Tag Archives: Mr.Coffee

A List of Shit That Pisses Me Off

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It’s been a while since we had ourselves a good, long rant here on the blog, and I think it’s about time to rectify that. So here’s my list of shit that pisses me off. Notice that it’s not “Shit that’s pissing me off today.” No, this is a list of all the things that are constantly pissing me off, and it’s not in any particular order or level of severity. It’s just in the order that I thought of it. Lazy, I know.

  • This is my new word of the week.

    Facebook: Facebook is pissing me off a LOT. WTF, Facebook? I post to my page “fans” and only 15% of them get to see the post? WTF kind of lamesauce are you asshats cooking up over there? This means business/blog/professional pages will just overpost to compensate, and ultimately that will piss off standard Facebook users. Duh. What, you go public and now it’s time to piss everyone off? Because if that’s the goal, well played, douche canoes. Well played.

  • Facebook users: Facebook users who can’t take the time to type properly or, apparently, the time to take a fucking English class despite having been born in this country and having spoken and written English their entire lives, piss me off. You know, maybe I should just stay off Facebook. It’s not helping my stress level. But seriously, who are these buttmunches? They post shit like, “i am so shur they’re not even lisining to what your saying u shoud definately say sumthing its ridikulus.” The grammar and spelling (and lack thereof) are bad enough to keep me up at night. It is damn near fucking impossible for me to read a single page of updates without having the skin-crawling heebie-boo-jeebies as I imagine a whole generation of text-speaking illiterates attempting to run our country as they submit new legislation to Congress called the “Billz of online Rites LOL.” May Mr. Coffee help us all.
  • Women who say “hubby” all the time: Seriously? WTF, ladies? He’s your husband, not your “hubby.” Does he call you his “wifey?” Because let me fucking tell you, if he DOES, you should A) Keep that crap to yourselves and B) Stop it. Stop it right fucking now. You’re annoying the crap out of EVERYONE. If you don’t care, then rock on with your annoyingness. If you do care, you’re fucking welcome for the smack upside your figurative head.
  • Or at least hide you from his newsfeed. I sure did.

    More Facebook users:People who post nothing to Facebook except a constantly updated stream that is basically an unfathomably long progression of variations of the exact same thing:

    • People who post hourly scripture passages, reminders to people of how blessed they are because Jesus loves them, and calls to lift up entire families in prayer annoy me. Yes, I’m happy for you that you have something that makes you happy and helps you make sense of the world. I’m sure your constant Facebooking while you ignore your kids/job/pets is definitely earning you all sorts of metaphysical brownie points with Jesus who will save you a good seat on the fast track express bus to the good neighborhood in Heaven.
    • People who use Facebook for their passive-aggressive and/or co-dependent thinly veiled cries for help. You need help? Fucking ask for it. Don’t post shit like, “Throwing in the towel. Can’t take this any more. Bye,” or “What’s the point? Unbelievable.” This is both uncomfortable and annoying. You need help, ask. You don’t, then just fucking say whatever it is you’re trying to get people to ask about before you’ll say it and skip the middleman. Basic economics, asshats.
    • People who post nothing but pictures of their dogs, kids, or food: cut that shit out. Occasional pics of any of the three are interesting. A running diary of any of the three is not. Also, once the food is mostly EATEN, fucking stop taking pictures of it, weirdos.
  • Even more Facebook users:
    • People who just post idiotic images they think are funny but really aren’t, if only because the same images have been around for so fucking long that these people just look even more idiotic for posting some thing so old and thinking it’s incredibly original.
    • People who repost shit that Snopes can tell you is BS in about 2.4 seconds.
    • People who “like” EVERYTHING you do on Facebook. Everything. “I was late for my meeting this morning after Janie spilled chocolate milk all over my silk blouse right as I was walking out the door and then Joey puked in my hair.” {LIKE!} Fuck you.

What the fuck am I doing on Facebook? Apparently it just annoys the shit out of me.

And then, there are some other people I find as annoying as forks in the spoon section of the silverware drawer, but I deleted that part because this was getting too long and the part I deleted wasn’t funny enough to merit a damn online novel. You’re welcome.

