I am already tired of the Olympics. Specifically, I am tired of the Olympics commentators. From what I read on Twitter Friday night, a lot of people were tired of the commentators before the Olympics even got started. I didn’t pay much attention to the opening ceremonies, but the consensus was that Matt Lauer and Meredith Vieira needed to shut the fuck up. And seriously? Can everybody just get off Michael Phelps’ ass??? Now, I’m not all rah-rah about Michael Phelps, and I certainly do not find him attractive (I won’t even lecture y’all on all the lusting you’ve been doing over the swimmers, but Ryan Lochte is young enough to be my son, ewww), but shit, so he’s not going to win a medal in every goddamn swimming event this Olympics. Has he not done enough for a lifetime already?

It’s okay, Michael. Everyone has a bad Olympics. Wait. What? Everyone doesn’t have a bad Olympics? Oh, that’s right. BECAUSE MOST OF US WILL NEVER EVEN BE AT AN OLYMPICS AS A SPECTATOR, MUCH LESS A COMPETITOR.


THIS IS SOMEBODY’S LITTLE BOY, YOU PERVERTS! Somebody’s luscious, hard-bodied, scrumptious little boy. . . STOP IT.


And what the fuck have you ever done, Dan Hicks? Dan Hicks gets on my last damn nerve, anyway. Every time I hear his voice, I think, How the hell did John Tesh get to commentate on the Olympics? And then, I’m all, oh, Dan Hicks, you motherfucker, you sound just like John Tesh. But if Ryan Seacrest can do it, why not John Tesh? (because Ryan Seacrest is secretly the anti-Christ, but you didn’t hear it from me)

Okay, gentlemen, we don’t need both of you on this planet, and Mr. Tesh can at least play the piano. Dan Hicks, please step off Earth immediately.


All the commentating makes me want to punch the TV. Jordyn Weiber didn’t make the all-around. Let’s lock her in the Tower! Off with her head! Toss her corpse in the Thames! A lot of these athletes are children, people. Crazily talented, amazingly disciplined and mature children under a shit-ton of pressure and world-wide scrutiny. Back the fuck off and let them have a goddamn moment to compose themselves in their disappointments. And quit acting like a bunch of goddamn communists in your comments. It’s really making me worry what’s happening to these kids off camera.

She really was robbed. Did y’all see Bela Karolyi’s rant about the two entrants-per-team to the all-around rule? He was PISSED, let me tell you.


I had lunch with my nephew today. The 13-year-old. Stuff annoys him, too.

“The Walking Dead is really stupid. A zombie apocalypse has to start with one zombie. Who can’t kill just one zombie? Apocalypse over.”

He spends as much time mulling over the zombie apocalypse as anyone else, apparently, because a few minutes later he added, “Unless it was a kid. A kid might not be able to kill a zombie, and then there’d be two zombies, and then that kid’s parents wouldn’t want to kill him, and then there’d be two more. . . ” Yep, that’s how I’ve always imagined it will start.


[MAJOR SPOILER ALERT IF YOU’RE BEHIND ON YOUR THE WALKING DEAD VIEWING] Now who could blast this adorable child’s head to smithereens? Oh, that’s right. Sheriff Rick could. About damn time he grew a pair.

Nephew and his brother, Older Nephew, are forbidden to read my blog and my twitter, but today I learned they’ve found a way around that. They have a friend who follows me and reads this garbage. He reports to them that I’m hilarious. Great. I’ve finally found my target audience.

UPDATE  Well, fuck me on a balance balance beam! It’s Al Trautwig who sounds just like John Tesh, NOT Dan Hicks. Not that that makes me like Dan Hicks any better. And NOT ONLY THAT, AL TRAUTWIG TOOK OVER COMMENTATING WOMEN’S GYMNASTICS FROM JOHN TESH IN 2000.  Huh. I guess none of you knew that, either. Or maybe you were just too polite to point it out. But still, why would John Tesh ever be commentating on women’s gymnastics? He’s not even a woman. I don’t think. But obviously I’m not very in the know about these things.

