor was wrong and that the nurse who checked it at his office is right. But he refuses to prove it to me at any of those little pharmacy stands.)
(This is me, banging my head against the wall.)
The moment when we started getting taken seriously after a PCT done just to humor me/shut me up.
(Ah ha! "Everything has come back perfectly normal, so let's just wait a year" MY ASS.)
Having evil nurse swear that she called the lab again and that those darn semen analysis results still aren't available *2 months* after the fact. Picking them up directly from the lab in person and handing them to a stammering her.
(I believe I said "ours, but we'll allow you to make a copy.")
A late Saturday night, working our way through reams of paperwork at the kitchen table sent over by the RE, frustration with each other mounting as we try to agree on whether or not to check high blood pressure (see above) when SNL begins replaying Dick in a Box.
(A truly great moment.)
Ovulating at the in-laws. Suggesting we visit a naughty shop to get him in the mood for perfectly timed sex at his parent's while his entire family is congregating downstairs in a not-so-big house. And having him announce to everyone that his wife is looking for a sex store. And then having someone comment that I am looking for a new dildo I'd seen on the internet. And then having my FIL question whether or not I know that dildos don't make babies and aren't you guys ttc?
(And guess what? I'm expecting a positive OPK Thursday night, with travel back to the in-laws scheduled for Friday. Two months in a row? How sexy/conducive to baby-making is that?!)
And let's never forget the panicky last minute oh-shit-I-forgot coiffing.
(Hurrying is always a bad idea.)
(And I have to give a big thank you to those of you who have listened to me whine, complain and cry up until this point. It's so not over yet.)
Waiting 2 months to get J in for a complete physical with his PCP, only to have him come home and tell me that all they did was check his weight and blood pressure. Oh, and btw, the latter is high. (He has since decided that the doctor was wrong and that the nurse who checked it at his office is right. But he refuses to prove it to me at any of those little pharmacy stands.)
(This is me, banging my head against the wall.)
The moment when we started getting taken seriously after a PCT done just to humor me/shut me up.
(Ah ha! "Everything has come back perfectly normal, so let's just wait a year" MY ASS.)
Having evil nurse swear that she called the lab again and that those darn semen analysis results still aren't available *2 months* after the fact. Picking them up directly from the lab in person and handing them to a stammering her.
(I believe I said "ours, but we'll allow you to make a copy.")
A late Saturday night, working our way through reams of paperwork at the kitchen table sent over by the RE, frustration with each other mounting as we try to agree on whether or not to check high blood pressure (see above) when SNL begins replaying Dick in a Box.
(A truly great moment.)
Ovulating at the in-laws. Suggesting we visit a naughty shop to get him in the mood for perfectly timed sex at his parent's while his entire family is congregating downstairs in a not-so-big house. And having him announce to everyone that his wife is looking for a sex store. And then having someone comment that I am looking for a new dildo I'd seen on the internet. And then having my FIL question whether or not I know that dildos don't make babies and aren't you guys ttc?
(And guess what? I'm expecting a positive OPK Thursday night, with travel back to the in-laws scheduled for Friday. Two months in a row? How sexy/conducive to baby-making is that?!)
And let's never forget the panicky last minute oh-shit-I-forgot coiffing.
(Hurrying is always a bad idea.)
(And I have to give a big thank you to those of you who have listened to me whine, complain and cry up until this point. It's so not over yet.)
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Another Embarrassing Moment, Batteries Included
Whenever my parents visit my Dad is delighted to take on any job that needs doing around the house. And because he takes pride in his work the guy won't quit until it's friggin perfect. It's just...awesome. My dear husband, on the other hand, puts so much energy into bitching and moaning even if I'm not nagging about the prospect of having to do something that he exhausts himself to the point that he needs a nap before he can even begin, and so begins the process again the following weekend.
So last weekend my Dad asks if there is anything else, anything at all, that I'd like him to look at before they left. Yes, I have a clock that has never worked right.
"Let's start with a new battery."
So I go into our bedroom and reappear with AAs.
"Uh, actually it takes AAAs."
No sweat. Thinking nothing of it I head off in the opposite direction for J's office where all the other batteries are kept.
J, witness to it all, is dying.
And did he cover for me? Noooooo.
Bad husband.
Then, to rub it in, he makes me watch that episode of Coupling where the guys keep telling Steve to check out Susan's remotes.
In case you were wondering, yes, I still find ways to embarrass myself. It's a talent, really.
So last weekend my Dad asks if there is anything else, anything at all, that I'd like him to look at before they left. Yes, I have a clock that has never worked right.
"Let's start with a new battery."
So I go into our bedroom and reappear with AAs.
"Uh, actually it takes AAAs."
No sweat. Thinking nothing of it I head off in the opposite direction for J's office where all the other batteries are kept.
J, witness to it all, is dying.
And did he cover for me? Noooooo.
Bad husband.
Then, to rub it in, he makes me watch that episode of Coupling where the guys keep telling Steve to check out Susan's remotes.
In case you were wondering, yes, I still find ways to embarrass myself. It's a talent, really.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Google Me
I know I suck. The last month has been a flurry of illness, birthdays, get to the dentist/optometrist before the end of the year appointments, travel, record breaking snow and a little more illness. I just logged in and found a bunch of posts I don't remember even writing that I never published. (See below.)
Ahh! The holidays!
But I am here now, thank you notes not even started, inspired by the fact that I just checked for the first time in forever what searches have brought people's asses to my blog and found a fairly good one: renuzit room spray with a penis on the can.
Sweet.
(You can't see it, but I am swelling with pride. At press time I am the third link down on the first page. The first page!)
I originally got the idea from DGM. (Except don't follow the link yet, because then mine really suck in comparison.) Sometimes I will spend way too much time getting as far as page 20-something before I give up trying to find how "super glue locks rock-hard" brought them here of all places. It's amazing how quickly these things get buried if I don't check them, like, that day.
And for the most part the search terms aren't all that weird: I get a surprising number of hits from shoes I've mentioned, though the majority are along the lines of "poo stained panties" which has lead me to conclude that there isn't a lot of graphic potty training vents on the net. Shame.
Most of my favorites are from Ask.com, where I am/was supposedly a good resource to answer:
Where can I find Aloe Vera gel and how to use it on hair?
Will a jell dildo go through airport security?
Where can i find a monkey hitting himself in the head?
The inside of my belly button has a red rash and burning feelin (no G, which somehow makes it better)
And a few of the other stranger ones:
Sugar ants in dirty laundry
32A July (Thank you...that would be my old bra size)
why adults and teenagers would wear diapers on purpose
sex w/pumpkins
male bedroom finished in animal print
unpotty training
rash from alberta spruce
Ahh! The holidays!
But I am here now, thank you notes not even started, inspired by the fact that I just checked for the first time in forever what searches have brought people's asses to my blog and found a fairly good one: renuzit room spray with a penis on the can.
Sweet.
(You can't see it, but I am swelling with pride. At press time I am the third link down on the first page. The first page!)
I originally got the idea from DGM. (Except don't follow the link yet, because then mine really suck in comparison.) Sometimes I will spend way too much time getting as far as page 20-something before I give up trying to find how "super glue locks rock-hard" brought them here of all places. It's amazing how quickly these things get buried if I don't check them, like, that day.
And for the most part the search terms aren't all that weird: I get a surprising number of hits from shoes I've mentioned, though the majority are along the lines of "poo stained panties" which has lead me to conclude that there isn't a lot of graphic potty training vents on the net. Shame.
Most of my favorites are from Ask.com, where I am/was supposedly a good resource to answer:
Where can I find Aloe Vera gel and how to use it on hair?
Will a jell dildo go through airport security?
Where can i find a monkey hitting himself in the head?
The inside of my belly button has a red rash and burning feelin (no G, which somehow makes it better)
And a few of the other stranger ones:
Sugar ants in dirty laundry
32A July (Thank you...that would be my old bra size)
why adults and teenagers would wear diapers on purpose
sex w/pumpkins
male bedroom finished in animal print
unpotty training
rash from alberta spruce
Monday, October 23, 2006
My Mortifying Monday
(Potty Training and vibrators mentioned)
A week ago today the weather was sucky. We needed out.
A few days earlier I finally did what all parents eventually do...I banished Pull-ups from our residence. That's it! I've had it. Mommy says enough is enough!
Over the previous few months the Cracker had slowly become completely unpotty trained as we sat by and lazily did a lot of nothing about it.