You know, that’s still a long fucking list and it did not take me long to think of it. That’s a lotta pissed off for someone who’s still in her jammies. Sweet Jesus in Birks. I really do need to get laid.

Well, that sucks.

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Hey, y’all. I know, I know. WTF have I been up to that I haven’t written. Well, the truth is, I have a pretty fucking crazy life at the moment, and it’s even crazier than usual, and not in a good way. Not in the “I’m too busy having crazyass sex every night to sit up and blog for you people,” way. More like the, “I’m too busy working my ass off and taking care of my minions while moving and dealing with a bunch of family crap,” way. So, you know, fun.

And now it’s summer vacation, and with the minions off school for the next year and a half (well, it FEELS like summer lasts that long!), I just don’t know how much blogging I’ll be doing. But, you awesome web dwellers, you deserve more than to have me vanish into the ether, so here’s an little snapshot of Cathy’s World at the moment.

Rest In Peace, Mr. Coffee. Praised Be.

I’m still “seeing” Northman virtually. Things have cooled off between us a bit. I think the novelty has kind of worn off. We’re close. We’re good friends. We have rockin’ Skype sex. He’s funny (not as funny as I am, but you know, nobody’s perfect). We have a solid connection and good chemistry. But the fact is, he’s there and I’m here, and even though we still plan to get together later this year, I’m not so sure it’ll be the fuckfest we had initially planned. Above and beyond all else, we want each other to be happy, and so I’m happy for him that he’s been dating someone who actually lives a car ride (and not a plane ride) away. I’m not even jealous or envious. I love him. I want him to find happiness, even if that means I never get to sleep with him. Although sleeping with him — and let me be clear, I mean fucking him — would be awesome. 

Jerry is still around here and there. He’s still kind of a douche canoe sometimes — so cocky — but he’s also a good guy who’s fun to hang out with. Work is busy with clients both interesting and boring as dirt. My minions are little Fonzies. Coolest fucking people you’ll ever meet, but without the leather jackets. Mr. Coffee died and was reincarnated at Target in a stainless steel body. Penny is up to her usual chicanery, always calling because she’s stunned at the idiocy and inefficiency of the average American only to have me remind her that she’s just so much smarter than average that what seems like common sense to her is Advanced Calculus to a person with a 100-point IQ. She hasn’t made me laugh into tears lately, or you’d have heard about it. But it won’t be long.

Oh, and I did read the new Sookie book, and I thought it fucking sucked. But I’ll live because the new season of True Blood starts in four days. Sookie better get some Northman sex. I mean, Sweet Jesus in Birks. At least one of us should.

There’s an App For That.

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So, I’m sitting on the back porch, sans big, heavy blanket, worshipping Mr. Coffee, when Penny calls. As usual, she doesn’t even say “hello,” but just launches into some random story:

Penny: Dude. Last night, Billy and I had the Best. Sex. Ever.

Me: Hi. Good morning. How are you? Oh, fine, thanks, how are you?

Penny: Dude. You’re not listening. Best. Sex. Ever.

Me: I’m listening. There are just some social niceties that one cannot ignore or the entire fabric of our society will collapse into anarchy, and we’ll be ruled by Emo teenagers wearing Nina Simone tee shirts.

Penny: Who’s Nina Simone?

Me: Someone Emo teenagers don’t listen to either. But they SHOULD.

Penny: What?

Me: Exactly.

Penny: Dude! You’re not flippin’ listening to me! Best sex!! Ever!

Me: I hear a blog post coming on.

Penny: Ohmygosh. Ohmygosh. Oh. Ohmygosh.

Me: Yeah, see, if you said that to me during sex, I’d be kind of underwhelmed.

Penny: Shut up.

Me: I hope this story gets better.

Penny: We tried about 15 new positions in one night. When you’ve been married for flippin’ ever, that’s a LOT.

Me: Ok, I was lying before. Now I’m listening.

Penny: It was unbelievable.

Me: What did you do? Get a Cosmo and take notes or something?

Penny: No! Dude!

Me: Have you been watching Cinemax again? I told you some of that shit is dangerous.

Penny: No! DUDE!

Me: Oh, no. Tell me you weren’t watching True Blood before bed. You’re not a vampire, honey. You can’t bend like that.

