romance novels lead to divorce

I have been reading romance novels for almost twenty years.  I read an average of four books a week.  Four books multiplied by fifty-two weeks in a year ... that’s more than 200 books a year.  I’m estimating that I have read about 4,000 books over the course of my life, and the majority of those have been romance novels.

Feeling an expert on the subject of romance novels, sex, and relationships, I feel that I should share some of my insight with you.  Feel honored, dear readers, because I have even done a bit of research for you.  Let’s look at some quick statistics:

• 58 million women read at least one romance novel in 2008.
• 29 percent of Americans over age 13 read at least one romance novel in 2008.
• The average reader is female, aged 31-49, and is currently in a romantic relationship.

I could not find any information on the number of romance novels the average women reads per year, but a healthy guess would be around twenty-five per year.  That would be around two books a month, multiplied by twelve months.  I really feel like this is on the low-end, but we will use this number for the duration of this blog post.  Even this small number will be enough to prove my point.  Now let’s look at the average content of a romance novel:

• One slim, yet curvy, virgin.

• One sexy man-whore.
• Two or more sex scenes.
• Happily-ever-afters in the form of an engagement, a marriage, a baby, or any combination of the three.

Hmm ... now this is starting to get interesting.  So, based on the information that I have given you so far, the average women is exposed to twenty-five skinny virgins, twenty-five sexy man-sluts, fifty sex scenes, and fifty happily-ever-afters.  Many women, after being exposed to just one year of reading romance novels, might begin to think of this equation in their head:

My Virginity - The Freshman Fifteen + One Sexy Man-Whore + Two Hot Bouts of Sex = Happily Ever After!

But we are far from through.  Let’s take a closer look at these sexy beasts that romance novels love so much.  The typical romance novel develops the hero to be approximately like this:

• Ethnicity: English, Scottish, Southern, or paranormal species (Vampire, Werewolf, Fairy).
• Body Type: All the men are over six feet tall, broad, muscular, and have washboard abs.  They also have a startling color of eyes (sky blue and storm gray are the most common), along with either black or blonde hair.
• Finances: They’re rich.  Filthy rich.  Always, always rich.
• Sexuality: All men portrayed in romance novels are man-whores who have no desire to find love.  They have plenty of sex with many women, and their sexual abilities are known far and wide for being mind-shattering.  All the men have extremely large cocks and huge balls.
• Interests: All the men only participate in manly activities like riding horses, hunting, doing manual labor, drinking blood, and saving the world.  The men in romance novels never watch sports, sit in the garage, or fart.  The primary interest of these men, however, is to stay single forever ... that is until they meet the skinny virgin.  After that, they suddenly cannot think of other women.  They sometimes even go without sex for months or years, because they only want sex with the skinny virgin.  The majority of the men feel that once they have enough sex with the skinny virgin they will be able to continue with their lives, but, as always, a declaration of love towards the end of the novel seals their fate.  The man-whore then becomes a reformed man of honor.

So now the female readers are left with an even bigger problem if they want to achieve their happily-ever-after.  They must find a six foot tall, muscular, southern Werewolf, with blue/gray eyes, black/blonde hair, and a huge dick, who also happens to love manual labor, drinks blood, and is filthy rich.

It is obvious that many women have found this man of their dreams, or someone who at least closely resembles it.  Worse case scenario, the woman can always “change” him, right?  Every man can and will become like those in romance novels, because no other man exists in romance novels.  Right?  I digress.

A relationship pursues, but then women have an even bigger problem to deal with.  We have already established that romance novels have an average of two sex scenes, and women are exposed to about fifty of these scenes per year.  These scenes are very typical, and I can easily describe the two sex scenes found in every romance novel ever written:

• Scene One: The skinny virgin has decided to lose her virginity.  The man is often aware that he is dealing with a virgin and acts accordingly.  An extremely long bout of foreplay follows as he “prepares” her.  Once penetration occurs, there is only a sharp twinge of pain, or no pain at all, followed by intense pleasure.  All virgins experience intense orgasms and the man experiences the best orgasm of his life.  After the mind-shattering sex, the man goes on to clean up his deflowered virgin by wiping her down with warm cloths or giving her a bath.  Many times this first sex scene is followed by a smaller scene, in which the man refuses to have sex with the woman again because of her recent loss of virginity.  The man is so in lust he gives her a head job, while his tackle remains painfully swollen.  He does not feel the need to have an orgasm, because her pleasure is his own.
• Scene Two: This scene typically happens after the hero and heroine have parted ways, experienced severe trauma, or have had a major fight, only to come together again because they cannot stand to be apart.  The sex is hot, intense, and always lasts all night.  Once is never enough, and the couple usually has sex five or more times over the course of the night.  The woman experiences multiple, intense orgasms.

