- Speaking of the bathroom, I’m the only person in my house who changes the toilet paper roll. Other family members will sit it on the counter and pluck away at it until the mother (me) puts it in the holder. Wait, on second thought, my husband did it once, but he put it on wrong and lost changing the toilet paper roll privileges.  Everyone knows the right way is the over hung method. Here is a link to prove how right I am. http://currentconfig.com/2005/02/22/essential-life-lesson-1-over-is-right-under-is-wrong/

- I would absolutely without a doubt leave my loving, wonderful husband for Norman Reedus. Norman just has to know I exist and say the word, then I am out of here like a meth addict on the way to their dealer. He should have put the toilet paper on the right way. 

- Side note: My husband would do the same to me when it comes to Gina Gershon. Mines better.

- I am sincerely curious if a prostitute, or anyone for that matter, has ever uttered this sentence and meant it with every fiber of their being, “I will suck your dick for some pancakes.”

- Does bitch-face come from nature or nurture? Apparently I am afflicted with this condition, but I’m not quite sure if I’ve always had it or if it developed over time. I’m leaning toward nurture. I’ve encountered such a high number of shenanigans in my life, that my face had no choice but to permanently stay in the what-the-fuck position.

2. Has anyone ever really been beaten to death with a dildo as seen in the brilliant movie, “Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels? And if so, was it listed as cause of death in their obituary and/or death certificate?

3. I found a dead spider under my pillow for the first time at the age of 34 on 4/10/13. I now believe my bed is unfit for relaxing and most of all sleeping.

4. Am I the only person who has sticky finger mysteries? The last time it happened I was sitting on my couch multitasking – typing on the laptop and watching TV. I lifted my hand in search of the remote and realized something wasn’t right. My damn left pointer finger was covered in a sticky substance. What it was and how it got there remains a mystery. I can’t be the only human being this has happened to.

5.  After a week of living in a new house I discovered the toilet paper holder is scented. That is freaking genius. I didn’t even know that was a thing. I’m so late to the TP holder air freshening party.

6. When you trip in public – not even trip but have a slight misstep, why does it feel like everyone in the world saw you and is simultaneously calling you an idiot?

7. My ten-year old daughter woke me up this morning and said, “Can I get some breakfast up in here, yo!” I moved out of Hayward, California so this wouldn’t happen. At least she didn’t shank me in the side and say, “I be needing my breakfast in a timely manner, biotch!”

My point is the universe would not allow such a bewildering phenomena without balancing itself out. With every person that acquires fame and fortune without paying real dues (or having any real talent, or having anything positive to offer the world), there must also be people who through blood, sweat, and tears finally reach their goals. Not necessarily people seeking fame and fortune, just people trying to achieve ANYTHING worthwhile. Each and every reality “star” are actually a hug from baby Jesus around all your hopes and dreams. These people are solid proof that ANYTHING in life is possible.

If you are not acquainted with Honey Boo Boo, she is a 6-year-old girl originally from TLC’s Toddlers and Tiaras. Now on her own show, Here Comes Honey Boo Boo, we see her daily life and get a plethora of Honey Boo Boo-isms, such as “you betta redneckognize!” Being that she is only six, you can’t help but to have more to say about her mother, June, who gives her daughter, real name Alana, a mixture of red bull and mountain dew during pageants. June has been praised for her “business sense” when it comes to budgeting for her family. Her business sense is a mixture of clipping coupons, eating roadkill, using every bit of her kid’s unfiltered mouth to squeeze a dollar out of TLC and acquiring child support checks from each father of her four children. When the family is not feasting on roadkill they enjoy a fascinating take on “sketti.” Check out video here:

http://tlc.howstuffworks.com/tv/here-comes-honey-boo-boo/videos/making-sketti.htm

I’ll admit they are probably the most “real” of the reality TV families. I have a love-hate relationship with them, because I do actually laugh (a what-the-hell, kind of laugh, but a laugh nonetheless) at the clips I see. Which must mean I am entertained. However, I can never be wholeheartedly pro reality fame when it comes to the amount of money they get in exchange for giving me a chuckle. Nor can I completely agree that being on reality TV is the best thing for any child, but I’m getting off track from the point of this post. Oh well, enjoy some more Honey Boo Boo.

http://youtu.be/CGM_ANQsQ74

And if you don’t know who Snooki is by now, then I’m afraid you’ll have to google her. I don’t have the emotional energy to get into the gift that is Snooki.

