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Anyone Want Oily Anal Seepage?

Anyone?

Anyone at all? Nobody?

After my weekend spent in Swimsuit hell, I decided that I would like to try and lose the rest of the baby weight. It’s not much, but it’s in all the wrong places. Maybe not losing the weight but at least toning up the saggy areas….you know, from my neck to my ankles. I spent a good portion of my morning looking at some weight loss possibilities. The one that caught my eye is Alli. I’d heard about it, heard about the way it supposedly works but never really paid much attention.

Today, I paid attention. It claimed that for every 5 pounds you lose, Alli can help you lose an additional 2-3 pounds. Sounded good. Sounded easy. I kept on reading. When I got to the side effects and product information, I started to giggle. Uncontrollably. The flip side to being a smart ass creative is having a innate ability to visualize the funnier side of life. And boy did I visualize it today. If you happened to be in your local Target this morning and you saw a woman bent over double, laughing her ass off….that was me. Let me share with you what started that giggling fit, straight from the label itself:
 
Orlistat works by preventing the absorption of some of the fat you eat. The fat passes out of you body so you may have bowel changes. You may get:

  • gas with oily spotting
  • loose stools
  • more frequent stools that are hard to control

Soooooooo……basically what I’m inferring here is that you’ll lose some weight but that won’t really improve your life because you’ll be the one with the oily anal seepage and spontaneous diarrhea. Ooh, sexy! I don’t care how much weight you lose, oily anal seepage and spontaneous diarrhea is a high price to pay, my friends. A high price indeed. And let’s just face it, oily anal seepage just ain’t comin‘ out of the sofa cushions.
Plus, it’s not cheap. $60 a bottle. For oily anal seepage and spontaneous diarrhea. Seems a little expensive, doesn’t it? A bottle of cheap tequila and some tainted fish would accomplish the same thing for much cheaper. Plus Ciguatera Fish Poisoning comes with the always fun side effects of blurry vision, temporary blindness, severe itching and reversal of hot and cold sensations. Now that sounds like the recipe for a good time. You’d be the life of the party. I think I’ll stick to badgering Mr.McHunky to buy me a Wii and Wii Fit. No oily anal seepage and spontaneous diarrhea for me, thankyouverymuch.

As a side note, I can’t wait to see what Google keyword searches bring people to this post. If you’re here because you are suffering from oily anal seepage and spontaneous diarrhea, you have my utmost sympathies. And if you suffer from these things due to Alli, then you’ll have to excuse my giggling. I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing with you. What? You’re not laughing? Technicality. One day you’ll look back on this and laugh.
Right after you pay off your new sofa.



When Beauty Goes Wrong

 

Spring is fast approaching and I am oh-so-damn-happy to get rid of these winter blahs. I’m tired of sweaters, coats and frostbite. I have had enough. Do you hear me bitch Mother Nature? Enough. Spring means pretty skirts, fashionable sandals, and gulp…..self maintenance. Sigh….. But springtime also brings a whole nother set of problems. I can’t go out in public with unshaven legs and translucently white skin- it’s uncouth and my mother would die a million deaths from shame.

Spring is also the time of year that tends to make me do things to my hair. I don’t know if it’s a mixture of boredom, snow induced insanity or alcohol the promise of warmer weather, but I always end up with some new disaster hairstyle that looked great in the picture. I end up forking over a fortune to my hairstylist, who tried to talk me out of this particular style in the first place, just to come home and contemplate shaving my head bald. I come home sobbing to Matt that I look like Posh Spice without the posh or the spice. I end up locked in the bedroom, watching reruns of The Drew Carey show and envying Mimi’s hair while scarfing down cookie dough straight from the package.

Every year we go through this ritual. Every year. My friends have similar rituals, it’s not just me. It got me thinking about all the things we women do for beauty. And how so many of those things go terribly, tragically wrong. Most of these tragedies involve beauty enhancements that we attempt to do at home ourselves. This is bad. This normally ends with a lot of crying, screaming and drinking. Valium is often needed to overcome the PTSD that is caused. Mirrors are covered with towels and phone calls are not returned. This is how husbands know that the seasons, they are a changin’. In an effort to stop the insanity, I have put together a little list of common beauty enhancements that women try to do at home.
 
Consider this a list of Don’t’s:
At home eyebrow waxing– The prospect of being forced to leave the house all spring long with absolutely no eyebrows makes the unibrow seem fantastically fashionable, doesn’t it? This is one enhancement that is best left to the professionals.

