Working my full time job from a home office doesn’t allow me to get out and enjoy lunch with co-workers because there are few who live or work close by. In fact most days I get up and start working in my pajamas and later in the day will change into some casual clothing. My work also keeps me very busy so most days I don’t even leave my office. I decided a few months ago however that I needed to make it a point to have lunch at least one day a week away from home. So since then each Thursday at 11:45am I’ve been meeting my Father and his good friend at one of their favorite restaurants.
On a particular Thursday, I had a conference call that ran a bit over and it was causing me to be late in leaving to meet Dad for lunch. After hanging up the telephone I rushed to the laundry room and reached in the dryer to grab something quick I could throw on. I knew I had a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt that had just finished drying. Standing in the kitchen I quickly change out of my PJs, pull on my jeans and sweatshirt and race out the door. I make it to the restaurant right on time.
The restaurant is packed as usual filled with the normal lunch crowd and I strain to see where Dad is sitting. I find he and his friend sitting way across the dining area so I make my way through the maze of people and tables. I sit down, we order, we eat.
A few minutes into lunch the waitress comes over and hands me the bill. I thought it quite odd that we had just started eating and now I’m being asked for payment. I reach to pick up the check and my Father pulls it from my hands and says, “Lunch is on me today.” To my surprise the waitress pulls the check from my Father’s hand and says, “Actually this is for her” and she hands me the bill. I look down at this piece of paper and read the following:
“I am so sorry to have to tell you this. You have a panty liner stuck on the back of your sweatshirt”.
Just Lovely...
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Harry Potter and the case of the secret cabinet.
I would say I’m a fairly organized woman. I have a drawer for my underwear, one for my bras, and then there is the sock drawer. My nail polish even has it’s own organized space coordinated by colors. I’m able to keep it this way because my Husband and I agree to keep our belongings separated. You won’t find his electric razor under my sink and you can believe his nose hair trimmer will never find it’s way into one of “my” drawers in the bathroom. I like it that way and it works for me.
He is, however, far more organized than me. When he first moved in he built shelves in the garage, which would hold organized boxes of his tools, and he labeled each box in black marker. You can easily read the outside of the box and instantly know if it’s the “sandpaper box” or the “paintbrush box” and that’s exactly how he refers to them now. I really find it amusing that each organized space of his has it’s own name – it’s own identity. There is the “pool supply shelf” or the “garden tool cabinet”. He calls every space, cabinet, drawer; closet a name identified by it’s content.
Recently I needed a pair of scissors and couldn't find any so I asked if he knew where any were.
His response, “look in my comb drawer, the one right above your vagina cabinet”.
I now have a “Vagina Cabinet”. Just lovely.
He is, however, far more organized than me. When he first moved in he built shelves in the garage, which would hold organized boxes of his tools, and he labeled each box in black marker. You can easily read the outside of the box and instantly know if it’s the “sandpaper box” or the “paintbrush box” and that’s exactly how he refers to them now. I really find it amusing that each organized space of his has it’s own name – it’s own identity. There is the “pool supply shelf” or the “garden tool cabinet”. He calls every space, cabinet, drawer; closet a name identified by it’s content.
Recently I needed a pair of scissors and couldn't find any so I asked if he knew where any were.
His response, “look in my comb drawer, the one right above your vagina cabinet”.
I now have a “Vagina Cabinet”. Just lovely.
Monday, September 28, 2009
A bird in the hand.
There is a secret to maintaining a happy long lasting relationship and I’ve searched for many years to find out what it is. I’ve conducted my own research by asking couples I know who have been successful in this area and I’ve heard a variety of answers. “Communication is the key” or “having similar interest is necessary” are a couple of tips I’ve been told. However, there is one common theme that always comes up among these couples and it’s about S.E.X.
The advice around this topic varies but overall, I’m told, it should be fun, adventurous (whatever that means) loving, romantic and at times spontaneous. Now, let me be clear – my husband and I have no issues in this area. I’m simply a believer in continuous learning and self-development as is my husband. With that in mind, I suggested he and I visit a local store that specializes in, well, I’ll say it, toys. So, we go.
