As promised, more to come about my boobs......
Welcome back!
Monday, July 20, 2009
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
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.
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.
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!!!!
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?
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.
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....
....to 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....
Friday, January 2, 2009
'O' Big Momma, you dirty girl you!
I have to confess that I had a very disturbing dream last night. And when I say “disturbing,” I really mean “hot.” I must confess, internet, I had a nasty dream about Barack Obama.
Now bear with me here. I wasn’t alive during the Kennedy years. I am sure that there were many women during those years who had nasty dreams about Kennedy. I’m also sure that those women really truly fantasized about Kennedy. And when I say “really truly fantasized” I really mean really truly fantasized because they didn’t have the luxury of free porn or the internet. Those poor bitches. But I’m not going to feel too bad for them because while they didn’t have the luxuries of modern day society, they had something better. They had a real true fantasy about their president. A fantasy that only existed in their minds. A fantasy that was all their own. It is quite sad that no one has written about this for decades, but the reality is that it has been that long since we’ve had a hot president. And a smart president, but seriously, like I really needed to spell that out.
So back to Barack. One of my friends sent me an email a few weeks ago titled “Your Christmas Present.” Before opening, I figured it would be an Amazon gift card or something of the like. I had no idea how truly giving this friend would be. And I say that because his Christmas gift was this:
And he gave me this all while knowing that I curse baby Jesus on a daily basis. A friend that knows that I put up my Christmas tree, reluctantly, while listening to Ozzy Osbourne. Really loud Ozzy. While wearing all black and my devil ears.
That, my friends, is a true friend. So thank you friend for your o so generous gift. The gift that keeps on giving. I gift that I hope you, female readers, will continue enjoying. If you aren’t going to enjoy it for my sake, at least enjoy it for baby Jesus. You know he would want you to!
Now bear with me here. I wasn’t alive during the Kennedy years. I am sure that there were many women during those years who had nasty dreams about Kennedy. I’m also sure that those women really truly fantasized about Kennedy. And when I say “really truly fantasized” I really mean really truly fantasized because they didn’t have the luxury of free porn or the internet. Those poor bitches. But I’m not going to feel too bad for them because while they didn’t have the luxuries of modern day society, they had something better. They had a real true fantasy about their president. A fantasy that only existed in their minds. A fantasy that was all their own. It is quite sad that no one has written about this for decades, but the reality is that it has been that long since we’ve had a hot president. And a smart president, but seriously, like I really needed to spell that out.
So back to Barack. One of my friends sent me an email a few weeks ago titled “Your Christmas Present.” Before opening, I figured it would be an Amazon gift card or something of the like. I had no idea how truly giving this friend would be. And I say that because his Christmas gift was this:
And he gave me this all while knowing that I curse baby Jesus on a daily basis. A friend that knows that I put up my Christmas tree, reluctantly, while listening to Ozzy Osbourne. Really loud Ozzy. While wearing all black and my devil ears.
That, my friends, is a true friend. So thank you friend for your o so generous gift. The gift that keeps on giving. I gift that I hope you, female readers, will continue enjoying. If you aren’t going to enjoy it for my sake, at least enjoy it for baby Jesus. You know he would want you to!
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Smooth move, Exlax
Tee, hee, hee. My Dad used to say that all the time when I did something stupid and it still make me chuckle.
So I’m wondering, is there an Exlax specifically for bloggers? Because I have been backed up for some time. After Mr. Big Momma and I discussed my masturbatory habits for an hour or so tonight (another post, kittens, I promise!), I was telling him how neglectful I have been with my blog. And how I wasn’t really neglectful because I have 5 posts saved in Word that I just haven’t posted. He was curious as to why I haven’t posted them (see future, already written post to be posted someday…). I told him that I haven’t posted them because I wasn’t feeling them. The foundation was laid (you: mind, out of gutter, please), but the details weren’t falling into place. He then told me that sometimes you need to settle with “B” work. Ha! “B” work is not part of who I am, unless I am posting six beers in.
So here I am, 3 beers in and feeling the urge to post. I’m half way there. So for tonight, you get random thoughts.
Random thought #1: If you play tennis, you should have full sight. There is this woman on my tennis league who I really think is blind. I say this because her eyes seem unable to focus on a human being. Now it would be really interesting if she was blind and able to play tennis. I am fairly certain that she is not blind because every week she shows up and does in fact play tennis. But her googly eyes still are troubling to me….
