I need an adult

Have you ever had something happen to you and you immediately look around for an adult to help you fix it? And in looking around for an adult, you realize that you are an adult, and all your friends are adults and yet, you still need an adult. A more adulty adult. That was me earlier today. That’s still me right now, I’m just… just trying to give myself a little break from combing through my dogs fur and my own hair for ticks. Yep, ticks. Let’s back up, shall we?

I decided to take my pups on long hike this morning. It was gorgeous out, we ran into a ton of other pups, I closed the Move loop in my Apple Watch, it was a really great hike.

On the drive home, the smallest pup sat in my lap and got a little 1:1 TLC while the big pups tripped all over each other in the backseat, struggling to get their heads out the open windows. I was scratching the small pup’s ears when I felt… something. I pinched the something and pulled it out from her fur- IT WAS A TICK. A red, squirming tick. GAH. I immediately tossed it out the window and started scratching her with a purpose. ANOTHER TICK WAS FOUND.

I love my dogs, I really do, but I have a lot of them. Think of the person in your life who has the most dogs. Thinking of them? Okay, now just accept that I have more dogs than that person. Because I do. And because I have so many dogs, I can’t always afford to buy the fancy, expensive, preventative medicines that I know I should buy but… I don’t have the extra cash floating around for. Queue poor Dog Mom guilt. Anyways. My dogs are not currently taking preventative tick/flea medication and I just found two ticks on the small one. NOOOOO. This is some worst nightmare shit right here.

I sped home, put the big dogs in the backyard, and tossed the small dog in the bath. I found three more ticks. Five ticks total on the small dog.

The rest of the dogs each got their turn in the bath and ultimately, the tick count ended at twelve. Oh wait- Thirteen because I found a tick in my own hair. Literally every cell in my body is itching now. I must look like a crackhead furiously scratching at myself, closely examining my nails for tick remnants. It’s awful, really. But it gets a little worse.

With all of the dogs bathed and dried, I armed myself with a comb to hunt through their fur for any tick that managed to hold on for dear life and not drown in my tub. I went into my bedroom where small dog always sulks post-bath and found her in my bed ALONG WITH TWO MORE TICKS. Seriously? What the fuck?!

So the bedding got torn off my mattress and is currently in the washer which is set at the “High Soil” level. I furiously vacuumed my bedroom and just spent the last, oh I don’t know, hour? two hours? combing at my dogs’ fur and intermittently my own hair.

What do I do now? Seriously. There has to be an adulty adult amongst you. Someone please tell me what to do. Everything itches. I can’t stop picturing red ticks with their gross little legs squirming their way through my carpets plotting to jump into all the fur/hair that this household contains. And believe me, there is a lot of fur/hair in here.

 

Advertisements

Social Media Gems

I have something random I want to share with y’all-

Recently, I was doing a social media deep dive (we’ve all been there, don’t deny it) and I happened to discover that an ex-boyfriend of mine is gay. I’m not sure if I should write “now” at the end of that sentence or not- I recently discovered that an ex-boyfriend of mine is gay now– because I’m a firm believer in the “Born That Way” theory however, I swear that he certainly did not seem gay when he and I were together. Wink wink, nudge nudge.

I remember when I first spotted him at a frat party- Shirtless for some reason, a little sweaty, a lot drunk, and somehow incredibly attractive to the college version of myself. Shudder. We ended up almost getting arrested later that night when a cop discovered us straddling a fence, buck-naked, trying to get into an apartment complex’s pool. Trespassing, public nudity, underage drinking, public intoxication… It could have been bad. Really bad. Thankfully, the cop found some humor in the whole situation (I’m sure my nakedness helped) and let us off with a stern verbal warning. We went on to have ourselves a fun but short-lived romance anddd now, years later, he has an incredibly attractive boyfriend who he proudly parades all over social media. Side note: I’d probably do the same, his man is gorgeous. Like, gorgeous.

So, he makes two. Two of my ex-boyfriends are now living their lives as openly gay men. Two.

The other ex was a high school boyfriend of mine. He lost his virginity to me in the backseat of my 1998 Nissan Maxima which was kinda standard, I guess, for teenagers with stay-at-home moms but wait, it gets better…

My car was in the parking lot of my work and I was on my lunch break. I worked at an Italian restaurant which meant I constantly smelled like garlic. Yummy. Oh also, it was summertime which means it was freakin’ hot.

So imagine this poor kid trying to figure out the mechanics of sexual intercourse in the boiling hot backseat of his garlicky girlfriend’s mid-sized sedan when, I swear this is true, a family of like 7 freaking kids pulled into the parking spot next to us. See? I told you it got better.