As we walked into the “Love Shack” I had mixed feelings, somewhat embarrassed and somewhat interested. Various lingerie and outfits are displayed on the walls, videos are abundant and an entire section is devoted to BOBs (Battery Operated Boyfriends – if you get my drift). I don’t know why, I found it strange to stand beside my husband and peruse the aisles so I suggested making this adventure fun. We would shop separately with each of us picking out items that we felt the other would enjoy or appreciate trying. We would also pay for our items separately in an effort to surprise each other later. So off I go.
I don’t know about most women but I have to say there are some sexual toys out there I didn’t know existed. Some looked quite painful and others made me laugh. I mean really, how would your husband react if in the middle of “it” you pulled out a rubber chicken, (which by the way comes complete with it’s own lube, batteries and OMG it “clucks” too) and said, “hey baby, look what I have for you”. No offense to those of you who by chance have this device.
Once our shopping adventure is over we leave with our hidden secret surprises in separate bags to be “revealed” at a later time to each other. I have to say I was intrigued and nervous at the same time.
Fast forward to the big “reveal”…
OMG. Let’s just say my husband is a F.R.E.A.K. I learned a lot about this man as he pulled his items out of the bag and in fact with all he purchased I think we can open our own “Love Shack” store now. There were items I recognized but many others I did not. Some toys were questionable and others were just gag type purchases like the tiny GI Joe plastic doll that drops his fatigues when you turn a knob on his back. I ask him what exactly were we going to do with GI Joe and he tells me, "Nothing, I just thought it was funny". After he finished describing each item in great detail, including reading me instructions (Can you believe it? Instructions!) He says in great anticipation, “Your turn. What did you buy for me”?
I reach into my bag and pull out this beautiful, 20-inch bright red feather used to discover those sensitive spots by gently guiding over ones’ body. Before I can describe its use he looks at me and says…
“You bought a quill pen? What are we going to do with that? Sign the Declaration of Independence?”
Just lovely.
The advice around this topic varies but overall, I’m told, it should be fun, adventurous (whatever that means) loving, romantic and at times spontaneous. Now, let me be clear – my husband and I have no issues in this area. I’m simply a believer in continuous learning and self-development as is my husband. With that in mind, I suggested he and I visit a local store that specializes in, well, I’ll say it, toys. So, we go.
As we walked into the “Love Shack” I had mixed feelings, somewhat embarrassed and somewhat interested. Various lingerie and outfits are displayed on the walls, videos are abundant and an entire section is devoted to BOBs (Battery Operated Boyfriends – if you get my drift). I don’t know why, I found it strange to stand beside my husband and peruse the aisles so I suggested making this adventure fun. We would shop separately with each of us picking out items that we felt the other would enjoy or appreciate trying. We would also pay for our items separately in an effort to surprise each other later. So off I go.
I don’t know about most women but I have to say there are some sexual toys out there I didn’t know existed. Some looked quite painful and others made me laugh. I mean really, how would your husband react if in the middle of “it” you pulled out a rubber chicken, (which by the way comes complete with it’s own lube, batteries and OMG it “clucks” too) and said, “hey baby, look what I have for you”. No offense to those of you who by chance have this device.
Once our shopping adventure is over we leave with our hidden secret surprises in separate bags to be “revealed” at a later time to each other. I have to say I was intrigued and nervous at the same time.
Fast forward to the big “reveal”…
OMG. Let’s just say my husband is a F.R.E.A.K. I learned a lot about this man as he pulled his items out of the bag and in fact with all he purchased I think we can open our own “Love Shack” store now. There were items I recognized but many others I did not. Some toys were questionable and others were just gag type purchases like the tiny GI Joe plastic doll that drops his fatigues when you turn a knob on his back. I ask him what exactly were we going to do with GI Joe and he tells me, "Nothing, I just thought it was funny". After he finished describing each item in great detail, including reading me instructions (Can you believe it? Instructions!) He says in great anticipation, “Your turn. What did you buy for me”?
I reach into my bag and pull out this beautiful, 20-inch bright red feather used to discover those sensitive spots by gently guiding over ones’ body. Before I can describe its use he looks at me and says…
“You bought a quill pen? What are we going to do with that? Sign the Declaration of Independence?”
Just lovely.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Wax on. Wax off.