Random thought #2: The best shot in tennis, if you are playing at the net, is to hit the ball directly at the person playing the net on the other side of the court. Even though my tennis skills are somewhat lacking, I still can do this from time to time. Every time I do it, I apologize. I did it to my tennis coach on Saturday and of course, apologized profusely. She told me to shut the hell up. So when I was telling this to Mr. Big Momma tonight, I told him that sometimes in sports, you have to take a ball to the face. I am so willing to do this. Take a ball to the face and congratulate the person who hit it for hitting the perfect shot. Unfortunately though, many of the women on this league to do not feel the same way. Maybe because I have been married for 10 years, I am just used to taking balls to the face. Thanks Mr. Big Momma for the prep work. And again, just a reminder, please get your mind out of the gutter. You are really sick. Sick, sick, sick. Tee, hee, hee….I just said balls, like, 80 times. Balls, ha, ha, ha!
Random thought #3: There is woman that I met several months ago who is almost certainly the future me. The me at 55. And I have to tell you that I love her. Not just because she is cool as hell, but because she calls me “kiddo.”
Random thought #4: My best gay calls me kitten. I love this moniker. In fact I told him several weeks ago over a brutal Uno game that he doesn’t call me kitten anymore and that I thought we were no longer BFF’s. In this case, BFF=best fruit fly. Because he is my best gay, he immediately kittened me all up and all was right in my world. Best gay’s can do that to a girl.
Random thought #5: Mr. Big Momma asked me tonight to choose my best moniker: kitten vs. kiddo. As if! I cannot and will not choose.
Random thought #6: Holy shit, it is almost 2009. Scary shit. Don’t even ask me about New Year’s resolutions. Too much FUS (fucked up shit) wrong with me to even consider.
Random thought #7: I swear, one of my resolutions is to post up the crap that I have socked away. Your NY resolution is to be very, very afraid.
So I’m wondering, is there an Exlax specifically for bloggers? Because I have been backed up for some time. After Mr. Big Momma and I discussed my masturbatory habits for an hour or so tonight (another post, kittens, I promise!), I was telling him how neglectful I have been with my blog. And how I wasn’t really neglectful because I have 5 posts saved in Word that I just haven’t posted. He was curious as to why I haven’t posted them (see future, already written post to be posted someday…). I told him that I haven’t posted them because I wasn’t feeling them. The foundation was laid (you: mind, out of gutter, please), but the details weren’t falling into place. He then told me that sometimes you need to settle with “B” work. Ha! “B” work is not part of who I am, unless I am posting six beers in.
So here I am, 3 beers in and feeling the urge to post. I’m half way there. So for tonight, you get random thoughts.
Random thought #1: If you play tennis, you should have full sight. There is this woman on my tennis league who I really think is blind. I say this because her eyes seem unable to focus on a human being. Now it would be really interesting if she was blind and able to play tennis. I am fairly certain that she is not blind because every week she shows up and does in fact play tennis. But her googly eyes still are troubling to me….
Random thought #2: The best shot in tennis, if you are playing at the net, is to hit the ball directly at the person playing the net on the other side of the court. Even though my tennis skills are somewhat lacking, I still can do this from time to time. Every time I do it, I apologize. I did it to my tennis coach on Saturday and of course, apologized profusely. She told me to shut the hell up. So when I was telling this to Mr. Big Momma tonight, I told him that sometimes in sports, you have to take a ball to the face. I am so willing to do this. Take a ball to the face and congratulate the person who hit it for hitting the perfect shot. Unfortunately though, many of the women on this league to do not feel the same way. Maybe because I have been married for 10 years, I am just used to taking balls to the face. Thanks Mr. Big Momma for the prep work. And again, just a reminder, please get your mind out of the gutter. You are really sick. Sick, sick, sick. Tee, hee, hee….I just said balls, like, 80 times. Balls, ha, ha, ha!
Random thought #3: There is woman that I met several months ago who is almost certainly the future me. The me at 55. And I have to tell you that I love her. Not just because she is cool as hell, but because she calls me “kiddo.”
Random thought #4: My best gay calls me kitten. I love this moniker. In fact I told him several weeks ago over a brutal Uno game that he doesn’t call me kitten anymore and that I thought we were no longer BFF’s. In this case, BFF=best fruit fly. Because he is my best gay, he immediately kittened me all up and all was right in my world. Best gay’s can do that to a girl.
