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yo' momma

It’s been forever since I’ve blogged, but I’ve been busy. Deal.

So my mom has been following my blog and has made a blogquest. Because my mom can kick your mom’s ass, I’ve decided that I will obey. Especially since I feel like I peaked harder than the kid that screwed Debra Lafave after my yoga cho-cha post.

First off, some background information on my mom. Mom is a teeny crazy, like me. She’s also got a temper, likes to drink beer, and cusses. None of these things she wants you to know, but they are part of her chemical make-up and make her the best mom ever. Again, deal.

Mom’s story starts off about forty years ago. Her and Dad were still newlyweds and recently moved to Florida. Dad’s nephew, who is around the same age as them, came to Florida from Virginia for a visit. Enter Virgin Redneck Nephew (VRN).

Well, VRN got the hots for Mom. I can imagine Mom walking around her Florida house, short-shorts and a Coors Light, probably looking like every Virginia hillbilly’s wet dream. VRN was spellbound, to hell with Dad. VRN wanted Mom. VRN hit on Mom. VRN tried. VRN failed. Mom got pissed. Enter Mom’s temper.

Luckily, Mom married a guy that is just a bit crazier than her and just don’t give a fuck. Enter Dad. Mom told Dad about the situation with VRN, and Dad cooked up a great idea for revenge. Here was the plan:
  1. Dad would pretend to go to work one night.
  2. Mom would wear short-shorts and drink Coors Light.
  3. VRN would see short-shorts and Coors Light.
  4. VRN would get a hard-on.
  5. Mom would encourage VRN.
  6. Dad would hide outside and look in the window.
  7. Mom would get VRN to the couch.
  8. VRN would kiss Mom.
  9. Dad would see the kiss and enter house.
  10. Dad would whoop VRN’s ass.
  11. Mom and Dad would laugh.
The plan was implemented immediately. The next night, Dad went to “work,” and Mom probably hiked her shorts up a little bit higher. VRN reacted accordingly, like a dying man with his last Viagra. Mom was able to lure VRN to the couch, and VRN quickly went for a kiss. Enter Dad, Part II. The conversation probably went something like this:

Dad: “What in the hell are you doing with my wife?”
VRN: “Sh-sh-short-sh-shorts! Coors Light!”
Dad: bitch-slaps VRN
VRN: shits himself
Mom: “Bwar-har-ha-ha!”

Enter The Problem. Mom and Dad NEVER told VRN it was a joke. VRN spent the next forty years, living in guilt, tortured by Mom’s kiss and Dad’s ass-whoop. Mom and Dad spent the next forty years laughing their cracks off at VRN.

Time passed. Mom and Dad eventually moved back to Virginia. Everyone was grown up. Including VRN’s sisters. Grown up enough to tell their mother VRN’s side of the story. I imagine it went something like this:

“Did you know that L wore short-shorts and drank Coors Light until VRN almost lost his mind? She was practically begging him to screw her! Now your brother is married to a Jeezebel, and poor VRN has felt bad his whole life. How could you possibly let her in your house?!”

Due to the small nature of the town, one horse and one red-light, I imagine Mom got a reputation pretty quickly. Dad’s sisters are, by far, the town gossips, and those girls will talk about everything from how much the grass grew to what color they shit that morning. VRN’s story was a nice diversion. I am sure they painted it worse and worse, and Mom was probably known as Clintwood’s Oldest Whore. I can just see the geriatrics with their social security checks and Cialis trying to drum up a piece from Mom. All thanks to those gossiping girls.

Naturally Mom and Dad got pissed. Beyond pissed. Confrontation ensued. It started when one of the gossip girls asked Mom to not come over anymore. Then another one told Mom she couldn’t help at church. On and on.

The war progressed. Dad told the gossip girls off. The gossip girls yelled at Dad. I forget the details, but this eventually led to The Big One. The gossip girls decided to go to Mom and Dad’s house and have it out.

Now these bitches are crazy. And old. All of them are in their late sixties and crazy as fuck. Can you see it? Mom, Dad, and two of the gossip girls screaming, yelling, swearing, kicking, and fighting. At one point one of the sisters made a grab at Mom, but Mom has mad ninja skills and blocked her. They eventually parted ways, Mom and Dad on one side, and VRN and the gossip girls on the other. I was assured no Depends were hurt during this altercation.

The moral of this story? Don’t ever wear short-shorts, drink Coors Light, and screw with Virgin Redneck Nephews. It can really fuck things up forty years later.

Friends who don’t return phone calls or emails.

True friends, like L and T.

