Tag Archives: parenting

Lez-Be Friends

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I’m seriously considering becoming a lesbian. Why the hell not? Women seem to be an infinitely better option right now than men. I’ve already got my minions and, even if I don’t like it, I’m pretty good at killing my own bugs, so men are of limited usefulness to me at this point. Let’s ignore for a moment the fact that I am just not gay, as much as I wish I were, and that being gay is not a choice, so I really have no say in this matter. Aside from that, why the hell not?

Let’s take this from a practical, if ludicrously generalizing, perspective (haters, start taking notes here):

  • Women are better at multitasking, so they can, oh, you know, hold babies and text, take phone calls, or poop at the same time.
  • At least real kiwis ALWAYS taste good.

    Women are sexy most of the time, even when we don’t feel sexy, if only because society and marketing have programmed us to see women as sexual objects by barraging us with sexualized images of women 24/7, because “pretty is as pretty does.” Men, on the other hand, look like deflated kiwis that need to go down the disposal when they bend over naked in the bathroom. They can’t all be Northman or Tyler Durden. We can’t all be Cindy Crawford either, but somehow we’re still generally more attractive than they are. Maybe it’s because we aren’t likely to fart, pick our noses, grab our crotches, or be otherwise generally disgusting outside the aforementioned bathroom.

  • Women aren’t as afraid of their feelings as men. They like you or they don’t. They love you or they don’t. None of this, “Well, I really like you, and I want to fuck you, but let’s just keep it casual, k?” crap. The flip side of this has a lot to do with the third-date U-Haul jokes my gay girlfriends tell me. I used to think it meant lesbians do it in trucks on the third date, but apparently I was wrong.  Read the rest of this entry

Don’t Kill The Messenger

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This is the only zombie image I could find that wasn’t going to give me nightmares from all the gory blood. Ick.

Alrighty, y’all. Don’t go all Florida zombie dude on me and eat my face when I tell you that Northman and I are through. Ok, wait, before I get into that, can I just say, WHAT THE FUCK, Florida? Face-eating zombies? What, now you get all the cool shit? Everyone knows zombies are the new vampires; there’s nothing more badass. So, why the hell would they go live … I mean, not live … with a bunch of old people and rednecks? Yeah, yeah, Penny lives there too, and not all southerners are rednecks, and Publix is sooo great. Whatever. I don’t think they sell brains at Publix, so the zombies aren’t there for your sexmart grocery stores. I mean, come on. Y’all already have a bizillion miles of beaches. Now you get to be the first ones to have zombies, too? Douche canoes.

Anyway, as I was saying, Northman and I have reverted to friend status. Before you start some kind of online petition to have his new girlfriend’s employer relocate her to Getoutofmyfuckingwayistan, let me say that I am 100% totally ok with this whole thing. Northman and I have been friends for a long time. I’ve lived my whole not-quite-forty (and wouldn’t tell you if I were) years without fucking this man; I’m pretty sure I can live the next forty(ish) years quite happily without doing him as well. Now, if I get to live to like, 90, and he’s single, and I’m single, bring on the geriatric sex, people. I swear to blog about it if I remember it afterward. But for now, Northman has gone back to being my friend.

Penny wanted to know why I was so fine with this whole thing, and I told her the simple truth, which is what I told y’all when I last posted: I love Northman. He’s my friend. Ergo, I want the man to be happy. If his new sort of girlfriend makes him happy, I say grab the fuck onto that woman and make her happy too. Despite our strong emotional connection and sexual tension, the odds of us ever having more than weekend away/vacation sex romps (albeit fucking awesome vacation sex romps) were always very slim. As I’ve said many times: he’s there and I’m here, and we have kids and exes and jobs and all of that. If we were in our 20s and unattached, things might be different, but that’s just not the case, and I’m good with that.

Seriously. I’m getting a little paranoid. Don’t eat my face. Not even my nose.

Part of me feels like, well, fuck, couldn’t he have waited to go all blushing, head-over-heels for this woman until after we had one of those aforementioned weekend sexcapades? I mean, Sweet Jesus in Birks, just one? But the truth is, if we’d had that and then he fell in love with this woman, THAT would have hurt. As it is, I just really and truly enjoyed all the fun we had over the last 6 or 7 months, and now it’s done, and I’m good with that, and it doesn’t hurt. The only thing that will hurt is if you guys freak out about this and do go all zombie on me and eat my face, so, you know, don’t do that.

So, that leaves me in, as they say, a bit of a quandary. I always wanted to say that. Quandry. Who comes up with these words? Anyhoo… the issue at hand: to blog or not to blog? I mean, let’s face it (which I can only do because I don’t live in Florida so I haven’t had my face eaten), the last few months..well, the last several months? Well, the last, whole history of this freaking blog has been very much about the progression of Cathy & Northman. Does the blog exist without Northman? I’m inclined to say yes. Why the heck not? I’m still here. I’m still funny. Now I just have to figure out what the hell to write about. Crap.

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.

Donkey Vaginas

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So, I’m on the phone with my girlfriend, Penny, today, and there’s all this noise in the background.

Not where I go to pick up dinner, but to each her own.

Me: “Where the hell are you, an air show?”

Penny: “No, I’m at Public’s.”

Me: “You’re at Pubics? What is that? A sex shop? Nice!”

Penny: “No, Cathy. It’s PUB-LICKS. You know? ‘Where shopping is a pleasure?’ Don’t you have Public’s?”

