Monday, July 20, 2009


As promised, more to come about my boobs......

Welcome back!

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

The new house of Momma....

Please visit me at my new, albiet incomplete home at:

Sunday, February 8, 2009

I bit the bullett....

....and joined Facebook. What was I thinking?

Thursday, January 29, 2009

A post not about sex toys, masturabation or anything that would creep my mother out

I have been staying clear of my blog since my last post. I was fearful that I had revealed too much. A moment of sobriety? Perhaps. But a few minutes ago I checked the comments and immediately felt better. I now feel like I have provided a much needed public service. I should totally have my own talk show. Or at the very least my own After School Special. It would have to be an After Work Special because I'm pretty sure that masturbation isn't appropriate for teens. I would totally have Erin Moran play me and Scott Baio play the Mister. It would be called "Joannie Loves Chachie: How We Get Down With Our Bad Selves." It would be the first of a series that would include:

Joannie Loves Chachie: Our trip to a sex toy shop

Joannie Loves Chachie: How we decide who gets to sleep in the 'wet spot'

Joannie Loves Chachie: Sometimes it's ok just to cuddle....

....because everyone likes to just cuddle sometimes. That so was not a Viagra joke. I wouldn't know anything about that....

Now, on to the real meat and taters of this post. In a real effort to be mature, I will not be posting about sex, sex toys, masturbation or anything that would cause you mind to wander into the gutter.

I am going to post about being a single lady.

This week (I wrote this last week)I have been all by my lonesome. Mr. Big Momma has been out of town. He picked a heck of a week to leave, given my long ass driveway, the inch of ice that covers it and the 5 inches of snow that top the ice. And I'll remind you about my injured ankle just to ensure that you really feel sorry for me.

I have always considered myself an independent lady.

"All the women who are independent
Throw your hands up at me
All the honeys who makin' money
Throw your hands up at me"

Shit yeah! Sorry, I had to rock a little Beyonce there. You understand, right? Are you feeling me? Please, don't be a hater. It causes wrinkles and will just make you a bitter, sad sack of a person.

But seriously, I can take care of myself. Now if the Mister reads this, and if he by chance has just taking a sip of Coke, he will totally be spitting it out, all over his computer monitor. Because when he first met me 14 years ago, I was a total mess. I had never done my own laundry. I paid someone to do it for me (Thanks T, still miss your laundry, the most fluffiest eva!). I never did my dishes. Often times, they would sit in the sink for weeks. I would get disgusted with them and instead of just washing them, I would throw them away.

Several years into my marriage, I did cook, on occasion, but it would normally involve a meat with some sort of Campbell soup mix. It is kinda hard to be a culinary genius when you spend 90 hours a week, working in a sweat shop, I mean lab, working on your Ph.D. Plus, I really had no clue.

Over the last several years, I have done most of the cooking in our household. Mr. Big Momma is an excellent cook and he still does cook from time to time. But cooking has become cathartic for me in a way I never thought possible. And I promise you that when I cook, I actually wash the dishes now, or at the very least, put them in the dishwasher. See, told you I was mature?

And I don't just cook, I clean too! The only thing I don't do is laundry. The Mister banned me from this years ago.

Ok, so blah, blah, blah. I get it Big Momma, you are a righteous gal who gets the shit done. Big deal.

Well, the big deal came when I was found by myself, with a sprained ankle and a driveway full of ice and snow. I'm already hearing the waaaaaaaahhhhh's out there. Thanks BIL, you mo-fo. Poor Big Momma. But please, keep your mock sympathy in check until I get the full story out.

So not only was I alone, I was trapped. Because my car got stuck in our road. I was able to get it back in the driveway after bribing the male neighbor by telling him if he helped me, I'd give him the best blow job he's ever had. He seriously is that much of a douche that I had to nearly BEG HIM TO HELP ME.

We get the car back into the very bottom of the driveway, I suck him off, and we both go on our merry ways.

But then I find my post-pimped out self stuck. Totally and completely stuck at home. Totally and completely stuck at home without a clue as to how I would get myself out. I didn't have anywhere to go, so it wasn't a big deal. But there is something about not being able to go anywhere that makes me so totally want to go somewhere. And when I say somewhere, I mean no where, because I really had no. place. to. go.

It was at this very moment that I felt like my current self would have felt if I was my pre-husband self. Totally and completely useless. And it totally sucked donkey balls.

Marriage has saved me in more ways than one. I have to say, I'm a big fan.

