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Nazis, Floss & IUDs

23 May

13188-12196I’m not exactly sure when my dental phobia started. I don’t remember being afraid as a kid; but somehow, over time I have come to think of dental offices like little Guantanamo Bays. You’re there to get your teeth cleaned, but go ahead and ask for my PIN number and how many people I’ve slept with while you’re at it, because let’s face it, this is one step from ‘enhanced interrogation’ (both my PIN and the other number are very low for your information). Maybe it was watching Marathon Man? I recall watching that and Silence of the Lambs on a date night with an old boyfriend. That’s a bad idea (the boyfriend and the first movie choice). Stick to Buffalo Bill and putting the lotion in the basket but avoid Nazi Dentist plot lines. Trust me.

I’m pretty sure that Brittany wasn’t a Nazi dentist. I’m also pretty sure that Brittany wasn’t old enough to buy Plan B without parental consent. I don’t feel old. I don’t think I look old? That is, until, Brittany, who just got through reading “Are you there God? It’s me, Margaret” during her lunch break, calls me back from the waiting room.

Eff!!! Where’s the usual broad? The one that talks too much and ends every sentence with a tone that sounds like a question. “It’s so nice outside?.?.?.” Asking or telling? Asking or telling? Every conversation with her has been awkward for two reasons. One, her hand is in my mouth. Two, I have no idea if she needs a response or is stating fact. I thought she was horrible, but now, Britt Britt wants to go poking around in my mouthhole. A gift horse is always greener? How does that go? Yeah, I shouldn’t have mentally eye-rolled during my last visit, because now, karma is here to kick my ass.

“Sooooo, I’m Brittany, I’m like a temp, just fillin’ in. If it looks like I’m fumbling arrround, it’s cause I don’t know where they keeeeep things, but TRUST me, I totally know what I’m doing.”

Perfect. I’m totally at ease, Britt.

I immediately begin every hygienist conversation with a disclaimer that I don’t floss enough. And, of course, I will floss more. Yes, I know how important it is. Yes, I know how to do it. No, you don’t need to demonstrate. I swear I will quit throwing glass in the cardboard recycling, call my grandmothers more often and floss. Jesus Christ. Leave me alone.

But this time, the disclaimer is legit. “So, since having the baby, I feel like I’m lucky if I brush my teeth twice a day, so I know I’m not flossing enough.” (Old Question Talker hygienist had kids so she would have laughed, gave me the ‘mommy’ nod and said something stupid but she would have known that I actually DO BRUSH MY TEETH TWICE A DAY.)

“Ohhh, you should reeallly brush your teeth twice a day. I’m so serious. AND you reeeally should floss. It helps, like sooo much. Seriously, it totally does. Annnd, the baby gets better bacteria from your mouth if you have better bacteria in your mouth so you want better bacteria in your mouth, you know?”

I want to kill you. And your parents for having you.

“Soooo, I see that you want gassss?”


“For a cleaning? It’s like not a filling or anything. Do you get nervous? Are you nervous? Do you get nervous? Is it like, anxiety? You must get nervous? Are you nervous? Here, let me take your blood pressure.”


“Oh, you are nervous.”

By this time, I’m no longer nervous….more homicidal than anything. And then I let her in on a little bit of what’s been rolling around in my head for the last 4 ½ minutes.

“I just came from the gynecologist’s office, where….they tried, tried….to place an IUD, BUT!! Hahaha!!! My “iron clad” cervix wouldn’t allow it! BUT! Not for lack of trying!! Sounds awesome, right? Sure does! Thanks, Britt! And, I’m a new mom, so I never sleep or get to drink or take drugs….so more than anything, ANYTHING, I want to feel a little loose, you know what I mean? (No, she doesn’t, because kids don’t use that term for what I’m getting at) I want the gas so I can just chill the fuck out. That would be super!”

I thought using a swear word would ‘connect’ us; like an older sister letting a little sister see behind the curtain. Look, we could be gal pals, B! I’ll throw down an F bomb and she will immediately friend request me and ask if I wanted to go to Happy Hour. Totes funsies.

Yeah. That didn’t happen. Instead, she turned into a Nazi dentist. Oh, she gave me the gas alright. But just enough so I could tell it was on, but not enough to do anything. What a bitch. The old lady used to turn that shit up as high as I wanted. I always denied feeling anything (a trick my brilliant father taught me) and eventually when my face was beet red and my eyes were rolling back in my head, Question Talker would go to work.

Instead, Brittany tried to place that IUD……in my gums.

I miss you Question Talker. Statement, not query.