At home hair coloring– I love highlights. I’ve seen the highlight kits for $6.99 in the hair coloring aisle at Target. A cheaper person might be tempted by such a large savings. Do not give in. The only thing worse than expecting a subtle shade of auburn and getting Ronald McDonald, is having your hair fall out in clumps. Ronald McDonald with mange is not an attractive look.

At home perms– See at home hair coloring and again, picture Ronald McDonald but this time with curly clumps of mange. Nuff said on that one.

Self tanners– Have you ever seen an orange and white striped zebra? I have….in my mirror, 10 hours after applying self tanner. Some people, I refer to them as The Blessed Few, are great at applying self tanner with no streaks or stripes. Unfortunately, the majority of us end up looking like we have a toxic level of beta carotene in our systems and frankly, that is not a good look for anyone.

There’s one more thing that I must add to the list based on personal tragedy experience. Do not fall in love with a hairstyle that you find in a magazine that is obviously for someone with thicker, thinner, fuller, longer, curlier, or straighter hair. Do not take this picture into your hair stylist and expect her to replicate it on your head. She is not a magician. She does not have a magic wand. The only way she will be able to make you look like that is to staple that picture to your forehead. S’rsly. You will end up sobbing in your bed, eating raw cookie dough and watching bad reruns on TV.
 
Please ladies, I beg of you, heed the warnings. Don’t become a victim of At Home Beauty Enhancements.
Thank you for your attention. Public Service Announcement over.

You’re welcome.



Brazilian Waxes Are A Form Of Torture

I’m going to share with you a post about one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. No really. Humiliating with a capital H. I hope you can appreciate what it takes for me to share this story with you. My friends and family still tease me. The beginning of every bikini season is marked by snickers and jokes at my expense. I can’t even blame them. I’d laugh at me too….assuming me was somebody else and that somebody else had this same experience.

 

I never had the inclination to have any part of myself, other than my eyebrows, waxed. For some unimaginable reason, having some woman pour molten hot wax on my girly bits and then ripping out the hair by the roots just did not appeal to me. I’m funny that way. Just call me Sasquatch. When I was very pregnant with Maia, I finally reached the point where I almost passed out in the shower trying to trim the hedges. Literally. Had to sit down on the shower floor because I was so dizzy and light headed. My sister, afraid that I might do some real damage to myself or others, purchased a gift certificate for me from a local salon for a Bikini Wax. If only I had known. Hindsight really is 20/20.
 
Armed with my gift certificate, I waddled on down to the salon one afternoon. I picked the wrong afternoon. There were only 2 chicks working that day and neither one of them spoke very clear English. I should have waddled my Sasquatch ass right back on out the door. Shoulda Woulda Coulda. But alas, I did not. Believe me, it was a decision that I would barely live to regret. The chick took my gift certificate and smiled so sweetly when I told her that I wanted a ‘Bikini Wax‘. She was smiling and nodding as she led back to her little chamber of horrors room. The smiling should have tipped me off to the horrors that were coming. I just thought she was nice. I didn’t realize that she was a sadist limited in her understanding of English.

 

She had me disrobe and climb up on the table, which was humiliating enough. If you’ve ever seen a hugely pregnant woman try to lever herself onto a table, you understand. She was doing her thing and all of a sudden…PAIN! White hot, blinding, send me into labor PAIN in an area that should not have been feeling pain. That particular area should not have been involved at all in this little escapade into S&M female hair removal. I thought for sure she had ripped my girly bits right off my body. You ladies who have been pregnant know how much more sensitive things can get down in that region while you are with child.

 

I shrieked at the top of my considerable lungs. There were words coming out of my mouth that would have scorched the ears of the devil himself. The sadist chick was holding up one small part of a strip covered with little bits of hair, smiling proudly as though it were a trophy. She had the nerve to give me a thumbs up. I was not feeling quite so optimistic. I was on the verge of punching her in the face telling her to stop when once again….PAIN. More white hot, blinding pain. I shot up off that table, and that’s no easy feat for a very pregnant woman. It was akin to Shamu climbing a mountain. I’ll leave you for a moment while you picture that….
 
So I jumped off that table, dropped the towel, grabbed my clothes and ran the hell out of that torture chamber little room. I thought I had run into the bathroom. I was wrong, my friends. So very very wrong. I had run straight into the lobby, naked and cursing. Not a pretty sight. I consider myself fortunate that nobody ran out of the salon covering their face, screaming ‘My eyes, my eyes.’ The sadist waxer chick had followed me out to the lobby, confused and obviously not at all proficient in English. She kept pointing at my nether regions and saying ‘Brazilian wax. Brazilian.’ I wanted to scream at her ‘For the love of all that is holy, learn English. There’s a world of hurt between bikini and brazilian.’ Unfortunately, all that came out of my mouth was ‘Aaahhhhh.’ The pain had apparently robbed me of my ability to speak and/or form coherent sentences.