P.S. I pimped myself out, yet again, to the snow plow dude who I ran after as he sped off from my neighbor's driveway. His plow was broken (Viagra, anyone?) but he spread enough salt down to melt enough ice so that I was able to get out the next day. And he didn't even charge me for the service. See, I told you I was good.

P.S.S. Michael Phelps is an idiot.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Good, good, good, good vibrations....

Enter, with caution.

Everyone poops. I know this because a children's book was written with this title. I’m also pretty sure that everyone masturbates. Even me. Which, apparently, was quite a shock to the Mister. Last week, for some reason which I don’t remember, Mr. Big Momma ventured into by bra drawer. Upon entry, he immediately yelped “Oh my god, there are enough batteries in here to power the continental United States for 10 years.” I heard his yelp and responded with a big fat nothing. Because I knew why the batteries were there. I wasn’t saving them as a reserve, they were there for a rainy day. And to power me into the land of good vibrations. A land that I visit from time to time. A land populated by Barack Obama and Tiger Woods. Oh, and don’t forget Brad Pitt. And one that is sometimes visited by the new James Bond. We like it shaken, but never stirred. To each there own, I suppose. So back to his yelp followed by my nothing. That only lasted for a few days. I knew that the bottom was to drop, I just hoped that it wouldn’t be a for another fifty years or so. Three days later, while recapping our work days, Mr. Big Momma said, and I quote, “I need to ask you about something, but I’m not sure how to.” If you have been married for even a minute, you know that this is THE WORST THING THAT YOU EVER HOPE TO HEAR. When you hear this you immediately think, “Oh my god, he totally fucked my best friend, while my sister watched and my mom cheered him on.” You then think that he left this fuck fest for the strip bar where he made it rain for the skaggiest girls on earth, while he was with my dad, and then they flew to Nicaragua and bought enough coke to make Britney Spears’ jealous and snorted it on the bellies of The Pussy Cat Dolls. And then you think, “Oh my god, he didn’t even respect me enough to wear a condom.” And then you wake up. And he asks you, “How often do you masturbate?” He asks this because behind the bras and the batteries was the vibrator. And then the conversation gets all weird and funny and kinda hot. The details from here on out, I will not disclose, outside of saying that we are STILL married and STILL hot for one another. And I am pretty sure that this conversation will enhance our sex lives. Every couple should have these sorts of conversations. But I will disclose what I learned about what guys think about women masturbating because it is truly fascinating. And eye opening. And kinda disturbing. Misconception #1: Guys think that women masturbate all day. Every day. For 12 hour stretches. This is what Mr. Big Momma thinks I do while I say I am “working.” This explains why I must work into the wee hours of the night. I have blown my wad, so to speak, during the work day, on masturbating. Not work, but getting down with my bad self. Misconception #2: We masturbate in bed. Now I don’t know how you gals get down out there, but I prefer to get down on the couch, while watching crappy TV and not….#3. Misconception #3: We masturbate while watching porn. I’ve never taken an official poll, but most women I know think porn is gross and wouldn’t even consider it as a turn on. Misconception #4: We masturbate while totally nude. This is why Mr. Big Momma has made it his goal to come how from work early, park his car down the street and sneak up on me. Because he is totally convinced that I sit (in bed) totally nude and spread eagle while getting it on. I can’t wait for the day, while I’m working like a dog, that I see his big head pop into my office window. Oh, the disappointment. Misconception #5: We make really sexy sounds while getting down. Sounds that are unique to our normal sex with a partner sounds. Misconception #6: Masturbation is a whole production. Men think that there are candles, dimmed lighting, chocolate covered strawberries, Hallmark, flowers, perfume and Barry White. We make them work for it, so we probably make ourselves work for it too. They think it is some sort of elaborate production. Misconception #7: There is a lot of self-nipple tweaking while masturbating. Yeah, because it is sooo great to have your nipples tweaked. Misconception #8: That a “device” could replace a cock. I assure you men out there, that #8 is the biggest misconception. A cock is a cock is a cock. Yikes, I just said cock four times. So why am I sharing all of this? Well because there isn’t much that I keep to myself. And also because I think a convo like the one we started could lead to a heightened level of intimacy. I know there are many of you who have been married or with the same person for years. Things may be good in the sack, but maybe it is time for a change? Maybe it would be good for you both to mix things up? Maybe you will find something that you enjoy that you never thought possible to enjoy? Several years ago, I felt that I really finally understood marriage. It was because I truly got the idea that men and from mars and women are from venus. Now I’ve never read this book, but seriously, it is the truth. Men and women are different, and not just sexually. Here is the perfect example. Tonight while driving to The Container Store (yes, a super duper fun evening, especially for a Friday night), I asked Mr. Big Momma what he was thinking about. His response? “ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.” And you know, he was telling the truth. He even added the disclaimer, “It’s not like I’m trying to think about nothing. I’m just not thinking about anything.” This is just one of the many basic differences between women and men. Now I’m not trying to paint men and beasts who only eat, burp, leave their dirty socks all over the house, pick their asses and scratch their nuts. I’m saying simply that men and women are different. So maybe it is time that we stop looking at what our personal needs are and start wondering if we are satisfying our partner’s needs? Who knew that my battery supply would have “powered” this conversation? I personally, am glad that it did. Try some tenderness man, Otis style. I promise it will totally get you laid.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Tell me baby

