Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Letter to the Totally *Awesome* Guys Revving Their Engines at the Red Light.

Dear Guy in the Motorcycle and Guy in the Sports Car Revving Your Engines in the Lane Next to Me,

Wow.  What a stunning display of masculinity. Seriously, you guys are hot.

I think I can safely say I speak for all woman in the surrounding two mile radius that, as the two of you alternated revving your engines, each rev louder and longer than the next, it took all the strength we possess not to rip off our clothes and throw ourselves at you.

Way to assert your dominance over all the other male drivers.  You made all those guys sitting in their silent cars seem like real douche bags.  Douche bags with small wieners.  
Speaking of wieners did you two figure out the answer?  It was hard for me to tell.  Clearly you both have giant penises.  The biggest penises known to man.  But did you figure which one of you had the largest penis?

If only the light hadn't turned green you could have continued your raw, unadulterated display of my-penis-is-bigger-than-yours-and-I'll-prove-it-by-revving-my-engine-at-the-red-light.  Some may say spare us the noise, save us all a good deal of time and just pull down your pants and look at whose penis is larger.

But I say, where's the fun in that?  Plus, the revving-your-engine method presents an air of mystery.  And we could all feel the atmosphere hum with anticipation.  And the vibrations from the revving?  Oh.  Mah.  Gah.  It's a good thing Marky Mark's Feel the Vibrations wasn't playing or I would I have lost my mind.  Remember that video?  Feel it, feel it.  Talk about a display of masculinity.  Until this day there was no finer display.  Until the two of you.

Darn that green light!  I was in the presence of the two manliest men alive.  But WHICH ONE WAS MANLIER.?!  Motorcycle?  Car?  Motorcycle?  Car?  MOTORCYCLE?  CAR?  WILL I EVER KNOW??

Maybe one day, at a red light in the hopefully-not-too-distant future, we will meet again.  And you will rev your engines louder, and longer, and faster and harder.  And my soul will finally be at rest.  I will finally be able to sleep at night.  My life will finally have meaning again.  Because I will finally know which of you has the larger penis.

If, of course, I don't die of excitement first.

Sincerely yours,
The SARCASM Goddess

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Facebook: Any Idiot Can Do It. But That Doesn't Mean They Should...And Also? Some Awards! EEEEE!!!

You really should have to pass a test before you're allowed to have a facebook page because not everyone is equipped to handle it. Kinda like the test you have to take when you decide you want to become a parent. Wait, never mind. Any idiot can become a parent.

I am one of those ill-equipped people. For facebook. And if we're being honest, for parenting also. Seriously, if I ever have kids you should feel sorry for them.

"Mommy wasn't able to make it to the store to buy you some real toys so here's a book of matches, some monopoly games pieces that may or may not be a choking hazard, and a chainsaw. It's called improvising, darling. No need to call me if the house burns down. I'll be able to see the flames from my lounge chair at the community pool. I'll head over as soon as I finish this daiquiri. You probably should call the fire department though. They seem to really like knowing when something's on fire. You remember the number for 9-1-1, right? Such a smart little cookie. You obviously take after your mother."

When I first started my facebook page I friend requested my real life friends - the people I hang out with in the real world and can generally stand to be in my presence. Then I waited. For everyone else in the facebook world to friend request me. I knew they knew I was there because of the handy dandy "people you may know" feature. Two people took the bait. The rest of the facebook world was silent.

"Screw you guys!" I said. "I don't need you."

And for a few months, I didn't. But then I looked at my list of 57 friends and started feeling inadequate. Because we all know the number one purpose of having a facebook page is to collect as many friends as possible. The more removed from you and the least interested in your life they are, the better the facebook friend they will be.

So one night I sat down with a glass of wine and friend-requested the shit out of facebook.

I met you once at a party six years ago, send request!

We hated each other in high school, send request!

I'm not entirely sure who you are, but you are pretty and are friends with six of my real life friends, send request!

When I was finally done - aka, the bottle of wine was empty - I panicked. What have I done? What if no one accepts my request? What if it's like high school all over again where I was like, "hey guys, how's it goin? whatcha doin this weekend? wanna be friends? i'll let you braid my hair." and everyone was like, "who are you? do you even go to this school?"

But then magical things started happening. My phone started dinging like church bells (did I tell you I finally got an iphone? well, i did. under protest. i didn't have a choice. the husband threw my beloved flip phone down the stairs in a fit of rage. the flip phone could not be fixed. "we don't even make these any more," said the perky at&t sales-girl in wide-eyed wonderment. "fine, give me a damn iphone," i responded. at first i used it bedrudgingly but now if makes me feel tingly all over.).

I burst into the living room, chest puffed proudly and said to the husband, "Honey, I have friends!"

The husband: That's great, baby. Now get out of the way. I'm trying to watch American Greed.

I began pirouetting around the house. I sang into the empty wine bottle. "I know that there is pain, but you hold on for one more day and break free the chains!"

Me: Honey, do I sound good?

The husband: No.

Me: Some day somebody's gonna make you wanna turn around and say goodbye! Until then baby are you gonna let em hold you down and make you cry! What about that honey? I was really trying that time.

The husband: No, you are terrible.



Me: Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Another one! I have another friend! I don't even know who this person is! But we are friends! Life is great! I am so pretty and popular!

I'll be honest. There were three reasons I started a facebook page.

1. I had no idea what was going on in my friend's lives when I was facebookless.

2. I was missing out on some great parties. Because apparently no one knows how to send invitations in the mail or pick the phone to invite you to The Party of the Century. Seriously, dude, it's gonna be epic.

3. To whore out my blog.

I know, I know. Those all sound incredibly selfish, but trust me, it's all for the greater good. How? Um...well...errr...in the words of the perfectly coiffed Alaskan who can see Russia from her house, "I'll have to get back to ya."

My facebook activity consisted primarily of announcing when I updated my blog, "liking" my friends photos, and commenting. Occasionally. Why only occasionally and not allthefreakingtime? Because I quickly learned that just because you "say" something doesn't mean anyone's going to "say" something back. So it's basically like talking to yourself. And I do enough of that in real life, thank you very much.

Then, a few days ago everything changed. You could say the dam burst. I got an email from Pottery Barn: Enter For A Chance To Win a $10,000 Summer Shopping Spree!  Since Pottery Barn also makes me tingly all over, I was like, "yes please!"

In order to sign up for the spree you had to "like" them of facebook and leave a comment. And so I did. And my "like" and my comment appeared on my "wall" like a shiny ornament hanging on your Christmas tree. It was so pretty and sparkly. I sat there admiring it and then suddenly one of my friends "liked" my "like" and my comment.

Something clicked inside. If you listened closely enough I promise you could hear it. It was like presenting a crack addict with a beautifully arranged display of crack on an antique sterling monogrammed tray.

In other words?  I began "liking" the shit out of stuff.

Neon pink Hello Kitty socks that make your feet smell like rainbows and make you poop glittery stickers. Like!

Sale on kitty litter at Wal-Mart. I don't even have a cat. Like!

Hand crafted jewelry made of recycled elephant dung. Like!

Experiencing erectile dysfunction? Take these all natural pills and you'll be long. And strong. And down to get the friction on. Don't have a wiener, but...Like!