Al Trautwig. Passing himself off as John Tesh since 2000.




Younger Son, as he’s driving us down a back road on the way home from the liquor store: I know about fifty ways to get home now. You know about 65th to Arch?

Me: Oh, yeah. That gas station there at the 65th Street exit is where Joe [the Husband] and I made out for the first time. He was driving me home–well, to Gege’s house–after our–well, not a date. The first time we hooked up. And he stopped there to get gas. And we made out a little in the parking lot. But it wasn’t a total hookup, because I wouldn’t have sex with him, although he sure tried. I kept saying, Get OFF of me!

Younger Son: You know I can never unhear that.

Me: Son, you know I’ve had sex a few times other than the two occasions you and your brother were conceived. I’ve had sex with you in the house, even. In fact, I had sex just the other night, when you were asleep right across the hall. We were quiet, though. We try to be considerate, seeing how you have to get up so early to go to work.

He: [turns up stereo to eardrum shattering decibels]

Me: [screaming to be heard over Warren Zevon] Okay! I’m finished!

He: [as he turns down stereo] You know, I shouldn’t be hearing about your irresponsible behavior.

Me: Irresponsible behavior? I told you, I wouldn’t do the sex with him!

He: I know. It’s terribly irresponsible of women to hook up with guys and not come through with the sex.

Me: Oh. I do see your point.


The Husband and I have been cleaning his mother’s house for the past two days. I won’t go into that adventure in great detail at this time, but suffice it to say, we are no where even close to being finished.

And I have had to get in the shower and scrub myself vigorously, including my hair, as soon as I get home every day, which annoys the shit out of me because I fucking hate to wash my hair. Seriously, I’m like a little kid about washing my hair. It’s long and thick and takes forever and a day to dry and ordinarily I can go two, three, even four days without washing it and it doesn’t look, smell, or feel dirty at all. One of the few perks of getting aged. Who knew? Your hair never gets dirty when you get old. Unless you have roaches and roach detritus falling in it all day.

I just made myself throw up and it wasn’t just a little.

So anyway, I was in the shower, because I couldn’t talk Husband into bathing me like I was at a fancy spa and he was a fancy spa worker (he claims to be even more tired than I. Fucking lightweight). Usually I do some of my best thinking in the shower, but this evening I was thinking things like this:

This particular shave gel is specified “for bikini area.” Huh. Do people really buy shave gel to use just for their bikini area? I use this on my legs. Is that wrong? Am I going to be fined by the shaving police? WHO BUYS DIFFERENT SHAVE GELS FOR THEIR LEGS AND THEIR BIKINI AREA? Or could the legs be considered part of the bikini area? It is visible when one wears a bikini, after all. Do I even know what the bikini area is? Maybe I’m thinking bikini line. Because, seriously? If I used this stuff just on my bikini line, it’d last me, like, ten years. It’d probably evaporate before I could use it all shaving my bikini line. I have maybe three hairs there. But probably bikini area and bikini line are different. Somebody please explain this to me. I’m thinking the bikini area could include the hoo-ha region? In that case, this would last me seven years. Yeah, I have about thirty hairs in that region. Don’t hate. The hairs on my face more than make up for my good fortune in the lack of hair on my snatch. No kidding, I have my retirement plans set. Sideshow worker as the bearded lady. Lots of people travel when they retire, right? I’ll be traveling AND entertaining the masses. Win-win. 


So this is not a post. It’s an informal survey, if you will. Does anybody use different shave products for different parts of their bodies? And what do YOU consider the bikini area?



Me:  So, I looked at a bunch of a bunch of uncircumcised penises on the internet last night.

He:  ???

Me:  Is your erection ever uncomfortable because you had too much foreskin removed?

He:  Uh, no.

Me:  Does your glans ever become irritated from being exposed all the time?

He:  Nooooooo.

Me:  Huh.

He:  So. . . why were you looking at penises on the internet?