I wrote this post just before Thanksgiving.....

It has been over a week since I heard the best news I’ve heard in a long time:

I am going to be an Aunt.

The morning after I heard the good news, I woke up and 4am and started planning the baby shower. Later that day I was telling my sister about the menu I had planned. I had only gotten to the cucumber sandwiches before she interrupted me.

“But you hate baby showers, Big Momma.”

“This is different. It is your baby shower. My sister’s baby shower. A shower for my niece or nephew. A shower for lil' Big Momma (hint, hint)! Besides, I have decided that I am going to revolutionize baby showers. I am going to make them fun, and not just by serving booze.”

“Are you going to make me play that game where people have to guess the diameter of my belly?”

“No way. Your husbands cock, maybe.”

“But I am not sure that I want a baby shower.”

“You have no choice. This is your first child. You need everything. Besides, think of all those bitches who invited you to their baby showers. They owe you.”

And so the conversation went and continued for the next 20 minutes. We discussed the funny names that her and her husband had discussed. We talked about the fact that I don’t know how to change a diaper. We talked about the fact that I couldn’t wait to babysit….would she actually trust me with her child? What surprised me during our conversation was how calm she sounded. And trust me when I say there is never anything even remotely calm about my sister. I guess she has been mentally preparing for this moment longer than anyone could have realized.

P.S. She is having twins!!!!

P.S.S. So I’m wondering, internet, do you think these cutout cookies would be appropriate for the shower or just wrong?

I've fallen and I can't get up

Who would have thunk that I'd be sitting around on this cold winter night, wishing to be The Gimp?

Yes, you read that right. I'm not wishing to be Forrest Gump. I wish I was The Gimp, not the Gump. And I can promise you that this has nothing to do with our outing to the sex toy shop on Sunday.

I'll leave that last sentence alone because my dear, sweet mother reads this......

So you are probably asking, "Why would a nice girl like CBM wish she was THE GIMP?" Keep your pants on people, I'm going to tell you why:

Because for the last week, I have been this gimp

I am pretty sure this is karma kicking me in the ass for wishing that I was in a wheelchair this summer so that the Mr. could push me around Vancouver. Karma probably isn't the right word here, but get off my back, I'm nursing an injury. And possible head trauma.

So the long and short of it is I fell while playing tennis on Saturday. Be glad that you didn't witness this horrendous event. I'm fairly certain it was the most ungraceful and klutzy act of my entire life.

The punishment for my crime is that I am not supposed to be on my feet for TWO WEEKS. And just in case that doesn't learn me all up right, I can't play tennis for FOUR WEEKS. You can already see that I am talkin' like a billy after a mere 4 days on the couch. What will I become after 14 days? At least I am still showering.

OK, so enough waah, waah, waahing about me. My experience has given me a new respect for those with permanent disabilities. I have been aware, for most of the last 35 years, that most of the people on this planet are butt heads. It seems these days, whenever I leave the house, butt heads are everywhere. They stare and you and cut you off. They get huffy when walking behind you. They don't hold doors or elevators.

I have considered installing a machine gun in my crutches, but I seriously can't see myself being someone's bitch after I'm imprisioned for my crimes. So instead, I'll vent through this post.

Now I'm not going to open a can of Jerry Lewis woop-ass on all ya'll. I'm just going to remind you to be nice to those in need. And I'm not talking about me here, unless of course you find me fumbling to light my cig while holding a beer and trying to teeter on one leg. Angeline Jolie would so want you to help me. My point here? If you see someone who is struggling, for the love of Pete, help them out. My momma taught me that, why didn't yours? Because your momma wears combat boots.

And if I catch you, not helping? I'll first do this.... try to mess with your game, throw you off. And then I'll woop ya....

.... militant grandma style. Remember, Big Momma is bad ass. And I have friends....