Wow ... okay ... let’s just be honest here.  Romance novels have fucked over men worldwide with this.  While your wife or girlfriend is sitting on the recliner reading what you assume to be an innocent novel, she is really comparing your sexual prowess to that of a fictional sexual-super-hero.  So now women are thinking in these terms:

My Virginity - The Freshman Fifteen + One Hawt Vampire/Cowboy Hybrid = Incredible, All-Night Sex AND the Happily Ever After!

Okay ... now this is where I step in.  Women need to fucking get real.  I’ve been around the block a time (or two), and I can tell you that the shit in romance novels needs to stay in romance novels.  Women need to look at romance novels for what they REALLY are.  Porn.  It’s fucking porn.  Don’t get all prudish on me, try to deny it, and cover it up with the word “romance.”  That’s bullshit.  Women get off on reading this stuff.  Interestingly enough:

• 70 percent of men ADMITTED they watch pornography films.  One study, researching men in their 20s, stated that 100 percent watched porn.  I think it is easy to conclude that there are two types of men: those who watch porn and those who lie about watching porn.
• 80 percent of women do not “allow” their husbands or boyfriends to watch pornography.
• The majority of those women read romance novels.

Hypocritical bitches.  What is the difference between getting hawt and taking a solo trip down south and your man doing the same while watching some random naked chick?  Guess what?  You’re not going knock boots with a muscular Vampire sex machine, and he isn’t going to bang Bree Olson.  It’s just fantasy.  That’s all it’s ever going to be.

Nevertheless:

• 50 percent of first marriages end in divorce.
• 67 percent of second marriages end in divorce.

Many women cite their partners watching pornography as being the reason why their marriages ended.  I wonder how many of those women read romance novels?  I wonder how many of those women think that they will find their ideal Scottish Fairy if they just look a little harder, magically regain their virginity, and lose a bit of weight?  Get real. 

I bet my last nickel that romance novels have done their part to increase divorce rates.  That also sounds like a fantastic topic for a dissertation.

Contemplatively,
Violet

LOVE IT: Books.

HATE IT: Television.

CURRENTLY READING: Unwind by Neal Shusterman

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO: Tennis balls hitting my living room wall.

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double down.

I have been thinking repeatedly that I am leading a double life.  That the professional/church-going/mother-of-two me is completely separate (and MUST be completely separate) from the personal/trash-talking/hottie-wife-and-girlfriend-of-Bruce-Willis me.  I solidified this theory after I recently reordered checks.  Needing a change, I personalized a design and came up with this:

Yes, I deleted my name, address, and account number to keep all the haters guessing.  Anyways, after deleting all my personal stuff, I looked at what I ordered and started laughing at myself.  People could still guess these are MY checks, just because of what they look like.

Take a good look at these checks I ordered.  Here is the proof, in black and white (and purple), that I will never be able to separate the two me’s.

1. Overly proud and vain.  I love my name so much, I want my last name in a large initial on the very top of my check.  I want people to see this check coming and know who its from.
2. Love my Jesus.  I think that is obvious here.  I got the Jesus fish blaring dead center.  I especially love the scriptures at the top (one for each of the four colors in the set).
3. The giveaway.  Then there’s the red flag that sets my checks apart from all others.  There, in the signature line: “Livin’ Large and Takin’ Charge.”  One of my favorite sayings -- because it embodies who I am and how I live -- “Livin’ Large.”  

Yup.  That's me.  Bragging on how fucking awesome I am.  Right there on the Jesus check.

That’s when I realized that I do NOT live a double life.  I am who I am, and that will always be who I am.  I talk and act the same way in front of my husband and friends as I do in front of my parents.  People in my professional life might get offended by how I act in my personal life.  People in my personal life might feel overwhelmed by what I do in my professional life.  People in both of my “lives” will no doubt judge me and find flaws.

You know what, though? 

Players are gonna play.  Haters are gonna hate. 

This player’s gonna play.

the frog and the crackhead

This, boys and girls, is a true story entitled, “The Frog and The Crackhead.”  Gather ‘round, children, and learn from this tale.

Once upon a time there was this beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) who had many, many redneck friends.  The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends loved to play redneck games like stealing the occasional road sign, playing in the mud, and drinking beer.  And, boy, did they ever drink a lot of beers!