Me:  Well, there’s been a bunch of discussion lately on the interwebs about circumcision versus uncircumcision. I’ve read two blogs [read these, even if there’s no pictures or illustrations, they’re good: Lahikmajoe: Getting a Baby’s Consent Is No Easy Matter and Sprocket Ink: To Snip or Not to Snip] about the topic in the last few days. People are now saying that it’s a completely unnecessary procedure, painful and mutilating, even. And I haven’t even seen an uncircumcised penis. Well, except that one time in college, and it was dark, and I don’t think that guy was a very good representation, because seriously? His penis was the size of a pencil. If he’d been circumcised, there probably wouldn’t have been anything left of it.

He:  . . .

Me:  So I was curious.

He:  Well, I am in favor of the circumcised penis.

Me:  You are???

He:  Yes. I cannot even imagine going camping, or to war, or being in the desert, anywhere where there was a limited water supply and you would be getting all sweaty and gunkified and not have anything to clean that stuff off with except pee. There would be nastiness, and infection, and it would be just gross.

Me:  Pee is supposedly sterile.

He:  Yeah, but I just have a problem with the idea of rubbing pee all over myself to get clean.

Me:  So for you, circumcision is a necessary hygienic measure.

He:  Oh, for sure.

Me:  Hey, I moved the hamper to the front of the closet so that it would be more convenient for you get to and therefore would perhaps encourage you to take the few extra steps to put your dirty clothes in it. That does not seem to be happening.

He:  I know, I have my faults. But, really? You shouldn’t flip out about my dirty socks on the floor since I don’t flip out about you looking at a bunch of penises.

Touche, sir, touche.


Okay, so I wrote and posted four–FOUR!–times last night, so I didn’t think I would be writing again so soon, especially not on a Friday, because I hardly ever post on Fridays, because 1) who reads shit on Fridays? Y’all are watching the clock ’til time to head home or wherever after work to start your fabulous weekend plans, and 2) Hellbaby comes on Fridays, so I’m usually running around trying to baby proof the house and do laundry and vacuum up stuff before she gets here. But NotBlessedMama basically came right out and called me liar on the twitter yesterday, and I let her know in no uncertain terms that I would be proving the veracity of my claims in a blog post TODAY, and I just remembered that today is today (I know, you’d think with as little as I have going I’d have less trouble keeping my days straight, but alas, no) and fuck, I am supposed to be writing something that will Clear My Name.

It all started when I tweeted this

and then @EchophobicEricka* tweeted me some sympathy (she’s a sweetheart, that one is). And THEN NotBlessedMama had to go and horn in** on our conversation and that’s when shit. got. real.


My integrity has been maligned! Where’s my dueling pistol?



So I told them I would explain why I have such an aversion to canned peaches. Specifically THESE canned peaches:

UUUUUUWUHHHHH. I shudder just looking at them. Nasty, mushy, slimy things. And that heavy syrup? Gaaaaaag.


And even more specifically THESE:


Except they weren’t in a bowl. They were on a plate. On a lettuce leaf. I know. FANCY.


I’ve tried to figure out why these things give me the willies so bad. I mean, I like every other kind of fruit in the world, although I am not a fan of anything canned, ever. But I can’t bear even the thought of fresh or frozen peaches, and that seems really stupid, because I adore nectarines, and what is a nectarine but a shaved peach? I don’t have a problem with cottage cheese or even lettuce, except iceberg, that shit’s nasty, but it doesn’t make me throw up in my mouth (ahem. By. The. Way. Is there any other way to throw up? As long as I’ve been throwing up, it’s always been IN MY MOUTH. I have never, to my knowledge, thrown up, say, in my ear. I think I know what people mean when they say this, though. You know when you maybe gag or burp and that nasty acrid bile comes up in the back of your throat but it’s not enough to spew out your mouth hole or even to spit out? That.). I have come to the conclusion that it might have something to do with a subconscious association I might have with the time my dad left us when I was, oh, about six or so.