Ninety percent of my day now consists of going to random websites and frantically searching for the "Like" button. If I go too long between fixes I begin itching and twitching (or whatever it is crack addicts do when they're going through withdrawal.)

I should be embarrassed by this. I should worry what all my "friends" will think. But I'm not, because no one on facebook really gives a shit about what anyone else is doing. They're there to talk about themselves, promote their blog, and show of their baby. (Those last two sentences totally contradict  another post I'm working on about why, thanks to facebook, high school reunions have become obsolete.)

When I'm not "liking" shit, I'm exclaiming in befuddlement as I check out my friends' pages.

"WHAT?! She's married? She's sixteen!"

"She has a baby! She's eighteen!"

"He's in the Navy! When did they start letting high school freshmen in!"

Apparently I think time has stopped for everyone but me. I was the only one who grew up, got married and got a job. Everyone else I went to high school with is still fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, etc.

This is why a test should be required before joining the facebook world. Some people (me) just cannot handle the responsibility.

Breast enhancement drugs that work by making you gain 700 pounds. You may get fatter all over, but at least your boobs will be bigger.

On second thought, screw the test and pass the crack... I mean, the "Like" button!

And make sure you accept my friend request so you know when my blog is updated and so I can tell you what kind of sandwich I ate for lunch, and you're totally going to want to go to my party. It's going to be epic. Sincerely, it is. You can "like" it if you want.

I know I love sarcasm and 99% of the stuff here should be taken with a healthy dose of salt. But let's get serious for a second, 'kay? In the words of a fallen singer, "crack is wack." In other words, don't do it. Kay? And if you are doing it, please get help. Getting help doesn't make you a coward. It makes you awesome. And we'll all be here to support you. To show you how serious I am, I'm going to go "Like" Narcotics Anonymous right now. 'Kay?

And now...It's time for some awards!!!

First let me again say THANK YOU to all of my followers. Big wet sloppy puppies kisses to you. And thank you to all who were like, "we follow you, we love, stop your whining, you look pathetic." Except you didn't say it that way because you are awesome and fabulous and I heart you all.

The call was made and there was one brave enough to answer. To follow. And she asked for an award.  (Actually I just now realized two were brave enough.  But blogger is being a douche and for some reason I cannot see any of my followers.  Does it look that way on your screen too?  Ugh!  WHAT DO I DO???  Whoever you are number 34, thank you, I heart you, I give the biggest, wettest, sloppiest puppy kisses to you.  If you don't mind, leave me a comment so I know who you are.  Blogger, you better get your shit together ASAP!)

Interests, let's all welcome Taryn.


Here is your award, Taryn. Congratulations. You earned it. (keep reading after Taryn's award; there are two more.)

Our next award goes to Miss Allie, who has been following for awhile and didn't directly ask for an award but she said she was all about random awards. And also? She makes me tingly all over. So, Miss Allie, here be your award. Congratulations. You worked hard, girl.

And lastly, a woman's whose awesomeness knows no bounds (drum roll, please)...Lady Estrogen! WOOT! She said she would enjoy it if someone gave her a certain type of an award. So, my dear Lady, here it is. Enjoy yourself all over that thing.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Public Service Announcement: The One Where I Act Desperate and Needy

Please pardon the interruption in your regularly scheduled programming while I plead for you to follow me and in general whore myself out for your attention.

For those of you who've been 'round these parts for some time now, you know that I started this here blog because I've always wanted to be a writer (as in, write for a living; as in, get paid to write; as in, I put these words on paper in the most fabulous display and you fork over your hard earned cash to read them and your life is forever transformed), but I was terrified to have people read what I wrote.

But having readers kinda goes with the territory of being a writer.

So with much trepidation, I started this blog and held my breath.

And it's been great!  Love, love, love the comments.  They make me pee all over myself in excitement.  And I love my followers, sincerely I do.  I would give you big wet sloppy puppy kisses if you'd let me...or not, cuz, um...ew?

In the beginning, every time someone followed me I created an award for them.  But at that time, most of my followers were people I knew.  So I had no problem creating a "Has Never Contracted Rabies" award or "Leader in the Field of One Time Breaking Her Box"  which I awarded my friend S for one time breaking her box.  No not that box, her cornhole box.  No cornhole isn't code for something dirty.  You know what, go here and read for yourselves.

Back?  Awesome right?  S certainly thought so.  However as I acquired followers I didn't know, I wasn't sure if they'd appreciate if I talked about their box, cornhole or otherwise (for those of you who are all like, "what does she mean, their box?" you really should brush up on your body part slang.  It means v-a-g-i-n-a.  Gasp!)

And what if I created an award for someone I didn't know that said "Way to not get rabies" and unknowingly, and quite innocently I might add, touch upon a sensitive subject.  Like That One Summer the follower and her/his best friend promised never to talk about.  And here I am talking about it, and she/he gets all paranoid that I know all about The Rabies Incident.

So I stopped making the awards...but thought what if people want one?  What if they became a follower just so they could receive one of my high quality badges of honor and I have let them down.

And then I drank a bottle of wine and cried in the corner because I didn't know what to do.

Obviously my indecision was the decision because I stopped making the awards.  But I will totally make one for you if you want one!  But you have to promise not to be offended.  It's best if you're one of those "anything goes" type of people.

Want to see a sample?  Look here and here (you'll need to scroll down a bit.) Clearly we're talking high quality, superior design awards.  And one of those high quality, superior designed awards could be yours!

What, exactly, am I getting at?  Fine, I'll stop beating around the bush and just say it.

I want you to follow my blog.

You have no idea how hard that was.

A big giant THANK YOU to those who are already following and GRACIAS to all of you who are reading.  But if you are reading and aren't following, could you please do so?  Pretty please.  This is really hard to ask because I feel like I'm asking you to join my fan club and that brings back horrible memories of the fourth grade and the K.C. Fan Club.  There was no such thing, people!

The husband is one of the biggest advocates of people becoming followers (thank you, honey) and quite often the response is "how?"  The question is legitimate and the answer is "it's super easy." 

Okay...it can be confusing.  Here are the instructions:

Look on the right hand side of my blog for the follow button.  It is right under "About Me."

Click the button and it will give you options to sign in.  This is where it can get a little confusing.  The first option should be Google or Google Account or something to do with Google.  You'll select this option if you have a Yahoo or (I'm assuming) Google account.  All you do is sign in with your email address and password.  It's that simple.

I'm not really sure about the other options, but I assume it is the same.  If one doesn't work, try another one.

Sign in with your full email address: Iamawesome@yahoo.com and your email address password: youwishyouwereme.

That's it!  You will be a follower.  If you have ever created an email account in your entire life, you can handle this.  If you have a facebook page, you can handle this, because honestly, setting up a facebook page is one of the hardest things known to man.

All I ask is that if you do follow me, please don't do it anonymously, because then I don't know you're following and my "number of followers" doesn't increase.

Why is this important?  Because I also started this blog to create a platform, establish a community, get thousands of followers, people who love my writing so that way when I finally finish my book and go to a publisher I can be all "look at all these people who love me and will buy my book, you should publish me RIGHT NOW!"  And they'll be like, "okay, and here's an advance on your next book!"

