Bitch-slapped, on a Sunday afternoon(just my imagination)

 Why Hello. It's been a while, let me see if I remember how this goes.
     I have always loved to express myself through writing. A couple of years ago I was a relatively active blogger and it was a creative outlet that I truly loved and believe made me a happier person. I stopped writing abruptly after a post that in retrospect was TMI, but I had been struggling for months with feeling that my writing sucked, I knew it sucked, and now that I had a group of people who read what I wrote, even more people knew that I sucked. So I let my insecurities get the best of me. Then I got engaged, my sister had two babies, I changed jobs,moved and got married. Life stuff. But the past couple of months there hasn't been anything new happening, I have had ample time on my hands,(which I have been spending watching marathons of SOA and Jersey Shore, drinking red wine and eating cheese like I'm getting paid to do so). I meant to get back as soon as we returned from our honeymoon, back to the gym, back to yoga, back to eating less cheese and more veggies, and back to writing. I've had an issue though, my laptop bites the big one.
    It does.
This monstrosity is beyond slow, shuts off at will, freezes, and is just generally a bastard. I have been patrolling the internet (on my husbands desktop) , and the local Best Buy drooling over the shiny new Macbooks and the HP Envy. In my minds eye I see myself seated with perfect posture at my uncluttered desk, foot drawn up under my taught buttocks sipping green tea as the words flow out of me like manna from the heavens on to the screen of my magical new computer. It was beautiful, there may have even been a unicorn. I had great things inside of me just itchin to come out and say howdy, if I only had a laptop that wasn't a total POS.
   Then this afternoon while out running errands and listening to the Freakonomics podcast I heard something that stopped me dead in my tracks. Stephen Dubnar was relating an experience he had while he was in college and taking a film class. Young Stephen had complained to his professor that he wasn't able to make a quality film for an assignment because the schools equipment sucked. His professor chastised him, "Never blame your equipment. Your equipment has nothing to do with your creativity. You could get creative with a rock!"
CRASH!
Oh wait, what was that? My little fantasy world crashing down? Oh, right.
   See, I do this to myself all the time. I wanna go to yoga, but all my cute pants are dirty. I wanna prepare more nutritious meals at home, but our kitchen has zero counter space. I don't want to keep poisoning my body with Redbull, but my energy is so low. I was totally unaware I had become such a whiny, lazy, excuse-laden blob of humanity until that professor from Stephen Dubnar's flim class in 1987 reached out of my Civic's speakers and bitch-slapped me. I spent the rest of the afternoon taking action. I went to they gym(I wasn't wearing my cutest outfit, but so what?) afterwards I went to the grocery and picked up some quinoa and veggies, came home, and meal prepped the shit out of my week. Even made some delish homemade granola.So, all that was left for me to do was open up my ancient Dell and get to typing.
   I know this post isn't much, and I know one trip back to the gym does not a taut buttocks make, but it's a start. It feels good to be back.

Speculum!?! I don't even know him!

 Disclaimer- This is entirely TMI- read at your own risk-

Today I had that appointment that every girl dreads, thats right, the gyno appointment. Don't get me wrong, my lady doctor is super sweet and not at all theatning, it's just that my idea of a fun time does not include being cranked open by something that resembles a shoehorn while the person doing the cranking is chatting about her Memorial Day plans.

Doctor: You may feel some pressure, So have any big plans for the holiday?

Me: Uh, not really, just kinda hanging out (omgodomygodshe'sinthereomygod)

Doctor: My husband and I are going to check out Down the Hatch, on Candlewood Lake. Ok, you may feel a pinch

Me: That place is nice, just gets really crowded.(Down the Hatch, thats funny because right now you're kinda up the snatch hahaomygodomygod)

I shouldn't complain though, this visit was probably the least traumatic gyno visit I've ever had. My first visit was the worst. I thought I was just tagging along with my Mom, going to read Cat Fancy in the waiting room, when all of a sudden it was all "Surprise! You're getting a pap smear!" I was 14. I was wearing Daffy Duck underwear. I have never wanted to turn into a puddle of goo and ooze away so much in my entire life. 
 