Penny: Shut up! I downloaded some free sex apps on my iPhone! Did you know there was such a thing? I mean, seriously, sex positions. There’s an app for that!

Me (almost shooting coffee through my nose): “There’s an app for that.” Awesome. Yes. I did know that, but hearing you say it has me picturing you studying and taking notes before bed.

Penny (proudly): Oh, no, dude. I took the phone with me to bed, and we held it up and followed the instructions.

Me: Ok, that’s a fucked up visual.

Penny: It was freaking awesome! We had to read the instructions for each one and then follow the diagrams; some of that stuff is complicated!

Me (biting lip to not laugh): Uh huh. And how did that work out for you?

Penny: Aside from when I dropped the phone on Billy’s head, it was pretty great!

Me (too late, laughing my ass off): On his head? Which one!?

Penny: Oh my gosh. You did not just say that!

Me: Oh, yes. I did. It’s fine. If you gave him a concussion, I’m sure there’s an app for that.

Note to sex app people: If you’re going to have an illustrated sex app, 1) Don’t use the same artist who does bathroom signs, and 2) Don’t let PAMPERS advertise on your app.

Penny: The sex apps were free. They had these little ads on them, but I just ex’d out of them.

Me: After you read them.

Penny: Well, yeah.

Me: You’re a riot.

Penny: Oh, and then? And then? This morning? At breakfast, my seven-year-old is playing with his iPod and goes, “Oh! You got me some new apps, Mommy?”

Me: Ohmygod.

Penny: Right? I grabbed his iPod so damn fast I about ripped his hand off. Apparently, there’s a setting for “automatically download all new apps to all devices using this iTunes account.”

Me: I’m going to call Northman and tell him all about this, and then I’m going to blog it. You know that, right?

Penny: Whatever flips your noodle, poodle.

Me: What?

Penny: Ohmygosh. I can’t wait for you to see Northman so you can try this one thing. I’m not sure we did it right, but it was awesome.

Me: I’m pretty damn sure any position with Northman will be fucking awesome. And I won’t need a diagram or a damn flow chart either.

Penny: No, you won’t. The chemistry between you two is crazy.

Me (insert stupid grin): I know. I can’t quite explain it.

Penny: Yup. He’s cabbage leaves on engorged boobs. Who the hell knows why, but it just works.

Me (laughing my damn ass off): You did not just say that.

Penny: Oh, yes. I did.

French sayings are weird, but everything in French sounds either romantic or dirty, so it works out.

+++Ten Minutes Later+++

Me: And then, ok, I’m still getting over her hitting him with the phone and almost giving her kid some seriously fucked up sex education with his Corn Flakes, and Penny goes, “Northman is cabbage leaves on engorged boobs. It doesn’t make sense but it just works.”

Northman (laughing): I’m cabbage?

Me: No, you’re cabbage leaves on engorged breasts. Don’t men know about that?

Northman: All I know about cabbage is that I just made cole slaw today. It was pretty fucking good! I’ll send you the recipe if you want.

Me: No thanks, I’m sure there’s an app for that.

Northman: Have fun blogging, mon petit choux.

I Am A Total Douche Canoe.

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In the last 48 hours, I’ve gotten five messages from readers who fall into two categories:

A) Girlfriend: Where the fuck are you? Are you shacked up with Northman and having too much freaky sex to write? If so, yay for you, but you’re a douche canoe for not telling us ALL about it.

B) Mom: Where on God’s green earth are you? Are you ok? Is Northman ok? Are y’all having a spat? Did something happen with your little ones? Did your computer get the virus? You know I know how the computers do that with the Google and whatnot especially with all those dirty pictures you post. Now, whatever it is, you don’t have to write about it, but let us know you’re not lying dead in a ditch somewhere without clean panties or a sweater on for heaven’s sake.

So, first, thanks, y’all. Thanks for worrying about me even if it makes me feel like a total douche canoe for worrying you. And thanks for writing in, which was completely the kick my sorry ass needed to get in gear and explain myself. Here’s the Siri.

