Monthly Archives: January 2013

Chubby sexy cousins and other disturbing things

So, awhile back I wrote a post in which I listed some of the fascinating things people Googled that led them inexplicably to my website. Oh yes, folks, my website host keeps track of that stuff (you naughty, naughty readers, you).

And as it so happens, this second wine of glass I’m drinking made me realize that we are way over due for another round of this fun (and by fun, I mean HIGHLY disturbing) little game.

Now, before we begin, let me just say that I’m not entirely sure why Google hates me, but hey, I’ll take all the views I can get, even if it is mainly composed of lonely men in their basements looking up “facebook carrot vagina.” (Seriously. Google directed that person to this site…why you gotta hate, Google?).

And so, without further ado…

“Trucker sex” (I’m actually giving Google a free pass on this one. I did actually write about trucker sex once. Hi mom!)

“Chubby sexy cousin” (1. Awesome band name. 2. Should I be offended or should one of my cousins?)

“I am your brother, don’t worry” (I swear, despite this and the one above, I’ve never written about incest)

“I think Winston is cute, too bad he’s gay” (Uh…?)

“Muumuu jokes” (It’s a niche market and apparently it’s all mine)

“Montel Williams shirtless” (I worry about the future of humanity)

“Person crying/Man crying/Geeky guy eating while crying” (Oh god, did I accidentally turn my husband into a meme?)

“Wife home alone” (Apparently I also appeal to rapists, so…cool?)

“here is to all the meanie pies who are always bullying me and forcing me to eat eggnog” (Google, I demand you ban this individual from my website post haste and henceforth! I won’t tolerate that kind of hate speech)

“Humans eating live birds” (The hell, Google!?!)

“Where are your ovaries” (I did actually draw a diagram once, so…well played, Google)

“my hot college boyfriend england” (???)

“my husband is a drunk idiot” (Heh. Sorry, babe. I think I did turn you into an Internet meme)

“Crappy photo of woman” (Aw…now you’re just being mean, you guys)

“Pregnant 49 weeks” (Holy crap, can that even happen? Google, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but I’m thinking WebMD would probably be more appropriate. And/or urging her to immediately dial 911)

“aprill brandon smoking” (I know that’s you, mom! I’m working on it. Back off)

“Cool grandma sex”/”naked breasts of middle-aged females” (Aw…now I has a sad)

“Big nose booger” (Always keeping it classy up here at Broke Wife, Big City)

“Potty mumu poop” (Oh yeah, no, my writing career is going great)

“I can’t help it if your mommy doesn’t know how to dress you cute” (WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE!?!)

“Aneurysm headache location” (Again, Google, WebMD would probably be better for this now almost definitely dead person)

“buffy dog w/ no pants” (Why would you even need to look that…nope, you know what…I don’t care…Screw you, Google).

“Writers drink and smoke” (After reading this, can you honestly blame us?)

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Having daddy issues with Father Winter

So, I don’t know who came up with this whole “four seasons that are equal in length” concept, but they should be fired. Or better yet, fired and then punched in the throat. Or, ideally, fired and then punched in the throat and then stabbed, then shot, then stabbed again, then kicked in the junk, then given a series of purple nurples, then drawn and quartered, and then made to listen to Macy Gray albums over and over again until their ears murder their brain to make the pain stop.

Yeah. Suffice it to say, I’m over winter.

Like Taylor-Swift-we-are-never-ever-ever-getting-back-together over it.

And yet, just like an annoying ex who apparently won’t get the point unless I make a platinum album about our lame relationship, winter is refusing to acknowledge that I’ve moved on and am now much too busy fantasizing about much hotter situations to deal with them.

And the worst part? It’s only January.

JANUARY.

Which means winter won’t be moving out for at least a few more months, making for an awkward situation every single time I step outside.

Father winter

Father winter 2

Father winter 3

But that’s not even the worst part. I mean…ahem…I’m not as innocent as I look. Growing up in the mid-West, I’ve tangled with my fair share of winters, if you catch my (snow) drift.* So, if it was just the cold and the snow and the sleet and the ice and the wind and the unattractive turtlenecks, I could handle it until spring.