Random thought #5: Mr. Big Momma asked me tonight to choose my best moniker: kitten vs. kiddo. As if! I cannot and will not choose.
Random thought #6: Holy shit, it is almost 2009. Scary shit. Don’t even ask me about New Year’s resolutions. Too much FUS (fucked up shit) wrong with me to even consider.
Random thought #7: I swear, one of my resolutions is to post up the crap that I have socked away. Your NY resolution is to be very, very afraid.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Hit me baby one more time
.....Pretty please? And make it a good one. A good enough one to erase any and all memories of earlier today……
In case you forgot to mark it on your calendars, today was my big day. And Britney Spear’s Birthday, in case you forgot that too.
My BIG FAT SHOCKING DAY.
If you have no idea what I am talking about, please scroll down a few posts. That post (and this one too, I imagine) is not for the faint of heart. Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.
So this morning at 8:30, I had the pleasure of getting anally raped by a tube, all while being catheterized. Plus I had enough electrodes on my ass to jump start a car. Kind of like a modern day, kinky Bride of Frankenstein.
The only good part of the procedure was the end of course, and the hug that I got on the way out from my nurse. I think that was the least she could do after violating me six ways to Sunday. I would have preferred to cuddle with her and share a smoke, but beggars can’t be choosers. And I really needed that hug.
All of this torture to find out that my urethra is too small. This is, unfortunately, the only small thing on my person. Big butt, big boobs, big hips, big mouth. I am starting to feel cursed. My small urethra prevents me from fully emptying my bladder. Basically, I am a walking bag of urine. A pee sack if you will.
The remedy is to have my urethra stretched, which I will not comment on because the reality of this hasn’t sunk in yet. I’m just keeping my fingers crossed that they will give me the good drugs for this procedure. The good drugs and lots of them. Excuse me while I go burn out a few Hail Marys.
When I got home from the doctor’s office, I changed into my sweats, curled up on the couch and got to working. I had Footloose on in the background in order to sooth my soul. About half way through the movie I came to the conclusion that having my urethra stretched is a lot better than not being able to dance. See, sometimes you need to put in all in perspective. I also ate a half pound of Anthony Thomas chocolate and I think that helped too.
Later I did some internet searching to find out a little more about this urethra stretching business. And let me tell you, I could not believe what I came across. Here is a rundown of the more interesting results that came up on Google, in no particular order.
Listen to urethra stretching radio. Sorry Kevin, no music for you!
A youtube video of Tom Urethra. I was too chicken to take a look. Plus, I was on my work laptop.
Urethra itchy diseases. ???
Urethra stretching, free dating: singles and personals.
Your urethra, the Portal of Evil. Amen to that.
Penis plugs. Not in my urethra you don’t.
Shopping for urethra stretching? You will find the best price at Apple Laser Toner Cartridge. See honey, always saving you money!
There were a plethora of websites talking about how “arousal” could be “enhanced” by 1. stretching your urethra, 2. inserting a vibrator into it or 3. inserting a penis into it. Oh my holy god.
The internet, although marvelous in its vast knowledge, sometimes scares the bejesus out of me.
I did come across this foxy lady on one of the sites:
She looks fiesty. And happy. I bet her urethra is of nornmal size. Bitch! After a second look, I'm not even sure that this is a woman. Geriatric drag queen, maybe.
I also came across this which I thought was kinda funny, given the day I had:
I bet she just had her urethra stretched.
In case you forgot to mark it on your calendars, today was my big day. And Britney Spear’s Birthday, in case you forgot that too.
My BIG FAT SHOCKING DAY.
If you have no idea what I am talking about, please scroll down a few posts. That post (and this one too, I imagine) is not for the faint of heart. Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.
So this morning at 8:30, I had the pleasure of getting anally raped by a tube, all while being catheterized. Plus I had enough electrodes on my ass to jump start a car. Kind of like a modern day, kinky Bride of Frankenstein.
The only good part of the procedure was the end of course, and the hug that I got on the way out from my nurse. I think that was the least she could do after violating me six ways to Sunday. I would have preferred to cuddle with her and share a smoke, but beggars can’t be choosers. And I really needed that hug.
All of this torture to find out that my urethra is too small. This is, unfortunately, the only small thing on my person. Big butt, big boobs, big hips, big mouth. I am starting to feel cursed. My small urethra prevents me from fully emptying my bladder. Basically, I am a walking bag of urine. A pee sack if you will.