One night the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends began drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they ever drink a lot of beers!  After the Drunk Fairy came and dusted them all with a thick layer of buzz, it was decided that the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends would play a new redneck game.  They decided they would take their paintball guns down into the ghetto and do drive-by “shootings” on all the silly crackheads that would be there!

The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends climbed into a Ford F-150 chariot.  The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) sat up front with two redneck friends, while four redneck boys sat in the back of the chariot’s bed.  Off they went into the night, holding their paintball guns, and ready for their redneck game.

The game began slowly, but it was quite fun!  The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends continued drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they ever drink a lot of beers!  The group made their way down into the ghetto, making their first pass of the night.  The Ford F-150 chariot slowed when the corner came into view where the silly crackheads hung out.

POP! SPLAT! BANG! BANG! SPLAT!

“Drive-by!” yelled the silly crackheads, for they did not know that it was merely paint being shot at them and not bullets from a Glock.  The silly crackheads scattered, and the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends laughed in merriment while drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they drink a lot of beers!  This redneck game was so fun, they decided to take another pass into the ghetto!

Once again, the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends slowed the chariot when the silly crackheads came into view.  There were fewer crackheads this time, but this redneck game was such fun!

“Is dat da same truck?!” cried the silly crackheads.

POP! SPLAT! BANG! BANG! SPLAT!

“Mutha fucka!” screamed the silly crackheads. 

“Shit!  Dat’s fuckin paint!” they yelled. 

“Dem crackas got paintballs!” they exclaimed. 

The silly crackheads scattered, and the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends laughed in merriment while drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they drink a lot of beers!  This redneck game was so fun, they decided to make one last pass through the ghetto!

Only this time, the pass through the ghetto did not go as planned.  On the way to the corner where the silly crackheads could be found, something extraordinary happened!  The Ford F-150 chariot was making its progress through the ghetto, while the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends drank their beers.  And, boy, did they drink a lot of beers!  The chariot continued on its way.

BA-BUMP! ... BA-BUMP!

“What was that?!” cried the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me). 

“What happened?” questioned the redneck friends that sat in the front. 

“We ran over something!” yelled the redneck boys from the back.

They did, indeed, run over something.  A very big, very dark something was stone-cold dead in the middle of the road.  At the thoughts of a poor dog being killed that fine redneck night, the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends lost much of their merriment.

“We must look at the creature!” cried the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me).  “The blood of a beloved family pet may be on our hands, but we can make amends!”

So the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends left the safety of their Ford F-150 chariot to march down the street of the ghetto to see what had been killed on that fine redneck night.

The body was large, not moving, and long.  As the group got closer they could see long, thin legs extending from a very large body.  What an odd looking dog!  On and on the group marched until they halted in front of the family pet that was killed that fine redneck night. 

Only it wasn’t a family pet.

It was a frog.

A. huge. fucking. frog.

A huge fucking frog from a deep, dark mud hole.  The kind of frog people jigged for.  The kind of frog that gets ran over by a Ford F-150 chariot and gets mistaken for a dog.  A huge fucking frog.

All the rednecks gathered round the huge frog and wondered what to do.  Being rednecks, it was against their nature to just leave such a large prize behind.  It should either be eaten, stuffed and mounted, or put to use.  The rednecks did not want to eat the frog; its legs were too lean.  They never heard of a frog being mounted for display.  The rednecks had to find a use for the large fucking frog.

“Ah!” cried the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) as an idea emerged.  The frog could prove useful in their redneck games!  The beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) encouraged her many, many redneck friends to put the frog in the back of the Ford F-150 chariot.  The rednecks continued on their way through the ghetto, all the while drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they ever drink a lot of beers!

Once again the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends slowed the Ford F-150 chariot when the silly crackheads came into view.  There were far fewer crackheads this time, as only the truly desperate remained.  Paintballs could never interfere with a crackhead’s love for crack.  This time, however, would be different.  This time, the paintball guns would not be used.  This time, the rednecks had a huge fucking frog.  A frog that must be put to use, lest it be wasted.

Two of the redneck boys picked up the huge, dead frog.  Working as one, the redneck boys swung the frog back and forth, building momentum.  Back and forth, back and forth, the dead frog swung back and forth, until --

WHOOSH! SMACK!

“Argghh!” screamed a silly crackhead, who had fell on his silly crackhead ass when the huge fucking frog busted his silly crackhead face.