However, winter has started to fight dirty and now I’m not even safe inside my own house. That bastard has turned every single surface into a mini-landmine with my own body serving as the detonator. Suddenly all my light switches have flipped (heh)** into powerful wizards that I have to try to outsmart any time I need some light. And trying to kiss my husband or pet my dog these days ends with a shower of sparks (and not the metaphorical sexy kind…with the whole kissing my husband thing…not the dog thing…just felt it was super important to clarify that).

Or, to sum up, I keep getting shocked.

It’s gotten so bad that I now march, high school band style, from room to room in an attempt to avoid building up a charge. I have become a master at turning on switches with my elbow and closing doors with my arse. Before touching anything that even remotely looks like it could hold a current, I touch 17 other non-electrical looking items, obsessive-compulsive style. And I fully intend to burn all my socks in a ceremonial fire where I call upon the spirits of whatever is the opposite of electricity and trade my soul to them in exchange for a shock-free existence.

And, if that last part should fail to work, I plan to just lay naked in my bed curled up in the fetal position until April.

Oh, and P.S. winter, I was only into you for your holidays. I never really loved you.

*Sorry.

**Again, sorry.

Butt fur the grace of God

There are many distinct advantages to having a dog vs. having a child. For instance, when your child is misbehaving and you just can’t take it anymore, sticking them in a crate for six hours while you get some much needed “me” time usually results in “jail” time. Likewise, it is frowned upon by authorities to hit your kid with a newspaper (and/or a September Vogue when they’ve been a VERY BAD BOY!) or to rub their face in their own feces to get your point across. Not to mention, have you ever seen a toddler sit and stay upon command? Without the assistance of duct tape, that is?

But the one area where dogs don’t have a distinct advantage? Sickness. Specifically the flu (or whatever the dog-version of the flu is, which is what I suspect my dog Buffy currently has). Because when either one gets sick, it’s pretty much the same scenario for the caregiver–

You will spend at least the next 24 hours cleaning up every manner of vile substances that can squeeze (and/or explode) itself out every orifice imaginable from their tiny bodies.

Which is why my Tuesday thus far has consisted of:

Taking my dog outside so he can poop.

Taking my dog outside again so he can poop.

Cleaning up the vomit I discovered after I got out of the shower.

Taking my dog outside again so he can have an explosive case of diarrhea and then immediately dragging my dog to the bathroom without having his backside touch anything (Note: I was unsuccessful).

Throwing said dog who has an intense hatred of baths into the tub so I could cut out his butt fur that had been tainted with said diarrhea.

Scrubbing his backside in case I missed any of the tainted butt fur.

Trying to get him back into the tub after he escaped and then rinsing him off as his wet body clings to mine with a strength I honestly didn’t think his 32-pound body could possibly possess.

Disinfecting the tub and bathroom floor with the butt fur and diarrhea remains.

Cleaning up all the other areas where he decided to spontaneously sit while being dragged to the bathroom.

Scrubbing my hands for 45 minutes until they bled and then sitting by the water bowl trying to coax Buffy to take a drink since I know I have personally just cleaned up every single ounce of liquid his body could possibly hold.

And that pretty much brings us up to date, with my exhausted dog cuddled up next to me on the couch as I sporadically check to make sure he’s still breathing while I type this and the vet’s number queued up on my phone in case he gets any worse.

Now, I could be angry about this situation. Or at least unhappy. Or at the very least starting to question what horrific life decisions I had made that had led me up to this point where I spend the majority of my Tuesday scrubbing a dog’s butt.

But I’m not. Because as it turns out, this couldn’t have happened at a better time considering I woke this morning to the Facebook announcement of yet another person in my circle happily proclaiming that they’re pregnant. A proclamation, I’m not proud to admit, that made me irrationally mad.

See, after my first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage in October, my husband and I have started to try to conceive again, which has yet to be successful and which is subconsciously bringing up some of those horrible feelings we dealt with this fall. And which is why instead of being happy for couples who are expecting like I should, I react with:

“But that’s not fair! They already have kids! And now they get another one? Like it’s just so easy to get pregnant! How dare they! How dare they be so happy when I’m not! How dare it be so easy for them when it’s not for me!”