The remedy is to have my urethra stretched, which I will not comment on because the reality of this hasn’t sunk in yet. I’m just keeping my fingers crossed that they will give me the good drugs for this procedure. The good drugs and lots of them. Excuse me while I go burn out a few Hail Marys.
When I got home from the doctor’s office, I changed into my sweats, curled up on the couch and got to working. I had Footloose on in the background in order to sooth my soul. About half way through the movie I came to the conclusion that having my urethra stretched is a lot better than not being able to dance. See, sometimes you need to put in all in perspective. I also ate a half pound of Anthony Thomas chocolate and I think that helped too.
Later I did some internet searching to find out a little more about this urethra stretching business. And let me tell you, I could not believe what I came across. Here is a rundown of the more interesting results that came up on Google, in no particular order.
Listen to urethra stretching radio. Sorry Kevin, no music for you!
A youtube video of Tom Urethra. I was too chicken to take a look. Plus, I was on my work laptop.
Urethra itchy diseases. ???
Urethra stretching, free dating: singles and personals.
Your urethra, the Portal of Evil. Amen to that.
Penis plugs. Not in my urethra you don’t.
Shopping for urethra stretching? You will find the best price at Apple Laser Toner Cartridge. See honey, always saving you money!
There were a plethora of websites talking about how “arousal” could be “enhanced” by 1. stretching your urethra, 2. inserting a vibrator into it or 3. inserting a penis into it. Oh my holy god.
The internet, although marvelous in its vast knowledge, sometimes scares the bejesus out of me.
I did come across this foxy lady on one of the sites:
She looks fiesty. And happy. I bet her urethra is of nornmal size. Bitch! After a second look, I'm not even sure that this is a woman. Geriatric drag queen, maybe.
I also came across this which I thought was kinda funny, given the day I had:
I bet she just had her urethra stretched.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
To the beat of the rhythm of the night
While I made cookies this afternoon, the Mr. watched "Barry Gordy's the Last Dragon" without even a hint of embarrassment.
I haven't seen this movie since 1985 when it came out in the theatres. I don't remember a damn thing about it other than these few, ultimately useless facts:
1. It tried too hard to be The Karate Kid + Purple Rain. Morris Day and the Time presents, "Mr. Miagi's the Purple Dragon." Oh wee oh wee oh.
2. Prince wasn't in it.
3. Neither was Ralph Macchio.
Now the Mister on the other hand, was quoting lines from the movie. And when the damsel in distress came on the screen, I'm pretty sure I saw him tweaking his own nipples.
For those of you who don't remember, Vanity was the damsel in distress. Here she is, circa 85:
So readers, I'm hoping you can help us settle an argument. I personally feel that Vanity is the poor man's Apollonia. Mr. Big Momma disagrees. If you don't remember Apollonia, she was the damsel in distress in Purple Rain.
So please vote for your favorite damsel in the comments section. Our marriage thanks you.
P.S. Just as an FYI, the internet told me that Vanity was SUPPOSED to play Appollonia in Purple Rain. But please, don't let me influence your vote.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
I hope your face falls off
I am a stalker. Seriously. Just ask anyone in my family. If I call you and you don't answer, I will call you until you do. I am charming in that way. Those I do this to (especially the hubby) certainly find it annoying. But I do think that stalkery (yes, I just made that up, wouldn't George W be proud!) is the ultimate form of flattery.
Or at least that is what I keep telling them.
In my constant efforts to mature, I have shifted my stalking efforts. See, I'm a big girl now! I am now a Facebook stalker. What is even more remarkable than this confession is the fact that I DO NOT have a Facebook account. That is where the stalking comes into play.
You see while in Chicago this summer visiting my friend T introduced me to The Facebook. Because I am a stalker, I memorized her username and password. You really can't trust me with anything. But, in my defense, T knows that I have been logging on as her and peeking around. During our weekly calls, we generally do a Facebook recap. There are a few high school friends that usually dominate the conversation. I guess not much has changed.....
I have thought many times about starting my own Facebook account, but I doubt that I ever will. Really, do I want to know what people from high school are up to? Not so much. The people that I want to keep in touch with, I already do. And I really have no desire to spark up a friendship with someone now, that I didn't even speak to in high school.
But what I do want to do is fuck with The Facebook. Understand that when I say want to do, I mean will never do. But I just can't control the evil part of my brain. Now just because I would never violate T's Facebook trust, doesn't mean I don't have a detailed laundry list of exactly what I would do with my own Facebook account.