"Do you want to go potty?"
"No!"
"Okay Schnookems! No pressure!"
But of course the problem wasn't fixing itself, and I knew he was totally capable, understood when and how and had done it all before. This was bullshit. And so I woke up one morning with no patience and a plan. The plan went into action right then and there and when J got home that night before he could even kiss me hello I gave him the low down.
"No more Pull-ups! None! He will wear only big boy underpants, and to control the leakage he will wear tight PJ bottoms and socks at all times. Wet stuff goes in the blue bag in the bathroom. Strip him down in the tub then use the hair washing cup to rinse him down. No bath toys and he is to remain standing. Don't shame him, but don't make it fun either. After rinsing wash his lower half with soap on a wash cloth. Wash cloths are here. Then rinse and redress. The steam cleaner is ready to go in the living room. Ask him to show you the spot and then pull this to dispense cleaning solution, scrub, and then soak it back up into the machine. Any questions?"
The first few days sucked and the Cracker and I muddled through it at home. One of those beautiful afternoons as I was carrying him by the armpits at an arms length to the tub to wash pee off of him yet again a quarter sized dollop of pee got on my jeans. I immediately took them off and rubbed my legs down with baby wipes. Within hours I had a quarter sized bright red burning rash in that exact spot.
(Today, nearly two weeks and a tube of triple antibiotic ointment later, it's down to an ugly series of mini scabs. I hate having sensitive skin.)
Anyway, by Monday the Cracker was getting the hint about the potty training, so off we went back into the world.
Our exciting journey first took us to the Post Office to mail a bill and have the talk again about how amazing it is that mail goes on airplanes and random people you don't know somehow get it from point A to B. Next stop was Starbucks where I felt no shame in getting a big fat drink because I'd just repotty trained a 3.5 year old. Last was the Cracker's treat, Home Depot, to ride the tractors and lawn mowers for being such a big boy.
We'd been there about 45 minutes when we got a call from J.
"The alarm went off. One of the spare bedroom windows."
Crap!
"The police were already dispatched and they'll meet you there. Whatever you do they don't want you to go inside. They have a description of your car. Go to a neighbor's."
The Cracker somehow mysteriously understood my half of the conversation and immediately asked "the police come my house? Yippie!!!"
?
We're home within 10 minutes...no police. We hang at Crazy Neighbor's across the street because he's the only one I knew would be home. Everyone else is at work.
Another 10 minutes goes by, no police.
"Gimme your keys. I'll go check."
"No, I'm just going to wait."
"At least let me go walk the perimeter and see if anything is disturbed. Did you do that?"
"No. I wasn't going to leave the Cracker alone."
So I finally give my neighbor the keys to the side gate, he walks around, pronounces that everything looks in order.
"Okay then. Thanks!"
"Just let me go in your house."
"No, I'll just wait."
"Seriously!"
"No."
"Why not?"
"My house is messy." Half-lie.
"I don't care."
"No."
"Why not???"
And he won't stop bugging me.
"Whywhywhywhywhy?"
"Because!"
"Why?" OMG shut up!
"Fine, I'll tell you! I will tell you, but I won't let you see! My hot pink vibrator is sitting prominently displayed on the nightstand! Happy?! I am embarrassed enough that perfect strangers are going to see it, but I'm not letting you go in."
Insane amounts of laughter. Dying here.
"Okay, okay! I understand!"
More laughter.
"Maybe the cops won't even see it when the go in."
"Yeah, I think not."
"Really, maybe they won't notice."
"Believe me, they will."
"Does it have a name?"
I hate you.
Police arrive: three younger than me officers. They tell me all about the procedure, tell me they will check all closets and hiding spaces and then let me know when it's all clear. Then they make a big deal about going in, weapons drawn. Creepy neighbor continues the teasing.
Cops are inside forever.
When they finally come out they are all smirking and not a one will look at me, they all are grinning at the ground.
"Dude! They SO saw it! Did you see their faces? Did you? Bahahaha!"
Thank you, yes, I saw.
A week ago today the weather was sucky. We needed out.
A few days earlier I finally did what all parents eventually do...I banished Pull-ups from our residence. That's it! I've had it. Mommy says enough is enough!
Over the previous few months the Cracker had slowly become completely unpotty trained as we sat by and lazily did a lot of nothing about it.
"Do you want to go potty?"
"No!"
"Okay Schnookems! No pressure!"
But of course the problem wasn't fixing itself, and I knew he was totally capable, understood when and how and had done it all before. This was bullshit. And so I woke up one morning with no patience and a plan. The plan went into action right then and there and when J got home that night before he could even kiss me hello I gave him the low down.
"No more Pull-ups! None! He will wear only big boy underpants, and to control the leakage he will wear tight PJ bottoms and socks at all times. Wet stuff goes in the blue bag in the bathroom. Strip him down in the tub then use the hair washing cup to rinse him down. No bath toys and he is to remain standing. Don't shame him, but don't make it fun either. After rinsing wash his lower half with soap on a wash cloth. Wash cloths are here. Then rinse and redress. The steam cleaner is ready to go in the living room. Ask him to show you the spot and then pull this to dispense cleaning solution, scrub, and then soak it back up into the machine. Any questions?"
The first few days sucked and the Cracker and I muddled through it at home. One of those beautiful afternoons as I was carrying him by the armpits at an arms length to the tub to wash pee off of him yet again a quarter sized dollop of pee got on my jeans. I immediately took them off and rubbed my legs down with baby wipes. Within hours I had a quarter sized bright red burning rash in that exact spot.
(Today, nearly two weeks and a tube of triple antibiotic ointment later, it's down to an ugly series of mini scabs. I hate having sensitive skin.)
Anyway, by Monday the Cracker was getting the hint about the potty training, so off we went back into the world.
Our exciting journey first took us to the Post Office to mail a bill and have the talk again about how amazing it is that mail goes on airplanes and random people you don't know somehow get it from point A to B. Next stop was Starbucks where I felt no shame in getting a big fat drink because I'd just repotty trained a 3.5 year old. Last was the Cracker's treat, Home Depot, to ride the tractors and lawn mowers for being such a big boy.
We'd been there about 45 minutes when we got a call from J.
"The alarm went off. One of the spare bedroom windows."
Crap!
"The police were already dispatched and they'll meet you there. Whatever you do they don't want you to go inside. They have a description of your car. Go to a neighbor's."
The Cracker somehow mysteriously understood my half of the conversation and immediately asked "the police come my house? Yippie!!!"
?
We're home within 10 minutes...no police. We hang at Crazy Neighbor's across the street because he's the only one I knew would be home. Everyone else is at work.
Another 10 minutes goes by, no police.
"Gimme your keys. I'll go check."
"No, I'm just going to wait."
"At least let me go walk the perimeter and see if anything is disturbed. Did you do that?"
"No. I wasn't going to leave the Cracker alone."
So I finally give my neighbor the keys to the side gate, he walks around, pronounces that everything looks in order.
"Okay then. Thanks!"
"Just let me go in your house."
"No, I'll just wait."
"Seriously!"
"No."
"Why not?"
"My house is messy." Half-lie.
"I don't care."
"No."
"Why not???"
And he won't stop bugging me.
"Whywhywhywhywhy?"
"Because!"
"Why?" OMG shut up!
"Fine, I'll tell you! I will tell you, but I won't let you see! My hot pink vibrator is sitting prominently displayed on the nightstand! Happy?! I am embarrassed enough that perfect strangers are going to see it, but I'm not letting you go in."
Insane amounts of laughter. Dying here.
"Okay, okay! I understand!"
More laughter.
"Maybe the cops won't even see it when the go in."
"Yeah, I think not."
"Really, maybe they won't notice."
"Believe me, they will."
"Does it have a name?"
I hate you.
Police arrive: three younger than me officers. They tell me all about the procedure, tell me they will check all closets and hiding spaces and then let me know when it's all clear. Then they make a big deal about going in, weapons drawn. Creepy neighbor continues the teasing.
Cops are inside forever.
When they finally come out they are all smirking and not a one will look at me, they all are grinning at the ground.
"Dude! They SO saw it! Did you see their faces? Did you? Bahahaha!"
Thank you, yes, I saw.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
The Whole Story, Part 1
(And for all you sickos, yes, vibrators mentioned.)