In anticipation of our oh-so-romantic tryst, we had moved my car to the very, very back of the parking lot for, you know, privacy (it’s okay, you can laugh at the high school version of me, I know I do) and for some damn reason, this ginormous mom-van decided to park right next to us. Out of all the open parking spots actually near the restaurant, out of all the available spots in the back of the parking lot, she decided to park in the spot immediately next to ours. Sigh.

Each one of her 7 million kids stared at us, awkwardly frozen in place, as they poured out of her van. She then had her own opportunity to stare when she walked past the trunk of my car. Yes, it was as bad as it sounds. No, it did not make us change our minds. Despite being caught by Snow White and her 7 dwarfs, we proceeded to continue with the horrific production that was him losing his virginity. (Okay, she had like 4 kids, but whatever, I like to use a good embellishment here and there, sue me)

So, yeah, that’s how the poor guy lost his V-card anddd now, per his Facebook, he’s dating a middle-aged man. 60ish is the new middle-aged, right?

I don’t really mind that I have two gay ex-boyfriends, by the way. I realize that it must seem that way because I wrote a whole post about it… I have a girlfriend with just one gay ex and she took that news hard. She acted like it was some direct attack to her femininity, her abilities in the sack, etc. Oh yes, her reaction was dramatic. Many drunk tears were spilled over that discovery. Me? I don’t really care. At all. I’m happy they’re happy. Well, I guess I care a little because yes, here I am dedicating time and typed words to the matter but… whatever. The discovery was a little funny moment of déjà vu that I felt like sharing because… sharing is caring?

How I became a Yelper

One of my good girlfriends is African American, one of her favorite pastimes is teasing me about stereotypical “white people shit” and my #basicbitch lifestyle. It’s all in good fun though; she’s from Connecticut, loves rosé, married a blue-eyed, blond-haired God-on-Earth, and starts each day by getting a Venti from Starbucks in her Lululemon leggings which have never, ever seen a yoga class. She barely has any room to talk/judge if you catch my drift… *winking emoji*

Anyways.

The other day she sent me this meme on Instagram-

She usually hits the nail on the head but I could only marginally relate to this one. I’ve only ever gone on one Yelp review rager. Buckle up, y’all, because I’m about to tell you all about it.

A group of my girlfriends and I were on a quintessential girls trip having the time of our lives. Thankfully, we travel well together and all tend to explore/drink/eat/sleep at similar intensity levels so I’m not covering up any dramatic blowouts with my cliched use of of the phrase “time of our lives”. We really were having a blast on this trip and thankfully, everything was going to plan. My tale starts as we were coming up on the last leg of our trip which involved a change in our hotel…

We rolled up to our new hotel and were immediately shaken down for an unexpected $20 parking fee. That made for an annoying reception but whatever. We entered our room to find that it didn’t have the additional amenities we paid for and didn’t even have the basic amenities one would expect from a hotel room (think: towels, soap, comforters on the beds). A call to the Front Desk and an hours’ time resolved those issues. Fine. Once that was resolved and we were all showered and snuggled in our beds, we popped open a bottle of wine, worked out last minute details for the next few days’ adventures, and fell asleep.

All night long, I heard the steady, hum of something vibrating. My sleepy brain wrote it off as a phone being blown up by one of our boyfriends (we are all notoriously bad about checking in with our other halves while on our girls trips, whoops). Come morning, one of my girlfriends immediately demanded to know whose BF was flipping out all damn night. I was innocent, obviously she was too, and it turned out that the others were as well. Hmm.

We checked the bathroom for malfunctioning bulbs, pushed our ears up against the electrical outlets, nothing revealed itself as the source of the hum. We had started to peek under the beds and furniture when I spotted the culprit- A small, black cylindrical-ish item hiding underneath the curtains. Me being me, a person who often acts before fully assessing and/or understanding a situation, grabbed the item and proudly presented it to everyone. It took me all of .027 seconds to realize I was holding someone’s forgotten vibrator that was still vibrating away like the Little Vibrator That Could.

I shrieked and threw it onto one of the beds while my girls dissolved into laughter. I washed my hands before stomping my way down to the Front Desk where I demanded to speak with the Manager who was conveniently not on site that day. The gal at the Front Desk was dead-set convinced that the vibrator belonged to one of us because, you know, it’s totally normal for women to bring their sex toys with them on girls trips where they are sharing beds/space with other women… The gal simply refused to accept that one of her Housekeepers missed a still-functioning vibrator when cleaning up after the last guest. She maintained that opinion even after I explained that my room was missing almost all of the basic amenities and was clearly not properly attended to when we were checked into it. Hrmph.