Once logged into Facebook, you are encouraged to type something. There is a friendly box that states "What are you doing right now?" The something that you type there shows up on the pages of those you are friends with. In case you are not familiar, here are some examples of what people type:
Joe is waiting for his children to fall asleep.
Tammy is glad that tomorrow is Friday.
Billy just finished power washing his dog.
Blah, blah, blah. You get the idea. Here are some of my ideas:
Big Momma just squeezed out a dump in the shape of Mr. Potato Head.
Big Momma got sick of her son whining, so she bound and gagged him and locked him in the closet.
Big Momma is watching gay porn.
Big Momma just drank a case of beer and followed it with a percocet chaser.
Big Momma is hoping that none of her high school classmate fucks contact her here.
And so on, and so on. Oh the fun that I would have.
Another thing that Facebook shows is who you are friends with. For example, Tom and Sue are now friends. This drives me nuts. Who gives a shit, who gives a fuck?
It also can announce events others are attending. "Betty is attending a help me find my G spot seminar on Tuesday." You go girl. Please be sure to tell us when you find it.....
....cuz I'll be anxiously awaiting, while I stalk the pages of Facebook.
Technology. A curse and a blessing all in one neat, stalking package.
Or at least that is what I keep telling them.
In my constant efforts to mature, I have shifted my stalking efforts. See, I'm a big girl now! I am now a Facebook stalker. What is even more remarkable than this confession is the fact that I DO NOT have a Facebook account. That is where the stalking comes into play.
You see while in Chicago this summer visiting my friend T introduced me to The Facebook. Because I am a stalker, I memorized her username and password. You really can't trust me with anything. But, in my defense, T knows that I have been logging on as her and peeking around. During our weekly calls, we generally do a Facebook recap. There are a few high school friends that usually dominate the conversation. I guess not much has changed.....
I have thought many times about starting my own Facebook account, but I doubt that I ever will. Really, do I want to know what people from high school are up to? Not so much. The people that I want to keep in touch with, I already do. And I really have no desire to spark up a friendship with someone now, that I didn't even speak to in high school.
But what I do want to do is fuck with The Facebook. Understand that when I say want to do, I mean will never do. But I just can't control the evil part of my brain. Now just because I would never violate T's Facebook trust, doesn't mean I don't have a detailed laundry list of exactly what I would do with my own Facebook account.
Once logged into Facebook, you are encouraged to type something. There is a friendly box that states "What are you doing right now?" The something that you type there shows up on the pages of those you are friends with. In case you are not familiar, here are some examples of what people type:
Joe is waiting for his children to fall asleep.
Tammy is glad that tomorrow is Friday.
Billy just finished power washing his dog.
Blah, blah, blah. You get the idea. Here are some of my ideas:
Big Momma just squeezed out a dump in the shape of Mr. Potato Head.
Big Momma got sick of her son whining, so she bound and gagged him and locked him in the closet.
Big Momma is watching gay porn.
Big Momma just drank a case of beer and followed it with a percocet chaser.
Big Momma is hoping that none of her high school classmate fucks contact her here.
And so on, and so on. Oh the fun that I would have.
Another thing that Facebook shows is who you are friends with. For example, Tom and Sue are now friends. This drives me nuts. Who gives a shit, who gives a fuck?
It also can announce events others are attending. "Betty is attending a help me find my G spot seminar on Tuesday." You go girl. Please be sure to tell us when you find it.....
....cuz I'll be anxiously awaiting, while I stalk the pages of Facebook.
Technology. A curse and a blessing all in one neat, stalking package.
Who told him?
Looks like W found out about my Shocker Treatment.....
I'm pretty sure they took this picture in my honor....wishing me the best for my December shock therapy.
Am I the only one counting the days until this moron is no longer prez?
Thursday, November 6, 2008
I am getting THE SHOCKER and I have to say that I am shocked.
Anyone that has been in my presence for more than an hour will tell you the following:
I am shockingly cute.
And perky.
And I pee a lot.
If they started “Peeing with the Stars,” I would totally dominate. Eventually I would become a judge because I so rule and I promise you that I would go Paula Abdul on their asses. Would you expect any less?
Unfortunately there are no contests or prizes for the most pees in a day. You can trust me on this one; I have searched long and far for them.