Okay, just this little bit. A fuzzy clip of her “talents” http://youtu.be/qZsHZ39cnCQ Besides her Jersey Shore fame, she has the nerve to call herself a New York Times best-selling author. Fuck that. Some how her book, A Shore Thing, reached #24 in January, 2011, and I’m sure she spent months agonizing over every word, that she wrote completely all by herself. I can only imagine she locked herself in a room with her laptop, self tanning lotion, pot of coffee, urine soaked floor and a thesaurus. Actually she does admit this: http://perezhilton.com/2011-01-12-snooki-talks-about-writing-a-shore-thing-with-partner-valerie-frankel

So you see, instead of these folks being a sign of the apocalypse, they are actually a symbol of hope. Everything needs balance, which means good things are on the horizon for all us honest, hard-working dreamers.

Bonus: Jodi Picoult author of My Sister’s Keeper  had some words for Ms. Snooki http://shelf-life.ew.com/2011/01/14/jodi-picoult-snooki/

Extra Bonus: South Park (an acquired taste) Acknowledging the wonder of Honey Boo Boo http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/vuoi8t/sketti-and-butter

Stay strong dreamers.

August 5, 2012  4:00 am

My husband wakes up because I start making some sort of whining, oh Lord I’m gonna die, type of noise. He asks what’s wrong and I tell him the symptoms I’m experiencing. He notices the laptop on and says, “You better be on puppiesandkittens.com.” He disapproves of Dr. Google.

“No,” I say. “And I think I’m having a stroke or heart attack!”

“No, you’re not. You’re having a panic attack.”

“How the hell do you know?!”

“Trust me.”

Three days prior to this my mom passed away from a stroke. I was mentally and emotionally overwhelmed and yes I was having my first panic attack. I’ve had at least one or two a week ever since. To be on the safe side I went to the doctor for a full check up. I half expected the doctor to tell me, “Dear God woman! How are you not six feet under already? You are messed up head to toe! We need to prep you for about four different emergency surgeries, stat!

Color me shocked when I was told no such thing.

However I was a bit stunned when the doctor’s demon scale showed I weighed eight pounds more than I thought I did. Along with the physical exam I was asked a series of questions, one being, did I feel depressed. I told her, no, not until after you told me I weighed a significant amount more than my scale at home says I do. She chuckled as my self-esteem officially went on vacation. See ya! Come back and visit!

It turns out except for needing a bit more iron and a little less poundage, physically I’m fine. The next step according to the doctor is either medication or talking to someone. Who wants to ever hear that. Yes, it appears you have mentally and/or emotionally snapped. Would you like to travel down medication or therapy road. Hmmm…I choose red wine road with a pit stop at fuck it all cafe.

I thought hearing I was fine would help keep the darkness away. But it didn’t. At least once a day I think about my death, my husband’s death and worry about anything happening to my daughter. To keep my head from these dark places has proven difficult. You have to understand, before my mom passed, almost all the adults I’ve known my whole life also passed on. My grandmother and her sister passed in 2010, then in 2012 my mom’s sister, two uncles, a few of my mom’s cousins, and a couple of family members I never met. It’s a bit much when the grim reaper has over stayed his welcome in your house. You need to get out! Go visit someone else and get your feet off my table!

What’s even stranger is that most of them including my mom died on a day that had other significance. Either a family members birthday or the same date someone else died. My mom died on her dad’s birthday. Now on my parents birthdays I’m going to keep a sniper’s eye on my bff and his hitman ways.

Hell, I’ve already got weirdness with my own birthday, which happens to be the same date my mother’s first born died eleven years earlier. My family could make the head of someone who practices numerology burst into flames.

During the last few attacks I decided to think about my early exit on earth positively.

- No more bills – No more accidently catching infomercials – No more period cramps -  I won’t have to be around for the iPhone 18 (not that I have anything against iPhones) – No more desire to ram my car into stupid people – No more stupid people Aaaaaah…namaste.