Also?  If you follow anonymously I can't create a super duper awesome award for you.  And that would be tragic.

However, I understand if you are all, "I am a sane normal person, I like your writing and all, but I don't want to be associated with a lunatic like you."  That's totally okay.  I get it.  You can make up an identity.  My friend Ashley is following me as Ashley and as her alter ego Young Boy Dan.  Sometimes she comments as Ashley, sometimes as Young Boy Dan, sometimes as A, sometimes as Ashley R: ass size 38 in. around and fabulous)...I'm started to think Ashley suffers from multiple personality disorder.

In summary, if you are reading, please follow.  Cuz as I said in my newly updated "Who Am I?" page, if you follow me on the 'net, I will follow you in real life.  Because everyone deserves their own personal stalker.  I am willing to be that person for you.

Okay, that's all.  Enough whoring.  Regularly scheduled blogging will commence shortly.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Nipples, a Sack and A Toilet That Sings

The plantar fasciitis continues.

Plantar what?

You remember.  It's when nipples grow on the bottom of your feet.  Except I'm pretty sure that's not what happens at all.  I think it has something to do with the tendon or muscle or something on the bottom of your foot that isn't stretched enough or becomes too stretched or whatever.  And also, there's a sack that fills with fluid.  Every time I tell people about this "sack of fluid" I can't help but feel dirty.

I'm a girl.  Girls don't have "sacks."

Ugh.  This whole thing is a grave injustice.  The gravest injustice the world has ever known.  And not just because of the "sack."  But because I have to wear tennis shoes.  Me + tennis shoes = not a good look.  I mean, I guess it's fine if I were to say, play tennis, which I can't.  Because of the sack.  And the nipples.   Or something.

But me + tennis shoes + a suit (ya know, for work) = giant-douche-who-should-not-be-allowed-out-with-civilized-society.

You'd probably be inclined to believe I am exaggerating if not for the fact that we all know I never do that.

People are telling me I've got that whole "New York City look" going on.  I would be flattered except I prefer the whole "New York City runway model" (minus the eating disorder) look, not the "1980s-bad perm-giant shoulder pads-New York City" look.

I wear heels for a reason.  Not just because I look oh-so-sexy when I do, but because they're kind of a necessity.  I'm not exactly what you would call tall.  In fact, some people may even say I'm short.

In fact, a lot of people say this to me.  They say it as if this has somehow escaped my attention.  As if I had no idea.  As if I walk around with delusions of one day playing in the WNBA.


My favorite is when people ask me my height.  "Oh, you want to know my height?  I'll tell you as soon as you tell me how wide your ass is.  Seriously, how big is that thing?  You had to have the jeans custom made, didn't you?"

You see, I need heels.  If only so I don't sound like a giant bitch. 

Also?  I've developed this walk.  I'm not sure how to describe it except to say it is not good.  I've been walking that way for six weeks and now?  I don't know how to walk normally.

I try, really I do.  But it's so hard (that'swhatshesaid!).  My mom and I were at Sports Authority trying to find me new tennis shoes/running shoes/shoes that people who exercise wear, and everytime I tried on a pair I would walk down the aisle, look over my shoulder and ask my mom, "Am I doing it right?!"

My mom: No, you look like an idiot.*

Finally the plucky lad that was helping us was all, "uh, what are you doing?"

And I was all, "I have plantar fasciitis. I forgot how to walk.  I walk heel-toe with my right foot and toe-heel with my left foot."

He gave me a look that said you have issues to which I responded you have no idea.

I brought some shoes and have been trying really hard to do what most people have mastered by one?  One and a half? Two?  I don't know, I'm not a baby expert.

I'm sure by now you all agree that plantar fasciitis, heel pain, wearing tennis shoes, being forced to be a bitch, walking while rubbing my groin (what?!) is a terrible injustice.  You are ready to rise up in protest, contact your state's governer, write letters to Congress, demand an audience with the President, make fancy signs with glitter and a catchy rhyme.

But wait!  Don't make those signs of protest just yet, becasue I am about to share something even more tragic.  I know you don't think it can get any worse, but it does.  Much worse.

(You really shouldn't stand on the side of the road waving those things at zooming cars anyway; you're going to cause an accident and everyone will be mad at you and you'll blame me and we'll get in this big fight, but we're girls so it will be a passive-aggressive fight and instead of just talking to each other about what happened we'll say everything's "fine" and talk about each other behind our backs and the men in our lives will be so sick of hearing about it they'll throw chairs at us and go to jail for battery where they'll get tatoos, join a gang and become drugs addicts forcing us to break up with them and with no one else to turn to we'll lean on each other for support and be all, "I love you," "no. I love you." and it will be like the whole thing never happened making the crazy drama of the last six weeks completely pointless and causing our men to be tatted up crack head gang members for no good reason.)

I would tell you to "brace yourselves" for what I am about to share, but there really is no way to prepare for the gravest tragedy of all.

My friend J is starting to potty-train her daughter, C. 

J bought her a special potty to pee on.

C's like, "thanks, but no thanks, not interested."

But one day she will be interested and she'll be all, "I'm tired of peeing in my diaper, that's so May 2011."

And she will go to the specail potty and pee.

And the special potty...



Will sing!

In summary, C has a potty that will sing when she pees.

My toilet...

Does not sing when I pee...



Me neither.

*you don't actually think my mom said that, do ya?**
**because she totally did***
***no she didn't****
****yes she did*****
*****no she didn't******
******are you still reading?*******
*******you should find something more productive to do, like make signs and wave them at cars on the highway

Monday, May 23, 2011

Remember When I Said The Husband Is A Wiener?

If the puzzle story wasn't enough to convince you, allow me to share another example of the husband's wiener-iffic ways.

A few nights ago the husband and I were having a conversation over dinner, the subject of which is not important.  We could have been contemplating the best methods to accomplish world peace, how much money we need to save in order to purchase our dream home, my insane obsession with plucking my eyebrows, or anything in-between - no matter how ludicrous or logical the conversation, nothing, nothing, warranted the following comment from the husband.

The husband:  You don't know what you're talking about.  You're on your period.

In case you didn't catch that, let me share it again.  The husband said to me: You don't know what you're talking about.  You're on your period.

Either the man is crazy or he enjoys the wrath of insanely hormonal women.

My response?  Just a look, a mixture of shock and you-will-pay.

The husband: What?


The husband:  That is exactly the look I tell people you give me before I end up on your blog.


The husband: I'm going to go now...

Later that night...

The husband: Tomorrow's going to be a big day.

Me:  Why?

The husband: I have a lot of stuff I need to get done.  It's going to be a big day for you too.

Me: Why?

The husband:  It's the third day of your period.

Me:  One, two...yeah you're totally right.

The husband:  You're going to write an entire blog about me and your period, aren't you?

Me:  I'd say the chances are more than good.

The last time the husband told me "tomorrow is going to be a big day" was the day before he proposed.  Almost six years into married life and a "big day" for me is being on my period.

Dear the husband,
If you are upset by this post, don't worry.  No one will take me seriously.  I'm on my PERIOD.  I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT.