I don’t remember what we had for lunch that day he came home on his break (which he did every day, we lived in a very small town, very Beaver Cleaver, and back in those days it wasn’t uncommon for people to get A WHOLE HOUR for lunch, so he always drove the short distance home from work to watch All My Children and eat lunch with us. Which now that I think about it, maybe I was younger than six, or I probably wouldn’t have been home, or maybe it was summer. I could have been five, because I didn’t go to kindergarten [I’M SO OLD THERE WASN’T EVEN A KINDERGARTEN AT MY PUBLIC SCHOOL WHEN I WAS FIVE. There was Head Start, but while we were poor, we weren’t poor enough to qualify for Head Start, but it didn’t matter anyway, because my mother made sure we were all well prepared for school, but that’s another story] [also, totally unrelated, I just had to go to the bathroom, and as I sat down I saw A FLEA FALL OFF ME, WHAT THE HELL??? I smushed it. DIE FLEAS DIE], but it very well could have included that godawful canned peach-cottage cheese-lettuce leaf concoction because that was just my mom’s idea of an appropriate lunch time “dessert.” Such blasphemy!

On this particular day, my dad had no sooner sat down at the table than SOMEBODY said SOMETHING, I am to this day clueless at to who or what, but it had to be my mother or one of my brothers because I knew, even at that tender age, that I was my dad’s FAVORITE, and hardly anything I ever did or said pissed him off, not until I was a teenager and expressed an interest in boys, anyway; and my dad jumped up from the table and yelled, “That’s it! I’m sick of this shit!” or something to that effect, which was startling enough in itself, because while my dad could have an outrageous temper, he rarely displayed it in front of us (that privilege was reserved for Mom, whoo boy <note: As I was proofreading this, I realized this could be interpreted in two ways: 1) Dad reserved his rage displays for Mom, or 2) Mom was the more likely one to exercise the privilege of rage displays in front of us kids. Both are equally accurate>) and he hardly ever cursed in front of us unless the Cowboys were playing especially badly.

And then he stomped out of the house, got in his car, and drove away. I didn’t know where he was driving away to, but I knew it was AWAY, like, not just back to work and he’d be back for dinner, because I can still remember standing between the curtain and the huge picture window in my bedroom that faced the street in front of my house and watching his car go down the street and I can even still feel the huge rock poking me in the throat that was the tears that I was trying not to cry and my heart beating so hard in my chest and the whole “what the fuck just happened?” bewilderment swirling around me. And now that I’m writing this I realize that maybe he also grabbed some clothes and bathroom stuff, or else I wouldn’t have had time to get to the window before he got out the front door and drove away. I also remember my cousin Georgia, who was older and drove her own car and was also considered very wild and kind of the black sheep of the family until she got married and had a baby and then she got decapitated in a car accident with a drunk driver, that was SO SAD, came over a couple of days later and she asked where my dad was, because he was a big favorite of hers and she his, he always liked girls better than boys and I have a theory about that too but you’ll have to read that in my memoir I’m going to write one of these days, and my mom told her he left, and she said, “Bullshit,” right in front of us little kids, which was very shocking and thrilling but just the kind of thing she did all the time that pissed all the grownups off, and my mom said, “He really did. Go look in the closet,” and Georgia did and she kept saying, “I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it,” because anyone could see a big gap in the closet where my dad’s clothes weren’t anymore. And no one could believe it, because everyone, I mean EVERYONE thought my dad was absolutely fucking crazy in love with my mom, and I think he was, but I think he was having a midlife crisis or something, or my mom was being especially bitchy at that time, because she could definitely do that.

I don’t know exactly what the hell was going on, but as an adult [SHUT UP!] looking back on it, I can see that day at lunch whatever he reacted to was just a pretense on his part. He was just looking for an excuse to leave, because during the time that he didn’t live with us, he was living with another woman. I never met this woman, but I have a vague memory of going into a house with him and there being what I now know is called a “negligee” lying on a counter but we were only in this house, like, a second. I have clearer memories of my mother interrogating me about it afterward, like was there a woman in the house? what did the house look like? how big was it? was it clean? (cleaner than our house, if truth be told, but even then I was wise enough to know that some truths didn’t need to be told) And I told her about the pink fluffy thing I saw on the counter, and I remember saying it “had sort of feather things on it,” and then her lips got so thin they like to have disappeared and it looked like she didn’t even have a mouth, just a drawn on line that couldn’t open for anything, and she might have rolled her eyes.