“Crackas hit me with a frog!  Them motherfucks got frogs!”

All the remaining silly crackheads scattered into the night, as they were apparently more afraid of dead frogs than paintballs and bullets combined.  Only the one silly crackhead remained -- the silly crackhead that had been been hit in the face with the huge fucking frog. 

As the Ford F-150 chariot carrying the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends drove off into the night, they could hear in the silly crackhead in the distance weeping...

“Frog right in my face... fucking frog hit me right in da head... frog bits on my clothes... that was a huge fucking frog.”

And the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) and her many, many redneck friends continued drinking their beers.  And, boy, did they drink a lot of beers!  The rednecks laughed with merriment because of their wonderful redneck game!  Oh, what a fine redneck night!

And the beautiful redneck girl (that’s me) lived happily ever after.  The end.

So that, boys and girls, was the true story of “The Frog and The Crackhead.”  I hope, children, that you understood the moral of this tale:

Stay off crack, or you may get hit in the head with a frog.

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the vibrator diaries

I am starting a special section of my blog devoted entirely to vibrator stories.  I’ve experienced and heard so many mishaps, embarrassments, and just plain ole craziness associated with these blissful electronic devices, that I feel they deserve a special blog-type standing ovation.   Welcome to... The Vibrator Diaries!

Dear Vibrator Diary,

This story began long, long ago during the days when orgasms were something I had only experienced by myself.  In more blunt language, this story took place while rubbing one out DJ style when X was not at home.

I loved the days when I got home from work early, knowing that X would not arrive for several hours.  Those times were “me” times.  Times I could experience sexual bliss quickly and multiple times, without the sweaty, oozy, small knob that could barely make it thirty-seconds to weigh me down.  Times when I could fantasize about my perfect lover -- tall, shaved head, politically conservative, and big tackle.  *cough* -- Bruce Willis! -- *cough*

This particular “me” session started like any other.  I had a nice long bath.  Shaved my legs, trimmed the hedges, and freshened my breath.  I couldn’t have my BOBs (Battery Operated Boyfriends) disappointed, now could I?  Even BOBs have standards.  I made the bed, climbed under the cool, silky sheets, and brought out Buzz Lightyear, the newest member of my collection.

Buzz was particularly special to me.  You see, Buzz plugged straight into the wall.  No batteries needed!  No fumbling around stealing an extra "AA" out of the remote control or a desperately needed "C" from the flashlight.  Buzz gave me pleasure without limits.  Well, except for the cord I had to plug in the wall.  Still, Buzz could go for hours and hours without ever having to recharge, take a shower, or get hard again.  Buzz was always ready.

With wickedly delicious thoughts running through my brain, Buzz and I had a marathon session.  It was extraordinary.  Time and time again Buzz worked his magic until I became so thoroughly satiated that my bones felt like jelly.  Afterward, Buzz and I laid there for a while, staring at each other with love-sick puppy-dog eyes.  I glanced at the clock.  Another twenty minutes before X was due home.  A whole twenty minutes!  Who knew when I would have this kind of opportunity again?  So Buzz and I went for yet another round.

Things started out normally.  Buzz buzzed while I warmed up.  Buzzing Buzz.  Blissful Buzz.  Buzz, buzz.  I was starting to get really warmed up.  Sexually, and... physically, too?  Yes, I was definitely feeling extra warmth down south, but I chose to ignore it.  I did, after all, only have a few minutes left before X came home.  More buzzing, more warmth, but almost there!  More buzzing, definitely getting hot, but so close!  Even more buzzing, even more heat down south, then... FIZZLE! POP!  I blacked out.

Sigh... no, readers, I did not black out from the most incredible orgasm ever.  I blacked out in reaction to my pathetic situation.  When I came to, I smelled smoke.  Confused, I looked around.  Buzz was beside my splayed legs, his cord burned in two, ... and X was standing in the doorway.  This is the conversation that pursued:

X:  What the hell is going on?
J:  I’m not sure.
X:  What do you mean, “you’re not sure?”  What is that next to you?
J:  [looks around in a daze]  Oh... that’s just... Buzz.
X:  Buzz?!
J:  I mean, that’s my... um... vibrator.
X:  Your what?!  THAT is a vibrator?!
J:  Yeah, and I was just...
X:  It plugs into the wall?!
J:  Yeah, and I’m not sure...
X:  Why is the cord burned in half?!
J:  [mind clears... comprehension sets in]

Yes, folks, yes.  I got 115 volts AC straight through my fucking clit.  Buzz electrocuted my junk like it was on mutha fuckin death row.  Right as I was about to peak, Buzz reneged.  Rather than humbly declare defeat, Buzz kamikaze’d my ass.  I managed to turn poor ole Buzz into a suicidal terrorist.  And, to beat it all, X was there to witness my shame.