Over the last few weeks a few kind souls have taken the time to email me and say nice things about this blog. I haven't responded as quickly as I would have liked, but without getting too long winded I tried to let them know (eventually) how much it meant to me.
Really. It did.
When I started this blog back in mid January, I had no idea what I'd really write about; it was just something to do. There were all these amazing women blogging away and I admired them. I wanted to be one of them, and though I knew I couldn't, it was still a good way to waste time.
Birth of a blog.
Three weeks in, I stopped being able to post. (Netscape problem, still don't know what's wrong.) I asked J to look into it for me and he couldn't figure it out. His final word: it must be the antivirus program.
Death of a blog.
Over the next few months, I thought about blogging occasionally, even wrote a little here and there and saved it in Word, but gave for the most part gave up. I couldn't publish anything, so why bother?
Then in April, something changed. I changed. I didn't understand it at the time, nor did I even realize to what extent I was no longer myself. But there it was.
Honestly, I thought it was depression. I have been depressed before, but nothing like this. As I am normally a private person I didn't seek help, and my life just kept spiraling downward.
In May, a friend of mine, the wife of one of J's friends, emailed me and we started talking about relationships. (Jen, if you are reading, yes, you!) Pretty quickly, even though she was looking for support herself, I started unloading on her in big ranting emails about J. I told her how after 8 years of marriage that we weren't at the point, yet, but that I considered divorce a real possibility one day. Not now, I said, but years from now.
Liar. I was thinking more like tomorrow.
Believe it or not, this was a really big step for me, to admit to anyone, even myself, that the marriage that everyone doubted from the start was anything less than perfect. Because we were so young when we married (I was 19, he was 22) I'd spent the last 8 years defending my marriage, even to perfect strangers who didn't give a rat's ass, trying to convince them that it wasn't the biggest mistake ever. Jen seemed like the perfect candidate for the spilling of guts and secrets. We haven't spent much time together in RL, but the short time we have we've always clicked. While J and her husband go way back, she has only known us for maybe 5 years. Basically, a wonderful gal, a married gal, who never doubted us but understood what it means to be in a committed relationship. Perfect.
Even though nothing had changed (except me) everything in my life felt like a disaster without a solution. Divorce seemed like a good start. I was pissed. J was an asshole. While I didn't want to blame the Cracker but (mommy guilt) I did a little: suddenly he was 3, and my perfect child was acting less than perfect. I wasn't the mommy I wanted to be, J wasn't the husband I wanted him to be, and the house was a disaster. (Petty, I know, but this matters to me because if I'm going to be home all day I don't want to be surrounded by chaos and filth.) I fantasized about leaving J, being happy alone, because dammit, I had a vibrator.
I know now I wasn't depressed, I was angry. The difference? From a line in an email I got the other day, "Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm." I don't know who said it, and since no one is paying me to research it, let's just credit good old Anonymous. I had tons of enthusiasm.
(UPDATE: According to the email it was Steven Wright. Oops.)
After ranting to Jen, one book of an email after another, I started thinking about my blog again. Instead of scaring the poor woman with my deliriousness I could rant on the internet. Anonymously.
I finalized a few older posts, wrote a few new ones, and over the course of a few days vowed to take my mania online. And I had a light bulb moment...since Netscape didn't work with the blog anymore, maybe I should try MS Explorer.
Eureka.
Within a few days of my first new post, I got a few comments. What? People were actually finding me? How the hell? With all the stuff on the internet these days, I never thought anyone would see it unless I dragged them there.
And as I started writing again, I found my other Heidi. Yes, there are two versions of me. First, there is the Heidi that most people know. She is shy, reserved, somewhat antisocial, and a wallflower who wonders why she has any friends at all when all she does is nod and smile. She is boring. But she is also safe, and she is for the most part the person I have been since moving the LLL and having the Cracker. It's the strangest thing to be such good friends with someone but know that the don't know who you really are. And I sit there, fully aware of it in the moment, and just go right on being that Heidi. (Jessica, if you are reading this, seriously girl, why the heck do you hang out with me?)
And then there is the other Heidi, the silly, dramatic, sometimes embarrassingly outrageous version of me. This Heidi held her husband's little sister captive as they visited every adult shop in town looking for the perfect vibrator. As much as my SIL wanted to go (we were shopping for her) she would have just bought the first thing we saw, provided that they could have wrapped it up quickly. But no, the other Heidi doesn't operate that way.
In the nastiest naughty store ever, named Adult XXX Video, two 20 somethings attempt to walk out:
"You ladies didn't find what you were looking for?"
"No. Thanks! Have a good night!"
"Wait...I'm sure I can help you."
"Nah, we know what we want, but you don't have it."
"What?"
"Vibrator with a moving clit stimulator, preferably corded with an AC adapter."
"Did you see this?"
"Yeah, not it. Thanks!"
"Wait! You know, batteries really are much better."
"Yeah, but I gots to have a fresh battery for power, so..."
"No, batteries are better. Just make sure you buy alkaline."
"I do. But I'm sick of that."
"What brand are you using?"
"I've found that Costco's Kirkland brand has the most juice fresh from the box and they last so much longer too, but I'm tired of buying batteries. I've tried Energizer but they suck."
(Yes, I really do know this from experience. Don't waste your money, just plunk down $45/year and join Costco. Trust me.)
My poor SIL, she was freaking. I like to be nonjudgmental, but this guy was Skanky, and sweating buckets, and I couldn't see his hands.
"Oh my God, I can't believe you talked to that guy! He was so..."
"Yeah."
"And when he started telling us about his favorite vibrator...OMG!"
"Yeah."
"OMG."
"Yeah."
"I can't believe HE uses one."
"Uh huh."
(A few minutes later...)
"You know, that was kind of fun!"
"Yeah.
"Where are we going next?"
And by the end of the night, she was having a blast. Suddenly, my very shy SIL who I suspect had maybe only been to an adult store once before, was yelling from across the room "Heidi, I found the vibrators! And they're really pretty! You have to see this purple one! It's a little beaver!"
(Smile.)
So why bring this up now? Because fun Heidi was the one writing the posts when I started blogging again. And the more she wrote the bolder she got. I was proud to be her. I even started sharing my blog with a few friends, and then the women bloggers who'd inspired me. And within those first few days I also got a mention on Blogging Baby. Wow! (Thanks Rachel!)
The other boring Heidi? Oh she has good comebacks, just an hour after the fact. She's thinking the same things, but can't find the right words when she needs them.
I was still pissed as hell with J, and I was hating life, but this blogging thing was a hoot.
Not knowing what to do, I went to the library for books on parenting toddlers. I was in need of a good dose of “your three year old may drive you crazy by…” so that I could shout to no one in particular “YES! ME TOO! OMG! YES! YES! YES!”
Instead, accidentally, I found “The Lazy Husband: How to Get Men to do More Parenting and Housework” by Joshua Coleman, PhD. I took it off the shelf, hid in a corner, and began to read.
Holy shit on a stick this man is a genius! And I am not one to assume that anyone with a PhD knows what the hell they’re talking about any more than I do because I am that cynical. But this guy!
Even though I was mortified, I hid the book under my coat, waited until no one was around, and then used the self check out.
No I didn’t steal it.
I drove to the other side of town to a Starbucks where I knew no one would find me and read; I was eating up every single word. I dug into my purse for some paper so that I could mark the pages that I would refer back to later when I wrote my manifesto. J was going to get an earful.
56 pages in, when I ran out of scraps, I realized I had marked all but one page.
Wow, this guy was really good!
Over the last few weeks a few kind souls have taken the time to email me and say nice things about this blog. I haven't responded as quickly as I would have liked, but without getting too long winded I tried to let them know (eventually) how much it meant to me.
Really. It did.
When I started this blog back in mid January, I had no idea what I'd really write about; it was just something to do. There were all these amazing women blogging away and I admired them. I wanted to be one of them, and though I knew I couldn't, it was still a good way to waste time.
Birth of a blog.
Three weeks in, I stopped being able to post. (Netscape problem, still don't know what's wrong.) I asked J to look into it for me and he couldn't figure it out. His final word: it must be the antivirus program.
Death of a blog.
Over the next few months, I thought about blogging occasionally, even wrote a little here and there and saved it in Word, but gave for the most part gave up. I couldn't publish anything, so why bother?
Then in April, something changed. I changed. I didn't understand it at the time, nor did I even realize to what extent I was no longer myself. But there it was.