Every anxiety attack is a lonely experience. Most of mine happen while everyone else is asleep. A week ago the darkness crept in and I started to lose my shit at 11pm. Rapid thudding heartbeat, shaking like a crackhead in withdrawal, and severe nausea. My husband had just laid down in bed and I knew he was already half asleep. I told him what I was experiencing and he mumbles, “Your body is just doin’ what it wants to do. Just let it.”

The attack even paused and said, “What the fuck. What did he just say?”

Well, thanks honey. Sweet dreams.

So if my body wants to have a heart attack just let it do wants it wants to do. Excellent.

In his defense he was snoring 20 seconds later.  I survived the night (whew!) and the next day he admitted he was barely awake and what he said didn’t make any damn sense.

A word of advice, don’t rely on late night TV to calm an attack. Between dial-a-faux-hoe, and Montel Williams ”get the cash you need tomorrow” commercials, David Letterman’s awkward laugh, and bad movies about someone trying to avenge the death of their brother by the hands of a drug lord, who can relax!

My refusal to go on medication comes from a fear they’ll be a gateway to odd behavior. Here I am…a housewife popping anxiety meds. Then I’ll feel like, what the hell, and wash it down with some five dollar Pinot noir. As I shake my glass in the faces of my imaginary friends I say, Oooooh I feelzzz goooood! Let’s get the party started, y’all! I’ll throw sexy parties on the weekends and let strangers sleep in my livingroom. Next I go get nipple piercings and shave my head and take the crazy train to Britney Spears dark days town. My husband will be so distraught he’ll turn to his friends and co-workers in this small town and tell them all about his space cadet wife. Then some flooze-ball, whore-bag see’s an opportunity and snatches up my good man. Meanwhile, my daughter gets pregnant at thirteen, becomes a meth addict and ruins her entire life. All this because I couldn’t get my mental shiz together and stop being a big ol’ worry wort.

Actually, I don’t want medication because I don’t feel it’s a permanent solution. It would be a temporary fix. I need to confront what is causing the anxiety and work through it. It’s as simple and difficult as that.

Although some of the real side effects of possible prescribed meds are, impaired thinking, impaired judgement, slurred speech, mania, hallucinations, and impulsive behavior. So the above scenario is not totally off base. It would make a great Lifetime movie, but I’m not interested in that being my life.

Stay sassy and classy! (Says the girl acting like she’s signing a highschool yearbook. But I do what I wahhnnT!)

A RANDOM WTF PICTURE FOR THE HELL OF IT ~ Giant cat couch…I’m more of a dog person, but yes please!

Well, gone where? Was my first thought.

He continued to explain what had been going on the last few hours, but all I really heard was the part about her being at the hospital. Oh, so that’s where she had gone. What are they doing to her at the hospital? When will she be able to go home? My husband puts his hand on my shoulder and says he’ll call work and tell them he’s not coming in. Suddenly I was awake and reality hit. My mother, who was a few weeks away from her 66th birthday had passed away from a massive stroke.

Life is all sorts of different, for now and forever.

A further reminder of how short life is. A further reminder of how some things just need to stop. I was reading news on MSN awhile ago and a certain headline jumped out at me, “Pictures Of Celebrities Eating Ice Cream.” Seriously. I expect to see such a headline on a celebrity blogger page, or better yet an ice cream eating fetish website called, YouScreamForIceCream.com. (If that really exists I would not be surprised, but I’m not googling it to find out. To be clear, I do not have any knowledge of that being a real website) Another news site had this to say about their ice cream photos:

Here’s a major piece of news: famous people are, indeed, people, and as such, need nourishment and enjoy their vices (okay, we knew that already). And so, in the end, no matter how many awards you’ve won or magazine you’ve covered, you’ve got to eat — an inherently awkward physical act, mouth opening and closing, jaws mashing, remnants of food smeared on your face.

Amongst the most awkward, and thusly embarrassing, foods to eat is ice cream. A semi-solid that melts in all directions and smears like ash on paper, ice cream teases the mouth and demands full jaw opening, at the penalty of temporary culinary mustache. Seeing a celebrity, then, eating ice cream, is a sort of humanizing experience. Which is why we just can’t stop looking at it.