Monday, May 16, 2011

Football Players vs. Cheerleaders. Who Is Tougher?

It's a debate that's been going on since the beginning of time: Which sport has the toughest players?

Some will argue soccer.  They sprint for 90 straight minutes.  So bad ass.

Some will argue basketball.  He went up to block the shot and came down on his head, on the hard, unforgiving court.  So tough.

Some will argue baseball.  They can chew tobacco and swing a bat at the same time.  So skilled.

But we all know it really comes down to two sports: football and cheerleading.  Don't even think about telling me cheering isn't a sport.  I've already fought that battle.  And won.

In today's post, we will analyze the components of the two sports and declare once and for all which sport has the toughest players.  I'll give you a hint: It's cheerleading.

You may be wondering how I am even qualified to argue this debate, so allow me to share my credentials.

First of all, I LOVE football.  With a passion.  If we were debating which sport was the greatest of all time, football would wind.  Hands down.

Yes, loving something does make you an expert.

Second of all, I UNDERSTAND football.  I'm not one of the girls whose like, "yay, team.  wait, which team am I cheering for?  i hope it's the one with the pretty helmets."  Thanks to my stepdad, I was one of very few eight-year-old girls who knew what a first down was, could yell "face mask," "pass interference" and "off-sides" at the TV and know exactly what I was talking about.  I also intimately know the bitterness of defeat - I am a Bills fan - and the thrill of victory - I am a Gator.

I was a cheerleader for six years.

Now that we have determined that I am qualified, let's get down to the analysis.

We'll start with practice.

I'm not going to deny that football practice is tough.  It's got to be hot under all that padding.  And I have heard that football players often throw up at practice, which, on the surface, makes them appear to be bad-ass dudes.  But let's examine what takes place during said practice.  There's running.  And hitting.  And...that's pretty much it.  That's all it takes for those bad-ass dudes to toss their cookies.


Now let's examine cheerleading practice.

It's starts with the entire squad devouring an entire pan of brownies in .2 seconds.  Followed by running, and shouting, and jumping, and tumbling, and shouting and more jumping and lifting human bodies, throwing human bodies, being lifted, being thrown, being tossed, being tumbled and more shouting and more jumping.  All of this on a stomach full of rich ooey-gooey brownies.

Never once, in my six years of cheering, did a cheerleader lose her lunch, or her brownies for that matter, during practice.  Because we are tough.

Football players will argue they are tougher by saying, "yeah, but you've never been through two-a-days. "



Ha!  Try twelve-a-days, as in 12 hours of cheering a day for four straight days.  You have not been to hell until you’ve been to cheering camp.  Twelve solid hours of shouting, and squatting and lifting and learning the proper way to dismount a shoulder sit, which is the dumbest stunt in the history of ever, and laughing so hard you almost pee on your friend’s head but thankfully you slide to the floor in time and pee only in your pants.

Wait, what?  Pee your pants?  That never happened.

When I say 12 straight hours, I literally mean Twelve.  Straight.  Hours.  Nothing is done without first cheering about it.  When football coaches call their players in and tell them to have seat so they can tell them how much they suck at defense, it goes something like this:

Coaches: Bring it guys.  Have a seat.

The players sit.

Coaches: You guys suck.

At cheering camp, if it’s time to sit down, 300 girls must first chant, with much enthusiasm and gusto: Have a seat, take a load off your feet!  Tooty fruity put the load on your booty!

Oh no!  The cheerleaders sat down, but they’re too close together.  Time for a cheer!  “Peanut butter, jelly spreeaad out!”

Some of you are probably thinking, “F*ck that.  That’s ridiculous.  There’s no way I’d shout that inane nonsense at the top of my lungs.”

And to that I say, “Oh yes you would.”  Because at the end of each cheering camp night, a certain stick is awarded.  A Spirit Stick.

Oooh.  Aaaah.

Spirit sticks are only awarded to the squads who demonstrate insane amounts of cheeriness throughout the first 11 hours of the day.  The last hour is spent expressly telling the camp leaders just how badly we want that stick:


You don't see football players screaming their silly little heads off for some spirit ball at the end of two-a-days, do you?  No.  Because they don't have the stamina.  They throw up after a little running and hitting, remember?

Speaking of hitting, I think we can all agree that football is a contact sport.  But compared to cheerleading, it's more like aww-come-here-and-give-me-a-hug.

The blows football players endure are softened by padding.  LOTS of padding.  Padding for their knees, padding for their thighs, padding for their kidneys, padding for their shoulders, padding for their shins, helmets for their head, and, of course, padding for their wiener.  Whatever you do, don't hurt the wiener!

Cheerleaders?  Don't know the meaning of padding.  They endure full-blown body to body blows.  The number one rule of cheerleading is "sacrifice the body," which means the girls on the bottom of the stunt - the bases and spotter - sacrifice their own well-being for the girl on the top of the stunt - the flier.  Why?  Because the flier is being thrown and tossed through the air.  A lot can go wrong during the throwing and tossing process and if the flier is not properly cradled, the injuries she will sustain will be far worse than those of the bases and spotters.

That's not to say the bases and spotter don't get beat the hell up.  Once, I cradled early out of a stunt and landed on top of my bases head.  That's like someone dropping a 95 pound bag of sand from a two story building square on your head.  Go ahead, try it.  You tell me how it feels.

Freshman year, we were practicing our Nationals routine in which K.N. K.P. and J were performing a simple, straight-forward stunt.  K.N. and J. were the bases. K.N.'s head crashed into the side of J's nose and straight-up broke it.  No one even knew she'd broken it until after we'd finished the routine and J was like, "guess what bitches?  i just broke my nose."  She went to the hospital but declined surgery until after Nationals, which was more than a month away.

That's right.  J lived with a broken nose for more than a month because to have surgery rightaway would have meant she couldn't go to Nationals and the entire routine would have had to have been re-worked.

In cheerleading, the show must go on, and it does.  But football?  Pssh.  Have you ever been to a football game when an injury has been sustained?  The quarterback sprains his pinky on his non-throwing hand and everyone has to take a knee for ten minutes while 12 trainers, 23 medical staff and 14 hand specialists exam the pinky to determine if the quarterback will be okay.

Also, have you ever noticed that there is this group of football players called the offense and another group called the defense?  For those of you unfamiliar with football, let me explain how this works.  A team's offense plays for a few minutes and then those players sit down and the defense plays until those players sit down.  In other words, every few minutes, the players get a rest.  Football players will tell you this happens because that's how the game is played.

I won't argue that point, but instead pose this question:  And why do you think the game is played that way?

Oh!  I know, I know!  Pick me!

The game is played that way because the inventors of football were all, "these guys could never last if they had to play an entire game.  let's create two different groups of players and design it so they are never on the field at the same time."

Cheerleaders don't have off-ense and de-fense, we have allthetime-fense.  While the football players rest, what do the cheerleaders do?  They.  Cheer.

And during time outs, when the entire team rests?  The cheerleaders cheer.

And in between quarters, when, again, the entire team rests?  The cheerleaders cheer.

And during half-time when the entire team just cannot take it any longer and goes inside for some air-conditioning and a little nappy-poo?