Another fun one was the time my regular doctor was on vacation and I had to see his associate. It's quite a shock when you are expecting a 60 year old Korean man and you get a hot 30-something doctor who proceeds to give you a breast exam (omygodomygodnippledon'tyoudaregethard-fuckyounippleihateyou) I was 17. I was wearing Winnie the Pooh underwear-kidding


So I guess I shouldn't complain about getting the low down on Dancing With the Stars while being checked for rectal cancer.

 

Scenes from a friendship, Or The cookie-dough crisis of '10

 A conversation between myself and Rainy from A Rainy Day with a Chance of Sunshine. Keep in mind that this took place about 8:30pm on a Saturday evening.

Rainy: How's your FACE?

Me: Monstery

Rainy: Oh I'm Sorry FACE!

Me: I want ice cream.

Rainy: Ohh. You should get chocolate chip cookie dough, I had some last week....

Me: Oh my god! You read my mind, That is exactly what I've wanted for like the past 3 days!I just don't think I have the energy to get myself off the couch to go to the store and get it.

Rainy: Where's Carl? Make him go.

Me: He's at his friends house ( at this point I briefly considered texting Carl to bring me cookie dough ice cream, but thought better of it) 

Rainy: Do you want to hear what happened to me?

Me: If this involves you eating copius amounts of cookie dough ice cream, I'm not sure it falls under the catagory of 'Things that happened to me'

Rainy: No! Just listen- So I was at the grocery store last week? And they were selling Byeres Ice Cream 2 for $4...

Me: That was your first mistake,you should have gotten Edy's, they have better chunks......

Rainy: So I was like 'Wow! Thats a really great deal! So I bought the cookie dough, and was so excited, but it basically had like 5 chuncks of dough in the entire carton, so I had to pick though it, and ended up eating the whole half-gallon and being unsatisfied so I had to go out and buy Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough.

Me: I still don't think that eating an entire half-gallon of ice cream, being unsatisfied and buying a pint of the better stuff qualifies as 'Something that happened to me'

Rainy: Well, it wasn't like I ate it all in one sitting, it took like 3 days.

Me:I would be so sick from that

Rain: Oh yeah, I forgot ice cream makes you sick. Why don't you just buy a tube of cookie dough then, if all you want are the chunks?

Me: I like them frozen

Rainy: You could put the tube in the freezer and just cut off hunks of it, that might be delicious

Me: You know what would happen if I did that, I would keep eating it until I vomited, then I would probably eat more after that. Besides, I like picking them out of the ice cream, it's very satisfying.

Rainy: That's true. They should sell single-serve tubs of cookie dough, because you know at least half  the tubes sold never see the inside of an oven.

Me: Like 'Hereyougo America, here's your own personal vat of cookie dough for your fat ass?' That's disgusting.

Rainy: Whatever that shit would  SELL. It's not as disgusting as the double down.

Me: True. Ok. I'm peeling my fat ass off the couch to go buy ice cream, then I'm gonna eat it while I bawl my eyes out to The Blind Side.

Rainy: Text me and let me know how it goes.

 I googled cookie dough, and this came up- I guess it's fitting.

Splish-splash, I was taking a - OW!, - Or epic shower fail

As I've stated before, I have a knack for doing awesome things.

Evidence:
Last Tuesday I came home from a particularly sweaty gym session, - not that I was working out extra-hard, just that the racquetball court my elliptical over looks had some extremely ripped, grunting young men whacking away......needless to say, a shower was in order.  I reached for my Big Daisy( twss- no seriously it's my razor) and realized that it was so dull that unless I wanted my precious lady to look like I'd taken a cheese grater to them I needed a fresh one. I pulled open my shower door and BAM! next thing I know I am lying on my bathroom tile in agony. I had managed to get one leg out of the tub, and then that one leg betrayed me by slipping on the tile, causing me to come crashing down on the shower door rail directly on my left buttocks and inner thigh.
My first reaction was to panic, because I had literally fallen and could not get up, and because I live in a condo and  was afraid that one of my neighbors had heard the crash, and would run into my apartment only to find me wet, naked and flopping around on the bathroom floor like a fleshy pink fish out of water.
Also I had left the toilet unfushed. ( I planned on leaving that little detail out, but I really wanted to make sure you got the gravity of the situation)  I finally was able to pull myself up off the floor, flush and get back in the tub where I stood under the water with my mouth open in disbelief for the remainder of my shower.
My ass is slowly morphing back from Rocky Balboa into it's usual appearance, which I know not because I'm looking, but because Carl is strangely obsessed with checking it out every five minutes and giving me the full update on what is going on back there, and I think I've learned a few things:

1) Life is unpredictable. In the words of Arnie Grape " I could go at any time".
2) My neighbors are pretty indifferent as to whether I live or die.
3) The appropriate response to your boyfriend asking for permission to take photos of your mangled behind is always the same- NO.
4) Always flush.