X:  Did you electrocute your pussy?  BWHA-HA-HA-HAR!
J:  Did not.  Shut the fuck up.
X:  You did!  You really did! 
J:  No, I did NOT electrocute my who-ha.  BUZZ did.
X:  BWA-HA-HA-HA-HAR!  Blaming it on your vibrator?  HA!  Classy.

I picked up Buzz’s remains and threw them straight at X’s short-dicked face.  Of course, I missed.  Of course, he laughed.  After X and I were through, I was finally able to laugh as well.

So this, dear friends, if the first entry of The Vibrator Diaries.  Stay tuned for more!

Do YOU have a funny vibrator story?  One that you are dying to tell the world, but would rather it happen anonymously?  Please share your stories with me at thevibratordiaries@yahoo.com (YES, this is FOR REAL!), and I will blog about your experience.  You can also use this email to send in questions you'd like to have answered or blogquests!  All emails and stories will be completely anonymous.  NO NAMES!  Pinky swear. 

to infinity and beyond!

I catch a lot of shit about things that I don’t believe in, agree with, or just think is not worth my time.  I get called out the most for dissing the Speed of Light, Darwin’s Theory of Evolution, and the concept of Infinity.

Not Worth My Time -- The Speed of Light: Seriously... who gives a fuck?  How does the speed of light affect my life?  Everybody’s like, “Unh, well, if, like, the sun stopped shining and stuff, we wouldn’t know for, like, eight minutes.”  Who. Gives. A. Fuck?  I think the important part of that statement is that the sun STOPPED shining.  Shouldn’t we worry about that part first? No, I do not think it takes eight minutes for the light in my light bulb to appear.  Does it take eight minutes for your light bulb to flick on?  I don’t know where you get your electricity from, but when I hit the switch, light appears. No eight minutes here.

Don’t Believe In -- Darwin’s Theory of Evolution: First off, it is a THEORY.  Do you people know what the word THEORY means?  “A supposition or a system of ideas intended to explain something, especially one based on general principles independent of the thing to be explained.”  In other words, the system of ideas did not have enough proof to become fact, so they made it a theory and now inoculate our children with it through government school systems.  For those Darwinists out there -- explain the evolution of the eye to me.  Oo, oh!  How about the Cambrian Explosion?  The only Darwinism I believe in is the Social kind, and those who buy into the “theory of evolution” with no aspect of Intelligent Design have fucked that up for me, too.

Don’t Agree With -- Concept of Infinity: Karl Pilkington (one of my personal heroes) was asked to explain this statement: “If an infinite amount of monkeys were given an infinite amount of typewriters and typed for infinity, eventually the entire works of Shakespeare would be written.”  Karl’s thoughts?  “Impossible.”  My thoughts?  Ditto.  That’s absolute bullshit.  First show me an infinite amount of monkeys, then I will consider the statement.  In the interim, infinity is another way smart people try to explain away something stupid.  The best example of infinity is Pi.  “Pi never ends!”  How do you know?  Prove it.  Every time someone calculates Pi and proves this so-called concept of infinity, they prove it by giving up.  Luh-oo-zer!  Then they’re like, “Well, that’s infinity.”  Or, better yet, they put a computer out there somewhere that will never stop calculating Pi, proving that Pi is infinite.  Well, guess what?  Eventually that computer is gonna reboot, or the sun is gonna stop shining.  Then guess what fucking happens?  It stops.  The computer loses.  Infinity wasn’t proven, and, better yet, neither was the speed of light.  Cause if it takes eight minutes to know the sun stopped shining, then the computer should have had an eight minute warning to save its work before it got fucked while trying to prove this elusive “infinity” you people keep blathering about.

HATE IT.
Math

LOVE IT!
Playing Devil's Advocate

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Ran

CURRENTLY READING:
The Nymph King by Gena Showalter.  (It's awwight... need something with more oomph, though)

my first time

I figured if I am gonna put it all out there, might as well GO BIG, OR GO HOME. 