The thing on the counter looked EXACTLY LIKE THIS. In fact, I might have even referred to it as “You know, like one of those things the lady on Green Acres wears” while trying to describe it to my mother. It was certainly not like anything my mother had ever worn. I even thought of my dad’s mystery other woman as the “Green Acres lady” and I imagined her to look like Eva Gabor as Lisa Douglas.


Whatever was going on, it worked itself out, because before too long my dad was back, coming home for lunch and All My Children like nothing had ever happened. I wish I had thought to ask my mother for the grownup details of this episode before I stopped speaking to her forever (another story, buy the book, dammit), and I can’t ask my dad, not that I think he would have ever told me, since he died when I was seventeen, but there you have it. Canned peach aversion.

ARE YOU CONVINCED NOW, NotBlessedMama and @EchophobicEricka*???

*I can’t link to EchophobicEricka’s twitter because it doesn’t exist anymore, and I don’t know if she wants her alias advertised. So tough nuts, stalkers!

**Totally kidding. I LOVE when you horn in   include yourself without being invited   graciously join our twitter conversations. So social and awesome of you. Hugs!


He fixed it. Holy motherfucking shit, HE FIXED IT. Even though he has a leftover screw (maybe that’s what was rattling around inside, because we can’t figure out any place that’s missing a screw), and he put one of the throat plate screws in the wrong place and now we’re afraid for him to take that screw out and put the right one in because OH GOD WHAT IF THAT’S THE FAIRY DUST THAT’S HOLDING THE WHOLE THING TOGETHER???

MY HERO. Also, doesn’t my kitchen look pretty in the background? I DESIGNED THAT. And husband built it. Except I did the tile on the wall. It was awesome, and I’d never tiled anything before. THAT USED TO BE WHERE THE LIVING ROOM WAS. Seriously. And that column that sort of looks like it’s growing out of the back of Husband’s head? There’s another one on the other side of the room, but it’s not all finished and painted nice like that one yet, and the other day Hellbaby ran smack dab into it and about knocked herself out. She fell right on her ass, and (because we are evil, bad people) Alice and I about laughed ourselves sick. And so Hellbaby, instead of squalling,  laughed too, and then she started throwing herself on the floor on purpose and giggling like it was the funniest thing EVER, and it pretty much was, because let me tell you, the girl’s got quite a talent for the slapstick. And sorry for the crappy photo quality; I took it with my phone because it’s like almost midnight, yo.


Oh, I forgot to include this in the last post. Remember I said we took the sewing machine to the repair shop? Well, I got in the car (the car that Husband broke the other day when we went to the Dollar General Store and bought laundry detergent) and it looked like this:

So now to shift the car from “park” to “anything else,” you have to lift up some thingamjigger at the bottom of–well, it’s somewhere at the bottom of all that, to the right, toward the front, not really close to the gear stick itself at all, but attached to an arm that’s attached to something else that is attached to the gear stick. I was watching pretty closely as Husband finagled it and I’m pretty sure I won’t be driving this car ever again. And I sent this picture to Elder Son, and he was Not. Amused. At. All. and informed me that This Needed to Be Put Right. Those were his actual words. It made me laugh.



Oh, I gotta go–Husband says it’s time to TRY TO SEW AGAIN. Stay tuned.

PS If you see a random gray bar under the picture, ignore it. I guess my blog is broken, too, because the last few times I’ve put pictures on posts, the upload has not worked right in one way or another. I blame the damn update. What is it with updates, anyway? I thought updates were supposed to make things better, but y’all can plainly see that is rarely the case.