She’s a bad motha….shut yo mouth

20 May


Yesterday, while getting dressed…

“Honey, do I look ok?”
“Yeah, you look good. Like a suburban mom.”

Hmpf. OK? Meh. That was intended as a compliment but it feels like a giant disappointment.

No offense to suburban moms; you look great…really you do. It is likely, that yes, I look like one of you. Well, more like the shabby, hot mess version. Those expensive track suits, ironic messy, yet coifed pony tails and that Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, infinity heart pendant, you’re making that shit look good. I should feel fortunate that my husband sees me in the company of the play date connoisseurs. Now that I think about it, I kind of want to look like this. It reeks of competence and responsibility. I think the reason I can’t get my pony tail to have that perfect bump in the back is because my credit score is iffy. Shit. I don’t belong with you. I’m a fraud! Hubs was trying to make me feel better and I missed the boat. Again. I’m never satisfied.

I do take offense to one thing. Fancy stretchy pants. Remember that recent Lulu Lemon recall? Yeah that line of stupidly expensive yoga wear? They recalled some yoga pants that probably cost $80 dollars. (HOLY SHIT. I just googled that crap, because, really I have no idea how much they cost and 1. It’s Lululemon, one word. Fine. Whatever. 2. The pants? $92 for the base model. Screw you! They better come with AC and heated seats.) How can a pair of pants get a recall, you ask? Because, apparently the keester fabric was too thin and ladies were unwittingly showing off more of their backdoor business than they intended. I call bullshit on that. The reason I know this is total BS, is two things happen the second you put on a pair of stretchy pants. First, you check up front to make sure you’re not sporting, what I like to call, ‘charlie tango’. That’s code for an unfortunate pants meet lady parts wardrobe malfunction. This code allows you to talk about it in front of none the wiser strangers. (“Holy shit, Becky, charlie tango, three o’clock!”) Second, after assessing your charlie tango situation, you immediately check out your ass in a full length mirror. Immediately. You might bend over or give a squat. You may not like what you see, but you still check. Every time. Fact. Lululemon got taken. If I was the CEO I would have released a statement that said, “Bitch, please. You knew your ass was hanging out. You thought those shapely capris might get you a little flirty action at the people aquarium, and it did. But instead of inviting you out for a mochacappalatachino, that dude you’ve been making eyes at during your spin class, yeah, he called you out on your 3D crack exposure. Now you’re embarrassed and want new pants. Eat it. You paid $92, sucker. You can afford another pair with the appropriate thread count. OR…shrink your ass and don’t stretch our Bangladeshi made crap so much…or…put your can in the air in the privacy of your own home. Love, Lelulemon”

I’ve never been edgy but I really feel like I have a city mom inside me. I could wear heels all day. I could…if my arches would allow it and not scream at me with searing pain. I could commute on a train, by choice, not because the shame train is my only option due to a license suspension. I could balance dance recitals and cocktail parties. I could do all of those things. But I won’t. It sounds like too much work.

Suburban mom, city mom…in my book still better than country mom. We all know country mom doesn’t look like Carrie Underwood’s hot ass. She looks frumpy and tired and says things like, ‘well nex time we go ta town, wheal hav ta see bout that.’ I grew up there and I never want to go back. (Don’t confuse this with the sweetness of growing up on a small town. These are totally different things.)

Now that I’ve offended just about every woman with a used uterus, here’s the real deal. If I find myself wearing stretchy pants with one high heel and one shit kicker, BUT, the baby is fed, happy and healthy, I will claim partial motherhood success. Who gives a shit what kind of mom you are? Total success will come if the wee one grows into a thoughtful, generous and kind young woman. Any way we get there is just fine by me. I have no idea if I’m capable of or even should be in charge of such an important job. I try not to think about it too much because I’m kind of an idiot.

Suburban, city or country mom….I’ll take any of the three, as long as I don’t jack up her chances of creating a wonderful life too badly. That being said, if she ever spends $92 on Lycra pants, I will shit purple nickels and hang my head in shame.

Reconsider that sun/anus tattoo

15 May



In my opinion, most tattoos from the 90’s fall into three categories: stupid, clichéd and lucky.

Is Yosemite Sam waving pistols on your shoulder blade? How’s that dolphin on your ankle? Maybe you’re a huge fan of turtles or geckos (at least when you’re picking a shabby drawing off the wall of a seedy tattoo shop.) Winnie the Pooh. Nothing else needs to be said about that. Are you a part-time dragon slayer? Maybe you’re rocking some ink in honor of your last kill? Sorry to my beautiful husband on that one. 15 years later he agrees that was choice he’d like to rethink. 19 year old boys should NEVER be allowed to 1: buy furniture (because they all think they’re decorating the set of Scarface) 2: get married 3: pick out a tattoo. None of those ever turn out well. Picture that zit faced ‘man’ lounging on his black pleather couch, next to his child bride, showing off the name “Crystal” that he just got in Old English across his neck. All sound ideas.