The cheerleaders do an extra-long cheer so that the crowd can maintain their enthusiasm and stamina to cheer on those oh-so-weary football players when they return to the field for some more, running, resting, defending, ball-catching, and oh yeah, resting.

And while those football players are running, resting, defending, ball-catching, and resting, you know what else they're doing?  Peeing and crapping their spandex.



I've heard that if a football player needs to go to the bathroom during the game, they just go.  In their pants.  (Although I've done no research to determine if this is true, for the sake of this post, we're going to assume this is true, but for the sake of humanity, we're going to assume that only some football players do this.)

Peeing and crapping your pants and then running, resting, defending, ball-catching and resting in said pee and crap does not make you tough, football players.  It just makes you gross.

What does a cheerleader do if she needs to use the restroom rightnow and there isn't one around?  She pees.  On the floor.  In the middle of a mall.  She leaves a puddle and runs away for someone else to clean up.  By the time the cheering squad arrives at the football game, the entire stadium knows about the incident and the cheerleader has a bad-ass new nickname: Puddles*

Would you mess with someone named Puddles?  No, you would not.

Honestly, I could go on all day.  But we get the point, yes?  Football players may be tough, but cheerleaders?  Defined tough.  Try to debate that and we'll cheer your ass into a corner.  Big deal, you say?

We go spirit yes we do, we got spirit how bout you?!  We got spirit yes we do, we got spirit how bout you?!  WE GOT SPIRIT YES WE DO, WE GOT SPIRIT HOW BOUT YOU?!

Could you handle that for 12 straight hours?

I didn't think so.


*I know you want to believe Puddles and the Sarcasm Goddess are one in the same, but I am sorry to disappoint you.  Twas not I who peed in a mall.  That honor is bestowed upon one of my dearest friends.

Friday, May 13, 2011

Public Enemy Number One. Who Me?

Now that Osama is dead the biggest question is: who has taken his place as America’s greatest threat? 

Apparently?  It’s me.

Ever since those, now infamous, Navy SEALs stormed that mansion in Pakistan and took out the most wanted man in the world, the television has been flooded with military programming: covert military operations, how they got Saddam, taking out the Somali pirates, etc, etc, etc.  My favorite?  The “training program” shows, particularly the Navy SEAL BUDs program.

Some of you are probably thinking, “Ooh, yeah, watch a bunch of tough, sexy, hard-core dudes do a bunch of tough, sexy, hard-core stuff, yum-mee” and while I suppose that has a certain appeal, that is not even close to the best thing about this show.

The best thing?  Watching the instructor/drill sergeant/guys-with-the-mustaches-and-way-too-short-shorts-and-jacked-up-legs yell at the BUDs trainees.  These guys go through hell.  They even have a whole week named after it.  To start the day off good and proper, they run into the ocean fully clothed – boots and all – get soaking wet and roll around in the sand.  They paddle around in rafts and get pounded by waves.  They run up and down sand hills lugging a 150 pound log and then for shits and giggles, lift Old Misery, a 450 pound log, over their head.  They lay in 56 degree surf.  They swim a mile in 56 degree surf.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

Naturally, the trainees are going to feel a little sore/tired/ hurt/like death at some point during the day. But if they say this to one of the instructor/drill sergeant/guys-with-the-mustaches-and-way-too-short-shorts-and-jacked-up-legs and expect sympathy?  For.  Get.  It.

Trainee: My back hurts

Instructor/drill sergeant/guy-with-the-mustache-and-way-too-short-shorts-and-jacked-up-legs: Oh really?  Your back hurts?  What do you want me to do about it?  What would your Mommy do?  Would she rub your shoulders?

Half-way through the mile swim in 56 degree water one of the guys is in the beginning stages of hypothermia.  They drag him on the boat, throw a towel over him and place an aluminum shower cap on his bald head.  This guy looks around trying to figure out where the hell he is.  He doesn’t know his head from a hole in the ground.  Time to test just how far gone he is.

Instructor/drill sergeant/guy-with-the-mustache-and-way-too-short-shorts-and-jacked-up-legs: What’s six times three?

Trainee: S…S…S…Si…eighteen.

Instructor/drill sergeant/guy-with-the-mustache-and-way-too-short-shorts-and-jacked-up-legs: Good job genius.

This type of “sympathy” goes on all day, and It.  Is.  Funny.

At least I thought so.  However, I never once saw the Navy SEAL BUDs trainees laughing, and as it turns out, it is not I who would have the last laugh.  Cause as they say, payback’s a bitch. 

The husband and I are in “Larryville” to visit J, P and C for P’s birthday and to see the in-laws (we are also celebrating the M-I-L’s birthday.  guess what I got her?  a chicken coop.  shh.  don’t tell her; it’s a surprise.)  Apparently the husband and I think gas grows on trees and decided to take two cars.  He left in the morning to play golf with the F-I-L, during which I’m sure they engaged in very stimulating conversation: “you’re breaking your wrist, keep your elbow in, take a smaller back swing, did you see my new driver?  Ooh, can I try it?  don’t use that club; here try my three-wood hybrid.”  Riveting.

I left later in the day because I love work.

I pulled into the “Larryville Navy Base” at approximately 10:00 p.m. 

Navy Base?

Yes, Navy Base.  The F-I-L is retired military and they are here with friends who are active military (I think) and so we are staying at these little cottages on base.  The husband tells me to pull up to the gate and say, “I am here for a pass,” and that I will be instructed to pull into the parking lot and wait for the husband and the F-I-L to come and do whatever it is they need to do to give me clearance.

That was what was supposed to happen.

Here’s what actually happened.

I pull onto the base and am instantly nervous.  This is the U.S. military.  They don’t screw around.

The check-in resembles the drive-through at the bank.  There are two green lights indicating those lanes are open and one red light indicating if you choose this lane, you will be shot.  I choose the open lane on the far left because it has men in uniform standing there looking official.

I pull up and roll down my window and do as the husband instructed.  “I’m here for a pass.”

Guard: Do you have a military i.d.? 

Me: No.  My father-in-law does.  He’s coming.  He told me to wait here.

I say “father-in-law” like this gives me all the clearance I need.  As if they’ll say, “oh your father-in-law?  Well come on through little lady.”

Guard: Yeah, I can’t let you through.

Me: Oh, I’m sorry, you probably know him as the father-in-law.  From my blog.  Look, he’s right here.

I hold up my phone and show him my blog page.

Guard: Ma’am, I can’t let you through.  You’ll have to wait here for him to come get you.

Me: Yeah, yeah, that’s fine.  I’ll wait.  Isn’t that what I said?

Guard: Ma’am, go wait in that parking lot over there.

Me: Over there?

Guard: Yeah, follow the barricade.

Me: Uh….barica…O-kay….

I start to drive.  The parking lot is to my right.  There are some barricades.  And more barricades.

There’s no way to get into the parking lot.  The barricades continue straight ahead.  I follow the barricades.  I think I’m going too far. 

I stop.  I look in my rear-view.  No one with guns is chasing me. 

The barricades veer to the right.  Up a road.  Or is it a sidewalk?  Road?  Sidewalk?  ROAD?  SIDEWALK? ROAD?  SIDEWALK?  I DON’T KNOW!