(I don’t think we can call it “Here’s the 411,” anymore. Now you go, “Hey, Siri, what the number for the sex store on 4th Ave?” and she goes, “You slut. It’s in your contacts list.” So, “Here’s the Siri,” is way more 21st century than, “Here’s the 411,” and you know I’m aaaall about being up with the times, yo.)

Alright. So, when last we met, I wrote y’all some erotic fiction. Ok, that’s crap. I wrote y’all some smutty porn fabulousness and it was damn awesome and led to some seriously naughty conversations with Northman, so even if you hated it, I fucking loved it, and it’s my blog, so yay for me. After that, I was just waiting for some inspiration because you know, I don’t just write about nothing. I mean, I write about my seriously crazy life and all the weird crap that happens in it. Usually, so much weird crap happens that I have plenty to choose from and I share about a fifth of it with you. But for some reason, early last month, nothing happened. I mean NOTHING.

Nothing funny happened, so I didn’t have any “Donkey Vagina” stories to share. And Northman and I were out of sync for around a week, so there was nothing on that front. Which sucked. Even the douche canoe next door with his fucking motorcycle was oddly quiet. And y’all don’t read my blog for deep introspection, so yeah, I had pretty much nothing to tell you.

After about a week, I sat down and tried to make myself think of something to write for y’all, and I had nothing. Nada. Zero. I started several new drafts and just, yeah, fucking nothing. Writer’s Block. 

So I decided to give it a rest. Here’s where I fucked up. I should have sent out a notice: Hey, web dwellers. I’m not dead. I’m just taking a little sabbatical. Only I’m not getting paid for it like professors do, but then again I don’t get paid for writing my blog, so I guess it only makes sense that I don’t get paid to not write my blog either.

I fully admit to being Cathy: The Asshat Captain of the USS Douche Canoe for the last month.

But I didn’t send out a notice, and so I’m a douche canoe. And I’m sorry. Let’s hug it out, bitches. 

((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((Yeah, I’m sending you a cheesy cyber hug. No copping a feel. Actually, go ahead. I’ll take what I can get these days.))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

Alright. We good? Sweet. So here’s the rundown on your favorite characters who are actual people in my life: 

  1. Northman (obviously): Northman is in my good graces like you would not fucking believe. If my good graces were chocolate, he’d be covered in it like some kind of human Twix bar or something. This analogy is lame, but it also works because you know, licking…biting….yum. Fuck, I’m out of blogging practice.
  2. Jerry (when did we last talk about him?): He’s around. He’s like … well, fuck, y’all. He’s just not that important to me. Don’t know why I made him #2 on the list except that sometimes I think he’s full of #2, which is why he’s not that fucking important.
  3. Penny: Penny. Penny. Penny. What can I say about Penny? (Yes, I did that on purpose, BBT fans.) Penny’s life is so hilarious that I WISH she would write a blog, only she’s a terrible writer, so it would have to be more like a podcast of our conversations so y’all could get some remote clue as to how flippin’ hilarious her life gets. But in the immediate: She’s fine.
  4. My minions (who are always number one on any list except this one because I don’t write about them much): Fucking awesome. 

So, ok, web dwellers. That’s the scoop. I’m off to worship Mr. Coffee a bit. Also, fucking, hello?!!? True Blood comes back on the air in JUNE and there’s a new Sookie “Bad Decisions” Stackhouse book out this week. When I have time to read it, I will tell you what kind of idiotic things she does this time. Also, my favorite blogger, The Bloggess, released a book, web dwellers. And if you don’t read it, I won’t be your friend anymore.

 

Northman Was Right (But Don’t Tell Him That)

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Oh yeah. I win.

Northman blew my damn mind last night. If I were a 70s cartoon, smoke would have come out of my fucking ears and my eyes would have spun around like some kind of million-dollar-spewing Vegas slot machine, landing squarely on two bright red cherries. As Penny would say, “Holy mackeroley, people.” It’s been 12 hours and I’m still catching my breath. I’ve had many an in-person encounter that wasn’t nearly as satisfying as that Skype. Sweet Jesus in Birks, web dwellers. Cathy is a happy camper.

Yeah, he makes me want to purr. Feel free to insert totally inappropriate pussy jokes here.