“Mountain Music” – Alabama

Breaking Dawn by Stephanie Meyer… and I ADORE it!



downward dog who-ha

I have really gotten into working out. I started seriously around the first week of December. I especially dig running. In fact, here’s a picture of how much I dig running:

This was taken right after hitting the two-mile mark.

Unfortunately, it’s this kind of behavior that also leads to medical problems like these:

So worth it!

I also recently found out that yoga is good for (wannabe) runners like me. I am actually planning on going to yoga today, but I am also planning on not making the same mistake that I made at class last week. Before I further explain my blunder, allow me to start with an infamous quote:

“If it smells like fish, take a dish. If it smells like cologne, leave it alone.”

We are, of course, talking about the Pink Taco. Pu-nah-ni. Hairy Clam. Coochie. The “fish” refers to what many romance novels describe as “feminine essence.” I’ll be the first to admit to having it, as I am sure 100% of all other self-conscious women have it as well.

One of the problems I discovered with “feminine essence” is that it doesn’t combine well with man gravy. The guys make a deposit, and the girls are left with a bit of an odor. Not exactly a fair deal, if you ask me. Luckily, a shower cures this quickly enough.

The night before my yoga error, C and I did the horizontal mambo right after I had already bathed. Everyone knows that a Relaxing Bath + Orgasm + Ambien leads to some damn fine sleep. So, sleep I did; however, Fish + Baby Batter + Sleep = Smelly Crotch.

I didn’t even notice a smell when I woke up the following morning. I was about to get in the shower; I was planning out my day. No big deal. I made W some breakfast, and, as I spoon-fed him oatmeal, I surfed the Internet. This was when I noticed the 10:30 yoga class at the Y. Remembering that (poser) runners like me should be doing this exercise frequently, I decided to pack up and head out. (An aside – who takes a shower BEFORE going to the gym? Not me.)

I got changed into my workout clothes at the gym. Looking in my bag, I noticed that I forgot to take my (sweaty) clothes from yesterday out and replace them with fresh ones. Oh, well. I was already there, and I was going to get sweaty anyways. I put on yesterday’s clothes, which consisted of a sports bra, white T-shirt, and short-shorts. You know the type of shorts I am talking about. The kind that your ass barely keeps from hanging out of? Yeah, those kind.

Anyways, I get dressed and noticed I had a few minutes before class. Not enough time to do anything productive, but enough time for an ADD person like me to get bored easily. To fill the gap, I decided to sit in the steam room.

Hmmm… let’s get caught up on our equation here: Tuna + Nut Shower + Yesterday's Sweaty Short-Shorts + Steam Room = could it get any worse than this? Oh, right. Let’s go to yoga.

Yoga consists of a variety of poses that stretch your body, lengthen your muscles, and de-stress your mind. The majority of yoga poses are simple, but challenging on the body. This day’s warm up was easy. I was feeling pumped and full of good energy. Until Downward Dog.

Now for those of you who are unfamiliar, Downward Dog looks something like this:

Skinny bitch.

This is when it hit me. Only when I stuck my cho-cha out and up, in those damned short-shorts, did the smell reach my nostrils. I smelled like a dockside whore. Fuck.

I was convinced that the whole entire classroom - male and female - could smell the roast beef curtains. I remember thinking several things at once: "Should I leave?" "Can this guy behind me see my ass?" "Has everyone gotten a whiff of my junk?" Humiliating.

Luckily for me it was over as soon as it started. We quickly moved from Downward Dog into more smelly-crotch friendly poses, and I pushed my embarrassment to the back of my mind in attempt to find inner peace.

About fifteen minutes before class was scheduled to end, the instructor put us on our backs. Time for some moderate calf stretches and spinal twists. I was more concerned about someone seeing my ass then smelling my ass during these poses, but the instructor decided to spring one on me. Dead Bug.

You guys ever seen the yoga pose, Dead Bug? Let me share it with you:

Seriously? Seriously.

Yes, seriously. Not wanting to appear athletically deficient, I thought I should at least give it a shot. Doing so, I swear I could see a green fog leaving my groin region. There was no way anyone could have missed it. The smell was beyond obvious. I decided my best course of action would be to play it off like a fart in an elevator. So I looked over at the guy next to me, mimicked his look of disgust, then shrugged my shoulders in a quizzical way as if to say, "Who on earth would come to yoga class smelling like Salmon + Jizz + Hooker Shorts? Jeez. The nerve."

On to the recap:

Poon + Skeet + Buryin' the Bone + Eight Hours - Shower + Yesterday's Sweaty Short-Shorts + Steam Room + Dead Bug = Me at Yoga on Thursday mornings.

Hope to see you there!