Oh, well yes, now it makes perfect sense. How stupid of me to find it absolutely absurd that someone is getting paid to take these pictures, and that (God help us all) someone is actually clicking through these photos as proof that celebrities are only humans with regular jaw movements, instead of otherworldly gods to worship and praise in a feverish and crazed manner. Thank you, ice cream. If it wasn’t for you the world might have never known us regular folk had anything in common with these celebrity creatures.

Reality: The only purpose of taking and posting these photos is to fuel the gawker fire the media is trying to spark within us all. The viewing of these photos is a waste of time and more importantly a waste of your life. Time you will never get back. It would be more productive to go and spy on your neighbor. At least then you’ll know what kind of freak you live next to. I will even say it’s better to check out the pictures of Kristen Stewart cheating, than of ANYONE eating ice cream for Buddha’s sake!

Absurd people, places and things are everywhere and they always will be. I feel like the word “absurd” needs to be used more often. I might as well adopt it, give it a forever home, and show it off as if I discovered a baby unicorn. What’s that, a six-year-old from Toddlers & Tiaras named Honey Boo Boo is the new biggest television star…ABSURD! (Ooh, it sparkles with power-of-words magic, doesn’t it) Shut your face and talk about something that is not a complete waste of your life. Watch her for some brain-shut-down entertainment, hell I might check out an episode, so I can mentally check out for a while. But for her to be proclaimed as the biggest star on television and for that proclamation to be made on the front page of my news site…no…nope…shouldn’t happen.

Apparently I’m finding all sorts of headlines bothersome. For instance:

“Dustin Hoffman Celebrates His 75th Birthday”

Asshole.

Every last one of them.

When the warm weather started everyone around town has been having uninvited guest issues. The ants are trying to take over and disrupt our lives. At first the little assholes were only appearing in the kitchen. I sprayed the hell out of everything with bug spray and vinegar. Then they start showing up in the livingroom and bedrooms. When I saw them in the bedroom, it would only be one random ant a day crawling across the bed. I didn’t find trails or any others throughout the day. It was odd, but I figured maybe it hitched a ride on one of the dogs.

Two weeks ago I walk in my bedroom and notice one bastard on the bed, then another, and another. I look all over for a trail, or where they might be coming from. At one point I looked up, and shit myself. Mystery solved– I found where they were coming from. The ceiling. Our ceiling is made of wood panels, and a very large number of ants were trailing along the middle beam. A very large number. So many that the dumbasses were falling on the bed.

I yelled for my husband to get his ass to the bedroom, and bring back up, cause shit just got real. He sprayed everywhere and I washed everything. My daughter yells for me to come in the livingroom while we’re battling in our room. It was an all out war. The ants were attacking the livingroom as well. After spraying, I sprinkled cinnamon in all the floor cracks, and around all the windows, and door frames. I read ants don’t like vinegar or cinnamon, and so far I haven’t seen them again where the cinnamon sits. Unfortunately, I can’t throw a cinnamon bomb up in the ceiling.

Yesterday evening I noticed something on my daughter’s school pictures, that were sitting on my desk in our bedroom. As I get a closer look, it becomes obvious what it is. And it brought a lot friends to the party. A few are on my desk, but an army is above my head once again. We repeat exactly what we did two weeks prior.

Ever since the massive assault weeks ago, I’ve discussed with my husband the possibility of taking a professional approach to handling these nuisances. If it was completely up to me, pest control experts would have already been here. My hubby is not so quick to get them involved. I understand it will be a bit of green paper, but it’s worth my peace of mind as far as I’m concerned. Dammit.

After what happened yesterday he appeared to be thinking about it a little more seriously. But I would have preferred him to get on the phone right then and there. Once something invades your bedroom repeatedly it’s time to get a pest death dealer involved. I had to do something to hurry up the process, and light a fire under his bum. I felt I came up with the perfect idea to persuade my husband. It was time to strike a deal.

I approached him at his desk, and dived right in.

“Honey, if you call someone right now….(wee pause) not only do you NOT have to agonize over what to get me for my next two birthdays, but you do not have to acknowledge them in any way whatsoever.”