A few weeks ago I have my quad-annual physical. Not only do I pee a lot, but I am really lazy. My Doctor recommended that I visit a urologist. We had tried solving my problem several months before by limiting my fluid intake and with drugs, but neither worked.
So today at 3:15, I had the pleasure of visiting a urologist. I should have known while I was filling out the paperwork that I was in trouble. I actually took some notes of the more interesting questions that the paperwork asked me to answer:
Do you need pressure against your vagina to have a bowel movement?
Um, what? Honey, I’m trying to take a shit….I need some help!!!
Do you lose urine without any warning?
Lose urine???? Honey, have you seen my urine? I can’t seem to find it….
Do you ever wet the bed while asleep?
In case you were wondering, my answer was no.
Do you have reduced self-esteem, depression, frustration or nervousness?
Who doesn’t?
Because I pee more than 20 times per day (TMI? If you think this is TMI, trust me, you should stop reading this right the fuck now!), I am in the severe category. They basically start at the top of possibilities and work their way down. There are many things that could be wrong, from an irritated bladder lining, neurological problems or maybe leprechauns may have taken up residence in my bladder. So, the doctor gave me a different drug to try and is having me come back in for a Urodynamic Study.
Sounds interesting. Very scholarly. A study. A dynamic one at that.
So on my way home, I was telling my sister what I had found out. She asked, “What does a Urodynamic study mean? What exactly will they be doing?” I told her what the doctor had told me: stop taking your anti-pee meds 2 days before the procedure and come with a full bladder. Easy peasy!
Then I remember that I was stealthily handed a piece of paper on my way out. I thought maybe this would have the answers and boy did it. Talk about TMI. Here is what it says of the procedure:
And I quote…
First you will be asked to void (can’t they just say pee) on a special commode (how official! I feel like a queen!) where we can measure how fast and how much you urinate. We will then place a catheter (ouchy) into your bladder, and one into your rectum. We will put tiny surface electrodes on either side of your anus. (????)
And it goes on and on…..the torture that is. McCain style.
So I’m wondering now, what does my ass hole have to do with this? Can’t they just leave it alone? Isn’t the pee hole catheter enough? And don’t even get me started with the tiny surface electrodes. ON MY ANUS.
Baby’s got back, but not enough to surrender to anal electrode torture.
I think I’m going to get a second opinion….
I am shockingly cute.
And perky.
And I pee a lot.
If they started “Peeing with the Stars,” I would totally dominate. Eventually I would become a judge because I so rule and I promise you that I would go Paula Abdul on their asses. Would you expect any less?
Unfortunately there are no contests or prizes for the most pees in a day. You can trust me on this one; I have searched long and far for them.
A few weeks ago I have my quad-annual physical. Not only do I pee a lot, but I am really lazy. My Doctor recommended that I visit a urologist. We had tried solving my problem several months before by limiting my fluid intake and with drugs, but neither worked.
So today at 3:15, I had the pleasure of visiting a urologist. I should have known while I was filling out the paperwork that I was in trouble. I actually took some notes of the more interesting questions that the paperwork asked me to answer:
Do you need pressure against your vagina to have a bowel movement?
Um, what? Honey, I’m trying to take a shit….I need some help!!!
Do you lose urine without any warning?
Lose urine???? Honey, have you seen my urine? I can’t seem to find it….
Do you ever wet the bed while asleep?
In case you were wondering, my answer was no.
Do you have reduced self-esteem, depression, frustration or nervousness?
Who doesn’t?
Because I pee more than 20 times per day (TMI? If you think this is TMI, trust me, you should stop reading this right the fuck now!), I am in the severe category. They basically start at the top of possibilities and work their way down. There are many things that could be wrong, from an irritated bladder lining, neurological problems or maybe leprechauns may have taken up residence in my bladder. So, the doctor gave me a different drug to try and is having me come back in for a Urodynamic Study.
Sounds interesting. Very scholarly. A study. A dynamic one at that.
So on my way home, I was telling my sister what I had found out. She asked, “What does a Urodynamic study mean? What exactly will they be doing?” I told her what the doctor had told me: stop taking your anti-pee meds 2 days before the procedure and come with a full bladder. Easy peasy!
Then I remember that I was stealthily handed a piece of paper on my way out. I thought maybe this would have the answers and boy did it. Talk about TMI. Here is what it says of the procedure:
And I quote…
First you will be asked to void (can’t they just say pee) on a special commode (how official! I feel like a queen!) where we can measure how fast and how much you urinate. We will then place a catheter (ouchy) into your bladder, and one into your rectum. We will put tiny surface electrodes on either side of your anus. (????)