I do not like thunderstorms and am in fact, frightened by lightening. The experiences of quick flashes of light that occur when you least expect it makes me jump out of my seat and nearly wet myself each time. We had a terrible storm recently that dropped big, fat raindrops and the sky would light up every minute and it scared me.
After a long very stressful day at work with my nerves already frazzled and a thunderstorm that topped off my stress, I looked forward to a long, hot bath. I knew I had plenty of hot water to fill my jetted tub up to the rim because no one in the house had showered yet. Plenty of hot water. Nice relaxing bath. Quiet peaceful alone time. Ahhhh.
Then IT happened. No electricity in the neighborhood. No lights, no television, no Internet, WAIT, oh shit. NO HOT WATER??? I knew if I hurried I could gather an armful of candles, run up to the tub and fill it before the water heater turned cool. Problem solved and I can enjoy my bath even more with the soft light of the candles.
After doing my normal bathing routine I laid back and let my body slip down into the steamy hot water. I was experiencing a moment of peace for once today. Just what I needed. Ahhhhh. As I reached over to pick up my full glass of wine, my arm brushed against the tallest candle and down it tumbled right smack in between my legs. Without going into all the gory details, let me sum it up this way…
I can now move to Brazil and feel right at home. Just lovely.
After a long very stressful day at work with my nerves already frazzled and a thunderstorm that topped off my stress, I looked forward to a long, hot bath. I knew I had plenty of hot water to fill my jetted tub up to the rim because no one in the house had showered yet. Plenty of hot water. Nice relaxing bath. Quiet peaceful alone time. Ahhhh.
Then IT happened. No electricity in the neighborhood. No lights, no television, no Internet, WAIT, oh shit. NO HOT WATER??? I knew if I hurried I could gather an armful of candles, run up to the tub and fill it before the water heater turned cool. Problem solved and I can enjoy my bath even more with the soft light of the candles.
After doing my normal bathing routine I laid back and let my body slip down into the steamy hot water. I was experiencing a moment of peace for once today. Just what I needed. Ahhhhh. As I reached over to pick up my full glass of wine, my arm brushed against the tallest candle and down it tumbled right smack in between my legs. Without going into all the gory details, let me sum it up this way…
I can now move to Brazil and feel right at home. Just lovely.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The long and short of it.
There are many reasons why my ex-husband is an “X” and after all these years of being divorced I rarely revisit those memories. I am, however, one of the many women in this world who still have to maintain some type of relationship with their X because we still share one thing in common, our daughter.
It’s not often I run into him or even speak to him because our daughter is a young adult now. On those rare occasions we do happen to see each other I’m reminded how much happier I am now and it also confirms for me that even after many years, Ex-husbands do not change. They remain assholes.
Case in point…with a little background.
For me, there are certain private rituals, habits or beliefs I prefer to keep to myself. For example, I can never imagine leaving the bathroom door open while I’m sitting on the toilet “thinking” (Let’s just call it that shall we?). “X” on the other hand had no issue “thinking” in front of me. The same holds true for passing gas. I would not, could not do THAT in the presence of my mate. However…
Over twenty years ago, one time, and only once did I have an “accident” whereby one very small, nearly silent, gas bubble made its debut in front of him. I remember so vividly standing there mortified and embarrassed as I listened to him laugh and carry on about it for what seemed liked days. I was certain the color of my face was at least close to the red of the shorts I was wearing. I looked at him and said, “You’re an asshole”.
Fast forward 20 years…a week ago.
My daughter decided to move back into my home from college. She had arranged with her Father for him to pick up some of her belongings and bring them here. I thought it would also be a great time for me to pick up from him a check for his portion of her car insurance. So I called him one hour in advance of his arrival and reminded him. He agreed he would.
While I was in the backyard pulling weeds from the flowerbed, I could hear his truck door slam so I proceeded to make my way to the driveway. After approaching and greeting him I ask, “did you bring the check”? He looked at me and said, “Damn, I forgot my checkbook”. In frustration as I walked away I said, “How could you forget? I just called you one hour before to remind you, don’t you remember anything”?
His response; “Yes, yes I do. Those red shorts you are wearing now, are those the same fart shorts”?
He can’t remember to bring the check, but he remembers my fart shorts.
What an asshole. Just lovely.