 

Once the flabbergasted chick behind the counter pointed my scandalized ass towards the bathroom, I managed to get dressed and get the hell out of that little shop of horrors. I’m sure I wasn’t imagining all those eyes upon me as I waddled speed walked my pregnant self out to the car in disgrace, where I promptly discovered that sitting down flat was simply not an option. I had to drive home perched precariously on one ass cheek. Matt listened to my rambling story of shame, not once even daring to crack a smile. He’s such a smart man. So imagine my surprise later that night when I started to get ready for bed and Matt was suddenly overcome with the need to point and laugh at me. He was laughing so hard that tears were starting to form in his eyes and spill down his cheeks as he bent over double, holding his stomach. Remember when I said she ripped off one strip? That’s right, dear friends, the second one was still hot waxed to my girly bits. Do you know how hard it is to get that wax strip off once it’s dried and hardened?
 
I do.
 
Consider this my PSA for the day. Be sure the sadist wax chick speaks English before you allow access to the girly parts. You’re welcome.



A Little Old Lady, A Midget, & A Minivan

Dear Ass Clown from New Jersey,

I realize that driving up North is a totally different experience than driving down South. I get that. Truly I do. However, down here in the South, whipping your massively huge SUV into the other lane amid screeching tires and a honking horn is just bad manners. I’m terribly sorry that I had to apply the brakes in order to avoid rear ending the little old lady in front of me who was turning. I understand that she was turning at a rate of speed only rivaled by a turtle, however down here in the South we do not attempt to give little old ladies heart attacks by scaring them off the side of the road. We say ‘Bless her heart‘ and move on about our day. So when you decided that giving her the finger was an appropriate reaction to her slow navigation of her admittedly large car, well I just hope your mother is proud of the ass clown you have become.

I hope you can now see that taking out your frustrations on a sleep deprived, slightly unbalanced mother of four was a very bad idea. Very. Bad. Idea. It was shameful enough to toss the finger at a little old lady. But when you whipped your enormous SUV around me and then tried to cut back in front of me? Well sir, that was a bad choice, now wasn’t it? Didn’t quite know what you were getting yourself into, now did you?

Yes, that was my mini van that hit the back end of your enormous SUV. And by the way- you do know that driving a hugenormous SUV like that just makes us women think that you are overcompensating for your teensy weensy wiener, right? Just thought I’d throw that out there. You might want to think about it. Where was I? Oh yes, I did hit the back of your enormous SUV. And why yes, I sure did smile at you when you levered your 5 foot 4 self out of your enormous SUV and stomped back to my window with your panties all in a bunch. The first words out of your mouth should have been ‘I’m sorry ma’am for being such an ass clown‘. That would have been appropriate, given your childish behavior caused the entire incident. You know what was not appropriate? Calling me a bitch. All that did was make me want to release my inner diva, Buffy, on your midget ass. Don’t think for one hot minute just because I drive a minivan that I won’t jump out and beat your ass with my four inch high heel boots. Are we clear on that? Good. Your lack of manners was further evidenced when the police officer showed up. Calling her a broad was not the best idea. Although I did giggle a little while watching her treat you like a naughty Kindergartner who missed his little nap.

*knuckle knocks* to Officer Jenkins.

I truly did enjoy the show when she wrote you a ticket for a moving violation. I honestly did not realize that a man’s voice could go so high. Have you thought about auditioning for the Vienna Boys Choir? I hear they’re looking for sopranos. You might have to shave your one facial hair though, will that be a problem?

In conclusion, the next time you decide to act like a prick while driving down South, remember that not all women will be as friendly and restrained as I was today. Next time, you might get your ass beat down by a woman in the middle of the street while all the other women cheer and honk their horns in support. And don’t be thinking that a man will come to your aid. This is the South. They know better than to mess with the women.
 
So pull up your Big Girl Panties and grow a set. Ass Clown.

[Editor’s Note: Matt is having heart palpitations right now. This is my second traffic incident in a week. Neither were my fault. I can’t help it that I attract Ass Clown’s like a magnet.]



Can I Have Fries With That Attitude?

I need to bitch for a moment. Please keep all hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times during this rant. Thank you. I picked Maia up from preschool today and in order to put a stop to the incessant whining and begging, I agreed to go to McD’s for lunch. Please no hate mail. I’m aware that giving into the whining is bad parenting. You weren’t in the car having your ears assaulted by the shrieking, so stuff it.