Honestly, I thought it was depression. I have been depressed before, but nothing like this. As I am normally a private person I didn't seek help, and my life just kept spiraling downward.
In May, a friend of mine, the wife of one of J's friends, emailed me and we started talking about relationships. (Jen, if you are reading, yes, you!) Pretty quickly, even though she was looking for support herself, I started unloading on her in big ranting emails about J. I told her how after 8 years of marriage that we weren't at the point, yet, but that I considered divorce a real possibility one day. Not now, I said, but years from now.
Liar. I was thinking more like tomorrow.
Believe it or not, this was a really big step for me, to admit to anyone, even myself, that the marriage that everyone doubted from the start was anything less than perfect. Because we were so young when we married (I was 19, he was 22) I'd spent the last 8 years defending my marriage, even to perfect strangers who didn't give a rat's ass, trying to convince them that it wasn't the biggest mistake ever. Jen seemed like the perfect candidate for the spilling of guts and secrets. We haven't spent much time together in RL, but the short time we have we've always clicked. While J and her husband go way back, she has only known us for maybe 5 years. Basically, a wonderful gal, a married gal, who never doubted us but understood what it means to be in a committed relationship. Perfect.
Even though nothing had changed (except me) everything in my life felt like a disaster without a solution. Divorce seemed like a good start. I was pissed. J was an asshole. While I didn't want to blame the Cracker but (mommy guilt) I did a little: suddenly he was 3, and my perfect child was acting less than perfect. I wasn't the mommy I wanted to be, J wasn't the husband I wanted him to be, and the house was a disaster. (Petty, I know, but this matters to me because if I'm going to be home all day I don't want to be surrounded by chaos and filth.) I fantasized about leaving J, being happy alone, because dammit, I had a vibrator.
I know now I wasn't depressed, I was angry. The difference? From a line in an email I got the other day, "Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm." I don't know who said it, and since no one is paying me to research it, let's just credit good old Anonymous. I had tons of enthusiasm.
(UPDATE: According to the email it was Steven Wright. Oops.)
After ranting to Jen, one book of an email after another, I started thinking about my blog again. Instead of scaring the poor woman with my deliriousness I could rant on the internet. Anonymously.
I finalized a few older posts, wrote a few new ones, and over the course of a few days vowed to take my mania online. And I had a light bulb moment...since Netscape didn't work with the blog anymore, maybe I should try MS Explorer.
Eureka.
Within a few days of my first new post, I got a few comments. What? People were actually finding me? How the hell? With all the stuff on the internet these days, I never thought anyone would see it unless I dragged them there.
And as I started writing again, I found my other Heidi. Yes, there are two versions of me. First, there is the Heidi that most people know. She is shy, reserved, somewhat antisocial, and a wallflower who wonders why she has any friends at all when all she does is nod and smile. She is boring. But she is also safe, and she is for the most part the person I have been since moving the LLL and having the Cracker. It's the strangest thing to be such good friends with someone but know that the don't know who you really are. And I sit there, fully aware of it in the moment, and just go right on being that Heidi. (Jessica, if you are reading this, seriously girl, why the heck do you hang out with me?)
And then there is the other Heidi, the silly, dramatic, sometimes embarrassingly outrageous version of me. This Heidi held her husband's little sister captive as they visited every adult shop in town looking for the perfect vibrator. As much as my SIL wanted to go (we were shopping for her) she would have just bought the first thing we saw, provided that they could have wrapped it up quickly. But no, the other Heidi doesn't operate that way.
In the nastiest naughty store ever, named Adult XXX Video, two 20 somethings attempt to walk out:
"You ladies didn't find what you were looking for?"
"No. Thanks! Have a good night!"
"Wait...I'm sure I can help you."
"Nah, we know what we want, but you don't have it."
"What?"
"Vibrator with a moving clit stimulator, preferably corded with an AC adapter."
"Did you see this?"
"Yeah, not it. Thanks!"
"Wait! You know, batteries really are much better."
"Yeah, but I gots to have a fresh battery for power, so..."
"No, batteries are better. Just make sure you buy alkaline."
"I do. But I'm sick of that."
"What brand are you using?"
"I've found that Costco's Kirkland brand has the most juice fresh from the box and they last so much longer too, but I'm tired of buying batteries. I've tried Energizer but they suck."
(Yes, I really do know this from experience. Don't waste your money, just plunk down $45/year and join Costco. Trust me.)
My poor SIL, she was freaking. I like to be nonjudgmental, but this guy was Skanky, and sweating buckets, and I couldn't see his hands.
"Oh my God, I can't believe you talked to that guy! He was so..."
"Yeah."
"And when he started telling us about his favorite vibrator...OMG!"
"Yeah."
"OMG."
"Yeah."
"I can't believe HE uses one."
"Uh huh."
(A few minutes later...)
"You know, that was kind of fun!"
"Yeah.
"Where are we going next?"
And by the end of the night, she was having a blast. Suddenly, my very shy SIL who I suspect had maybe only been to an adult store once before, was yelling from across the room "Heidi, I found the vibrators! And they're really pretty! You have to see this purple one! It's a little beaver!"
(Smile.)
So why bring this up now? Because fun Heidi was the one writing the posts when I started blogging again. And the more she wrote the bolder she got. I was proud to be her. I even started sharing my blog with a few friends, and then the women bloggers who'd inspired me. And within those first few days I also got a mention on Blogging Baby. Wow! (Thanks Rachel!)
The other boring Heidi? Oh she has good comebacks, just an hour after the fact. She's thinking the same things, but can't find the right words when she needs them.
I was still pissed as hell with J, and I was hating life, but this blogging thing was a hoot.
Not knowing what to do, I went to the library for books on parenting toddlers. I was in need of a good dose of “your three year old may drive you crazy by…” so that I could shout to no one in particular “YES! ME TOO! OMG! YES! YES! YES!”
Instead, accidentally, I found “The Lazy Husband: How to Get Men to do More Parenting and Housework” by Joshua Coleman, PhD. I took it off the shelf, hid in a corner, and began to read.
Holy shit on a stick this man is a genius! And I am not one to assume that anyone with a PhD knows what the hell they’re talking about any more than I do because I am that cynical. But this guy!
Even though I was mortified, I hid the book under my coat, waited until no one was around, and then used the self check out.
No I didn’t steal it.
I drove to the other side of town to a Starbucks where I knew no one would find me and read; I was eating up every single word. I dug into my purse for some paper so that I could mark the pages that I would refer back to later when I wrote my manifesto. J was going to get an earful.
56 pages in, when I ran out of scraps, I realized I had marked all but one page.
Wow, this guy was really good!
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Is there a support group out there for me?
HI, MY NAME IS HEIDI. I AM 28 YEARS OLD, AND I BREAK VIBRATORS.
I have just returned from the local naughty shop where I purchased my third, yes third, vibrator in just 5 (okay 4 and a half) months. Remember how I pointed out that 90 cents worth of batteries from Costco for 2 hours of use was cheaper than Starbucks or even a Therapist? Yeah, I was wrong.
Including tonight I have now spent $102 + tax excluding batteries in four and a half months. (The only way I can live with myself is to break it down by cost per month. Do the math with me.) And I'd be willing to buy a more expensive one if I knew it would last, but right now I don't dare.
What the hell is my husband, who is sleeping and doesn't know yet, going to say? Well, after almost 9 years of marriage (yes 9, and I am 28...we're freaks, I know) I know exactly what he is going to say:
"Woman! What the hell are you doing to those poor things when diddling* yourself?" And then he will laugh so hard that he will have to pee.
Okay, so the first one, at $22, so not my fault that it broke. It was supposed to be waterproof. It wasn't. What supposedly made it so was nothing more than a jelly ring (cheaper and flimsier than the jewelry version) that circled the base to create suctioned waterproof seal when you put the battery cover back on. It worked fine on dry land for quite some time, but then after only a few trips to the tub the sucker got corroded from water leakage and the wires going to the battery connections inside broke. Then J tried to fix it, because he's an Engineer, and he knows how to manipulate a soldering iron. But, try as he might, we discovered that when you take a hot gun any where in the vicinity of elastomer the result is smoke, then melted goo, and finally crusty melted ickiness.
Jelly bracelets and rings: in the 80's did you wear them too? Were you cool like me?