So Creed already had a lead singer, but you could still get a ‘tribal’ design around your bicep. Maybe a kokopelli is playing the flute on your muffin top? You just bought The Rosetta Stone to learn Chinese and been through some rough times, so why wouldn’t you plaster the symbols for strength, faith and patience on your…..on your…anything and everything. I’m not sure if the beloved tramp stamp falls into the stupid or clichéd category. If a giant butterfly is flying out of your crack, there’s a good chance you’re double dipping in both. The trend in fashion is really screwing a lot of 33-41 year old respectable women. Low rise jeans and just one poorly timed crouch is a sure way to ‘out’ your hidden ass antlers. She looked so nice in her sweater set, capris and ballet flats; then she bent over to tie Johnny’s shoe and a rainbow covered in ivy, squiggly lines and tropical (yet sad) flowers jumped off her back and punched me in the face.

You know who they are; the rare breed of folks that got it right. I envy them. We don’t even need to get into it.

Don’t get me wrong, I like tattoos. A guy sporting tasteful sleeve is hot business; a guy with a Greatful Dead Bear on his calf, well, you do the math. I can poke fun, because, you see, I’m one of the dipshits that double dipped in the first two columns. It was 1996 and I was a senior. One of those seniors that turned 18 in December and got to do stupid shit like buy cigarettes and get tattoos. So I did both. You can quit smoking but you can’t quit a tribal sun on the side of your calf. I was going big, people. Why put it on my ankle where a sock could save me from later humiliation? No, get it out there. Wear it loud, wear it proud.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, here’s the real rub. 17 years later, it looks like an asshole more than a sun. I wish I was kidding. I work with assholes and not in the figurative sense, like ‘my boss is a real dick’. Nope. I work in an asshole clinic. So when I say my tattoo looks like an asshole, I mean it. And what’s better? It doesn’t even have the benefit of looking like a healthy asshole. It looks painful and mad, like it needs treatment and some professional TLC. Awesome. That’s the look I was going for.

I know there are things I could do to at least partially remedy the situation. Laser treatment? What if it just fades to a discolored shadow of an anus? A cover-up? Clearly I can’t be trusted to pick something that will remain a good idea until I’m in my 80’s. Luckily I live in Oregon. Nine months out of the year no one sees my pasty, anus dotted leg, except my husband. And he’s rocking a dragon, so what can he say? Off and on from July through September, I feel the judgment from sensible, smarter women. That is, until that snob bends over and flashes the world her ass crack disaster. Suck it, Business Casual! Me and my anus leg are on to you!


(And to be clear, friends and family….all if your body art is beautiful and totally unique. I’m not talking about you. I swear.)

1996 called. It wants its asshole sun tattoo back.

1996 called. It wants its asshole sun tattoo back.

Relax, I’ve got your back (side)

8 May

manure_spreader_largeI’m covered in shit. Not in the ‘nice skid mark on your shirt’ kind of way; more like an ‘I walked through a fog of aerosol poop’. Picture that painted lady at the makeup counter, that one who is a cross between The Joker and Newt Gingrich’s wife (she’s terrifying), ready to hose you down with a bottle of really expensive feces eau de toilette. If you were to hit me with a black light, I’d probably light up like a Jackson Pollock painting or one of Dexter’s fun kill rooms.

I work at a colonoscopy clinic and I’m a klutz. One of these factors alone wouldn’t be a big deal but the combination means I’m a disgusting person two days a week (thank you baby gee-zus for the wee little infant that finally gives me the perfect reason to work part-time). I’m not actually complaining…I accepted my fate eight years ago. OK, maybe sometimes I find myself a teensy bit salty when I picture the doctors getting home from a long day, peeling off their crap misted dry clean only attire and escaping to their money room to enjoy a relaxing dip in a waste deep pool of hundos. Folks in my pay grade would consider eating a shit sandwich for a pathetically low amount of cash. (But we’re not bitter. Not at all.)

Let me be clear. Their usually isn’t a whole lot of crap left by the time you’re all saddled up and ready to get your scope on. It just so happens, that if there is shit present, I am lucky enough to find it. Don’t let this make you shy away from a colonoscopy. I’ve had one and many more are in my future. It’s not at the top of my list, but to be honest, I’d rather spend an eternity with a gastroenterologist than 15 minutes with a dentist. Aside from the perks of good drugs, avoiding cancer seems to be a legit benefit? Oh, fancy dentist, you shaved some plaque today? Um, we just kicked ass at the polyp rodeo, how about that?