I demanded a new room, which she hassled me over but eventually conceded to, and a refund for the previous night, which she said the absent Manager would need to talk with me about. I left my number for the Manager, who she swore would call me later that day, and returned to my friends to move them into our new room which, yes, we thoroughly checked before settling in.

The Manager didn’t call me that day, wasn’t on-site the next day, and didn’t return the voicemails I started to leave on the number the Front Desk provided me.

You guys, I found a still-operating SEX TOY in my hotel room. Obviously, Housekeeping did not properly attend to the room prior to our arrival. Did we sleep on someone else’s post-masturbation sheets? PROBABLY. Were we pissed about that? YES. And did it make us that much angrier to have those concerns casually swept aside and completely ignored by the hotel? HELL YES.

So I did what apparently all pissed off white people do, I went on a negative review rager. I posted on Yelp, Google Reviews, Facebook, anything I could think of and sent the screenshots of all my reviews in an email to Corporate who also ignored me…

Is there a moral to this story? Mmmm I guess not. Don’t forgot to check that you’ve packed your sex toys before you leave your hotel room? That might be it…

I think my favorite part of my post-vibrator-discovery conversation with the Front Desk was me telling the woman that I had left the vibrator on the bed, still vibrating away, and that she might want to warn the housekeeper assigned to that room.

Her: You don’t want to take it with you?

Me: Are you asking me if I want to take someone else’s vibrator home with me?

Her: Yes.

Me: No. Absolutely not.

Her: That’s fine. Could you please turn it off before you leave the room?

Me: Absolutely not, I’m not touching it again.

Her: It’d be considerate towards your Housekeeper to do so…

Me: *turns and walks away*

Penis(es)

Gosh, I am really bad at this whole blogging thing! I’ve decided to claim that it’s difficult for me to be consistent about blogging because I have an office job which means I spend all damn day staring at a computer and as much as I want to blog about the craziness that is my life (and believe me, I do) it’s really difficult to force myself to sit back down at a computer after 5pm and start to do exactly what I had just been doing for the last 8 hours…

Whinebitchmoan. Whine.

Anyways, here I am, blogging. Why? Because I need to share with y’all that I saw three penises in one day. THREE MALE GENITALIA IN ONE DAMN DAY. And none belonged to Boyfriend… which is actually quite sad now that I think about it…. Sorry, I got momentarily dickpressed. Get it? Depressed but over a di- You know what? Sorry, back to the point-

I saw three unwanted, unrequested penises in one day. And yes, I do know that if any of you are Tinder-ing or Grindr-ing, that’s just a normal day for you. I’ve been there, I know how quickly the dick pics start to flow in. At first it’s pretty shocking but then, in a weird way, you get used to it… But! I’m (thankfully) not Tinder-ing anymore so three random penises in one day was kinda a big deal for me.

Penis 1:

The first penis of the day was seen while I was waiting for my morning train into work. I was standing on the platform, freezing my butt off, casually looking around (because I had already used up all my data for the month, curse you Verizon!) when I noticed a pair of feet peeking out from behind a utility box. The feet started to move, being stretched outwards by two bare legs. The legs bent and stood, revealing a naked crotch and I’m assuming eventually a torso and a head but I’m not 100% sure because I couldn’t look at anything past the GIANT PENIS basically making eye contact with me. My god, it was huge. And scary looking. Sorry men but not all of you have attractive penises. I know you all think you do but I can confidently tell you that you are all biased and as a self-professed penis connoisseur, I can confirm that there are some really scary, really ugly penises out there and that this was one of them. I think I went into a temporary state of shock because I stood there staring at that penis for longer than I care to admit. Long enough to make its owner realize it was out and about in the world and pull his pants up…

Penis 2:

The second penis emerged while I was on the train, all warm and cozy in my seat, not at all expecting to see another penis. Buuut I did.

The second penis’ owner entered my train car about halfway through my ride, his eyes were quickly shifting from passenger to passenger, assessing their level of consciousness. Honestly, I thought he was looking for a bag to snatch off of a passed out passenger’s lap. Nope! He was trying to determine how many people were awake and thus able to bear witness to his next action-

He turned towards the wall of the train, pushing his crotchal region even closer to the wall, unzipped his pants, whipped out his dick, and peed. Yup. Peed right then and there. All over the wall. Because, who likes public restrooms anyways?! Am I right?? Apparently, I am.

Penis 3:

I managed to make it through my work day without seeing another penis which really speaks to the quality of my coworkers, I guess. Penis #3 presented itself on my trip home.