Memories... ah, the good ole days.  For me, that included blowdrying your bangs straight up and laying the AquaNet on thick.  Friendship bracelets.  Shorts paired with turtleneck sweaters.  That was middle school.  High school was even more colorful.  Dark lipstick.  Clothes straight from the Goodwill.  Grunge music.  My flat chest before my momma invested in my “girls.”  The good ole days.

This story occurred during those (definitely not sweet, but not quite bitter) high school years.  The days when I got more sexual education from my bedroom floor than Life Skills class.  The days when I learned that used condoms neither flush down the toilet nor magically disappear when thrown out your bedroom window.  Yes, the days of “my first time.”

I don’t know about you, but my first time bumping uglies really sucked.  I thought it would be simple: Insert Tab A into Slot B.  No one prepared me for the awkwardness of the entire situation.  Or that my extremely high hopes of having a mega orgasm during the act would not only be completely dashed but also put firmly on the shelf until I met C (thanks again, baby!).  There was also no romance, candlelight, or prom dress to go along with the first-time horizontal mambo.  That’s not my style, anyway.  No, I had to do one better and include sneaking the guy through my bedroom window, forgoing my bed because it squeaked too much, and whispering, lest my parents woke up, unlocked my bedroom door, and found their innocent little girl trying to figure out what part of a “blow job” required blowing.

My first and only time with X was definitely lacking.  Sixteen, and in love with being in love, I was easily swayed that X was “the one.”   Or rather, “the one until he banged the girl from down the road.”  The weeks leading up to it were very engaging, but the night we actually made the beast with two backs was anything but.  The decision was made quickly:
   
X:  Are you sure?
Me:  Yeah.
X:  Kay.

Mature adults that we were, of course we made sure to practice safe sex:

Me:  Do you have a condom?
X:  In my wallet, hold on.
Me:  [waiting]
X:  Got it.  Do you think we need two?
Me:  Can we do it twice?
X:  No, I don’t think so, but I think wearing two at one time would be safer than just wearing one.  What do you think?
Me:  Do you have another one?
X:  No.
Me:  Well... I guess we just need to be REALLY careful then.

Then the magical moment of penetration:

X:  Oh, yeah.
Me:  Is it in?
X:  Oh, yeah.
Me:  All the way?
X:  Oh, yeah.

Yup... only I would learn about small knobs through first hand experience.  Finally, the big finish, about thirty seconds later:

X:  OH, YEAH.
Me:  Yeah... wait, what?

The following weeks were miserable.  In that short amount of time, I convinced myself I was not only pregnant, but that I also had AIDS.  This led to me confessing all to my mother and answering embarrassing questions such as, “Did you have your period yet?” and “Did you use protection?”  The answers to both questions was “yes,” but somehow I still wasn’t convinced that I was neither pregnant nor HIV+.  We did, after all, neglect to use that second condom.

So after that first time, I took a vow of celibacy and got a promise ring.  Neither of which panned out after two years and my first semester of community college.

The moral of this story?  Go big, or go home.  In ALL things.

HATE IT.
Condoms

LOVE IT!

Monogamy in which condoms, pregnancy, or worrying about contracting an STD are no longer issues in my life.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
G complaining about not finding that ever-elusive “swagger.”

CURRENTLY READING:
The Nymph King by Gena Showalter

dream lover come and rescue me...

I have now officially dreamed of knocking boots with Spencer from iCarly three sleeps in a row.  It got so good last night that I found myself waking up mid-dream, only to try and force myself back to sleep so I wouldn’t miss anything.  I feel utterly ashamed.  Not because of dream-cheating on C, but that my subconscious standards are so low.  Yeah, Spencer's hawt, but I am attracted to a more diverse set of characteristics than plain ole hawtness.  Specifically, I am partial towards shaved heads, conservatism, large tackle, and the occasional goatee.  Yes, I’ve just described C and my boyfriend, Bruce Willis.  What?  Didn’t know me and Brucie are an item?  I don’t think he knows, either.

my personal rules to live by.

Haven’t blogged in foreva!  Thanks to a friend, Mrs. C.S., I have dug my blogspot out of its cyber hole and decided to update.  I will strive to do this regularly from this point out.

To start anew, I thought I would share with my readers MY PERSONAL rules to live by.  Please note that this post does not read “Should Be YOUR Personal Rules...”  These are mine, but feel free to borrow.