Like I said, irrationally mad. And exceedingly unfair to the happy couple, I know.

But after today, I realize it’s probably a lot harder (and a lot more anxiety-inducing) to deal with a sick kid. Or to deal with even a healthy kid. Because poop-covered-fur-cutting-out aside, my dog is pretty self-sufficient no matter what the circumstances. And if I was dealing with a sick kid, I wouldn’t be able to drink this vodka I’m currently holding in my hand.

So, I’m holding onto that for right now, because I need to hold onto something other than the disappointment of getting my period yet again. And for right now, it’s enough to just try to find the upside of only being responsible for the life of a dog, a creature that has more instincts for self-preservation than a toddler who thinks sticking a fork into a light socket sounds like a downright dandy idea.

And to try to remember that there is always next month, which, of course, is easier said than done, but hey, it’s something.

But…white girls are always on a diet, aren’t they?

You guys…I don’t know. Is it just me or does this new year just seem…I don’t know…a bit lackluster? A bit blah?

I mean, 2013? Thirteen itself is just a crappy number. Unlucky, even. And was anyone happy when they turned 13? Of course not. You had acne and hair sprouting in weird places and were the very definition of awkward and everyone hated you because you were SUPER annoying.

Ermahgerd.+Poptarts_f023ff_4102307

Even the end of the world Mayan prediction was a letdown, unable to live up to the hype of Y2K.

Then again, maybe it is just me. I’m just not feeling the bright, shiny part of this bright, shiny new year. I couldn’t even gather up the energy to make a resolution this year. Not even to lose weight, which, as a white girl born and bred in the Midwest, has been my standard Jan. 1 promise since I was four.

And, come to think of it, maybe that’s the problem.

See, normally, this time of the year is downright magical. The time when we women research and plan and empty our pantries full of junk and buy pills and powders and that yoga DVD which goes perfectly with the brand new cute yoga outfit we just bought and we write out our daily menu for the next two weeks based on the latest, trendy diet book we also just bought. It’s a time of hope, the time when we truly believe THIS diet actually IS the answer to our weight loss woes, unlike the 42 others that we’ve tried and failed miserably at, and the time just before reality sets in and we’d stab a three-legged, orphaned bunny just to get our hands on a piece of chocolate cake.

I can’t explain why the majority of us women love putting ourselves through this year after year. But we do. To the tune of $600 trillion* a year for the diet industry. So there must be something enjoyable about it. Even if we have yet to figure out what that enjoyable element actually is.

*Figure might not be accurate considering I just made it up on the spot.

Not to mention, we’re encouraged by an endless parade of publications putting out their health and fitness issues and Facebook and Twitter feeds of everyone talking about their new, amazing diet:

“Just lost seven pounds on the leek soup diet!!! I’ve passed out 32 times but can totes fit in my skinny jeans!!! Jajajajaja!!!”

So maybe I’m just feeling a bit left out. I have no desire to put myself through all that again. It just seems like too much work for something that has a proven fail rate of 100 percent.

But if I can’t get excited about a new diet, honestly what else is there to live for?

Hmm…then again, maybe I’m being too pessimistic. Maybe this is actually a healthy step for me. Perhaps I’ve finally gotten to the age where I accept and love my body for what it is, muffin top and all.

Or more likely, I’ve reached the pivotal point in my life where I’ve subconsciously decided to just let myself go and start that muu-muu collection that I’m always (kind of) joking about.

Either way, I’m going to eat this pie. And not feel guilty.

Or at least not as guilty as I’d usually feel.

Or at the very least, feel guilty but then have another slice anyway and then start planning my new diet for the start of 2014.

The Pizza Principle

You know, I often wonder what it’ll be like when I’m old. You know, like, when I’m 35.

Ha! I kid. Thirty-five is now the new 12. You’re not technically old until 44. Everyone knows that.

But seriously, I do often wonder how things will be when I’m in my 70’s and I’m (hopefully) a grandmother to grandkids who are way less messed up than my actual kids. And they all gather around their Ninja Gammy (<—–trademarked) and ask “What was it like when you were young, Ninja Gammy?”