The next one, at $40, was fancier. After killing the waterproof one I had a better idea of what I wanted the next time around. Of course, one of the functions which was assured to be fun turned out to be icky and kinda hurty, but it was still worth the $ because that sucker had pow-ah. (Amazing what one more little AA battery can do!) Then, tonight, I broke it. Because it is see through, I can see what I did: two little broken wires inside. Arugh! I will still have J try to fix it, but to get to the wires we are going to have to slice open the dong and IF the surgery works, cover the incision with electrical tape which probably won't hold. So I figure it's a goner.
Okay, I really didn't want to go out tonight. I also really didn't want to deal with all this drama. The Cracker was in bed, and J was home so I could, but I really really didn't want to. So I decided to make myself a snack while I thought it over, the pros and cons of it all.
Lately, I've been trying to eat 100% healthy instead of 95% healthy, so the freezer is low on everything but frozen veggies. As luck would have it, way in the back I find something greasy that J hasn't found or else it'd be gone. I open the box, stick two on a plate. What the...?
THE UNIVERSE IS MOCKING ME.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Get out camera. Try to take picture. Batteries dead. Go to nightstand. Get batteries from my partially used collection. Dead too. Go back and grab from my unused collection even though I'm running low. Viola. Walk from kitchen to home office to set camera next to computer. Come back to kitchen. Find two of our three cats licking my snack. Two egg rolls, two cats, one cat on each. BUT THE WORST PART? THE SOUND: raspy cat tongues scraping against fried bubbles! Blech. (This was not a smooth egg roll, but maybe that's a spring roll. Whatever.)
Thanks to the cats, I now have a new soundtrack for my nightmares. (No, I am still not going to call them Pussy. I am not a man.) Throw egg rolls away. Give up on the snack thing.
Time to weigh my options.
To go or not to go?
1. J will probably not be able to fix it.
2. He's asleep and won't even be able to try until tomorrow night, if he's not too tired.
3. They close in an hour and I can't go tomorrow with the Cracker. You know, 21 and up only, even though I wouldn't take him even if I could.
4. J will be working 60 hour weeks again beginning tomorrow, and he and his schlong will be home late-late.
5. I am on the verge of ovulation...the only 4 days in a month when I actually initiate sex with the love of my life when I'm sober. No working vibe AND no man? That's just mean.
Crap.
I drag my sorry ass out. On the drive I decide that maybe it's the brand. Is there no pride in workmanship anymore? Before this, the last one was 10 years old and still worked, just wasn't the "rabbit" type. (Look it up on the net if you don't know.) But I already know after gallivanting with J's sister last week going to every pervert store in the state that they have the best selection at the shop right near my house AND that they are also the least expensive, even compared to online prices. And then there's the location...this is one of the less obvious reasons to live on the edge of civilization like we do: before our neighborhood went in, that was the end of town, perfect for such an establishment, squeezed in between a Sonic and the laundry mat.
Pretty quickly, cause I know what I'm looking for, I find one by a different manufacturer. Perfect! Looks sturdier, it's sooooo pretty, excludes creepy/hurty feature, and best yet only $38.95. So I take it to the counter where they extract it from the box and fill her up with batteries. Gotta test it in the store because they don't take returns, no matter what. (I'm glad.) And the mo fo only sporadically works. The GUY behind the counter basically tells me to take it, I probably just need to learn how to turn it on. Uh, no. Turn it on and it does it's thing for a few seconds and then konks out. Guy is still telling me it's probably okay. Like hell I'm going to buy one with problems with my reputation. We both test it some more and now it isn't working at all. And of course it's the last one.
Can I also mention that this is the first time I've seen a guy behind the counter? It's always been the funny girls I'd love to go have margaritas with. And then because I'm in agony explaining why I won't buy it even though I want it, I tell him about the soldering iron. And his face is saying "this chick is whak!"
So I go back and pick up another, but by the manufacturer of the last two. Open box, batteries come out of the other one and into this one. It works, at least for now.
AND NOW, I ASK YOU TO BOW YOUR HEAD AND JOIN ME AS I PRAY FOR IT'S CONTINUED GOOD HEALTH. (Insert moment of silence.) AMEN.
*his word, not mine
I have just returned from the local naughty shop where I purchased my third, yes third, vibrator in just 5 (okay 4 and a half) months. Remember how I pointed out that 90 cents worth of batteries from Costco for 2 hours of use was cheaper than Starbucks or even a Therapist? Yeah, I was wrong.
Including tonight I have now spent $102 + tax excluding batteries in four and a half months. (The only way I can live with myself is to break it down by cost per month. Do the math with me.) And I'd be willing to buy a more expensive one if I knew it would last, but right now I don't dare.
What the hell is my husband, who is sleeping and doesn't know yet, going to say? Well, after almost 9 years of marriage (yes 9, and I am 28...we're freaks, I know) I know exactly what he is going to say:
"Woman! What the hell are you doing to those poor things when diddling* yourself?" And then he will laugh so hard that he will have to pee.
Okay, so the first one, at $22, so not my fault that it broke. It was supposed to be waterproof. It wasn't. What supposedly made it so was nothing more than a jelly ring (cheaper and flimsier than the jewelry version) that circled the base to create suctioned waterproof seal when you put the battery cover back on. It worked fine on dry land for quite some time, but then after only a few trips to the tub the sucker got corroded from water leakage and the wires going to the battery connections inside broke. Then J tried to fix it, because he's an Engineer, and he knows how to manipulate a soldering iron. But, try as he might, we discovered that when you take a hot gun any where in the vicinity of elastomer the result is smoke, then melted goo, and finally crusty melted ickiness.
Jelly bracelets and rings: in the 80's did you wear them too? Were you cool like me?
The next one, at $40, was fancier. After killing the waterproof one I had a better idea of what I wanted the next time around. Of course, one of the functions which was assured to be fun turned out to be icky and kinda hurty, but it was still worth the $ because that sucker had pow-ah. (Amazing what one more little AA battery can do!) Then, tonight, I broke it. Because it is see through, I can see what I did: two little broken wires inside. Arugh! I will still have J try to fix it, but to get to the wires we are going to have to slice open the dong and IF the surgery works, cover the incision with electrical tape which probably won't hold. So I figure it's a goner.
Okay, I really didn't want to go out tonight. I also really didn't want to deal with all this drama. The Cracker was in bed, and J was home so I could, but I really really didn't want to. So I decided to make myself a snack while I thought it over, the pros and cons of it all.
Lately, I've been trying to eat 100% healthy instead of 95% healthy, so the freezer is low on everything but frozen veggies. As luck would have it, way in the back I find something greasy that J hasn't found or else it'd be gone. I open the box, stick two on a plate. What the...?
THE UNIVERSE IS MOCKING ME.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Get out camera. Try to take picture. Batteries dead. Go to nightstand. Get batteries from my partially used collection. Dead too. Go back and grab from my unused collection even though I'm running low. Viola. Walk from kitchen to home office to set camera next to computer. Come back to kitchen. Find two of our three cats licking my snack. Two egg rolls, two cats, one cat on each. BUT THE WORST PART? THE SOUND: raspy cat tongues scraping against fried bubbles! Blech. (This was not a smooth egg roll, but maybe that's a spring roll. Whatever.)
Thanks to the cats, I now have a new soundtrack for my nightmares. (No, I am still not going to call them Pussy. I am not a man.) Throw egg rolls away. Give up on the snack thing.
Time to weigh my options.
To go or not to go?
1. J will probably not be able to fix it.
2. He's asleep and won't even be able to try until tomorrow night, if he's not too tired.
3. They close in an hour and I can't go tomorrow with the Cracker. You know, 21 and up only, even though I wouldn't take him even if I could.
4. J will be working 60 hour weeks again beginning tomorrow, and he and his schlong will be home late-late.
5. I am on the verge of ovulation...the only 4 days in a month when I actually initiate sex with the love of my life when I'm sober. No working vibe AND no man? That's just mean.
Crap.
I drag my sorry ass out. On the drive I decide that maybe it's the brand. Is there no pride in workmanship anymore? Before this, the last one was 10 years old and still worked, just wasn't the "rabbit" type. (Look it up on the net if you don't know.) But I already know after gallivanting with J's sister last week going to every pervert store in the state that they have the best selection at the shop right near my house AND that they are also the least expensive, even compared to online prices. And then there's the location...this is one of the less obvious reasons to live on the edge of civilization like we do: before our neighborhood went in, that was the end of town, perfect for such an establishment, squeezed in between a Sonic and the laundry mat.
