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.

6 comments:

Anonymous said...

You figured it out on your own!

Anonymous said...

BJs go a long way

Anonymous said...

Phelps was like an Amish kid on Rumschpringe. He will get back into the pool.

Rosie said...

My nose hurts now. I shot rum AND coke through it.

Men will do anything for a BJ. I got offered a new set of cookware just this morning.

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