Picture this: I’m driving, singing along to some Blink 182 (PS they’re coming to Vegas y’all! I AM SO EXCITED TO GO SEE THEM AND RELIVE MY TEENS MINUS ALL THE HORMONES AND ANGSTY ANGST). I’m driving in the slow lane which really means nothing during Rush Hour, I more wanted to inform you that I was in the right-most lane, immediately next to the emergency lane. A car 3-4 cars ahead of me decided to slow and pull over into the emergency lane which confused all the commuters behind him and caused a temporary, mini traffic jam. So obviously, when I drove past his car, I turned to glare at him and give him the dirty eye for adding 46 seconds to my commute.

Instead of seeing the driver experiencing car issues, animatedly talking on his phone, etc I saw the driver peeing out of his front seat. Yup. He was just sitting there with his door open, legs spread slightly (I’m assuming to avoid splashing onto his shoes), pants unzipped, dick out, peeing. Just like that. With obviously no shame in his game. Just him and his peeing penis directly facing rush hour traffic. No big deal.

Honestly, it made me a little jealous. You don’t even know how many times I have unbuttoned my pants in an absolutely desperate attempt to relieve some of the pressure on my bladder and NOT pee all over myself and my car. There are so many times where I would have happily thrown modesty and shame into the wind if I could have done the same thing as Penis 3’s owner. Us ladies have it pretty rough sometimes, IMO.

Mom’s Spaghetti

Hey y’all! Happy 2018. How is everyone? I thought about this blog when I was at the grocery store the other day (further explanation to come). I know I know, it’s been a minute since I’ve blogged. I got hit with a little life, the stomach flu, and some good ol’ fashioned lack-of-motivation. But here I am! Back on WordPress and excited to catch up on all my favorite blogs.

Anyways.

I have a story to share. WARNING: It contains one bad word but don’t worry, I’ll * a vowel so that it’s like I didn’t really write the bad word and technically, I didn’t say the bad word so you can’t get mad at me if you’re offended by the word.

And no, the title really doesn’t relate to the story at all. I won’t be talking about Eminem or my mother’s cooking, I just had no idea what to call this post. I’m willing to edit my title if anyone has any suggestions!

Okay, story time. Picture this:

I’m at the grocery store in the canned food aisle, I am systematically working my way through the shelves looking for roasted corn kernels. Whole kernels, sweet corn, store brand corn… “Now that is the most boring cart I have ever seen.” I pause my progress and peel my eyes away from the sea of canned corn and turn towards the unexpected voice.

A teeny, tiny black woman, probably pushing 70 years old, was peering into my shopping cart. She was rotating cans, flicking open produce bags, sifting through my selections with a look of sheer disappointment plastered across her face.

I took a fresh look at my groceries- Chicken breast, ground turkey, bell peppers, eggs, canned kidney beans, etc. You know, the basics. I somewhat sheepishly shrugged off her displeasure and offered up the explanation that I was attempting to follow The Zone diet. I know, I didn’t owe her any sort of explanation but I’m that person who shamefully sneaks a candy bar onto the conveyer belt when waiting for my turn to pay, praying the people behind me in line don’t see and judge me for grabbing chocolate and hiding it under my brussel sprouts bag. I care, far too much, about what other people think *shrugs*

The woman clicked her tongue at me and asked if she could speak frankly but didn’t wait even half a second before proceeding.

“Sugar, you look white but I can tell you got a little n*gga in you and it’s time you started cooking like it.”

I blinked.

“Let’s go honey, I’m gonna teach you a thing or two.”

She hip-checked me away from my shopping cart and started pushing it out of the canned vegetable aisle, leaving me behind, slack-jawed and confused. I watched her sashay away with my cart for a few seconds before determining that I was not on a hidden camera show and that my cart really was being commandeered by an old lady. I quickly grabbed a can of store brand corn, that will have to do, and scuttled off after my groceries.

I caught the woman just as she turned into the “ethic food” aisle. (Yes, that’s actually the name of an aisle in my grocery store.) “Come on baby, catch up. You’re going to be making slow cooker chicken with rice and empanadas this week.” Right. She started piling herbs and spices and those little jars of something-or-other that always cost like $12.95 each into my cart while rattling off measurements, when to put which spice into the slow cooker, and the secret to making the perfect empanada shell.

As the shock of the situation started to wear off, I realized that I had a real opportunity on my hands. You see folks, I am a horrible cook. Truly atrocious. I try, I really do try, but I just have no skillz in the kitchen. This woman, however, was clearly a culinary genius. The ease with which she rattled off food pairings and seasoning combinations and different cooking techniques was incredible. So, I whipped out my phone and took notes. She ate.that.up. She was so excited to be helping me- A captive, eager, (hungry) student.