Pretty quickly, cause I know what I'm looking for, I find one by a different manufacturer. Perfect! Looks sturdier, it's sooooo pretty, excludes creepy/hurty feature, and best yet only $38.95. So I take it to the counter where they extract it from the box and fill her up with batteries. Gotta test it in the store because they don't take returns, no matter what. (I'm glad.) And the mo fo only sporadically works. The GUY behind the counter basically tells me to take it, I probably just need to learn how to turn it on. Uh, no. Turn it on and it does it's thing for a few seconds and then konks out. Guy is still telling me it's probably okay. Like hell I'm going to buy one with problems with my reputation. We both test it some more and now it isn't working at all. And of course it's the last one.
Can I also mention that this is the first time I've seen a guy behind the counter? It's always been the funny girls I'd love to go have margaritas with. And then because I'm in agony explaining why I won't buy it even though I want it, I tell him about the soldering iron. And his face is saying "this chick is whak!"
So I go back and pick up another, but by the manufacturer of the last two. Open box, batteries come out of the other one and into this one. It works, at least for now.
AND NOW, I ASK YOU TO BOW YOUR HEAD AND JOIN ME AS I PRAY FOR IT'S CONTINUED GOOD HEALTH. (Insert moment of silence.) AMEN.
*his word, not mine
Thursday, June 08, 2006
I am Hippie Chic
(Turns out that the technical problems Blogger has been experiencing the last few days are ongoing, so I can’t get in to finish my almost done posts…again. So instead let me start another!)
As I mentioned earlier, LLL is Western state #4 during our pilgrimage though out the Western US. We moved here from Hell, also located in the Southwest, when I was 7 months pregnant with the Cracker.
Back in Hell, I had a regular OB/GYN. A young, professional, petite woman who I loved because she always let me stay late to ask really stupid questions. A fifteen minute check up was actually closer to an hour, every time. She never rushed me, and treated each concern as a legitimate one. What a gal! Guess that’s why my 4 o’clock appointment never actually started before 5:30. But she was totally worth the wait, and her lobby had some kick ass mags too.
Our first meeting, around 8 weeks, was by far the most fun. We were going to do an ultrasound! Woo hoo!
I lift up my shirt to expose my rock hard abs. “Oh no,” she said. “This is going to be a vaginal scan.”
WTF?
She takes out a friggin dildo and starts to lube it up. My jaw is on the ground. The panties are coming down.
What? Why? Wait…
“The baby is still too small for an abdominal ultrasound. This will provide us with the best view.”
J is dying. Dy-ing. He can’t resist. “That thing doesn’t vibrate or light up does it? You aren’t going to make me jealous?”
Either she’d heard that one too many times before or was totally lacking any stirrup side humor, but the chick didn’t even flinch.
“Are you ready?”
“Ummm...”
And there went the dildo, up my nether regions.
The next ultrasound didn’t go much better. In fact, it was a lot worse. She started out as usual by asking me “how are you feeling?” which, of course, is what any OB/GYN would do. But this was THE appointment, the much anticipated was a penis or a vagina growing inside of me? appointment, and I was there WITHOUT J. I lost it.
What did this amazing woman do? The woman who couldn’t even crack a wry smile at J’s solution to lightening up an uncomfortable situation? She held me…for AN HOUR. She nodded and handed me tissues as I blubbered uncontrollably between sobs.
Between the vaginal ultrasound and now this…I was in love.
J had just moved to LLL, without me. Everyone knew layoffs were coming, but details were, as always, unavailable. But because he was such a good guy, a stellar employee and expecting his first child, someone high up told him that while he didn’t know for sure, he guessed that because J was still fairly new, this time his name was going to be on the list. This wonderful soul also told him that there was an opening in LLL, a better position even, and that J might be able to qualify even though he was still just a babe in his career. J received this information Tuesday, went in and officially applied Wednesday after we’d had the chance to talk, interviewed Thursday, and moved to LLL Saturday. Because everything happened so quickly, I had to stay behind in Hell to get our affairs in order, coordinate the out-of-state move with J’s company, and quit my own job.
I had to go to my ultrasound alone.
Two months later I joined J. Other than one other incident*, I was just fine by myself. J’s company flew him home every Friday night, and he’d go back Sunday afternoon. I had a bunch of wannabe grannies at work who took care of me 5 days a week, J’s mom** in town, and a few friends. I enjoyed the excuse to eat out, and spent the rest of my time dreaming.
When I got pregnant with the Cracker I was in the best shape of my life. My job was basically an excuse to work out 40 hours/week and get paid for it, or at least that’s what it became when they saw I was willing to help out with the heavy lifting. It was the only time in my life that I had a flat stomach, abs to kill, and girly muscles in all the right places. After the first month of it kicking my ass, I became Wonder Woman.
Being unfamiliar with the inside of a gym, the transformation my body made was as much a surprise to me as what happened during pregnancy.
One day, before we learned that J’s boys could swim, I was sitting on the side of our apartment’s pool, swishing my legs around in the water. Suddenly I noticed that there were these weird hard swollen spots on my legs, especially when I tensed a muscle.
“J, look at me! Eew…what the hell is that? Do you see my leg?”
“What?”
“Look, just look!” I tensed my leg.
“Honey, those are muscles.”
“No! No? Really? They’re gross.”
But then I got pregnant with the Cracker. The guys at work who I was lifting with started freaking out if I even dared to reach for a friggin paperclip. These were the same guys that when I’d ask for help with a 200lb marble table top would yell back “don’t be a pussy!” and continue on with their “So I was pounding her in the ass…” story until I went over there and threatened to pound their ass in an entirely different kind of way. I loved the attention they lavished upon me, but it was sometimes annoying.
The wannabe grannies? They quickly figured out that the Cracker really really liked key lime cheesecake. (Honestly, what I wanted was a nap, but I was along for the ride.) And as luck would have it, the employee entrance to my place of employment in Hell was 10 feet from the front entrance of a Cheesecake Factory. Five days a week, before I could even haul my sorry ass over there, these women would coordinate their lunches so that they could get there first and bring it back to me. All I had to do was sit down in the lunchroom, napkin tucked into my collar, and remind them to bring a fork.
Rock hard abs…gone. Ass…growing faster than the baby.
When I arrived in LLL, my hippie chic self was ready to find a new OB/GYN, one who would be hopefully in the same state when the Cracker decided to make his entrance. But in LLL it’s all about the midwives. “That just won’t do!” I told every practice over the phone. Click. I was used to an OB dammit, and only that would do.
Midwife it was.
As I finished my pregnancy, I grew to see that midwives are not the cheap alternative. For me they were actually much better! Women who know women and have BTDT. And so for my next pregnancy I will happily call my midwife and catch up on old times while she brings does what my dear husband can only dream of.
I know what you’re thinking. WTF? What about the DMV? Everyone loves a good DMV story!
Yeah, that’s still not solved. I threw Cracker in front of the TV this morning because DMV business can only be conducted Monday through Friday 10-5. There was no other alternative, like waiting until his nap, because these mo fo’s never pick up after 3. I made a million calls TO THE CAPITAL which meant entering the longest calling card pin that money can buy a gazillion times because I had already learned my lesson last month. Calling out of state? Reasonable. Calling long distance in-state? To the CAPITAL which is only 45 minutes away? A one minute call at 15 cents/minute turned out to be $4.26 with tax. No shit. Fucking Qwest.
Anyway, I check my email while I’m on hold.
Another funny from my dad! Sweet.
One of his best friends has unintentionally raised the hippiest daughter ever. How hippie? She doesn’t believe in diapers, AT ALL. Not just the kind that I use that are killing the planet; even the cloth ones.
“Oh” you’re thinking, “she’s potty training.”
No.
A few months ago she and her 1 year old son came to live with my dad’s friend for some reason I don’t recall at the moment. My dad’s friend and his wife, her mother, were horrified. Their beloved grandchild was running around the house 24/7 peeing and dumping everywhere. And she was pregnant, and didn’t really feel all that inclined to clean up after him. So these wonderful grandparents, who wanted to make sure she felt welcome, went out and bought diapers.
“Yeah, we don’t really like diapers. They seem uncomfortable. He’s fine!”
What the heck do they say to her? She’s pregnant. They love her. And they want to remain in contact with her and her soon to be 2 children.