Okay, all bets are off. Husband just came in here with a fucking bobbin and claimed he found it “rolling around inside the guts of the machine” and I said, “Of course you did, you moron, that’s the bobbin I just put in the machine when you told me you thought you had fixed it” and he said, “No, it isn’t, I took that bobbin out and this is ANOTHER bobbin,” and I was all, “Bullshit, that’s the same bobbin, dumbass” and he said it wasn’t and I said, “Then how come you didn’t find a bobbin the first damn time you took the machine apart?” but only in my head, because I think he had already given up the argument, but I’ll be good goddamned if I’m going to be accused of losing a bobbin down inside the sewing machine BECAUSE HOW THE HELL WOULD I EVEN PUT IT THERE??? I mean, there’s no opening anywhere on that machine big enough to allow a bobbin to “accidentally” fall INSIDE. The only way that could happen is if someone had taken all the screws out of the housing and taken the machine apart, AND WHO DID THAT, HUH? HUH??? NOT ME.


If you follow on me on twitter, which is totally okay if you don’t, because if you’re not on twitter, do not succumb like I did, because it’s a total time suck and is more addictive than crack–I assume, I’ve never tried crack–you might or might not know that I broke my sewing machine last night. Actually, you know what? I’m not taking the fall for this. I did not break my sewing machine. It just broke. Because it’s a piece of shit. And I feel like I can say that with some authority now, because I read a whole bunch of stuff on the internet posted by people who purchased the same crappy piece of crap that I did, and the same thing happened to their sewing machines. AND today Husband and I took it to a repair shop, which also happens to be a dealership for this particular brand of sewing machine, and the guy there, who sells these machines for a living, said they are a piece of crap. Or maybe he said they’re junk. Yeah, he probably said junk; that sounds more professional.

Anyhoo, he poked around in it and came to the same conclusion that I had as to what is wrong with it, and I felt totally vindicated that I am not a total idiot, and he also assured me that it was highly unlikely that it was anything I had done to cause the machine to break. They just break. Or maybe it wasn’t entirely broken, maybe it just needed an adjustment, but he couldn’t know for sure until he cracked it open, and that would be $85 just to start out, and more if it turned out needing a part and/or some intensive labor. And since I (well, technically, Husband) only paid $200 for the damn thing in the first damn place, $85 seemed a lot to invest in a piece of crap that was just going to turn around and break again.

He was a nice repairman. He even gave Husband some guidance on taking it apart himself (like I couldn’t do that? Nice, but maybe a little sexist) (although, now that I’m replaying in my head how it went down, Husband asked him if it just needed an adjustment if it wasn’t something he could do himself if he took it apart, and THEN the guy started telling him what to do, so maybe he’s not sexist after all). So now Husband is in the other room trying to fix my sewing machine. At first I was in there helping, but he told me he had envisioned this being a project he took on solo, and then he could be the hero, and I could tweet or blog or whatever about him being an Awesome Guy instead of a car murderer and a bathroom polluter. So I’ve been lounging on the bed reading blogs for the past 45 minutes while he’s tried to pry open my sewing machine.

So he just called me in there to try to use the machine again. He thought he might have it fixed, and it looks like he has indeed fixed the thing that was the broken thing in the first place, but in doing so he somehow has maybe broken something else. Because before he took it apart, the problem was the feed dog wouldn’t stay raised, which if you’ve ever operated a sewing machine you know is the toothy part that’s under the presser foot that pulls the fabric through the machine as you sew. And if you’ve never operated a sewing machine, now you know what a feed dog is, but that still won’t mean anything to you if you don’t know what a presser foot is, I guess. But before he fixed the feed dog, the take-up arm was moving up and down as it is supposed to, and now that Husband “fixed” my sewing machine, it. . . doesn’t. It doesn’t move at all, in fact. The machine just makes this pointless whirring noise and no magical sewing action occurs.

Now Husband is trying to fix that. He was hopeful that he would accomplish that in the time that it took for me to write this post, but either I am a very fast blogger (which we all know I am not), he is a very slow fixer (possible), or the machine is more broken than ever before (most likely).