(F.Y.I. He is an amazeballs husband, but he has a slight “giving of presents that I really want” block. He also has a “hint taking” block. Last Valentine’s Day I sent him exactly what I wanted to his email. I knew the hint over the head would be sufficient. I was wrong. Bless his heart.)

He’s only staring at me, not saying a word, so I go on.

“To sweeten the deal, I will even throw in our next wedding anniversary. Think about this! You save money! You save time! You save yourself mental anguish about what to get me, or about what to do! No worrying about seeing the disappointment on your wife’s face! No, hearing me say, ‘Oh, it’s fine dear’ with gritted teeth! This is not a joke, this is not a drill! This is the real deal!”

Silence.

“Huh, how ’bout it? I guarantee you, no other man on earth has been offered such an awesome, once in a lifetime deal. Let’s stop thinking about calling someone, and let’s just do it.”

My husband finally breaks his silence.

“You know, I might call, but not because of this deal of yours. It’s ridiculous, and I’m not going to get into all the reasons why it’s ridiculous. It just is. I think YOU need to just go blog about all this, and I’ll do some research, and see what’s, what.”

(I Sigh…in defeat)

“Fine.”

He still hasn’t called…yet.

Perhaps I should throw in Christmas.

I think most of us are guilty of this, myself included. Phone calls, real birthday cards, you have to put a stamp on, or even typing out a real email…YUCK! I don’t even think I have another soul’s physical address. But I know what they ate for dinner last night.

You can pretend all you want that you would never really cause another human severe physical harm, no matter how you felt about them, or what they did to you, but let’s be real. If there wasn’t any possibility on God’s green earth that you would get caught, what would you really do? I mean, I would never harm…

Yeah, when you’re putting bible quotes about purity, and light as status updates, I still remember…I still remember.

Take your ten letter+ words and shove them up your ass. Actually shove them up your condescending, ostentatious, pompous ass.

Oh, Nicolas Cage, what happened to you…what happened? Did someone hurt you…tell us…let us in.

Yeeeaaaaaaah! Not really. Humor can be found in almost anything, and that’s not a bad thing.

This one is not really “sad but true,” it’s more like “hard, but true, and just the right thing to do.” 

“Yeah, I know, just don’t think about it.”

Here we are, a 180 pound, 15-year-old white girl, (me) and a 200 pound, 15-year-old, black girl, walking deep in the heart of a bad neighborhood at midnight. Luckily, back in 1993 I could sometimes pass for a pale mexican, with dark lipstick, and beanie hat–this had been beneficial a few times. Plus I’d have Trina throw out a few chica’s my way, to lessen any doubt a cracker hater might be having in our vicinity.

Why are we walking the blood stained streets where we could lose our lives any second?

Trina wants to meet a boy. Trina is always meeting a boy.

He’s not even a boy. This guy is in his early 20′s, and she asked me to come with her to stop her from doing anything stupid. The truth is, I don’t have that kind of power over her. The real reason I’m tagging along is simply because I didn’t have anything better to do, and maybe a small part of me craved a bit of adventure. I’ve never been in therapy, so I can’t say for sure. (Am I the only one slightly weirded out by the fact that in the word THERAPY is RAPY which could be pronounced RAPEY, which then could be read as THE RAPEY. Okay, ignore this, I’m babbling.)

We took a bus to our current location, and now we’re forced to walk the rest of the way to what I’m hoping is not a crack house, because we’ve walked by three already. Trust me.

Trina met this guy at a bus stop a few days ago, and now here we are, one of us thinking this is how it all ends, and the other wondering if they should give it up tonight, or wait another couple of days.

“I wonder when I should get him sprung on my goodies.” Trina says, as we walk through the deteriorating city.

Yep, I knew it.

When we get to the house, we find ourselves walking through serious foliage to get to the backyard. Why the backyard? I wish I knew, this was the instruction Trina was given over the phone. Did he have a baby mama asleep in the house? (You’d be surprised) Perhaps cutting up some serious foliage inside and they didn’t want to share. I don’t know, and I didn’t care. I was getting big stranger-danger vibes, and wanted to leave as soon as I saw him AND his cousin.

Trina whispers to me, “He has someone for you.”