I now have a cabinet chock full of interesting herbs and spices with which, I know how to make a whopping two different meals. Womp womp.  

My 1st Black Eye

Sex. Most of us are having it from time to time with someone we love, or like, or (hopefully) find marginally attractive. I don’t see the topic of sex being breached often by the good people of WordPress. I mean, maybe I’m just in the wrong circle and there actually are bloggers out there gettin’ down with the nitty gritty but if not, I understand why it would be a hard topic to broach. This is a public forum and sex is a fairly private matter. Moms and brothers could be your followers. Maybe we’re still seeing the longstanding effects of our (American) society being built upon Puritanical values and it’s still too taboo of a subject to really dive into. There are many, many reasons to not blog about getting your rocks off. I, however, haven’t told any friends/family about this blog and am using fake names so there’s no need to censor my musings for fear of giving Grandma a heart attack or any of Boyfriend’s friends too much information about our bedroom activities. I have no shame in my game and love to tell friends about my sexcapades and to hear about theirs. And unfortunately (or fortunately) for you folks, I think this is the perfect place to share a few semi-sordid life details.

This post, as you may have guessed by now, will be about sex. Don’t worry, I won’t paint too graphic of a picture (mainly because I’m not that skilled of a writer). There won’t be any pictures or gifs that you will need to quickly scroll past to hide from any innocent soul passing by your computer screen. You won’t leave my blog feeling like you need to shower or go hug your mom. With that being said, I am proceeding to the tale.

This story takes place a few years ago when I was fresh off the heels of a major, soul-crushing breakup. The relationship that had just crashed and burned had lasted 4 long years. The breakup left me barely standing, fairly emotionally damaged, and craving some strange (if you know what I mean). I was all over the dating scene- Online dating, hitting on bar boys, flirting with gym boys, basically no boy was safe. Gawd what a time to be alive! And then of course, because life likes to shake stuff up on you just when you get too set on following a certain path, cue a relationship.

Matt- Enter stage left

Matt was a drunken one night stand who turned into a two night stand, then a three night stand, and then a whole 8 months passed in a blink of an eye. Matt was hott with a double-t. Short blonde hair, bright blue eyes, 6 pack. Need I say more? Uhm yes, yes I do. Matt was easy going and fun and my god, was he sensitive. Could you imagine? An attractive man who didn’t mind talking about emotions? Jackpot!

The second best part about Matt? The sex.

I’ve always been a rough and tumble sort in the bedroom but Matt, well, he was next level and I was more than willing to rise to the occasion. We tried a good number of those 50 different shades of grey. One thing I had always wanted to try involved slapping. Not butts, faces. And by faces, I meant mine, not his.

After a serious discussion about abuse concerns, repeated confirmations of my consent, an agreement on a safe word, Matt obliged and we got started.

Matt delivered his first attempt a few minutes into our sex session. His first slap was tentative and soft. Lame. I demanded a harder slap and was semi-pleased with his 2^nd attempt. The 2^nd slap must have stirred something within him because after a few more minutes, he delivered a 3^rd even harder slap. Yes. His 4^th though, now that one was a doozy, it made my ears ring and my eyes water. I used our safe word immediately after #4 and we proceeded to good ol’ fashioned sexing.

Matt stayed the night, as he usually did, and woke me up in the morning like he always did. However that next morning, I wasn’t woken up with the usual cup of steaming coffee, oh no. I was woken up with a shrill (as shrill as a man’s voice can get) “Ho…ly shit!”

Over the course of the night, my right eye had swollen completely shut. The area around my eye was a gorgeous blend of blues and purples and the eye itself, when forcibly pried open, was dotted with burst blood vessels. Matt had given me my very first black eye.

Matt paced around my room in a flurry of panic; he alternated between visiting me, still lying in bed, to gently stroke my temple and pacing in the far, far corner of my room with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and thus, safely tucked away from me. I could just see “I’m going to jail” strobing through his mind.

I tried to act cool but I was panicking internally. I had an interview on Monday! You can’t interview with a damn sex injury on your face! Well you can but things can’t possibly go that well after you admit that the black eye is a result of your boyfriend trying out one of your deep dark sexual fantasies and that he put a little too much oomph into his attempt at satisfying you. “Oh uhm well, we’ll get back to you within a few days about our uhhh decision…?”