There is something so primal and instinctual about my completely naked lust for Northman. Sometimes, the man just fucking looks at me and half of my blood supply floods my cheeks while the other half heads south. Quickly. Talking about him at dinner with my girlfriend, Harmony, last week, I stopped for a moment and pulled my hair up off my neck, fanned myself, and realized I looked like I was having a damn hot flash because I kind of was. My hormones just kick into some kind of purring-Ferrari high gear when I think about Northman. What can I say? She was asking about him, I was talking about him, and the next thing I know, I’m … I’m really grateful I didn’t go commando.

Dinner with Harmony was interesting. We hadn’t had a chance to get together much prior to that because one of us always has a sick minion or a client who’s being a pain in the ass. So we were catching up, and she was asking about Northman, and she wanted to know how much of what I put in the blog is real and how much is embellishment for shock value. A fair question, if you ask me (which she did). So I told her: Everything I’ve written about Northman is completely true.

At this point, she looked at me with that same look I assume she gave her teenage daughter when her hormonal minion claimed to have no knowledge of who left an empty box of tampons under the sink, leaving Harmony a bit undersupplied at a crucial moment last month. And not at a time when you’d really want to fuck with her. Pun intended. The look said something like: You’re full of shit AND you better spill it right now.

So, even though I wasn’t full of shit, I did spill. I told her how feral and instinctive my attraction to Northman feels. It’s a very possessive feeling, but not in a jealous way. More like, I just really and truly have to have that man, y’all. Failing to get naked with Northman, at, ahem, great length,is just not an option.

All he did was talk, and I felt like this. And I probably looked pretty similar by the time he finished.

And last night, during our Skype chat, I did get naked with Northman, and it was just unreal. I started telling him a sexy story, and as I got to what I thought was a pretty good part, he stopped me and said, “Nope. That’s not how it happens.” I was intrigued, and I cocked an eyebrow at him, saying, “By all means, then, have at it.” And he did. He picked up the story about thirty seconds prior to where I’d stopped, and he took it in an entirely different direction.

After, even though he was so far away, I honest-to-Mr.-Coffee felt like this.

How can I explain this? You know, part of what Northman likes about me is that I’m a smart woman and I’m usually both confident and right when I speak. Well, Our Sweet Holy Mr. Coffee, web dwellers. Last night? I was so completely fucking WRONG when I told the story, and Northman was RIGHT. After hearing his version of the story, I admitted I was wrong, and then I agreed with him. Strongly. Repeatedly. And with a pillow between my teeth.

So, some of you’ve noticed I’m on Twitter. I know, I know. You can’t believe Twitter’s made it this far without me. Anyway, turns out there are some damn funny people there. Come join the conversation: @SexyMomBlog –> There’s a link over there —>

The Pink Moustache Movement

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I found this bit of awesomeness on Etsy and you can see the whole image if you click above. Kudos to Karolin Felix for being awesome enough to create this. If you hadn't already sold this, I'd buy one for every woman I know over 35.

So, this sucks. I have a lady ‘stache. And if someone is reading this to you and you can’t see the spelling of that, I don’t mean I have a stash of ladies ready and waiting for awesome girls’ nights out. I mean I have a little mini moustache that would make a 14-year-old boy jealous, complete with chin hairs, or, as I think of them, upper lip fuzzies with poor senses of direction. Because otherwise, they’re beard hairs, and while I will admit to requiring upper lip waxing, I fucking refuse to be the bearded lady. 

I know I’m not alone in this, or there wouldn’t be an entire shelf in every market dedicated to facial hair removal for women. Nor would there be a listing for “upper lip waxing” on the price sheet for every single decent salon, plus some of those places where the ladies only speak Vietnamese and you spend the whole time wondering if they’re talking about how out of control your lady ‘stache is or discussing the socioeconomic environment in Greece. On the plus side, from what I’ve read, and it’s on the internet so it must be true, having a little excess facial hair, for a woman, means you have a decent level of testosterone, and that contributes to an overall rockin’ sex drive, making the whole waxing routine seem like a fair price of admission.