It’s not often I run into him or even speak to him because our daughter is a young adult now. On those rare occasions we do happen to see each other I’m reminded how much happier I am now and it also confirms for me that even after many years, Ex-husbands do not change. They remain assholes.
Case in point…with a little background.
For me, there are certain private rituals, habits or beliefs I prefer to keep to myself. For example, I can never imagine leaving the bathroom door open while I’m sitting on the toilet “thinking” (Let’s just call it that shall we?). “X” on the other hand had no issue “thinking” in front of me. The same holds true for passing gas. I would not, could not do THAT in the presence of my mate. However…
Over twenty years ago, one time, and only once did I have an “accident” whereby one very small, nearly silent, gas bubble made its debut in front of him. I remember so vividly standing there mortified and embarrassed as I listened to him laugh and carry on about it for what seemed liked days. I was certain the color of my face was at least close to the red of the shorts I was wearing. I looked at him and said, “You’re an asshole”.
Fast forward 20 years…a week ago.
My daughter decided to move back into my home from college. She had arranged with her Father for him to pick up some of her belongings and bring them here. I thought it would also be a great time for me to pick up from him a check for his portion of her car insurance. So I called him one hour in advance of his arrival and reminded him. He agreed he would.
While I was in the backyard pulling weeds from the flowerbed, I could hear his truck door slam so I proceeded to make my way to the driveway. After approaching and greeting him I ask, “did you bring the check”? He looked at me and said, “Damn, I forgot my checkbook”. In frustration as I walked away I said, “How could you forget? I just called you one hour before to remind you, don’t you remember anything”?
His response; “Yes, yes I do. Those red shorts you are wearing now, are those the same fart shorts”?
He can’t remember to bring the check, but he remembers my fart shorts.
What an asshole. Just lovely.
Can I borrow your iron?
I was cursed with having my mother's leg gene - if there even is such a gene. The back of my thighs look like an old dirt road, bumpy, full of crevices and ditches called Cellulite. I have longed my entire life for smooth and sexy legs. Not the dirt road kind, more like an Interstate, slick, smooth and long. I have looked into every fix you can imagine from miracle creams shown late at night on infomercials to liposuction advertised on the side of a building and in the end I've learned there is nothing I can do. Thanks Mom.
There are some tips to mask the problem like a nice tan or support pantyhose or even dim lighting but, under the mask, it's still there. During the winter months when it's cold and frosty outside I believe my brain freezes too. I forget about "Mom's gift" hidden underneath the layers of clothes. For this reason, I love winter.
This story sums it up...
I remember the sunny day I was on a date with a man and his 6 year old son. We had planned a beautiful afternoon riding the waves on a Jet-ski. In my cute bathing suit, hand in hand I walked down the pier with this little boy ensuring his safety on the water.
He looks up to me in front of my date, his father, and in his little boy voice he says, "why are your wegs so winkled?".
Just lovely.
There are some tips to mask the problem like a nice tan or support pantyhose or even dim lighting but, under the mask, it's still there. During the winter months when it's cold and frosty outside I believe my brain freezes too. I forget about "Mom's gift" hidden underneath the layers of clothes. For this reason, I love winter.
This story sums it up...
I remember the sunny day I was on a date with a man and his 6 year old son. We had planned a beautiful afternoon riding the waves on a Jet-ski. In my cute bathing suit, hand in hand I walked down the pier with this little boy ensuring his safety on the water.
He looks up to me in front of my date, his father, and in his little boy voice he says, "why are your wegs so winkled?".
Just lovely.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The Panties
Every woman has them hidden way back in the drawer. Those ratty, ugly, stained underwear we all put on when it's "that time". As a newly married woman, there are some things I like to keep a bit private from my husband and my Period Panties are one of those things. I make it a point to do my own laundry and I cleverly hide these panties and pull them out when needed.
It's inevitable for certain that at times I'll be wearing a favorite new pair and just like Houdini, my period will magically appear, without alarm or warning. That is how period panties evolve. These undergarments have now lost their sex appeal and are not for public viewing. All ladies have them, but there is not one of us willing to let our husbands know they exist especially those of us still in the honeymoon phase of marriage. The idea of my man knowing of or seeing me in these tattered "drawers" (and by the way, I believe we call them "drawers" because we hide them way in the back of the dresser) really frightens me. He can't imagine his beautiful bride wearing holey, stained britches.