After assuring and reassuring Matt that I wasn’t upset and wouldn’t be reporting him to the authorities, we Googled how to heal a black eye ASAP. Frozen bags of peas, warm compresses, gently rolling out the blood, binging on foods high in Vitamin C, etc. We tried it all. Seriously, every internet-recommended home remedy was tried though unfortunately, as Monday morning loomed closer and closer, it became apparent that heavy MAC makeup was needed as was a solid cover story.

Introducing- Chance

Matt had a Golden Retriever, Chance, who was just massive, like in the 97th percentile for size. Chance was a sweet, mellow boy but he needed to take the fall for us. We decided to claim that I lost miserably in a game of tug-of-war with Chance. When lying, especially when you are plagued with a guilty conscience like me, it’s best to KISS- Keep it simple, stupid.

Monday came and everyone on the interview panel struggled to maintain eye contact with me but thankfully they all accepted my cover story unquestioningly. I’m sorry for ruining your reputation, Chance. And when I got the job, the hiring manager called to say that she was “going to take a chance” on me. Hardy har har. 

Thrown Off

Picture this-

I’m making my way downtown, walking fast, faces pass, and I’m hom… Wait. No, that’s not right. It’s 6am in the freaking morning and I’m making my way downtown, trudging slowly, completely alone, and I’m heading into work. Yeah, that’s it! I’m walking towards my usual bus stop where I will sit all alone on the stop’s bench and await the glow of my bus’s headlights cutting through the morning fog.

Well this particular morning, I reached my bus stop and there was a guy sitting in my usual spot on the bench. Rude! I opted to stand awkwardly near the bench instead of encroach on his personal space and plop down next to him on the bench. I pulled out my phone and started to peruse through my social media when I heard an unexpected “Hello!” come from my left. I turned and no one was there. I glanced at the guy on the bench; he seemed completely engrossed by a man across the street who was having an animated argument with a tree. I turned to my left again, still no one there. I scanned the nearby office building for someone peaking out an open window, nothing. Oookay, back to Instagram, another one of my college friends is engaged. I gnashed my teeth and liked the photo. I am oh so freaking happy for you, Madison, and not at all bitter or jealous of your Tiffany’s sparkler.

“Good morning!”

My head snapped left and I scanned the vast emptiness next to me. Nothing. I looked to the man on the bench; his brow was furrowed with puzzlement, the man he was watching across the street had begun to gently nuzzle the tree he was just shrieking at. I am losing my mind.

“How are you?”

I spun to my left and then continued to spin through a full 360 degrees for good measure. It was still just me and bench boy and the tree hating/loving man.

Thoroughly freaked out, I spat “OKAY WHAT THE FUCK?!” out loud. Bench boy chuckled and tore his eyes away from the man and his tree. “I’m sorry if that scared you, I was practicing throwing my voice.” And then, “See?” rang out from behind me.

Uhm. Okay. *exasperated sigh and bitchy eye roll* Super cool talent and all but 6am in the freaking is just too early to be hearing disembodied voices. Warn a gal next time!

 

Sagging (fashion)

Can someone speak for a particular subset of the male gender and explain the whole “pants sagging” concept to me? I just… I just don’t understand the appeal behind that fashion trend. I really thought it’d die out in the early 2000s like pocketless, low rise jeans and the whale tail but evidently, I was wrong.

So much wrong

And to clarify, I don’t mean men letting their Levi’s dip an inch or two below their hips. No no. I’m talking about having their whole damn ham hock out or somehow balancing their waistband just above the knee. I’m talking about looking like they stuffed both feet through their jeans, gave a slight tug upwards and then immediately ran out of energy and fucks and decided to leave the house despite the fact that they didn’t finish getting dressed. Yeah you in the black faded jeans with the red plaid boxers, you ain’t dressed bro, you’re still getting dressed. Finish the job already. Pull those pants up and over that booty hump, you can do it, I have faith in you.

One of the many times I’ve wanted to ask Beiber, “Whyyy?”

I’ve been waiting for a guy to admit just how inconvenient it is to walk bowlegged with one hand essentially glued to the front of his jeans all damn day. I just want to grab a dude and be like, “Come here kid, come here. Let me let you in on a little secret- There’s this nifty device called a belt that’ll hold your pants at whatever height your heart desires AND will free that hand right up! Could you imagine how much you could accomplish with TWO hands?!”

Or, I don’t wanna blow anyone’s mind or anything but, there’s also this crazy concept of buying jeans in a size that’s an inch or two from your natural waist size. Doing so wouldn’t require the need to match a belt to your shoes AND would still eliminate the penguin shuffle and the internal struggle over deciding which hand gets to be productive and which hand is stuck babysitting your pants. Incredible!