And it goes on and on…..the torture that is. McCain style.
So I’m wondering now, what does my ass hole have to do with this? Can’t they just leave it alone? Isn’t the pee hole catheter enough? And don’t even get me started with the tiny surface electrodes. ON MY ANUS.
Baby’s got back, but not enough to surrender to anal electrode torture.
I think I’m going to get a second opinion….
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
They look like very kinky girrrrls....
...the kind you won't bring home to mutha!
Unless of course, she had just taken out a big life insurance policy in your name.
On Halloween the gang went down to the Short North for the Halloween Highball, where they actually served highballs. I didn't realize that highballs made it out of the 70s. Or maybe this was some weird gay reference that I don't know about. I'll have to ask my best gay.....
....who unfortunately ditched us for bigger (hopefully) and better things. Hey best gay, we did pour one out for you. And I think that C made out with a drag queen in your honor. It was kinda hot....
Anyway, just wanted to throw up a picture that I snapped, which proves that prostitution is alive and well in Cbus. I just wonder how much these two really rake in.....
Unless of course, she had just taken out a big life insurance policy in your name.
On Halloween the gang went down to the Short North for the Halloween Highball, where they actually served highballs. I didn't realize that highballs made it out of the 70s. Or maybe this was some weird gay reference that I don't know about. I'll have to ask my best gay.....
....who unfortunately ditched us for bigger (hopefully) and better things. Hey best gay, we did pour one out for you. And I think that C made out with a drag queen in your honor. It was kinda hot....
Anyway, just wanted to throw up a picture that I snapped, which proves that prostitution is alive and well in Cbus. I just wonder how much these two really rake in.....
....hopefully they still have day jobs.
Dem some skanky ass hoes, damn!
Sunday, November 2, 2008
He is so damn good, he can ride a bike with no handle bars
Today, along with 60,000 others, I went to see Barack downtown. For those of you who missed it, here is a summary of what he said:
Look at me, look at me hands in the air like it's good to be ALIVE and on top
And "I'm Proud to be an American"
Look at me. Look at me. Just called to say that it's good to be ALIVE, In such a small world
I know how to run a business
And I can make you wanna buy a product
Movers shakers and producers
Me and my friends understand the future
I see the strings that control the systems
I can lead a nation with a microphone
With a microphone
With a microphone
My reach is global
My tower secure
My cause is noble
My power is pure
I can ride my bike with no handlebars
No handlebars
No handlebars
OK, so maybe that's not EXACTLY what he said. I stole these words from a song by the Flowbots. I heard it on my way home and couldn't help but think that this should be Barack's theme song. Anything to get him away from that awful Bruce Springsteen.....
And I'm pretty sure, even though I am very persuasive, that I couldn't get him to agree to use "Baby's Got Back" for his campaign song. Al Gore, maybe. But not Barack.
But I have to tell you that this man can lead a nation with a microphone. I saw it today. In the emotion of the crowd, in the passion seen on their faces. It was quite an amazing experience, one that I won't forget for a long time. The fact that one man brought out people from all walks of life, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, just to hear him speak and lend their support is SUPER DUPER AWESOME.
I just now hope that all of those moved by his speech get out there and vote.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Ho-lloween
Poles and holes.
The exact words my BIL uses to describe Halloween. And I have to say, after visiting several costume stores, he is right.
Halloween is an excuse for men to see holes and women to see poles. Are you picking up what I am putting down? If not, you should leave this site immediately and douse yourself in holy water. Holy water that has been blessed by the pope. Actually, if you stay, you should still probably douse yourself in holy water anyway, just to be safe. I hear it is like chicken soup for the soul. Oprah told me so.
A few weeks ago one of my girlfriends and I went to a Halloween shop, hoping to get inspired. We knew that we were going down to the Short North for the big Halloween partaaaay this year, but at that time, had no idea what our costumes would be. And I'll tell you that neither one of us were divinely inspired. We were shocked at the choices.
Slutty nurse
Slutty witch
Paris Hilton. No adjectives required.
Slutty zombie.
Slutty Freddie Kruger. Don't you know guys did chicks with long nails? I blame Alanis Morissette.
Slutty slut
Slutty Pippy Longstockings
Slutty sorcerer
Sexy kitten
And on and on and on. What would Pope John II think?