While folding my husband's laundry the other day, I came across three pair of his Hanes that had certainly seen better days. They had been washed so many times the material felt like a Kleenex. The elastic was showing in various places and holes were abundant. My first thought was why does he need to keep these torn up skivvies with all of the other nice, newer pair I've purchased for him? So I ask him.
His response - "I've seen your 'monthlies' why can't I have any"?
My secret is out, the honeymoon is over. Lovely.
It's inevitable for certain that at times I'll be wearing a favorite new pair and just like Houdini, my period will magically appear, without alarm or warning. That is how period panties evolve. These undergarments have now lost their sex appeal and are not for public viewing. All ladies have them, but there is not one of us willing to let our husbands know they exist especially those of us still in the honeymoon phase of marriage. The idea of my man knowing of or seeing me in these tattered "drawers" (and by the way, I believe we call them "drawers" because we hide them way in the back of the dresser) really frightens me. He can't imagine his beautiful bride wearing holey, stained britches.
While folding my husband's laundry the other day, I came across three pair of his Hanes that had certainly seen better days. They had been washed so many times the material felt like a Kleenex. The elastic was showing in various places and holes were abundant. My first thought was why does he need to keep these torn up skivvies with all of the other nice, newer pair I've purchased for him? So I ask him.
His response - "I've seen your 'monthlies' why can't I have any"?
My secret is out, the honeymoon is over. Lovely.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Mustache Hair? Really?
I just recently turned 45 years old and it seems in a split second, when the clock turned 12pm on my birthday the first hairs appeared on my top lip. I'm not talking about those little wispy blond hairs, I'm talking dark, thick beard looking hairs. My first reaction was to grab the tweezers and pluck those mothers out. When I grabbed the first one and snatched it from my lip it felt as though that hair was pulled from the bottom of my feet, around my intestines, through my lungs, up my throat and out through the skin of my upper lip. My eyes started watering, my lip was quivering and a small drop of blood seeped its way through the giant hole left by the unwanted hair. Now what do I do? There is no way I'm going to attempt to yank out the remaining little bastards with tweezers.
So I figure, hmmm I shave my legs, why not grab a razor and ever so gently shave off the little army of hair that has taken cover above my mouth? I wash my face, apply a small amount of my husband's shaving cream, grab a new Shick razor and proceed to erase what age as presented to me as an unwanted birthday present. As I look deep into my mirror, I'm frightened to see the reflection of my husband standing behind me.
He looks at me and says "you shave your face too"?
Just lovely.
So I figure, hmmm I shave my legs, why not grab a razor and ever so gently shave off the little army of hair that has taken cover above my mouth? I wash my face, apply a small amount of my husband's shaving cream, grab a new Shick razor and proceed to erase what age as presented to me as an unwanted birthday present. As I look deep into my mirror, I'm frightened to see the reflection of my husband standing behind me.
He looks at me and says "you shave your face too"?
Just lovely.
Friday, September 18, 2009
I have diagnosed myself with IMS
Irritable Mood Syndrome (IMS) is my personal diagnosis of when I'm having a crappy day. It flairs up daily. How do I get rid of this disease? There is no cure that I know of so I have resigned myself to creating this blog. My personal prescription for my own mental health.
Speaking of prescriptions, I simply want to know why all antibiotics cause yeast infections? How is it I can take one pill to clear up a bladder infection but at the same time the rest of my crotch gets infected? Although these female organs are neighbors they clearly aren't friends. In my own neighborhood we look out for each other. We keep an eye out for each other, we talk, we are friendly and welcoming. That is not the case within my own body. My vaginal organs hate each other. In fact, they are at war.
A bladder infection, a yeast infection and my period. Lovely.
Speaking of prescriptions, I simply want to know why all antibiotics cause yeast infections? How is it I can take one pill to clear up a bladder infection but at the same time the rest of my crotch gets infected? Although these female organs are neighbors they clearly aren't friends. In my own neighborhood we look out for each other. We keep an eye out for each other, we talk, we are friendly and welcoming. That is not the case within my own body. My vaginal organs hate each other. In fact, they are at war.
A bladder infection, a yeast infection and my period. Lovely.
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