I stop.  No one with guns is chasing me.

I go straight, past the barricades.  I get to a light.  I know I have gone too far!  What do I do?!  I’m not supposed to be here!  I’m illegally driving on a military base!  I haven’t consulted the Larryville Navy Base manual or anything, but I am pretty sure this is really really bad.

I wait at the light.

No one is coming.

My heart is pounding.

I turn right.  I hope I see barricades, a parking lot.  But no.

I keep driving.  There’s nowhere to pull off!  No place to turn around!

I call the husband at the same time he is calling me.

He is in the car with the F-I-L and the F-I-L’s friend, the active military guy (AMG).  The husband saw me at the light when I turned.  He said to the F-I-L and the AMG, “there’s K, she’s turning.”

The F-I-L: No way.  There’s no way she could have gotten through.

The husband: That’s definitely her.

The F-I-L and AMG exchange a look.

AMG: Call her and tell her to stop; tell her not to go any further!

The husband calls.


The husband (trying to be reassuring): It’s okay (it totally was not okay, I just blew through military security y’all), pull over and stop driving.  Stay where you are.

I stay.  I am talking to the husband.  My good friend Anxiety sits next to me in the passenger seat.

A car pulls up.







Navy guy: MAKE A U-TURN!

Me: Where?

Navy guy: RIGHT HERE!

Me: Here?

Navy guy: YES!!

Me: Here?

Navy guy: YES!!

Me: In the grass?

Navy guy: YES!!!!

Clearly this guy didn’t go to The King’s Academy or he would know doing anything other than look at grass is a cardinal sin.  It is permanently ingrained into the very core of my being to never even walk on grass, and this guy wants me to drive on it?

Me: Um, sir, if I could just show you the TKA manual here, you will see that I –


Me: Alright, alright.  Relax.

Allow me to say that that’s not exactly how the conversation went.  That’s pretty much how it went on Navy guy’s end, but I wasn’t quite so sassy.  In fact, I wasn’t sassy at all.  I was scared out of my freaking mind.  If I wasn’t such a lady I would have doo-dooed in my pants.  I am not, however, exaggerating, when I say I asked him multiple times if he wanted me to U-turn in the grass.  And may I just say? That grass looked terrible.  I always thought King’s was a little extreme with their Stay Off The Grass Laws, but the Navy could stand to take a page from their book.

I U-turned on the grass, got to the end of the road and flipped on my left-turn signal.  I’m not sure if the Navy has jurisdiction on giving you tickets for turn-light violations, but this guy clearly didn’t get enough MRE’s today, so I wasn’t taking any chances.

You know how I’ve told you that me driving at night is sometimes a very bad thing.  Well me driving at night after being yelled at by the military and in the throes of a full blown panic attack apparently causes my mind to just stop working.  I turned left and thought I was suddenly in Japan.  Which is to say, I started driving on the left hand side of the road.  Technically I was driving in the middle of three lanes, but I wasn’t sure if that lane belonged to me or to the on-coming traffic to my left.  I started to straddle the middle and right lane, weaved back and forth a bit, and finally realized I was probably giving off the impression, to the Navy guy following me, that I was drunk.

If I could make a recommendation to anyone blowing by security on a military base, causing a military officer to hop in a vehicle to chase you and tell you four times to make a U-turn on the grass, it would be to act As Sober As Possible.

Thankfully he did not pull me over for suspected drunk driving and I made to the safety of the husband, the F-I-L and the AMG.

The husband: Are you okay?

Me: No!  That guy was mean!

The F-I-L could tell I was upset and offered to drive my car. Being the AWESOME guy he is, he tried to make me feel better by putting on a one-man play.  He got in the driver’s seat, put the key in the ignition, yanked on the steering wheel and was all, “how does this thing work? Is there a special trick to it?  I flew fighter jets but I can’t work this tiny Corolla.  K, you’re smart, can you show me what to do?”

Oh, it’s one of those audience participation shows.

I hopped in the driver’s seat, put the correct key in the ignition, and turned on the car.

The F-I-L’s play did the trick.  I felt much better.

That was six hours ago.  It is now four in the morning.  Everyone else is asleep.  The cabin is quiet save the rhythmic tap, tap, tap of my typing.  Even as I write these final sentences I know that I am being watched.  The cabin is surrounded with armed rifle-men.  Waiting.  Ready.  For me to make One.  Wrong.  Move.

If I may say one final thing, our military - Navy, Navy SEALs, Air Force, Army, Marines, Coast Guard, and anyone  I may have left out - are amazing.  Yes, I thought the Navy guy was mean, but I'm pretty sure your don't catch terrorists by being nice.  I was probably the smallest, most non-threatening "terrorist" they've ever caught, but they were just doing their job.  So mad props and respect to all of them.  And also?  I was just kidding about the Larryville Navy Base grass.  It's not terrible.  It's lovely.  Sincerely, it is.

And one more thing, I wasn't disrespectfully laughing at the BUDs trainees, it was more laughing-because-I-can't-comprehend-anyone-being-able-to-withstand-the-insanity-of-this-training-program-and-also-be-mocked-and-yelled-at.  

Slumber Parties Part Two

[Update: Apparently Blogger was having some "issues" recently and removed all posts since Wednesday, so I am now re-posting this; however, my comments are gone, which makes me really really sad, cuz comments make me really really happy.  Blogger is such a wiener.]

In Slumber Parties Part One I mentioned that while the slumber parties of our youth are tres cool, the slumber parties of our adult-hood are even better.

Mainly because the slumber parties of our adult-hood involve wine.  And the re-uniting of those childhood friends with some super cool new ones picked up along the way.  And also?  Wine.  Because let's face it, the drunk version of ourselves is the best version.  Honestly, I can hardly stand to be around myself unless I've consumed three glasses of wine, taken six purple hooter shots and downed a fifth of tequila.

Now I know some of you are saying, "my childhood slumber parties did involve wine, purple hooter shots and tequila," but my friends and I?  We were good girls.  The goodest of good. 

Except for that one night when we were sixteen and we got totally blitzed and all of us got knocked up.  We don't talk about that night.

Seriously, though, our parents were so lucky.  Sure they raised us to say no to drugs and alcohol and to not be skanky whores, but at the end of the day it was still our decision.  And we chose to do none of those things.  As I said, we were good.  Which is why I'm never having children.  It is common knowledge that the better the child you were, the worse the child your children will be.

But back to the matter at hand.

Every year the boys in my and my friends' lives have a golf weekend.  They will tell you it is THE GREATEST WEEKEND EVER!  But I can assure you, it's not.  I know this because the husband never returns with any good gossip.

Which brings us to the differences between male slumber parties and female slumber parties.  At the end of this analysis we will all agree that female slumber parties are the superior of the two.

1. Alcohol
This is the only common thread of both types of slumber parties, although what happens at each slumber party once alcohol has been consumed differs.  At female slumber parties, the more alcohol consumed, the more we show each other various sexual positions to try out with our men at a later date (to be further discussed later on). At male slumber parties, there comes a point when enough alcohol has been consumed that someone will strip down, jump in a lake and swim with the alligators.

It does not take a rocket scientist to determine which of these activities is the better.