I get to McD’s and wait in the usual 30 minute line for the drive-thru because I’m lazy and don’t want to go inside, where the whining will start again when she sees the indoor germ breeding farm playground. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with this particular McD’s. They are S-L-O-W like molasses! And rude. Don’t even get me started on the level of rudeness that these idiots display. Every time I bite my tongue to keep from screaming out at them: I understand that your job sucks. I understand that you go home at night smelling like old french fries. I understand that your paycheck barely covers the rent on your government subsidized housing and consequently there isn’t enough left over for toothpaste. I get that. But let’s not take it out on the world at large, m’kay? I just want my freaking double cheeseburger with a medium fries and hold the attitude. I want to scream this, but I refrain. I don’t want to come home and find some special sauce on my burger, if you know what I mean. It just chaps my ass that they can’t even acknowledge your presence at the window. Is it too much to ask for a “Hi. That will be $14.07 please.” Side note- $14 at McD’s, that’s madness. Things did not go smoothly today at good ole McD’s. First there was the whole wait-in-line-for-30-damn-minutes thing, then I finally make my way up to the little intercom to order. The screen that displays your order is broken. I know what this means. It means that my order is going to be wrong. I speak slowly and clearly, as though giving my order to a child. Then I wait. And wait.

Finally I hear “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” For Real? I repeat it. S-L-O-W-L-Y and C-L-E-A-R-L-Y. Then I wait. And wait.

And I hear “Did you say a large coffee?”. What the HELL?! No, you over-paid ass clown. I repeated that I wanted a small strawberry milkshake. Small. Strawberry. Milkshake. “We don’t have strawberry, only vanilla.”

God in Heaven, take me now. Just take me.

I finally finish my order, hear her repeat it back to me and know that it does not matter. It will be wrong when I receive it. I know this. I’ve accepted that this is a test of my ability to control my temper. God is testing me. I really wish he didn’t have so much faith in me. We wait another 20 minutes in between placing our order and the first window. Twenty minutes. 2-0. Insanity. Mase is screaming, Maia is screaming, and I’ve developed a tic in my left eye. Maybe it’s an aneurysm. I should only be so lucky. I finally make it up to pay and hand over my check card. The lady stares at it for a minute then looks back at me. What the HELL? It’s a check card. You swipe it through the little machine and it will pay for my food. Just like magic. Except…

Our credit card machine is broke. We can only take cash.”  I stared at her expectantly, waiting for her to laugh and say Just Kidding. She didn’t. The tic was getting worse. Maybe it’s a brain hemorrhage.

I had to ask. “How long has the credit card machine been broken?”.

“All day.” And with those two words, the tic migrated over to my right eye as well.

“Am I being punked? Where’s Ashton?” She looked confused. Apparently there’s no cable television in her government subsidized housing. Good.

“So, like, do you have cash or what?”.  She actually looked irritated.

“I’m confused as to why I waited 30 minutes to place my order, then it took another 10 minutes for you to get my order right. Then I had to wait another 20 minutes to get to this window. And not one time. NOT ONE DAMN TIME did anyone say anything about the credit card machine being broke. Why is that? WHY IS THAT?”.  I barely even took a breath while speaking, I was that pissed.

“I just told you.” She said it and then she smiled.  She smiled.

I had to take a deep breath and say a little prayer that her blood spatter wouldn’t stain my seats when I committed homicide. “Yes you did. Now let me tell you a little something. How hard would it be to march your over-paid ass out to the intercom and put up a little sign letting people know that your credit card machine is broken? Would that be hard? You could have somebody else spell the big words for you. I’d be happy to spell a few words for you right now. Wanna hear them?”

“‘Scuse me?” She really looked offended.

“Did I stutter? Did. I. Stutter? I understand that this is probably going to be your career, and that sucks for you. Don’t take it out on the rest of us.”

“You need to take your little screaming brats home and get out of my line.” Then she flicked one of her fingernails at me.

I didn’t yank her head through the window and separate her weave from her head. I wanted to. Boy did I want to. But in my county you can only take those Anger Management classes once per year to get out of a conviction for misdemeanor assault. And let’s face it- the year is young my friends, the year is young. So I settled for rolling up my window when her hand came out to give me back my check card. It wasn’t my fault that her 5 inch long fake fingernail got caught in the window. It certainly wasn’t my fault that she yanked her hand back and ripped the fake nail off. Not my fault at all. But it did make me smile.

She started it. Ass Clown.