1. School rules.  Education is one investment that you will always get a return on.
2. Get a fucking job.  Unless you have a kid at home that is not school-aged, get your lazy ass off the damn couch and get a J-O-B.  “Housewife” is no longer an occupation.  “Stay-at-Home-Mom” only works if you ARE a stay at home mom to a child under five.
3. Never give it up until he goes down.  He should also kiss you while touching your face and tell you that you are beautiful.  All three requirements must be met before he dips his stick into the honey.
4. Don’t mix money.  There are and will always be two types of money: Yours and His.  I don’t care if you have a joint checking account and everything you have is in each others’ names.  There will never be “our” money.  You might say it, but you KNOW you don’t feel it.  If you don’t have any money, see #2.
5. Become fluent in a second language.  Notice I wrote, “fluent.”  Knowing one sentence in a different language doesn’t count, ‘tard.
6. Know the foundations of your political party.  Don’t just say you are Democrat or Republican, Liberal or Conservative, Left or Right.  Unless you know what those terms stand for your “party” can go fuck itself... because you are doing it to them already.
• Read the Constitution.  Know what it is and understand it.
• Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.  This goes politically and socially.  Watch, listen, and learn.  I am sure that C and I kept Air America in business an extra year by upping their ratings from 0 to 2.
7. Read the book instead of watching the movie.  Use your (no doubt) government funded education and put it to good use by READING something.  If you don’t know how to read blame your liberal mommy and daddy for not sending you to a school that could teach you how.  Seriously, turn off the television and open up your mind.
8. Find God.  “There are no atheists in a foxhole.”  Seriously, how many times has your unbelieving self said, “Oh, Jesus!” when you are in pain or “Oh, God!” when you feel intense pleasure?  Coincidence?  I think not.
9. Don’t hate the playa, hate the game.  Seriously.  Don’t hate on me cause I live large, and I won’t hate on you cause you don’t.
10. “Release the dogs, muthafuckas!”  One of my favorite quotes from one of my favorite books by one of my favorite authors.  I read this as “don’t go down without a fight.” I will fight.  I’ll pull a bitch’s weave straight out her head. 
11. Practice safe sex.  You’d think this is a no-brainer.  C and I were watching the history of the condom one night (after about three years of marriage and zero condoms).  At one point we both looked at each other and one us remarked that condoms seemed useful.  Then the other replied, “Yeah, I guess they are.”  So fucking lucky.  We are so. fucking. lucky.
• Take a serious look at your IQ before reproducing.  We have entirely too many dumbasses and absolutely no Social Darwinism thanks to all the libtards.
• If you’re broke, jimmy up.  My tax dollars are raising enough welfare babies. 
12. Drugs not Hugs.  Give me a valium over a therapy session any day.
13. “No boom boom soul brotha.  Too beaucoup.”  Yeah, I’m skerred. I can’t lie.  I’ve seen flicks.  Too beaucoup.
14. Go big or go home.  Hate your life, your significant other, your job?  Quit.  Just fucking quit.  Fuck it.  Fuck them.  If you don’t feel the passion, it isn’t meant to be.  Find the passion, feel the drive.
15. Make a hole, bitches!  I’m leaving this life with a beer in one hand, a piece of chocolate in the other, my book deals making serious bank, and my resume being pursued by every international organization on the Forbes Top 100.  Beat dat.

HATE IT.
Jewelry

LOVE IT!
Diamonds

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand

CURRENTLY READING:
I am Number Four by Pittacus Lore

jack the shitter

I had a Great Dane named Jack that took a shit in my toilet.  No shit.  (Pun intended).

One morning I got up, stretched my sleepy body, rubbed the eye boogers away, and made my way towards the potty.  I was fuzzy-headed from my eight hours, but the fog cleared quickly as I walked into my little white and blue bathroom.  I hesitated at the door.  It stunk something bad in there.  Like a fart or an asshole or morning breath or something.  I looked towards the toilet and found the source of the stench.  There lay a huge, long, thick turd curled up like a water hose.  No toilet paper.  Just the turd.  Weird.  Who took a huge dump in the middle of the night... and didn’t wipe?

Now, I will be honest.  I instantly thought I was the criminal.  I take Ambien on a regular basis to help me sleep, and Ambien has been proven to make you do crazy things while you are sedated.  I remember waking up next to a box of crackers one time after taking Ambien.  C took Ambien one night and I found him outside, naked, calling for our dog (who was in the house).  One night my husband and I both took the sleeping medicine, and I woke up the next day with a vibrator in my bed and C said something about his asshole hurting?  Neither of us had a clue of what transpired during our Ambien haze. I digress. 