2. Gossip
One of the very best things about female slumber parties is dishing and getting caught up on all the latest dirt.

"Can you believe how much better looking Angelina has gotten since high school?  Plastic surgery has to be involved.  What a whore."

"Isn't Cara's baby the ugliest?"

"Totally, the ugliest."

"Did you hear Madison is a doctor?"

"No way!  Good for her...what a whore."

"Listen to this.  Guilanna left her hot Navy SEAL husband for the fat mailman!"

"Ugh, Guilanna!  Loser and a whore!"

"Melissa was finally able to adopt a baby."

"Oh, yea!  I'm so happy for her."

We liked Melissa.  Melissa is not a whore.

"Justine is getting married to Connor."

"Pshh.  Like that'll last.  Justine's such a whore."

"I heard Marlene is a lesbian."

"Chloe has four nipples."

"Heather couldn't get pregnant so she stole her brother's baby and ran away to Mexico where she got run over by a donkey and a Mexican drug lord found the baby, who is now seven years old and in charge of the largest heroin drug trade in the northern hemisphere.  And also?  He can kill you with his mind."

We go on like this for hours.  We present the information as absolute truth without giving credence to the fact that there is a very high probability that the truth has been twisted and molested as it tumbled through the rumor mill until not an ounce of factual information remains.

Gossip at male slumber parties is non-existent.  Not only do boys not care if Ricardo got a sex change, adopted 18 orphans and started his own religion, they don't even remember who Ricardo is, unless, of course, he has a good golf swing or is in their fantasy football league.

3. Conversation
Simply put: the conversation at female slumber parties is interesting and proves very useful at a later time; the conversation at male slumbers is lame and has proven to be of no value at a later date.

Following are some examples.  Warning, if talk of sex makes you uncomfortable, stop reading.  Also, I have changed the names of my friends (and I) to protect their (my) identity.

Female slumber party conversation:

Lulu: So how often is everyone having sex these days?

Maisy: Three to four times a week.

Marigold: Every night but Thursdays!

Daphne: Once a week if we're lucky.

Rosy: Three times a day!

Daisy: Sex?  What's sex?

Everyone else: Oh no!  Daisy!

Daisy:  We're just so tired all the time.  We lay in bed and want to have sex.  I'm like 'you get on top' and 'he's like, no you get on top'.  I wish we could do it, without actually doing it, you know?

Sympathetic head nods all around.

Male slumber party conversation:

Bob: When was the last time you played golf?

Fred:  Thursday!

Frank: Last week.

Frodo: Yesterday.  Twice

Everyone else: Oooh.

Tom: Three days ago.

Carl: It's been at least a month, maybe longer.

Everyone else: Oh no!  Carl!

Carl:  Work, man.  It's killing me.  I want to play, I just don't have the time.

Sympathetic beer chugs all around.

Female slumber party conversation:

Maisy:  What types of birth control are you guys using?  I just got off Yaz and started Seasonique.

Marigold: Ugh, I hated Yaz.  I have a friend who's on Seasonique; she likes it.

Daphne:  Diaphragm, spermicide, condom, pull-out.  We really don't want a baby.

Daisy: Condoms

Rosy: Nothing.

Everyone else: Gasp!

Lulu: I'm on the pill and I hate it. My  boobs hurt all the time and I have no sex drive.

Maisy:  Rosy, we need to get you on some form of birth control and Lulu, we need to get you off the pill.

Everyone else concurs by opening another bottle wine.

Male slumber party conversation:

Fred: I'm 160 yards from the hole.  What club should I use?

Frank: A seven iron.

Tom: A three wood.

Frodo: Your pitching wedge.

Carl: Buy me a beer and I'll tell you.

Bob: If you can make it in the hole from here using your putter, I'll pay for your drinks for the rest of the weekend.  If you don't make it, you have to strip naked and swim with the alligators.

Fred: Deal.

Everyone shot-guns a beer to consummate the bet.

Female slumber party conversation:

Daisy: What's everyone's favorite position?

Maisy: Missionary!  It's totally under-rated and underused by the general population.

Marigold: Me on top.  Hits just the right spot!

Rosy: Reverse cow-girl.  Yeehaw!

Daphne:  I like em all.  I can't pick a favorite.

Lulu:  Dog-leg on the third hole.

Everyone else: What's that?

Lulu: It's where you lay on your back, flip your legs over your head and he comes up behind you and stands over  your head.

Daphne: Wow!  Can't wait to try it.

Rosy: I don't know if I'm flexible enough for that.

Lulu:  You keep stretching, girl.  You'll get there.

Daisy: I like inside-out scissors.

Maisy: Oh!  Me too!

Everyone else: What's that?

Daisy and Maisy: Here we'll show you.

Daisy and Maisy get into position.  (They are fully clothed and as much as any boys reading this want to imagine a hot girl on girl scene, there was nothing sexual about this demonstration, it was purely scientific.)

Daphne: So Maisy is the guy?

Daisy: No, I'm the guy.

Marigold: Yeah, but how does that work?

Maisy: See my legs are up here and over Daisy's.

Daisy: And I'm more on my back than my side.

Rosy: Oh yeah, we've done that.  It helps to have the girl a little higher up.

Maisy shifts up.

Everyone else: Oh, now I see. Oooh...

This information is stored in our sexual library and retrieved when our men return home.  They are very grateful.

Male slumber party conversation:

Frodo: If you could only use one club for an entire round, what would it be?

Bob:  That's easy.  My driver.  Good ole Black Betty.  Mmm mmm.  She's all I need.

Frank: No way.  I'd use my putter.  It's not how to drive it's how you arrive.

Fred: I'd probably go with a seven iron.  It's my go-to club.

Tom: I agree with Frank.  Putter all the way.

Carl:  Gotta go with my three-wood hybrid.

Everyone else: Gasp!  What's that?

Carl: Let me show you.

Everyone else: Oooh.

Seeing the three-wood hybrid gets the boys all hot and bothered, making them have golfing wet dreams for the next month and a half.  We, their girls, are not very grateful for three-wood hybrids and golfing wet dreams.  Rarely do they prove useful in the bedroom. (I say "rarely" because I just know there is some reader out there thinking I could totally find use for a three-wood hybrid in the bedroom.  And to you, dear reader, I say I'm sure you can and congratulations.  I am doing my best to keep this post below an X rating and therefore will not address the possible multi-functionality of golf clubs, but do feel free share with us in the comments.)

There you have it.  A thorough analysis on the difference between male and female slumber parties.  There really is no need for a concluding paragraph, the data speaks for itself.  We all agree that female slumber parties are far superior to male slumber parties.

The.  End.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Slumber Parties Part One

Slumber Parties.  They're a childhood rite of passage.  For girls anyway.  I don't know if boys have slumber parties, but if they do I'm sure they're pretty dumb.  Ride bikes, watch sports, play Nintendo.  Or something.


Slumber parties for girls, on the other hand, are freaking awesome.  They've been taking place since the dawn of (wo)man.  And while I wasn't around for said dawn, I'm pretty sure slumber parties back then weren't too different than they are today.