“Well, kids, it was a simpler time, when Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg (now Snoop Sphinx) was blasting from the 800-pound five-CD changer in my car trunk (remember, kids, always keep your mind on your money and your money on your mind) and we communicated via pagers, which were tiny machines that beeped to alert you someone wanted you to find a landline phone (which was a primitive and barbaric form of the cell phone) no matter where you were so that you could call them back immediately so that they could inform you they needed a ride, and we had to walk 30 miles in the snow without shoes to let our best friend know what our status update was, and when we wanted to watch a TV show we had to wait until the actual day and time that the TV network broadcast it, and we were forced to write (by hand!) in the now mythical language of ‘cursive’.”

And as if all that wasn’t embarrassing enough, I still have to figure out how the hell I’m going to explain/justify MySpace and Gangnam Style to them.

“Uh…there were bath salt zombies back then, children. What do you want from me?”

See, the problem is that technology is simply moving too fast. For instance, I remember my grandma playing music on a record player while I was jamming to my cassette tapes (pieces of crap that always had to be fixed with a pencil, kids). But it wasn’t a completely foreign concept to me. As a kid, my cousins had a toy record player that we used to play crappy kid’s albums on. And even though we all had cordless phones (slightly less barbaric versions of cellphones, kids), we could all figure out how to use the rotary phone she had because the generation gap wasn’t wider than the technology gap.

But now…oi vey…

Which brings me to the point of this post. Being the Smart Phone/Facebook/Twitter/Instagram addict that I am, I had an eye-opening experience just the other day that taught me a very valuable lesson about all this runaway technology we’re living with today.

Flashback Wavy Lines…Flashback Wavy Lines…Flashback Wavy Lines…

It was just after New Years. My family was in town. Considering it was January in Boston, it was cold (which was confirmed by the 52 Instagram photos of thermometers in my feed). So we decided to take advantage of home delivery, the culinary technology break-through that made it possible for hot food to be delivered to your door (like in Star Trek: The Next Generation, only slower and without the whimsy).

Considering there were five of us, we decided to go with pizza, the ultimate crowd pleaser and the least likely choice to result in a fist fight.

Or so it would seem at first glance.

Being that this was my territory, I clicked onto Foodler.com, my go-to magical food portal, an absolutely brilliant contribution to humanity that lets you type in your address and then tells you what restaurants deliver to your ‘hood (complete with full menus for each eatery) and then LET’S YOU ORDER DIRECTLY FROM THE WEBSITE. I know I talk up toilet paper a lot as the best invention of all time (with the Snuggie as a close second), but seriously, I’d be willing to go back to leaves and/or our collective left hand in order to keep Foodler.

The problem was, however, that the majority wanted Regina’s pizza, which was not listed on Foodler. So, trying to be a good hostess, I Googled Regina’s delivery. Found out they do deliver. Clicked on link. Was taken to a new Foodler-esque website. Started to order. Discovered I also had to set up an account, complete with username, password, password hint, security questions, personal info, mother’s maiden name and itemized list of everyone I’ve ever had sex with. Decided to scrap that idea. Sooooo then…

Went directly to Regina’s website. Discovered they had a tab for delivery. No menu listed. Had to create own pizza from list of 3,000 ingredients. Twenty minutes (and 42 stitches later) we realized we cannot, as a family unit, create our own pizza unanimously (or at least, not without Thunderdome breaking out). Sooooo then…

More Googling. More half-hearted attempts to create “accounts” on other third-party food delivery websites. More “your food will be delivered in approximately 3 hours and there will be a $652 delivery fee.”

And just when we thought all hope was lost and we’d be forced to eat leftover Christmas food that may or may not have gained consciousness…

Someone suggested, “Uh, why don’t you just call the restaurant and order the pizza?”

Ninety seconds later, the pizza was ordered. Ready in 15. Have a nice day.

Lesson learned: Technology isn’t simplifying our lives. It’s simply making us stupid.

So, just remember that, kids, when 30 years from now it takes you three hours to order a pizza via the Internet.

And that’s only if you can remember your password.