I’m pretty sure that as I sit here typing one handed, with the wee one asleep on my lap, she just loaded her pants. Either that or she just farted like a trucker. Yep. It’s official, that’s a solid. Sweet Jesus she’s gross. Swell. Well here’s the rub….there is no way I’m waking her up to change her shorts. I’ll just sit here and marinate in her disgusting funk. I like to bring a little of my work home with me. This is my life.

Berry Lies

6 May


What the hell does an acai berry look like?  If you can tell me, I’ll send you the six old gift cards that have been hanging out with some sticky ibuprofen and rubber bands at the bottom of my purse. (Winner winner chicken dinner, who knows what’s on those babies).  Seriously though.  Are these even real berries? Oh, they are? Fine. Prove it. So, you really know what they look like? Based on the picture on the half gallon of acai flavored vodka you bought? Tell me…do they prefer a tropical climate? They must really thrive outside the Stoli plant. If they are in fact real, they sound like they should be magenta or maybe a deep red. Like a cranberry and a beloved pink Starburst had a baby. At least that’s what I’m thinking. I’m still not convinced though. I never heard anyone spin a nice ol’ timey story about how they used to go catch the bus every morning during summer vacation to go pick acai berries to earn money for their 4H project.

We lived a long time without these mythical berries. Why all of the sudden are they being put in everything from my shampoo to dog food? We no longer have a space program, but somewhere there is a big pile of money, 20 feet deep, that is being spent on figuring out what bullshit flavors we will suddenly decide we love. (Yes, I realize that these two things are completely unrelated, but this is how my brand of crazy works). Maybe Tang was the start of this, and that was made of condensed astronaut sweat, so perhaps there is a link. If Snapple made a monkey crap and banana green tea how long would it take until you at least, considered it? It’s full of antioxidants, I’m sure.

I’m sick of chipotle, too.  Shut up with your chipotle.  It’s the pesto of the 20-teens. Everyone went so bat shit for that one that a restaurant was born. Come get your chipotle at Chipotle. The special is grilled acai berry chipotle with a side of pomegranate salted caramels. For dessert, please enjoy some red velvet cake and bacon ice cream.

I don’t know what an acai berry looks like…and neither do you.  If you say you do without googling it to confirm, you’re a liar, liar, pants on fire. But, I can tell you one thing.  I know what a Franken Berry looks like.  That shit is real.

The Art of War (on dog shit)

4 May

ImageThe sun is shining, the house smells of fresh coffee, the baby is cooing and examining her hands like Hunter S. Thompson on a mescaline trip….so, needless to say, life is good. Our only problem today, the only thing that can change our focus from the smells of fresh cut grass and BBQ, distract us from the promise of a treasure hunt at a nearby garage sale or the kiss of sun on our pasty Oregonian shoulders….the only thing….are the two barking shit ninjas posted up on the couch, waiting, plotting, scheming to launch another sneak attack of baby carrot sized turds in our home.

My beloved dogs, who at one point not that long ago, I would have thrown myself in front of a train for, are now formidable opponents in a game of Dog Shit Battleship. I didn’t like that game when it just involved plastic destroyers and now it’s being played with canine feces and I’m losing. I don’t know how to get the upper hand? Our first mistake was thinking that rescuing a couple of Chihuahua mutts (to be clear, my husband’s idea) was going to end in anything other than a house full of yapping shit machines.  Don’t even get me started on the pi$$. (I hate the word pi$$…but it’s the only word that fits.  I also hate other words that start with ‘p’, like ‘peck#r and pu$$y’. Awful. I love a swear word or a tasty superlative, but if it starts with a ‘p’ I’m likely to cringe).

I don’t understand these little assholes. Rita and Diego have a giant backyard to drop a deuce in; a wide expanse of green to take care of their nasty business. Is the backyard too big?  Does it feel like that part in Dances with Wolves, where John Dunbar Costner crawls up over the ridge to see a million buffalo? Is it just too much land to consider? Do they ponder their minuteness as they venture past the patio? Are they expecting tatonka to charge up and catch them with their pants down? Maybe that’s why they prefer such locations as sticking it to, (literally) sticking a turd to the front door. Diego pushes his tiny b-hole up against the door, craps, and walks away. One or two stick to the door and the rest roll down like those sticky balls you used to get in a box of cereal. When you open the front door, you’re greeted right off the bat by 2/3 of his last crap being scraped across the floor. If that doesn’t work for you, how about right where you will put your feet when you swing your legs out of bed? Too obvious? OK, perhaps on the only portion of brown design on the throw rug, to ensure it’s perfectly camouflaged, like a dog crap duck blind. But my personal favorite, in the baby’s bath chair.  In her chair? The entire yard. The entire house.  But nope, in her chair. Sonsofbitches.