On a different note, I am nearing 100 followers!  I usually take any excuse to  drink celebrate so what should I do when I hit the one-zero-zero?

Jabba the Hut had it Made

Sundays are generally my favorite day of the week. They are my 'Jabba Day'. My boyfriend Carl and I have fallen into a pattern that is slowly becoming a unspoken agreement. Monday- Friday I keep up with the majority of cooking ,errand running and cleaning that needs to be done so our house does not slowly collapse under the weight of it's own filth. I do not mind doing this, as I tend to be a bit compulsive and anal about when and the manner in which things get done.

Ah, but Sunday. Sundays I tend to plop myself on the couch, eat as much bad food as possible, watch as much trashy television as I can stomach and intermittently bellow for Carl to fetch me things. Ok- so maybe instead of Hans Solo it's hand lotion, or tea or my computer charger, and instead of Salacious Crumb perching on my gluttonous mass, it's my cat Fatty curled up on the gray blanket I have draped over myself, but the resemblance is there if you squint. Carl is very obliging and caters to my every whim. Today he endured hours of Keeping up with the Kardashians, and is currently making me a homemade sausage pizza.

Sometimes I wonder if this is how Jabba started. I mean he couldn't have always been such a lazy, gross, demanding blob, could he? He must have been young and somewhat spry at some point. Maybe he too had a mate who would occasionally let him get away with it for a day, and that turned into two days, then three, until he reached the state we first meet him at. Maybe it's my destiny. It doesn't sound so bad except I'm not sure I could pull off the five-chin look.

Now if you'll excuse me I heard they have a metal bikini in a men's large on Amazon.

Wine: A Love Story

To say that I love wine is akin to saying Josh Holloway is a nice-looking gentleman. I love wine with a fervor typically seen only in wide-eyed, slack-jawed cultists. Except in this cult the Kool-Aid would be dry and light with a spicy nose and a nice round,soft finish. But like any classic love affair, it has not all been smooth-sailing, we've had our fair share of missteps, bumps in the road, letdowns and flat out lies, but in the end the good moments always out way the bad and when it comes down to it nothin or nobody can take the place of my wine. Sure I've strayed....Jose and I have sang karaoke and flirted with men twice my age together, Captain Morgan has given me some memories I really must thank him for, Ketel One knows just how dirty I like it, and even Bacardi Limon and I have studied the porcelain of many a toilet together. But wine, ahhhh. I would like to say it was love at first sight, but that would be a lie. I had to kiss many a frog-literally and figuratively to meet my prince.

hello, lover

I first met wine when I was 19. At the time I was involved with Rolling Rock. My girlfriend's fake id had been turned down and we desperately needed something to pump us up before we headed to all-ages night to be violently humped by men three time our age and half our height. After rummaging around the kitchen I found that my roommate had a huge jug of Carlo Rossi Merlot. We proceeded to mix it with ice and Sunny D(for the vitamins) pour it into Poland Spring bottles and refill the jug with water. I remember thinking that we were probably the only girls guzzling "wine" in the parking lot. I felt very sophisticated indeed as I teetered in my Contempo Casual chunky heels and Paris Blues into Tuxedo Junction(downtown Danbury represent).

My next foray into vino came a few years later at my girlfriend Heidi's family cabin in Vermont. My then-boyfriend, Heidi and her guy got tossed from the only liquor store within a 10 mile radius and were left with the option of beer or wine. Heidi and I decided since we were adults now that we should learn to appreciate wine. After about 45 minutes of roaming around the wine/gun/flannel shoppe we settled on a bottle of white zinfandel, because it was pink and because it was $5.99. Back at the cabin my boyfriend showed off his bottle opening skillz and we cheerzed. I was not able to see my own face, but I'm sure it mirrored hers in disgust.