Fearing any possible future dilemnas I might have (and probably knowing she's gonna be with me one Thursday morning), my BFF, L, from FL, specially designed an ingenious new product just for me. She calls them Pine-Scented Short-Shorts, and they come with a three-pack of these that can easily clip-on to the crotch:

Today's list:


Expensive Cigars.

"And She Was" - Talking Heads

Still on New Moon... it's getting better!



r.i.p. a.s.

Experiences from previous relationships account for some of my best stories. In order to protect the innocent, I will refer to ANY ex as “X.” Please note that several men will share the name “X.”

I tell this story as a warning to everyone to not screw with me.

While X was your typical nice guy, he used to frequently piss me off. We would yell, cuss, and fight. He would throw things. I pulled a knife on him one time. We were as mentally compatible as a ferret and a tomato. I do not remember what X did to piss me off on this particular occasion, but he set off a chain of events that no man wants to experience.

Whatever we were fighting about at the time, X decided the best course of action would be to get drunk. This really pissed me off. There I was, more annoyed than a horny eunuch, while X was drinking JD like water. The more he drank, the more livid I got. Here’s the conversation that ensued:

J: Your ass is so hairy.

X: <blank expression>

J: Your ass looks like you shit a squirrel.

X: Ok.

J: Let’s do something about it.

X: Ok.

At this point, I left the house and made my way towards the local Food Lion. I thought of many different possibilities in response to X’s quick compliance to kill his Ass Squirrel. As I walked the aisles of the grocery store, I finally stopped at the section that has the disposable razors and Nair. My eyes settled on the at-home waxing kits. Perfect.

When I busted into the house with my recently purchased rodent remover, I found X totally tanked. I reminded him of his consent to do something about his abundance of butt hair. Surprisingly, he not only remembered, but he also willingly removed his boxer briefs and got into the necessary position. There is nothing more awe-inspiring than seeing a drunk man with his bare ass sticking up in the air like a cat in heat. I quickly made with the wax.

The directions on the box instructed me to warm the wax in the microwave for thirty seconds. I put the wax in the microwave and set the timer to a minute-thirty, just to make sure I had enough time to finish reading the directions. By the time the microwave dinged, I had just gotten to the section that said something about getting the wax too hot. The microwave had dinged though, so I didn’t really have time to finish reading that part.

While I warmed the wax, X maintained the position. He was also probably half-asleep. I quietly got close, dipped the popsicle stick device into the wax, and quickly smeared it down his crack.

X: Aaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrr! What the hell!

J: Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!

X: I thought you were going to SHAVE it.

J: Well, this is faster and easier.

X: Please just get it off already!

So I did the only thing I could do – I ripped off the wax strip. X screamed. I laughed again. I looked at the paper with relish, and the hairy mammal stared back at me.

A short while later X was finally capable of pulling himself together to go and inspect my work. This consisted of him putting a handheld mirror on the floor of the bathroom and attempting to squat over it – while drunk. Apparently I didn’t do so great of a job with the wax, because X was cussing profusely and making random threats towards my well-being. It was worth it, though.

RIP Ass Squirrel.

Today’s list:

Those pants and shorts that chicks wear with the words printed on the ass. Could there be a more obvious way of asking people to look at your butt?

Chocolate Drumsticks.

“Here I Go Again” – White Snake

New Moon – Stephanie Meyer (Will they just do it and get it over with already?!?)



paying for friendship?

I pay this lady to be my best friend. For serious.

I go to see a therapist, typically on a Tuesday or Thursday, averaging about three times a month. I started seeing her shortly after I had W, as a preventive to postpartum depression. The pills are awesome, too, but I digress.

My therapist and I talk about a variety of things - what I like to do, what I am afraid of, what I like to eat, what my goals are, what I read, what my job entails. Me, myself, and I. I don't know a damn thing about her other than the facts that she is blond and her name is Laura. She could be more fucked up in the head than me, but it is irrelevant to our relationship. All that matters is that she lets me talk about myself for forty-five minutes, then she supplies me with some justification or enabling words, and I'm out. It's basically a form of prostitution, because I am paying another person for an extracurricular activity that I highly enjoy - talking about myself.

I am starting to think that I might be using therapy to fulfill my desires for deeper friendships. An ideal deeper friendship, at that. I don't have to listen to any of her whining about work, diets, or motherhood. In return she listens to me bitch about work, diets, and motherhood. It's liberating to know there is a person out there who knows more about me than C or my mother.

I pay for friendship, and it rocks.

On to today's list:

Going to sleep.


“Crazy Bitch" - Buckcherry

New Moon - Stephanie Meyer (I got desperate.)