Friday, January 7, 2011

My Life > a diamond encrusted golden bag of riches covered in milk chocolate and hand delivered by Jesus and Lindsay Lohan

Pantagruelism (Pan`tag´ru`el`ism)
-adj:  The habit of dealing with serious matters in a spirit of good and sometimes cynical good humor.

Someone reminded me today that not only is it January but it is 2011.  I think it may also maybe be Thursday?  Honestly you could have told me it was Easter Sunday and I would have gone and thrown on some pastels and dyed eggs.  The past few months, hell the past couple years of my life seem to have passed in this deliriously happy haze.  I feel like I've been a bear in hibernation only I wasn't sleeping and storing food for winter I was storing food for an ever increasing muffin top that is the result of being so in love you no longer have to stop eating after your fifth bite, you can actually have seconds, thirds, and the occasional fourths.   Which brings me to my point...if there is one worth pointing out.  Today I was prompted to reread through my blog entries thus far looking for any kind of subliminal messages or things that would make someone question my happiness.  I grabbed my Little Orphan Annie secret decoder ring and vigorously searched for anything that proved such, but was discouraged to only find a secret transmitted message that told me to drink my Ovaltine.  Be sure to drink your Ovaltine? Ovaltine?! Son of a bitch!  So yes world, I am happy. Do I really hate jews, doctors, dentists, and the occasional jobless bum you may ask? About as much as I hate the lamp beside me and comparable to my level of wanting to make dinosaurs extinct.  Without them I wouldn't have been able to shed some humor on an otherwise boring and uneventful love life. Or have a dreidel, which is an incredible thing. So call off the troops, the protesters, the skeptics, cancel the suicide counselor and divorce attorney and put the tragically humorless to bed.  My rants consist of the process of growing up, growing out,  growing sideways, downways, and diagonalways.  It is life as well all know it, with all of its hardships, joys, and life changing lessons.  It is cynical, humorous, and my play on making the not so funny, well...funny.  It is the process of my growth into a life of love, and realism.  It is leaving behind the non-existent fantasy world we all knew as kids.  It's the life I've lived, and the life I love.  So I'll repeat it for all of you in the backrow, yes my life is greater than a parade of cute cuddly puppies presenting me with a certificate of free milkshakes for life.


Saturday, January 1, 2011

Oh God, how do I grow a penis?!

Do you ever have those nights where you suddenly have this incredible revelation that you are, in that moment, the epitome of that women you love to make fun of?  Tonight I feel as if I have just taken a nice warm soak in an estrogen bath. I imagine if I get within 100 feet of a penis the tectonic plates would shift and a magnetic shield would form resulting in me being impregnated with enough babies to put Octo-Mom to shame.  If I had a nickname I'd be PussyS'more and not in a sexy way.  I hate to paint this lovely picture for you, but tonight I found myself facing a side of me I hoped to keep hidden, mostly from myself.   I sat on the couch, in my pajamas and two days un-showered (Thank God C is at work for 2 days at a time as this is definitely grounds for divorce).  I was full on super-glued to a Lifetime movie entitled Walls of Secrets staring none other than Dean McDermott from Tori Spelling fame and was ferociously shaving my legs with a wireless razor C had bought me for X-mas. To top it all off, I was popping Tums Ultra 100's like they were a snack.  Why? Because I wanted something sweet.  Thank God for the commercial break convincing me that I never want to reuse my old catheter that helped break the mucus plug on this situation.  How could I let myself sink so low?  If only I could grow a penis like it were a chia pet I would just to level up my testosterone to a plus 9 status. Oh shit...gotta go..commercial break is over....

Hello Domestication, you bitch. (Bye Barbie Dream house complete with working shower and ice cream parlor)

I grew up thinking my future would consist of a pink mansion, matching pink convertible car, a 12 inch waist (ChaChaCha!), and my very own Ken by my side (only with a bigger package and underwear that weren't so restricting).  Reality started to set in when I read the part of the package that said Ken and all accessories sold separately. Whaaaaat?!  You mean I don't get the complete package?  How would I ever convince my mother to buy me my future.  Barbie needs her iron-stomached lover, right?  I don't think I could have been further from the truth.  Ken turned out to be a complete douche bag with an ego that matched the size of his enlarged prostate from wearing such tight underpants for so long.  And the barbie dream home turned into the slightly downsized economy trailer with drafty windows.  Alas, don't get too giddy over your heaping pile of riches before realizing all the responsibilities that come with this domestic concept.  I don't remember a class in school on mortgage, rent, propane tanks, and income tax?  What the fuck did I miss?  The only thing I worried about as a kid was hoping the kid on the other end of the seesaw was the one to weigh it to the ground. Now you get married, combine your mass amounts of debt together, play a little hide and seek with your sex life, and on top of it all have to work, pay bills, cook, clean, and find time to birth a baby?  It is a rude awakening into life as your parents.  The people you never thought you would become.  I guess I can say my respect level for them has risen drastically.  So, after I ran from this domestic makeover with my tail between my legs for as long as I could, I tried to embrace it.  Nope, that didn't work either.  But I can say, the new challenges I face (which make my childhood seem like a day in Candy Land) aren't so bad. I've never been so stressed in my life, but I've never been so happy either.  It's an odd notion to rather have all the stresses of life with someone you love, than not having a fear in the world all alone.  Maybe its misery loving her company.  Or maybe its as simple as life being better when you have someone good to share it with.