Me: I don't think I can drink this
Her: Me neither
Me: It tastes gross
Her: what if we add some Sweet N' Low?

We then proceeded to down the entire magnum, congratulating each other on our sweet idea. We were so cool.
After that I pretty much forgot about wine. I experimented with scorpion bowls, cosmos, ice teas from Long Island, and about any shot a gentleman was willing to buy. It was not until a few years back while working and an Italian trattoria that wine and I found each other again. My boss was a wine connoisseur (read wine-o) who hated to drink alone. She started me out nice and easy with a blush, then moved me onto pinot grigio. And I. Was. In. Love. I threw myself headfirst into all wine had to offer me. Napa Valley Pinots and Souvignon Blancs, Chilean Syrah and Malbecs, Australian Cabernet, I was hooked. Just when I think i know wine, it opens up an entirely new side of itself that draws me in even deeper. Currently I am beyond infatuated with the Italian reds- Sangeiovese, Montepulciano, Barolo, I love you all.
Now if you will excuse me this Chianti is whispering sweet nothings in my ear.
Cheers.

Don't Stand So Close to Me

Benjamin Franklin is credited with saying "In life nothing is certain but death and taxes", If I had coined the phrase I would have added an addendum "In Life nothing is certain except death, taxes, and that the drooling man is going to come talk to me."

I would like to share an experience I had last week. I was bopping around Micheal's Craft Store, looking for some pretty picture frames(which I found and look very nice on my wall) and I hear very loud,and very close to my ear,

"Now what in the hell do you suppose these are for?"

I knew I was about to make a new friend. I look up and standing a few inches into my personal space is a woman, late 50's-ish fake blond very made up(think Tammy Faye) wearing a white very furry full-length coat, white very furry knee-high boots and carrying a white very furry handbag. The item in question was an over- sized bouncy ball.
Here is the conversation that followed:

Me: I think it's a bouncy ball.(pointing at bin clearly labeled over-sized bouncy balls)

Tammy Faye: (grabbing my arm) But whaaat dooo you dooo with them?

Me: I think you bounce them.

Tammy Faye:Oh. (turns and lobs the ball down the isle, it bounces off of the various art supplies, she seems disappointed)

Tammy Faye: Here, tell me what you think of this (thrusts her wrist under my nose)

Me: Smells nice

Tammy Faye: I'm trying to remember what it is, you don't know, do you?

Me: No, sorry. Maybe if you go to Sephora they could tell you

Tammy Faye: What's Sephora?

This continued while I checked out and into the parking lot while I loaded up my car, got into my car and finally started it up, closed the door and drove away. This happens on an almost daily basis. It's something I accepted years ago, something I now expect and something I sometimes allow time for when planning to enter certain weirdo 'hotspots'-Ok, lets see, run into Walmart for razors and trail mix, talk to one-armed man wearing a fanny-pack and fedora, should take about 25 minutes. I never leave Walmart with out a new friend.It's something I kinda look forward to, weirdo's make life so much more interesting. On the occasions nobody accosts me I generally feel a little sad. I may even flash and inviting smile at the 40 year-old man wearing a sweatshirt with a silk screened bunny rabbit. Well maybe not. But maybe.

What puzzles me is why have I been chosen to be some kind of weirdo whisperer? I've pondered this many times. Do I emit a kind of pheromone that is like cat nip for crazies? For years I tried telling myself that it was because I look nice, nonthreatening,approachable, you-know, like someone who cares about your dog who miscarried in 1968,or doesn't mind if you want to touch her hair; but recently another possibility has been nagging in the back of my mind, and it's getting harder to ignore: Maybe they think you're one of them.You-know, a kindred spirit, a brother-in-arms, someone who may also have dedicated their life to finding a copper penny from 1943.

And who knows, maybe I am. Maybe that nice couple behind me in line at the A&P got up to the cashier and rolled their eyes and said "everywhere we go..." Maybe the man at the gas station put his finger on the buzzer when I was reciting 30 Rock at 6:25 in the morning. Maybe in 20 years I'll be the one in the ridiculous fur coat.

Maybe.

Nah.