So, while it sucks that I have lady ‘stache in that I fucking hate it (and why do those little dark hairs grow so much faster than all the others???), it’s actually a good thing in the long run. The trick is to make sure that I stay on top of the fuzz phenomenon so I can have the sex drive it implies without driving away potential partners by looking like a dude. You know, as in, “Dude looks like a lay-daaay…” Ok, wait, that doesn’t work because I’m not a dude. That would be, “Lady looks like a dude,” unless, well, no, go with me here a sec. Yeah. See, if a dude looked like a lady, maybe he’s not a dude, maybe he’s a lady with a crazy lady ‘stache, so he looks like a lady because he is a lady, but he’s such a hairy lady that he looks like a feminine dude. Wait. Whatever. That makes no sense but I’m leaving it in because that Aerosmith line is a mondegreen, and any time I have a chance to throw in some word nerdiness, I’m all for it.

I'm a nerd, so that's freaking funny.

Right. Back to the ‘stache at hand. So, the closer to 40 I get, the more often I find I have to deal with my lady ‘stache, and I also find that my girl curls are getting harder and harder to remove by conventional means. Those are some stubborn bitches. On a not-unrelated-note, while I did shave the vertical smile a while back to surprise Northman, I still refuse to shave the horizontal one, which really doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense if you think about it, because putting a razor against your face where you can see it is a lot smarter than putting one against the Notorious V.A.G. Especially if you’re vagazzled, in which case I’d think you just have to do laser. How does that work with the crystals and the glue…? Anyway…

So then a couple of weeks ago, one of you web dwellers emailed me a blog after reading my rant about shaved pussies. I apparently deleted the email and I can’t remember the name of the blogger, so if you know what I’m talking about here, leave a comment and give credit where it’s due, web dwellers. Anyway, this blogger went all sorts of fucking hilarious on this exact topic of being a less-than-hairless lady. She went on to say that her girlfriend, when approached about her own hair-removal routines, proudly professed to using a razorless head-shaving cream for black men on her nether bits. Well, shit. You can’t use Nair there, it says so on the bottle, and if you’ve tried Nair, you know that just holding the bottle will make your skin sting, so why anyone would even think of putting it near their bearded clam is way the heck beyond me.

This was the best damn news I’d heard in ages. I told Penny about it, and she said, “Hell no, I tweeze,” to which I said something appropriately adolescent, like, “Oh, hell to the no the hell you don’t.” But she does. I’m not going there. I’m just not. But she did think the bald black man cream was probably a good idea for me if I want to razorlessly maintain my “lady parts,” as she says. So then I said, “I wonder if I can use it on my face. I mean, the face is not nearly as sensitive…” And Penny, always so matter-of-fact, said, “Good rule of thumb here. If you can use it on your vagina, you can use it on your face.”

Well that’s good to know.

Mr. Coffee, please rain down your blessings on the crafty bitches at Etsy for making a PINK MOUSTACHE MUG!! For now and forever more, let it be known that the pink moustache is the obscure reference point for letting people know you read this blog without having to fit "Confessions Of A Sexy Mom" across your tits on an overpriced tee. Plus, this shit's way funnier.

So I went to SuperTarget last week, because they have everything. And I was wandering around the hair care section, looking for the depilatories, and the cream wasn’t there. And then I thought, duh, it’s probably in the section with the special shampoos and creams and whatnot for black people’s haircare, because it’s for black men. Not being a black man myself, I had no freaking idea where this was, but it couldn’t be far, so I walked around and sure enough, I found it. And that’s where I was when this overly helpful stockboy stopped to ask me if I needed help finding anything, probably not because he wanted to help but because he wanted to admire my lady ‘stache which was, sorry kid, much more impressive than his because I’d given it free reign for a few days in preparation for this experiment.

“Yeah,” I said, “Do you have any of that cream for bald black men who aren’t naturally bald but want to be bald so they use cream to remove their head hair?”

I’m not really sure what was going through his head right then, but I’m pretty sure I managed to distract him from my upper lip haven for wayward chin hairs, as he just kind of stood there for a moment before saying, “Let me go ask the manager,” and walking away so fast that he was either holding in diarrhea or he was trying really hard not to actively run from the crazy lady. Either way, tough day for him.