Anyway, she just had number two, and grandpa has a sense of humor. Names and locations have been replaced to protect their identity.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Email title: “Don’t Try This at Home, Folks”
Well folks…a bit of news.
Last night my #2 daughter XX and her husband XY gave birth to their 2nd child, a baby girl.
Previously they had decided on a "modern" birth-- midwife (who lives in another town) to deliver at the birthing center in another city. (As opposed to a nice safe hospital name nearby.)
Evidently, they decided to go for an "ultra-modern" process and had the baby AT HOME with XY delivering (showing up Brad Pitt who was scared "shitless" sitting in medical facility sipping oxygen during his baby's birth).
Anyhow, they avoided having to arrange for baby sitting for their firstborn who slept through the event, they also avoided the high cost of gasoline not to mention the bridge toll.
Just 5 days ago their very wise mid-wives had given XY and XX an emergency delivery kit in case they could not make it across the bridge in time.
XX called us last night around 2:00 am while awaiting the arrival of the mid-wife and passed the news to her sister's name omitted. According to sister’s name, her parting words were:
"I've got to go, now the placenta is coming………….. XY!!!!"
Any wonder that what little hair I have left is all gray??
Weight = a good weight
Length = seems normal
Time of birth= last night
Gender = female
Name = who knows
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wrote back right away. “Dad, don’t worry. I may like midwives, but you won't be getting a call like that from me.” He was probably at least a little relieved.
You see, in LLL, J and I are everyone’s "hippie" friends, just because there aren’t any real honest to goodness hippies here.
A very good friend, my vibrator loving friend in fact, is the one who came up with the term hippie chic, just for moi. I have some of the politics, the ugly comfy shoe fetish, but I still buy my clothes at Target, the Gap and Old Navy. NO REAL HIPPIE WOULD EVER SHOP THERE.
*That a whole ‘nother story, that believe it or not, I am not going to share right now.
**I do like my MIL, but we are not close. She and J = even less close. It got to the point that I was terrified to even do my errands in Hell because SHE LIVED A MILE AWAY FROM US and she still didn't know I was pregnant. We just never saw her, and I had told J he was going to be the one to break the news. So here I am, running around 6 months pregnant, shopping at the same Costco, the same Target as her, and she didn't know. We joked that he'd tell her when we decided to move. Hell was never meant to be permanent, and we knew that even before moving there. But that was really what happened in the end. We suck. "Hi, I'm seven months pregnant. It's a boy BTW, and we're moving to LLL. J is already there. How've you been doing?" I wish it weren't true.
As I mentioned earlier, LLL is Western state #4 during our pilgrimage though out the Western US. We moved here from Hell, also located in the Southwest, when I was 7 months pregnant with the Cracker.
Back in Hell, I had a regular OB/GYN. A young, professional, petite woman who I loved because she always let me stay late to ask really stupid questions. A fifteen minute check up was actually closer to an hour, every time. She never rushed me, and treated each concern as a legitimate one. What a gal! Guess that’s why my 4 o’clock appointment never actually started before 5:30. But she was totally worth the wait, and her lobby had some kick ass mags too.
Our first meeting, around 8 weeks, was by far the most fun. We were going to do an ultrasound! Woo hoo!
I lift up my shirt to expose my rock hard abs. “Oh no,” she said. “This is going to be a vaginal scan.”
WTF?
She takes out a friggin dildo and starts to lube it up. My jaw is on the ground. The panties are coming down.
What? Why? Wait…
“The baby is still too small for an abdominal ultrasound. This will provide us with the best view.”
J is dying. Dy-ing. He can’t resist. “That thing doesn’t vibrate or light up does it? You aren’t going to make me jealous?”
Either she’d heard that one too many times before or was totally lacking any stirrup side humor, but the chick didn’t even flinch.
“Are you ready?”
“Ummm...”
And there went the dildo, up my nether regions.
The next ultrasound didn’t go much better. In fact, it was a lot worse. She started out as usual by asking me “how are you feeling?” which, of course, is what any OB/GYN would do. But this was THE appointment, the much anticipated was a penis or a vagina growing inside of me? appointment, and I was there WITHOUT J. I lost it.
What did this amazing woman do? The woman who couldn’t even crack a wry smile at J’s solution to lightening up an uncomfortable situation? She held me…for AN HOUR. She nodded and handed me tissues as I blubbered uncontrollably between sobs.
Between the vaginal ultrasound and now this…I was in love.
J had just moved to LLL, without me. Everyone knew layoffs were coming, but details were, as always, unavailable. But because he was such a good guy, a stellar employee and expecting his first child, someone high up told him that while he didn’t know for sure, he guessed that because J was still fairly new, this time his name was going to be on the list. This wonderful soul also told him that there was an opening in LLL, a better position even, and that J might be able to qualify even though he was still just a babe in his career. J received this information Tuesday, went in and officially applied Wednesday after we’d had the chance to talk, interviewed Thursday, and moved to LLL Saturday. Because everything happened so quickly, I had to stay behind in Hell to get our affairs in order, coordinate the out-of-state move with J’s company, and quit my own job.
I had to go to my ultrasound alone.
Two months later I joined J. Other than one other incident*, I was just fine by myself. J’s company flew him home every Friday night, and he’d go back Sunday afternoon. I had a bunch of wannabe grannies at work who took care of me 5 days a week, J’s mom** in town, and a few friends. I enjoyed the excuse to eat out, and spent the rest of my time dreaming.
When I got pregnant with the Cracker I was in the best shape of my life. My job was basically an excuse to work out 40 hours/week and get paid for it, or at least that’s what it became when they saw I was willing to help out with the heavy lifting. It was the only time in my life that I had a flat stomach, abs to kill, and girly muscles in all the right places. After the first month of it kicking my ass, I became Wonder Woman.
Being unfamiliar with the inside of a gym, the transformation my body made was as much a surprise to me as what happened during pregnancy.
One day, before we learned that J’s boys could swim, I was sitting on the side of our apartment’s pool, swishing my legs around in the water. Suddenly I noticed that there were these weird hard swollen spots on my legs, especially when I tensed a muscle.
“J, look at me! Eew…what the hell is that? Do you see my leg?”
“What?”
“Look, just look!” I tensed my leg.
“Honey, those are muscles.”
“No! No? Really? They’re gross.”
But then I got pregnant with the Cracker. The guys at work who I was lifting with started freaking out if I even dared to reach for a friggin paperclip. These were the same guys that when I’d ask for help with a 200lb marble table top would yell back “don’t be a pussy!” and continue on with their “So I was pounding her in the ass…” story until I went over there and threatened to pound their ass in an entirely different kind of way. I loved the attention they lavished upon me, but it was sometimes annoying.
The wannabe grannies? They quickly figured out that the Cracker really really liked key lime cheesecake. (Honestly, what I wanted was a nap, but I was along for the ride.) And as luck would have it, the employee entrance to my place of employment in Hell was 10 feet from the front entrance of a Cheesecake Factory. Five days a week, before I could even haul my sorry ass over there, these women would coordinate their lunches so that they could get there first and bring it back to me. All I had to do was sit down in the lunchroom, napkin tucked into my collar, and remind them to bring a fork.
Rock hard abs…gone. Ass…growing faster than the baby.
When I arrived in LLL, my hippie chic self was ready to find a new OB/GYN, one who would be hopefully in the same state when the Cracker decided to make his entrance. But in LLL it’s all about the midwives. “That just won’t do!” I told every practice over the phone. Click. I was used to an OB dammit, and only that would do.
Midwife it was.
As I finished my pregnancy, I grew to see that midwives are not the cheap alternative. For me they were actually much better! Women who know women and have BTDT. And so for my next pregnancy I will happily call my midwife and catch up on old times while she brings does what my dear husband can only dream of.
I know what you’re thinking. WTF? What about the DMV? Everyone loves a good DMV story!
Yeah, that’s still not solved. I threw Cracker in front of the TV this morning because DMV business can only be conducted Monday through Friday 10-5. There was no other alternative, like waiting until his nap, because these mo fo’s never pick up after 3. I made a million calls TO THE CAPITAL which meant entering the longest calling card pin that money can buy a gazillion times because I had already learned my lesson last month. Calling out of state? Reasonable. Calling long distance in-state? To the CAPITAL which is only 45 minutes away? A one minute call at 15 cents/minute turned out to be $4.26 with tax. No shit. Fucking Qwest.
Anyway, I check my email while I’m on hold.