Bahaha. Husband just came in here with this endearingly perplexed look on his face and asked, “Is there maybe some switch that got switched off or something when something, something?” I wasn’t really paying that close attention because I was laughing (on the inside, not on the outside, that might have hurt his feelings when he was being so serious and earnest and shit) so hard because NO, there’s no switch or something, something, he fucking BROKE IT SOME MORE. But I’m not even upset about it, because he tried, and he really is an Awesome Guy, even if he is a car killer and bathroom polluter. I don’t see why those things have to be mutually exclusive.



So this morning I tossed a jar of Eucerin (that’s old lady lotion, in case you didn’t know) at my husband and said, “Here, rub this on my legs and let’s have sexy times,” because I know nothing if not the value of a good come-on line. And that’s not as icky as it sounds, because we don’t use the lotion for, you know, that, but my legs were really reptilian dry and I had just gotten out of the shower. Optimal time for moisturizing, duh.

Yes, I had just gotten out of the shower, because I’m CONSIDERATE like that. I even shaved my legs a little.

I had been having sex dreams all morning, which is what typically happens when I go off the Paxil for a few days (“go off” the Paxil = I am either too lazy or too stupid to remember to dose myself despite the fact that I’ve been taking the stuff for YEARS), because while Paxil does a fairly decent job of quelling those overwhelming desires to jump in front of moving trains and such, it has the unfortunate side effect of quelling other desires as well.

And these dreams were just as weird as any other of my dreams. In one my husband had three wives and I wasn’t nearly as pleased about that as you would think because even in the dream I was not in the mood to wait my turn to be, uh, serviced; I wanted my sexy time NOW.

Sister wives: Not so much fun when they’re not cleaning house or baking pies and shit.


And in another dream we were in a rush to get to Dallas (?) to be present at the sexy time of another couple, which is super mega weird and icky but again, not as icky as you’re thinking, because we weren’t going to actually witness The Act, and this couple was just doing sexy time to get pregnant, which really isn’t all that sexy at all, and we were only there to be on hand for the celebration afterward of the conception. Sometimes this couple was Alice and Shrek, which EW EW EW, and sometimes it was this other young couple we know who just had a baby which is even more super EW but I think dreaming this is all Alice’s fault anyway because for about an hour before I went to sleep last night we were DMing each other possible names for her possible next child. SO THIS POST IS REALLY ALL YOUR FAULT, ALICE.

Even in the dream I realized I needed to shower for sexy time to occur (my husband is not really all that fastidious, not fastidious at all in fact, but I have STANDARDS, people, and THOUGHTFULNESS FOR MY PARTNER), but I thought I might knock both out at the same time and was formulating a half-baked plan to perform a sex act in which I braced myself in mid-air against the shower wall, and while I was actually in the shower awake, I looked around and assessed the likelihood of that ever transpiring and came up with NOT FUCKING LIKELY without me ending up in a back brace for the rest of my life and my husband ending up in a coma and my legs aren’t nearly long enough for such shenanigans in the first damn place.


So. Much. Blood.


So, no, JUST NO, on sexy shower times. And in the interest of total disclosure, my bathroom doesn’t look at all like that, SO SHUT UP ABOUT MY SPACESHIP COFFIN SHOWER STALL, ALICE.

UPDATE BEFORE I EVEN HAVE THIS POSTED: So yeah, I would have totally had this posted, like, hours ago, but husband, who happened to be home at the time I was writing this and for some reason* was taking a keen interest in this particular post, was all, “You should totally draw some pictures for this one. People like pictures.” Which meant he wanted me to draw a picture of him having sex with another woman, I’M NOT STUPID, HUSBAND, and then he was being all judgey and critical and “put hair on her; I wouldn’t fuck a bald woman” and “make it all long and flowing all down the bed. Blonde, of course,” and I’m all, “What the HELL, husband, whose dream was this, anyway?” but because I’m a good sport I did what he asked but I told him he was not getting any hair and all the blood in the next picture came out of HIM.

*yeah, I know, SEX. Duh.