So I found the cream, and I bought it. The checker was a grown woman, so she didn’t ask, but I bet you she Googled it when she got home. I would have.

Anyway, I didn’t have time to try out my ethno-, gender-, and body-part-inappropriate hair removal cream for a few days because seriously, it’s not easy for a single mom to find time to lay on a towel in the OB/GYN position for 10 minutes without any risk of minions walking in and asking why I’m painting my vagina and my tushy button white. And don’t say, “Why not do it at night?” Those little buggers wake up. You think I want to have to wrap a towel around myself to check on them while I exceed the recommended application time on my razorless bald dude cream only to find I have some sort of vomit emergency to deal with? No, thanks. I waited until they were in school last week, and then I painted my vagina and my tushy button. And my lady ‘stache. And you know what, web dwellers? Penny’s right: If you can use it on your vagina, you can use it on your face.

Don’t Eat Yellow Snow

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Worst copyright-infringement misuse of Bambi. Ever.

So I tried sitting outside this morning with my favorite big, heavy blanket and my damn-near-overflowing Animal mug, but damnit, it was too fucking cold, web dwellers. And you know why? Because it fucking snowed. Again. My girlfriend, Penny, is thrilled: “We’re going sledding with the kiddos! We’re making snow angels! Every snowflake is one of God’s special miracles!” Yeah. Fine. It’s pretty. But the rest of that is bullshit.

First of all, snow is fucking cold. And cold is BAD. People die from being too cold. Did you know if you spend time outside when it’s too cold, your lungs can freeze? Yeah. You fucking like that? Me either. So I don’t go out in the damn snow if I can help it. But of course, I have minions, so I do have to go out in the snow sometimes, but only when there isn’t a lung-freeze warning in effect.

Our snow angels NEVER look like angels.

As for Penny sledding with her minions, this is a completely different activity when you’re a single parent. Someone always has to drag the sled back up the hill. And it’s never a freaking kid. And without a spouse to take turns with you, Mama is always dragging the sled and listening to minions whine about whose turn it is.

And then there’s the fact that it takes a damn hour and a half to get two minions all suited up just to go outside, and by the time you’re done zipping and buttoning, someone always has to pee. Which is only a problem if you have girls, because apparently, somewhere along the line, no matter how rarely they’re in the snow with their dads, boys learn that it’s fucking hilarious to write their names in the snow with their own special yellow markers.

Ours look more like something this guy makes upon passing out from eating too many burritos.

What’s left? Oh, snow angels. Yeah, that’s also a load of crap. My minions flopped down to make snow angels and here’s what I got: “Mom!!! I’m stuck!!!” and “Owwwww!! There was a rock under there!!” and “Hey! You’re wrecking the end of my name!!” Yeah. Ew.

So, yeah. Snow is not my favorite. Plus, I refuse to pay more for heat than I do for my mortgage each month. I used to hate it when my dad said, “Put on a sweater,” when I complained about the cold as a kid, but now I do the same damn thing to my minions. I tuck them in at night in their fleece footie jammies and cover them with extra blankets so they’re toasty warm without the heat having to be cranked up for 10 hours, and I make them wear sweaters and slippers and socks during the evenings. While this is good for my wallet, it’s not good for my nights with Northman. There’s something seriously unsexy about Skyping with someone who’s bundled up like an Eskimo, but he’s just going to have to deal with it because, as I said, it fucking snowed. Again.

Other than not getting to see Thing One and Thing Two (nor my Cat In The Hat for that matter) very much via webcam this week, Northman is good. No, that’s an understatement. Northman is great. He’s funny and sexy and able to evoke a physical response from the aforementioned cat just by texting me a single sentence. Damn I cannot wait to get my hands on that man. But not here. Because it’s fucking freezing, and I have no intention of wearing much clothing when Northman and I get together. Plus, my minions are here, and not even Northman gets to sleep over with my minions around.

Alright. That was short as my posts go, but y’all are on your own tonight. Northman and I were sexting a story together yesterday and got interrupted, and I promised him I’d sit down and write the whole story from start to spectacular finish. So, yes, I love you, web dwellers, but Northman was naked when he asked for this, and what Northman asks for naked, Northman gets. I’ve got some porn to write.