Now, don’t misunderstand my intention, folks. I’m not calling for an Urkel revival, no no. I totally understand that it’s comfortable to give yourself a few extra inches and to not batten down the hatches right across your hip bones but I’m getting real tired of seeing men’s asses every damn day when they’re wearing perfectly good pants that could easily perform the duty they were created for. Real. Tired. I didn’t put in my contacts this morning so that I could see a plethora of butts all damn day with 20/20 vision.

Sigh.

My therapist told me that I can’t control others’ actions and that I need to learn how to let things go so with that in mind *deep breath and shout out to Dr. Yates* I’d like to make a few simple requests for those who insist on sagging their pants to consider:

Please wear underwear. Boxers, briefs,  tighty whities. I don’t care. Just wear some sort of underwear. The other day, a man sat down next to me on the bus and his bare ass was what made contact with the bus seat. Yes, a hairy man butt was un-underweared, un-pantsed, and on a seat that unsuspecting women and child and properly dressed men use day in and day out.

And! Because that previous request apparently needs to be made-

Please wear clean and/or unstained underwear. I’ve seen too many boxers with something brown caked along the middle seam for me to not make this particular plea.

And now, I’d like to use this paragraph to thank the men who don’t sag their pants and I’d like to thank the men who are now considering correcting their ways. Y’all are the real MVPs.

Strangers

“God I am so tired.” Startled by the unexpected declaration cutting through the silence of the train, I glanced over at the woman sitting next to me. There was no iPhone smooshed to the side of her face, no Bluetooth nestled into her ear. She was talking to me. Okay lady, I’ll bite. “Oh I know”, I commiserated, “Monday mornings are just the worst.” She looked puzzled by my response. Okay, commiseration was the wrong way to go. Noted. “No honey, I got hardly any sleep last night. My boyfriend kept me up all night.” My eyes reflexively widened before flitting down to the massive diamond ring glittering from her left hand. Noticing my not-so-furtive glance, she wiggled her fingers at me, “Open marriage.”

Alright pause, let’s just pause for one moment. I didn’t know this woman from Adam. Or Eve, for that matter. We’d been sitting next to each other on that train for all of two stops which equates to 10ish minutes and yet there she was, about to tell me all about her life. A total and complete stranger was poised and ready to dive in and share the honest, dirty details of her relationships and sex lives with me. Strange, right? Even stranger, I was not the least bit surprised.

Moments like that happen to me all the time. For whatever reason, strangers hone in on me amongst the sea of other unfamiliar folks and decide to talk to me and share and then overshare with me. These chatty strangers never stop at simple weather-related small talk, oh no, they like to jump into the heavy topics with me.

Once, while waiting in a moderately long Macy’s line around Christmas time, the woman in front of me turned around to chat. Her opening line was “I have cancer so…” One time, while at the grocery store hunting for the cheapest box of butter, I locked eyes with the woman next to me who was also perusing the butter selection. Attempting to breeze over the awkwardness of our oddly intense eye contact, I hrmphed out loud and asked her how butter could possibly be $6 a box.  She shrugged and replied that she doesn’t know why she even buys butter, she never lets herself eat it. Anddd 10 minutes later, I knew every detail of her long and painful struggle with anorexia.

Strangers choose to talk to me and to confide in me and I cannot figure out why.

I’m average looking (mildly cute but not the intimidating kind of girl-next-door-who-could-possibly-be-a-secret-porn-star cute), my eyes aren’t always glued to my phone, I’ll return a soft smile if a stranger sends one my way. I guess those factors make me appear approachable but how these people make the leap from “approachable stranger” to “confidant” is beyond me. I’ve decided to chalk it up as one of the great mysteries of the world like what really happened in Area 51 or is Bigfoot real or the origin of my leg bruises. Side note- Yes, I WedMD’ed my bruises once and ended up at the doctor’s office the very next day demanding a full blood panel. Don’t worry, I’m fine, just clumsy and forgetful.

Anyways, let’s get back to my original story.

The woman told me that she and her husband have had an open relationship since before they were even married. She said, and I quote, they have “too much love to offer to just each other” and told me, quite honestly, that their sexual appetites simply cannot be satiated by “just” each other. Over the years, they have each had a slew of relationships providing them varying physical and emotional benefits that their spouse could not sufficiently provide. She told me about a past boyfriend who would “bend her over anywhere” and about her current boyfriend who refers to her as his muse and writes poems so beautiful and touching that she literally teared up as she read me his latest piece.