No, thanks. Not interested. My goodies are not up for springing. I want my mommy. Let’s get the hell outta here.

She then leaves me, and walks her fire starter thighs over to a darkened corner with her fellow. Trina may be a big girl, but she never had a problem gaining the interest of the opposite sex. Her, I’m fine as fuck attitude is what got her a new guy at every bus stop. It might also have been the I’ll do anybody vibe, whatever the case, I got phone calls from her on the daily about new males, who deemed her skeetworthy.

I can’t see them very well in the dark, but I can tell their bodies are mashed together in some way on a wooden bench. Awkward. I’m cold, standing in the dark, and now a very large man, who looks like he’s in his thirties, is inching towards me. Shit.

“Hey girl…”

“No. Don’t even bother. I’m here for my friend, and I’ll be standing right here until she’s done doing whatever.”

“Okay, that’s coo, that’s coo.”

And yes, coo. Not, cool.

I have no idea how long I was standing there when Trina finally emerged from her dark corner of shame.

“Can we go now?” I ask.

“Yeah, we have to hurry to catch the last bus anyway.”

Not until we’re on the bus do I ask if she did anything stupid.

“Kinda,” she says. “He’s gonna meet me at the park next to my house tomorrow.”

“So you can finish whatever it is you started.”

“Pretty much.”

He will soon be added to her list of sexual partners during her 15th year of life.

I was hoping we would be alone on our bus ride, but there is a group of five guys all the way to the back. Trina and I are sitting at the front, right next to the lady bus driver. The guys start getting loud, and talking a lot of shit. I glanced once towards them, and Trina quickly nudged my arm.

“Don’t even look. Ignore them.”

The comedians in the back had started to call me a pumpkin, and then elaborated on their observation. I can’t lie, they spoke the truth. I had been wearing an admittedly, awful, blinding, orange T-shirt. People have said worse, and they were most likely high, so I didn’t feel any kind of way about it. As long as they were not trying to stab us to death, I was totally fine with the tearing down of my self-esteem. Please Lord, let the only thing they rip into be my emotional well-being, but make them leave my internal organs intact. Amen. 

I only put the shirt on in the first place because Trina said it looked good on me. It was the first and last time I had worn it. I gave it to Trina afterwards, since she liked it so damn much. Personally, I don’t believe anyone looks good in orange. It’s an eyesore and is only acceptable on Halloween and in construction sites. But I digress. 

The bus driver, Miriam, struck up a conversation with us to distract us from the crackheads. Miriam started getting very deep, and going on about the meaning of life. She was awesome.

“You know, every night I look out this front window, and think about how the world is much bigger than what I see through this glass.”

Trina and I just look at each other.

Miriam goes on to say, “Just by looking at me, you wouldn’t be able to guess what I do when I’m not driving this bus, but you have to expand your mind. You can’t let less than desirable circumstances dictate the outcome of your future. You can’t let anyone, or anything stop you from getting what you want.” After a pause, “Oh, I study law, by the way.”

I’ve never forgotten her.

Miriam didn’t have a penis, so Trina could only tell you that the bus had a driver, and…that’s about it.

We made it back to Trina’s house safe and sound. Her mom was working a graveyard shift, and my parents thought I was having an innocent, sweet, sleepover. Hi, mom!

Definitions:

Cracker- White person

Chica- Spanish for young girl or girl

Sprung- Obsessed; in love with; crushing on

Goodies- Vagina

Baby Mama Mother of one’s child

Fire Starter Thighs- Big Ol’ thighs rubbing together

Skeetworthy- Worthy of having, let’s say, messy sex with

PS- I feel the need to remind everyone the focus of this website is humor/satire, so getting your panties in a bunch about calling my friend a whore, or getting into some kind of whore/slut debate is completely unnecessary. Relax, it’s a humor essay.

Did his wife say if he didn’t bring home the freshest of the fresh hamburger meat, she would beat him down with her wooden spoon. His biggest problem is that filthy hoopty car. J/K Big props to hoopty cars–my Father owned many.

Um, was foul play suspected? Just askin’

I hate to say it, because I love me some chicken mcnuggets with sweet and sour sauce, but this might be proof McDonald’s is run by a very ironic demon.