Another funny from my dad! Sweet.
One of his best friends has unintentionally raised the hippiest daughter ever. How hippie? She doesn’t believe in diapers, AT ALL. Not just the kind that I use that are killing the planet; even the cloth ones.
“Oh” you’re thinking, “she’s potty training.”
No.
A few months ago she and her 1 year old son came to live with my dad’s friend for some reason I don’t recall at the moment. My dad’s friend and his wife, her mother, were horrified. Their beloved grandchild was running around the house 24/7 peeing and dumping everywhere. And she was pregnant, and didn’t really feel all that inclined to clean up after him. So these wonderful grandparents, who wanted to make sure she felt welcome, went out and bought diapers.
“Yeah, we don’t really like diapers. They seem uncomfortable. He’s fine!”
What the heck do they say to her? She’s pregnant. They love her. And they want to remain in contact with her and her soon to be 2 children.
Anyway, she just had number two, and grandpa has a sense of humor. Names and locations have been replaced to protect their identity.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Email title: “Don’t Try This at Home, Folks”
Well folks…a bit of news.
Last night my #2 daughter XX and her husband XY gave birth to their 2nd child, a baby girl.
Previously they had decided on a "modern" birth-- midwife (who lives in another town) to deliver at the birthing center in another city. (As opposed to a nice safe hospital name nearby.)
Evidently, they decided to go for an "ultra-modern" process and had the baby AT HOME with XY delivering (showing up Brad Pitt who was scared "shitless" sitting in medical facility sipping oxygen during his baby's birth).
Anyhow, they avoided having to arrange for baby sitting for their firstborn who slept through the event, they also avoided the high cost of gasoline not to mention the bridge toll.
Just 5 days ago their very wise mid-wives had given XY and XX an emergency delivery kit in case they could not make it across the bridge in time.
XX called us last night around 2:00 am while awaiting the arrival of the mid-wife and passed the news to her sister's name omitted. According to sister’s name, her parting words were:
"I've got to go, now the placenta is coming………….. XY!!!!"
Any wonder that what little hair I have left is all gray??
Weight = a good weight
Length = seems normal
Time of birth= last night
Gender = female
Name = who knows
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wrote back right away. “Dad, don’t worry. I may like midwives, but you won't be getting a call like that from me.” He was probably at least a little relieved.
You see, in LLL, J and I are everyone’s "hippie" friends, just because there aren’t any real honest to goodness hippies here.
A very good friend, my vibrator loving friend in fact, is the one who came up with the term hippie chic, just for moi. I have some of the politics, the ugly comfy shoe fetish, but I still buy my clothes at Target, the Gap and Old Navy. NO REAL HIPPIE WOULD EVER SHOP THERE.
*That a whole ‘nother story, that believe it or not, I am not going to share right now.
**I do like my MIL, but we are not close. She and J = even less close. It got to the point that I was terrified to even do my errands in Hell because SHE LIVED A MILE AWAY FROM US and she still didn't know I was pregnant. We just never saw her, and I had told J he was going to be the one to break the news. So here I am, running around 6 months pregnant, shopping at the same Costco, the same Target as her, and she didn't know. We joked that he'd tell her when we decided to move. Hell was never meant to be permanent, and we knew that even before moving there. But that was really what happened in the end. We suck. "Hi, I'm seven months pregnant. It's a boy BTW, and we're moving to LLL. J is already there. How've you been doing?" I wish it weren't true.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Adult Girlfriend Laugh
If my parents are reading this, because I know I mentioned this blog to you before, I beg of you...PLEASE DON'T READ THIS! Just don't.
I belong to a group of Mommy posters on a message board, and it's one of my only real escapes into adult life. I spend way too much time there reading and posting. Occasionally, we get a little silly.
The other day one woman asked the group something to the effect of: In case of emergency or death, do you have a deal with your friends to hide your adult stuff? So that your children or relatives wouldn't find it? Apparently, many people have this deal. Should something happen, their friends will go and dispose of everything. And they know exactly where to find it all. People really do this!
Uh no, we don't have this deal with anyone. Making such a deal never even crossed our minds. If J and I were to die together, my mom will probably have a heart attack when she comes to clean out our house, and it will be all my fault.
The only "toy" in the house is mine, though I know J has some "visual" stuff somewhere. My friends and I are all pretty left winged liberals, we all love Sex and the City, but I found out about a year ago from one friend complaining to the group about some one else that the subject of vibrators is off limits. It was "eew...I don't want to know that...how dare she tell me!" and from what I understand, this was at a bachelorette party. I think the rest of the women hearing this were just going along, but I've kept my mouth shut since then. But that's okay, because one particular girlfriend I've known since high school and I have long talks all about it on the phone. So I get to share.
Now for too much sharing...I often leave IT out in plain sight in the bedroom. I worry more about the Police or Fire Fighters seeing it than anyone I know, because our bedroom is where we pile things we don't know what to do with, and we never let anyone see it. BUT HERE'S WHAT WOULD BE THE MOST EMBARASSING PART...the dozen half-dead batteries sitting next to IT on my nightstand that I am too lazy to throw away! I, um, like a fresh battery, and I don't know what to do with the partially used ones!
(Yes, I know they make corded ones. However, no where near me sells them. So I then took my search online. I googled IT. And Netscape crashed! ROFLMAO! Not that I would ever dare give my account information to anything that would have popped up anyway. Besides, batteries at Costco are really cheap, 30 cents each, and IT takes 3, which even for only an hour or two of use is still cheaper than a Therapist or even Starbucks.)
And since I'm already sharing too much, here's my new favorite motto, which I heard Dr. Drew say on Love Line one night while driving home from Walmart. "What (young) men don't understand is that a vagina is not an inside out penis." Wow! So simple, but I could never have come up with it. Where was this man when I was dating?
Spread the word ladies!
(Be sure to click here if you weren't offended in any way by this post.)
I belong to a group of Mommy posters on a message board, and it's one of my only real escapes into adult life. I spend way too much time there reading and posting. Occasionally, we get a little silly.
The other day one woman asked the group something to the effect of: In case of emergency or death, do you have a deal with your friends to hide your adult stuff? So that your children or relatives wouldn't find it? Apparently, many people have this deal. Should something happen, their friends will go and dispose of everything. And they know exactly where to find it all. People really do this!
Uh no, we don't have this deal with anyone. Making such a deal never even crossed our minds. If J and I were to die together, my mom will probably have a heart attack when she comes to clean out our house, and it will be all my fault.
The only "toy" in the house is mine, though I know J has some "visual" stuff somewhere. My friends and I are all pretty left winged liberals, we all love Sex and the City, but I found out about a year ago from one friend complaining to the group about some one else that the subject of vibrators is off limits. It was "eew...I don't want to know that...how dare she tell me!" and from what I understand, this was at a bachelorette party. I think the rest of the women hearing this were just going along, but I've kept my mouth shut since then. But that's okay, because one particular girlfriend I've known since high school and I have long talks all about it on the phone. So I get to share.
Now for too much sharing...I often leave IT out in plain sight in the bedroom. I worry more about the Police or Fire Fighters seeing it than anyone I know, because our bedroom is where we pile things we don't know what to do with, and we never let anyone see it. BUT HERE'S WHAT WOULD BE THE MOST EMBARASSING PART...the dozen half-dead batteries sitting next to IT on my nightstand that I am too lazy to throw away! I, um, like a fresh battery, and I don't know what to do with the partially used ones!
(Yes, I know they make corded ones. However, no where near me sells them. So I then took my search online. I googled IT. And Netscape crashed! ROFLMAO! Not that I would ever dare give my account information to anything that would have popped up anyway. Besides, batteries at Costco are really cheap, 30 cents each, and IT takes 3, which even for only an hour or two of use is still cheaper than a Therapist or even Starbucks.)
And since I'm already sharing too much, here's my new favorite motto, which I heard Dr. Drew say on Love Line one night while driving home from Walmart. "What (young) men don't understand is that a vagina is not an inside out penis." Wow! So simple, but I could never have come up with it. Where was this man when I was dating?
Spread the word ladies!
(Be sure to click here if you weren't offended in any way by this post.)
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
True love is
when your dear husband spends more than an hour trying to fix your vibrator with a soldering iron and then tells you "Honey, it's too far gone. Go buy yourself that new one you've been wanting. Don't worry about the cost...you're worth it!"
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)