We rode the train and talked together for about 30 minutes before it finally pulled into her stop. Her goodbye to me was as casual as her hello, if you could even call it that. As she waltzed out of the train car, the folks sitting within ear-shot sent me openly shocked looks to which I answered with a shrug of my shoulders- Just another normal conversation for me.

Everyone Poops

I have a very small bladder. It’s cruel really, don’t even get me started about how much I suffer as a result of this damn pea-sized bladder. I have to stop drinking water a full 2 hours before leaving work or I won’t make it through my commute home without having to hunt down a semi-decent gas station bathroom to use and not catch a disease in. I have to bring emergency TP with me on hikes that last longer than just a few hours. When I go out, I spend more time in line for the bathroom than I actually do in the bar. You know, it’s a damn good thing that tipsy bathroom line women are some of the friendliest, chattiest women out there or I’d really be missing out on some good times. Sometimes, I wonder where all those women are and how they’re doing. Are they still mad at their boyfriends? Still hooking up with those fuckboys? Still worried about looking fat in those new jeans?

Anyways.

Because I spend such a large chunk of my time in the restroom, I’ve learned a thing or two about proper bathroom etiquette. I have expectations of my fellow restroom users and it’s oh so disappointing when they fail to meet those expectations. Especially when one of those failing folks is my boss’s boss. Dun dun dunnn.

Let’s call my boss’s boss Jessica.

Jessica followed me into the restroom for the first time a few months ago. I held the door open for her, like a gentlewoman, and took the stall a few stalls down from the one she selected because Rule #1, if there are multiple open stalls, do not take the stall immediately next to an occupied stall. Let the gal tinkle in peace, for Christ’s sake.

Jessica and I emerged from our respective stalls at roughly the same time. I approached the sink and pumped the soap dispenser, Jessica waved a perky goodbye and left WITHOUT WASHING HER HANDS. Y’all, this woman schmoozes for a living, she must shake a dozen or so hands every single day. At that moment, all I could think about was all those unsuspecting hands that have been contaminated with her pee mist and all her other germy odds and ends. Jessica. WHY.

Fast forward a few weeks- Jessica and I were in a morning meeting together. I was keeping an eye on her hands like a hawk. Ain’t no way was I using the same knife as her to spread cream cheese on my bagel. I prefer my bagels without other peoples’ germs and grime, thank you very much. An hour or so went by and the free coffee started to kick in for everyone, you could see a marked increase in fidgeting and the glances at the clock becoming less and less furtive. Jessica, like an angel sent from up above, suggested we take a 10 minute bio-break. Score. I trotted off to the bathroom and she followed suit, asking for my “off the record” opinion on how the meeting was going and what I thought of her proposal as we walked down the hallway towards the restroom.

This time, when we reached the restroom, she held the door open for me. I entered the stall on the leftmost side of the restroom, she took the stall immediately to my right. Strike 1. She continued to talk to me from her stall, speaking over the ziiip of her trousers and the groan of the toilet as she sat down. Strike 2. Never engage in a stall-to-stall conversation, people. Have your moment and let the other gal have hers, pure and simple. And then you guys, then came Strike 3. Mid-one-sided-conversation, Jessica ripped the loudest, nastiest, wettest fart I have ever heard leave a female asshole and proceeded to dump several seconds worth of lumpy, chunky sounding diarrhea all while continuing to chat about her proposal and why she really thinks it’s just what our organization needs.

I could barely get my (clean) hand up to my mouth in time to stifle my laugh. I was a little surprised by my response but honestly, I just couldn’t believe the hailstorm taking place next to me and the fact that she was continuing to unabashedly hock her proposal throughout the entire event.

I quickly flushed and left my stall to wash my hands, like a normal adult with good hygiene practices. As I toweled dry, Jessica emerged from her stall, approached me, placed one hand on my shoulder and grabbed the bathroom door handle with the other, “Shall we?” ALL WITHOUT WASHING HER HANDS.

We returned to our meeting and got back to business. Jessica, feeling re-energized (and probably lighter), paced around the room as she really pushed her idea. She punctuated her pitch with passionate gestures and meaningful, well-timed touches on the shoulders of the final decision makers. Urp. Though maybe that’s how you get it done, invade the immune systems of the final decision makers and force an answer out of them when they’re feeling weak and sick and mentally compromised. Perhaps Jessica is on to something…

At the end of the meeting, Jessica grabbed a few grapes from the fruit platter while making some end-of-meeting small talk with one of my coworkers. As I attempted to sneak out the door, Jessica asked if I’d drop the fruit platter off in the communal kitchen area on my way back to my office. Oh the internal struggle…