Okay, this is just impressive.

The worst offense are those giant polka dots on the wall.

Since I didn’t have any medical insurance in 2002, I chose a free clinic in Union City, California. After filling out mind numbing paper work, I was handed a plastic cup to fill up with the Arizona Ice Tea with Ginseng I had just consumed.

The last time I had to partake in this activity was 8 years previous at the age of sixteen, for a drug test during the hiring process for Sears. I didn’t remember it being so difficult.

Perhaps it was the circumstances surrounding the task this time, but god almighty I could not pee.

It really didn’t help that the nurse kept coming in the bathroom every minute and a half. Every time knocking on the stall door, “Are you done yet?”

If I was done dumbass wouldn’t I be out there handing you my greatest accomplishment of the day.

“Um, no, not yet, I seem to be having a little trouble. Sorry.” What I’m apologizing for exactly, I’m not sure.

“I’ll bring you a cup of water.”

She comes back and slides a paper cup of water under the stall, and leaves. I stare at it for a minute thinking that seems kinda gross, even though logically I’m not drinking water touching the bathroom floor. Then I think about how absurd this all seems and how I just want to kick that stupid cup and leave.

I drink the water and continue to wait for my ticket out of here. I’ve been in this faded brown stall surrounded by the smell of Clorox for about fifteen minutes. The nurse returns with another cup of water, and this time leaves with words of wisdom and comfort.

“Just relax, you have a shy bladder.”

Thanks, I feel so much better. Oh crap. I really do feel better.

With that professional diagnosis, I finally have sweet relief. All it took was for someone to understand her.

The precious has feelings too.

(Shy bladder can actually be much more serious for some. People who can’t go in a public restroom at all. What I actually suffered from was either, “stressed the fuck out bladder,” or “can’t pee on demand bladder.”)

“I’m sorry, SAY WHAT now?!”

That is exactly what I said to my obstetrician when I got my first examination.

First of all the whole scene is odd and uncomfortable. You’re laying on an examination table made by the devil, or a minion of similar design. I’m mean, c’mon, we can send people up in space, but we can’t have cushy, inviting exam tables when are lady parts are being medically violated and scrutinized.

When I laid down the nurse asked if I wanted the father of my child to come in the room. I told her absolutely not. Why the hell do I want anyone in here while my legs are spread for a sixty-year old male so he can inspect my precious cargo. Who is this fun for? Who wants to see this? No one.

If this wasn’t so vital to the well-being of myself and unborn child, I would have taken a power dump on that table so I could be excused, and run my preggo ass out of there.

In reality, I lay there feeling awkward with not only the knowledge of a stranger all up in my little “Ginny”, (pronounced Jenny) but when I close my eyes I can still feel the stare of the nurse, as if she was a deer and I had a headlight in my ovaries. Good grief.

As I’m praying this is almost over, the doctor begins to make some inaudible sounds.

Not knowing if these sounds are a good or bad thing I say, “What? Anything I need to know?”

I was expecting him to say, oh, what, no, no, nothing.

Instead he says, “It’s nothing to panic about, it’s just this is only the second time I’ve seen this.”

Regardless of being told “It’s nothing to panic about…” who wants to hear about a rarity when the VAG is trying to get a passing grade.

All I can say is, “Uh, huh.”

“You have a double vagina.”

“I’m sorry, SAY WHAT now?!” My first thought was, this guy is an idiot, and I need a new doctor. Wouldn’t I have noticed another opening on my body?

“It’s nothing to be concerned about. Inside, it’s split in two by a layer of skin. Now, what might happen is the baby will come through one side or the other, but most likely it will rip the layer of skin, and then it will no longer be doubled.”

I’m still waiting for him to start laughing and say, “Oh, I’m kidding, it’s a joke I play on all first timers.” But he never said that.

However, the more I found out about it, the less bizarre it seemed. But really, who expects to hear such things. Actually, I do expect such things. Life is a kooky hoot.

F.Y.I. – Only one twat survived. Two twat enter, one twat leaves. It was a good day in more ways than one when my daughter was born.

Fun Fact: Some women also have two cervixes and uteruses. Knowledge is power.