Me: “‘Where shopping is a pleasure’ sure sounds like a sex shop to me. And who wants  to shop at a store named after your groin? What the hell are you shopping for, woman?”

Penny: “Oh, good Lord in Heaven. It’s P-U-B-L-I-X. Publix. And it’s a grocery store, and its slogan is, ‘Where shopping is a pleasure.’ I can’t believe you’ve never heard of it.”

Me: “Nope. Never heard of it. And all the stores here are public. And I’m sorry, but if you have your minions with you, shopping is not a damn pleasure, it’s a big ole pain in the ass.”

Penny: “Fine. I’m at the Piggly Wiggly. Is that better?”

Me: “Oh, now you’re just fucking with me.”

This is how our phone conversations go sometimes, because Penny’s lived in Florida for a really long time, and apparently, it’s a big deal there to have public supermarkets. As opposed to private ones, I guess. Whatever. Anyway, so we’re on the phone while she’s in this store that could lose one light in its sign and have “PUB IX” which isn’t really a word but would still make me laugh out loud. Who names a grocery store after a vagina? Because that’s what pubis means, sort of, and I’m pretty sure publix is the plural of pubis. And if it wasn’t before, it sure as hell is now.

So, anyway, miracle of miracles, Penny has no minions with her, and mine are still at Spring Break camp for the day, so even though she’s shopping (And taking some pleasure in it because that’s the rule at the vagina store – they should hand out bullet vibrators when you walk in if they want to keep up the sex theme and really have shopping be a pleasure) we just do our usual chit chat and I ask her increasingly inane questions about this mystery store because it’s bugging her, and I’m a bitch like that.

Penny: “So, this Final Four thing is really cutting into my time with MY Northman.”

Me: “Woman, please. He’s not your Northman. There is only one Northman, and he is my Northman.”

Penny: “Yeah, I was just trying something out there.”

Me: “And how’s that working out for you?”

Penny: “Enough.”

Me: “Ok, fine. What else shall we talk about while you’re at Pube-Licks? Do they kick you out if you don’t have an orgasm when you see their sale prices?”

Penny: “Something’s wrong with you.”

Me: “So? Did you read Northman’s bedtime story with your non-Northman? I won’t use his name in the blog. He won’t like that. Why don’t we call him Billy?”

Penny: “Billy? Like a goat?”

Me: “No, Billy, like, ‘Hey, my name is William but people call me Billy.’”

Penny: “Thanks for clarifying. And no, we didn’t read it together because he’s been overly involved in that stupid basketball tournament and by the time he comes to bed, I’m asleep.”

Me: “Bummer.”

Penny: “And I really liked that story! I thought he would, you know…”

I guess shopping really is a pleasure!

Me: “I wonder if you can buy passion fruit at Pubis. Do you get extra bonus points on your frequent shopper card if you do? Ooh! Do they sell those Durex cock rings like they have at Target?”

Penny: “You’re not listening. I loved Northman’s story. That was hot.”

Me: “This isn’t news. Finding out if your one-stop sex-and-passion-fruit store has cock rings, THAT would be news.”

Penny: “I liked the whole thing except for the um, the fisting part. I’m not so sure I want someone’s fist up my hoo-hah. I’ve already given birth, thankyouverymuch, and it wasn’t sexy.”

Me: “I have news for you, Penny. A fist is smaller than a baby.”

Penny: “Yeah, but … ow.”

Me: “Well you don’t do it if it hurts. Obviously. Maybe there’s some kind of sex manual in the book section there. You need help. Look next to the kum-quats.”

I can't think of donkeys without thinking of Donkey from Shrek. "And in the morning, I'm making WAFFLES!!" I should have asked Penny if they sell waffles at her sexy food store.

Penny: “How could it not hurt? Having someone’s fist up your hoo-hah?”

Me: “Ok, once I can ignore, but twice, no. It’s not a ‘hoo-hah.’ That’s like, a donkey’s vagina or something. Call it what it is, woman. Vagina. Say it. VA-GI-NAHHHH.”

Penny: “I will not say that in the market! And that’s not the point! How could it not hurt?”

Me: “Well, fine, if you want to get technical about it, it happens to you at least once a year. You go to your OB/GYN, and while that’s not sexy, she does tuck in her thumb and reach on up there to check you out. And that doesn’t hurt. I mean, it’s not pleasant, but that has more to do with the latex gloves and the nurse watching than with her hand being—”

Penny (cutting me off!): “What? She does?”

Me: “Don’t you pay attention to what’s happening during your own exam, Penny?”

Penny: “No, not really. I don’t want to know. But anyway, I’m pretty sure mine doesn’t do that.” Then she got all cocky, “Yeah! Yeah! Your OB does not have to put her whole hand in your you-know-what! What kind of OB do you go to, anyway?!”

Me: “Ok, you know, I think this has to do with the fact that you have a really short cervical length, and my cervix is about three feet north of my vagina. So my OB has to get her hand in there up to her damn elbow to reach my cervix, but yours can probably just use a fucking q-tip.”

Penny: “Oh, you know, that’s right. I do have a short cervical length. Huh. So your cervix is that far from your vagina? Or labia, or whatever?”

Me: “I can’t hear you. What did you say?”

Penny (louder): “I said, is your cervix really that far up? You know? From your vagina? From your outsides?”

Me: “I don’t know about you, but I guarantee someone around you thinks that right now, shopping is a fucking serious pleasure.”

Penny: “Ohmigosh!!! I just said that out loud in the market!”

Me: “Don’t worry, it’s half a sex store, right? They’ll probably give you a discount for that.”

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.