So with empty hands we walked out of the store. Neither of us was down with the slutty vibe. Even if we were, neither of us was down for spending $60 on a costume. Everyone knows that slut costumes, because of their lack of fabric, should be at least 30% off.
So what am I going to be for Halloween?
Simple.
Big Momma in a pink wig. That is all I have the energy for. Plus, I've always wanted pink hair, cut into a short bob. And my hole will not be showing. Just in case you were wondering.....
Happy Halloween people! Don't eat too much candy!!!
The exact words my BIL uses to describe Halloween. And I have to say, after visiting several costume stores, he is right.
Halloween is an excuse for men to see holes and women to see poles. Are you picking up what I am putting down? If not, you should leave this site immediately and douse yourself in holy water. Holy water that has been blessed by the pope. Actually, if you stay, you should still probably douse yourself in holy water anyway, just to be safe. I hear it is like chicken soup for the soul. Oprah told me so.
A few weeks ago one of my girlfriends and I went to a Halloween shop, hoping to get inspired. We knew that we were going down to the Short North for the big Halloween partaaaay this year, but at that time, had no idea what our costumes would be. And I'll tell you that neither one of us were divinely inspired. We were shocked at the choices.
Slutty nurse
Slutty witch
Paris Hilton. No adjectives required.
Slutty zombie.
Slutty Freddie Kruger. Don't you know guys did chicks with long nails? I blame Alanis Morissette.
Slutty slut
Slutty Pippy Longstockings
Slutty sorcerer
Sexy kitten
And on and on and on. What would Pope John II think?
So with empty hands we walked out of the store. Neither of us was down with the slutty vibe. Even if we were, neither of us was down for spending $60 on a costume. Everyone knows that slut costumes, because of their lack of fabric, should be at least 30% off.
So what am I going to be for Halloween?
Simple.
Big Momma in a pink wig. That is all I have the energy for. Plus, I've always wanted pink hair, cut into a short bob. And my hole will not be showing. Just in case you were wondering.....
Happy Halloween people! Don't eat too much candy!!!
Monday, October 27, 2008
Fool in the rain
I am a total idiot for buying Halloween candy 5 days before the big day. It is half gone and the circumference of my ass has already doubled. Hopefully it will not experience exponential growth.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Dirty little secret
Well, here I am. Almost nine on Sunday night. Work is done. Check. Exercised today? Check. Jr.'s homework? Check. Now I just need to fall asleep.
Last night I struggled to stay awake for the OSU game. I made the sacrifice for my good friend Jim Tressel and his boys. Unfortunately my encouraging words weren't heard. It was a sad night in the Big Momma household. I even had on my Buckeye socks. Sometimes, you just can't do enough. Buckeye shirt? Check. Red bra? Check, check. Red undies? Check, check, check. I suited up but spent the game on the bench. Ok, really, the couch. But promise not to tell Tressell. It will be our little secret.
Back to tonight and trying to get some sleep. Not going to be an easy one. Too much going on upstairs. I wish there was an on/off switch. Actually, I probably don't because it would certainly spend more time in the off position. And then I would need to be fed thru a tube and someone would have to change my diaper. I don't think that anyone is up for the task.
What am I trying to say here? Lots. But it just can't seem to get it into the form of words or sentences. And forget about punctuation. That is a whole nother football game. And there is a lot going on right now. A lot that I can do nothing about. Other than hope it all works out for the best.
But here is a question for you married folk: If someone tells you a secret, do they assume that said secret will be shared with your spouse? I guess I always assume that to be so. Unless of course, you tell your sister that you think her husband cheats during tennis matches. She certainly wouldn't share that. Probably because she knows I am right. Just joshing Nill....NOT.
But what if said secret is a juicy one. A secret that secretly is good news. A secret that doesn't deserve to be a secret in the first place? A secret that is a blessing in disguise? Have you ever typed a word so much (ie, secret) that you question if you are spelling it right? That is where I am right now.
Questioning. I know the who, what, where and when, just not the WHY.
I wish I had all of the answers. Or at least a magic wand to make everything as right as it deserves to be.
To close, some lyrics:
Beyond my control - we all need control. I need control - we all need control.
I am the Modren Man - secret secret -
I've got a secret. Who hides behind a mask - secret secret -
I've got a secret So no one else can see - secret secret - I've got a secret
A prize to anyone who can give me the song and band. No cheating of course. There are no secrets here......
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