Anyways, I thought it was very possible that the Ambien could have caused me to do something as humiliating as taking a dump in my toilet, forgetting to wipe, then taking my shitty ass back to bed to sleep it off.  I checked my underwear.  No problems there.  Checked the bedsheets.  No evidence there.  I was really starting to get puzzled.  So then I started thinking about when I last took a dump (sidenote: you know you are having a fucked up morning if, within the first ten minutes of waking, you are trying to figure out the exact date and time of your last bowel movement).  I somehow remembered that I did go to the bathroom the day before, not long before going to bed.  It couldn’t be possible to take two huge dumps hours apart.  Could it?

So after some initial investigating, I ruled out the possibility that I was the culprit.  It just didn’t add up.  Unfortunately, this still left me with the Mystery Shit puzzle.  I decided that the plans I had for the day had to be put aside until I figured this out.  Mystery Shit took the highest priority.  After I flushed the toilet and relieved myself, that is.

After doing some serious critical thinking, I discovered that I only had two possible suspects: my red-headed son or my huge Great Dane.  The hubby was not a suspect because he was working the entire night before; therefore, he was not available to lay the log.  I quickly ruled out my son.  The boy is forty pounds soaking wet, and that turd probably weighed five.  There was no way something that huge could have came from a kid.  Just to be sure, I asked the boy about it, and (cause little boys are known to be liars) I checked his underwear, too.  No track marks.  That left only one suspect: Jack, the Great Dane.

Now it took some serious thinking on my part to convince myself that Jack took a shit in the toilet; however, significant evidence pointed to him being the one who did so.  Facts that I considered were:

1. There was no toilet paper in the commode.  Dogs don’t wipe their asses.
2. Jack loved to sit on things.  Chairs, people’s legs, coffee tables.  I found out that it is characteristic of a Great Dane.  I even found pictures of this on the internet (see below).
   
3. Jack had recently taken an interest in my bathroom activities.  Whenever I went to the bathroom, he followed me in there.  He always got a very curious look on his face as I sat on the toilet.  I am assuming his canine nose clued him on what I was doing while on the commode.

Now can't you imagine this dog sitting on a toilet?

After several hours of contemplating the situation and the corresponding evidence, I reached a tremendous conclusion.  Mystery Shit case solved.  I had a Great Dane named Jack that took a shit in my toilet.  No shit.  (Pun intended).

HATE IT.
Olives

LOVE IT!

Mushrooms

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:

Neil Boortz

CURRENTLY READING:

Divine by Mistake by P.C. Cast

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.

HATE IT.
Friends who don’t return phone calls or emails.

LOVE IT!
True friends, like L and T.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
“Mountain Music” – Alabama

CURRENTLY READING:
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:

HATE IT.
Cigarettes.

LOVE IT!
Expensive Cigars.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
"And She Was" - Talking Heads

CURRENTLY READING:
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:

HATE IT.
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?

LOVE IT!
Chocolate Drumsticks.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
“Here I Go Again” – White Snake

CURRENTLY READING:
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:

HATE IT.
Going to sleep.

LOVE IT!
Ambien.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
“Crazy Bitch" - Buckcherry

CURRENTLY READING:
New Moon - Stephanie Meyer (I got desperate.)

***

pierce me. pick me.

I still really want to get my nose pierced. There was a nurse that gave W a shot yesterday who had a cute little diamond stud in her right nostril. Adorable. Sexy. Totally me.

There is only one problem I have that is keeping me from getting the nose piercing... nose picking. Yes, you read that correctly. How in the hell do you pick your nose when you have a length of metal inside your nostril? Especially while the piercing is healing!?!

I mean, let's be honest here. I'm a nose-picking kinda girl. I don't like the boogies. I prefer to be boogie-free. Usually a moderate nose-picking session, complete with tissues, preludes a nightly bath. I tend to be ritualistic about it.

So what would happen to my ritual if I got the piercing? I refuse to contemplate that a nose piercing and nose picking might be mutually exclusive.

This isn't a decision to make lightly. Better continue to sleep on it for a while...

Until next time, here is today's list:

HATE IT.
People reading books on treadmills. If you can read when you are on the treadmill, you need to just take your book and your fat-ass back to the couch.

LOVE IT!
People jamming tunes on treadmills. Think Brad Pitt in Burn After Reading. Awesome.

CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:
“Hold My Hand" - Hootie & The Blowfish

CURRENTLY READING:
Students’ papers

***

testing, testing...

... one, two, three...

Taking the leap into the Blogger's universe. I have enough stories to fill up galaxies. I've been served. I served back. Now it's on.