The bath chair was the final straw. Only the baby is allowed to shit in that chair. This means goddamned war. With Sun Tzu as my guide, I will learn my enemy and beat them at their own game. I will stop just short of pooping in their kennel.  Or will I? Only the barking shit ninjas will know.


The Two Big C’s: Cancer and Commodes

3 May

4668582_f260There seem to be few certainties in life.  They say death and taxes are two, but I know a few people that have dodged that second bullet longer than seems possible.  (You know who you are) I have a new spin for you to consider.  Neither is pleasant but both are guaranteed.  I promise you.  So, we might as well try to wrap our heads around it now rather than let it sneak up on you.  I suppose you could do things to minimize the potential for each….but if left on this beautiful, shitty planet long enough you will meet with one or both of them.

Exhibit One: Cancer. If you live long enough, cancer will find you. Sure, you may not die from it, but at 92, if you’ve dodged cancer your entire life, get ready for Exhibit Two (more on that in a bit). Cancer is the mother bitch of all mother bitches. It doesn’t care if you’re a Tea Party whack job or a bed wetting lunatic liberal. It doesn’t give two shits if you have Oprah money or live in your double-wide dream home. Go ahead, be an optimist. Live your life well. Make plans. Never smoke. Cancer doesn’t care; ask Christopher Reeve’s wife. Sonofabitch. I’m hoping for a questionable mole but I know that colon cancer will be knocking on my backdoor at some point. Yes, I get colonoscopies. I’m going to have a lot of them; some even for medical reasons. Goddamned cancer. You are universally hated.

Exhibit Two: If you manage to survive into your twilight years; all of your friends and wife are dead; your kids don’t visit as often as they should and you’re just passing time reading old Watch Towers left by those pleasant but pushy visitors that don’t even seem to have parents at the senior living frat house; you’re just trying to avoid STD’s from that floosy, Edna, who has been meeting you for nooners before bingo…know this…you are one missed bowl of Fiber One away from dying on the shitter. Serious as a heart attack. Go ahead, skip your bran muffin. See if I care. Hopefully, Joyce, that sweet wife of yours, will still welcome you into her happy cloud paradise. But, she might be mad that you held out your best moves for 40 years, yet have no problem giving it to Edna during the light of day, all the while yelling, “Bingo! Bingo….Binggg-gooohhh.”

If I had my wish, I pick toilet. In fact, when I see the end approaching I’m going to cancel my nooner with Clyde,  eat a baby loaf of Tillamook Extra Sharp Cheddar Cheese, wash it down with a glass of alfredo, bare down and wait for the bright light.

Read it and weep

3 May

Before I start, let’s get one thing out of the way. Please. Go no further. No, really. Go to the ‘about my crap’ link and read it. Well, skip most of the crap if you want (it, like most of what I write will be fairly useless) and look at the last paragraph. I’m sorry. Really, in advance, I apologize. Not like you need to ‘hide yo wife, hide yo kids’ from what I’m going to say, but I am conscious of the fact that ladies who cuss can be tacky and unattractive (I know from experience). However, cussing is too fun to completely ignore and let’s face it, totally necessary to tell any good story. That’s my first disclaimer.

The next step before kicking this off: Let me remind you, this blog is YOUR fault. I tried to resist. I tried. I really tried. As much as I would love to sit around with hipster glasses and a cup of coffee and write all day, I’m so paranoid of being a douche bag that I can’t. Or, at least shouldn’t. But…..YOU….you kept saying I should, and then I got all cocky and thought ‘what the hell’? If you choose to follow this and then find yourself regretting it, don’t blame me. Blame my mother, bless her heart, and the face in the mirror. It was all fun and games when you could block my Facebook nonsense. Now look what you’ve unleashed? And one other thing that you might not have considered, I tend to slip into a Rain Man like state when writing, so anyone who would like to fill in the lapses in my daughter’s personal hygiene care, feel free. Is that her crying now? Shit.

So, I guess it’s blog time. Let’s see what happens. My prediction? A story or two about me making a complete ass of myself, tales of the weirdos that find me, musings about my husband that I’ll later have to apologize for sharing with the world and observations about shit you’ve already thought about. Here goes.

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