Cleopatra and her friends stay up way too late watching spooky hieroglyphics and scare themselves silly, they laugh so hard Athena and Hera pee their pants and they debate whether Hercules, Zeus or Thor is best at killing wild game.  They wait until Cleopatra's older brother has fallen asleep to steal his loin cloth and freeze it in the last remaining block of ice from the ice age.

Hieroglyphics?  Ice age?  Athena and Zeus?  It's possible I have no idea what the dawn of (wo)man was like.

There were no spooky hieroglyphics in my slumber party days but there was Ernest Scared Stupid, and although I haven't seen it in nearly 20 years, I can say with little doubt it is one of the dumbest movies in the history of ever.  But to a bunch of ten year old girls it was THE SCARIEST MOVIE EVER.  So scary that we no longer wanted to have our midnight water balloon fight in the back yard.  Instead?  We blew up the water balloons in L's bathroom and stored them under her bed.  Why?

Because we were ten.  And there were water balloons waiting to be filled.  Thus? We did.

This is the simple science of slumber parties.

We managed to soak her entire bedroom whilst filling up said balloons and passed out around 4 a.m. But not before we sneaked oh-so-giggly into L's brother's room, stole a pair of his underwear, ran it under the faucet and threw it in the freezer.  Seriously, is there anything more hilarious than frozen teenage-boy-underwear?  I think not.

Come to think of it, there is nothing more hilarious than frozen boy-of-any-age underwear.  I know what I'm doing tonight after the husband falls asleep!

One of the main objectives of slumber parties is staying up all night.  We'd fight the battle of slumber as if our lives depended on it.  We'd even resort to taking turns.  One person would stay awake while the rest of us slept.  The sum of the parts is greater than the whole, or something.  You can imagine how much fun it is for "the night-watchman" to stay awake and stare at the wall while the rest of her friends slept.  Not surprisingly, this transitive-property of staying awake all night method was rarely successful.

One night, T, A.B. and I were successful in staying up all night and decided to make A.B.'s mom breakfast in bed.  We were ten.  We made breakfast.  It was not good.  Scrambled eggs with forty pounds of salt, burnt toast and coffee thick as mud.  And also?  Made a YUGE mess in the process and fell asleep as soon as the breakfast was delivered.  You're welcome, mom.

As we got older we became less concerned with staying up all night and more concerned with talking about boys.  In seventh grade there were seven us.  We slumber partied every Friday night, an event  we called Gatherings.  Eventually Teenage Drama happened and we split into two groups.  My group consisted of A.R., J and I.  Of course we could no longer have "Gatherings," so we had...Smotherings.  Yes, smothering as in I am going to smother you with this pillow.  I have no idea why we called our slumber parties this.  Probably because we are geniuses.  Smotherings consisted of eating brownies, an entire bag of Cheetos and cheese stuffed crust pizza.  But only after we ran/walked a mile because we were healthy.

Recently, I participated in something I've waited my entire life for.  A co-ed slumber party, better known as an orgy.


The husband and I got a hotel for C's wedding in March.  After the wedding A.R. hung out in our hotel room.  She told the most hilarious stories and all three of us were like, "this is so much fun, let's make a night of it!"  So A.R. slept on the pull-out couch (not in bed with us, I told you I was kidding about the orgy.  let it go you pervy perves).  Before we fell asleep, we talked and the husband was all, "is this what it's like to have a slumber party?!"  And A.R. and I were like, "yea!  smotherings!  woo hoo!  this is just like the old days.  except instead of J, it's you."

Then I told the husband he had to pretend to be thirteen year old J and we would all talk like we did  "back in the day."

The husband (eagerly) agreed.

This was going to be AWE-SOME.

The husband:  So guys, what do you think it's like to kiss a boy?

Me: No!  That is all wrong.  You're J.  You're 13.  You've kissed five boys by now.
(Just kidding.  J had not kissed five boys by the time she was 13.  She'd kissed ten.  How else do you think she got the nickname Ten-Star?  We don't just give that stuff away. You have to earn it.*)

The husband: Oh.

Me: Try again.

The husband: So guys, funny things happen to my body when I kiss boys.

Me: Nope.

The husband: Wasn't bra shopping embarrassing?

Me: Sigh.

Apparently, the husband is terrible at being a 13 year old girl.  I suppose I should be comforted by this fact.

Honestly, who wants their husband to be good at being a teenage girl?

I do.  Because the reality is, when you're nearly thirty and your life is all responsibilities and bills and soul-crushing work, and you have an opportunity to escape to the carefree days of your youth by re-enacting a Smothering, you want nothing more than for your husband to be very good at being a 13 year old girl.

That?  Is the sad science of life.

While I do miss those carefree days (although at the time, they seemed anything but carefree.  woe is me, I am a teenager and my life is so hard.) and their stay-awake-underwear-freezing-talk-about-boys-and-the-dance-contests-I-didn't-even-get-a-chance-to-mention-slumber parties, they are nothing compared to the AWESOMENESS that is the slumber parties of our adult-hood.  We'll explore this awesomeness in Slumber Parties Part Two.  And, we'll examine the difference between adult male slumber parties, aka Golf Retreat and adult female slumber parties aka Another Glass of Wine Please.

One of them consists primarily of talking about your swing and that crazy dog-leg on hole number three and the other involves talking about sex, and...that crazy dog-leg on hole number three...You know what I'm talking about, ladies.

You don't?  Well then you definitely want to check back later.

*J is not a whore; she did not make out with ten boys by the time she was thirteen.  She made out with ten TIMES ten.**

**I heard a rumor that this blog is positively dripping with sarcasm.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Just Who Is Vagina Joe?

I was going to title this post "A Collection of Random Thoughts," but if you were perusing a list of blog titles which would you check out, "Just Who is Vagina Joe?" or "A Collection of Random Thoughts?"


1. Was at dinner the other night with a friend.  Table next to us was full of teenagers who had "ants in their pants," played Chinese fire-drill, and in general could not stay seated during the meal.  I found it annoying.  Antsy-pantsy teenagers started saying bad words.  Bad words do not offend me.  Bad words coming from the mouths of teenagers?  I find irritating.  In conclusion: I find teenagers to be annoying and irritating.

2. I entered the Writer's Digest writing contest.  I submitted three entries, because being rejected once isn't nearly as good as being rejected thrice.

3. My new favorite thing is to call people wieners.  I mean it as both a term of endearment and as an insult, depending on the situation and who I'm talking to/about.  I anticipate an outbreak of mass confusion/highly offended people in the very near future.

4. There is a station on Pandora radio that plays parody songs like "D*ck in a Box" and "Amish Paradise."  Apparently there is a song called "My D*ck, Your D*ck."  It's about, you guessed it, comparing the you-know-whats of two dudes.  Generally, I am not offended by d*ck jokes, but this was a bit much.  But then it was kinda funny.  And then it was down-right catchy.  However, having my d*ck, your d*ck playing on endless loop in your head for days after hearing the song?  Is just plain awesome annoying.

5.  I get words stuck in my head like other people get songs stuck in theirs.  Awhile ago it was: brown chicken, brown cow.  In high school it was clostridium botulinum.  Lately it's been vagina joe.  Can someone please tell me what the hell vagina joe means?

6.  We all know how much I love getting comments on my blog - a feeling that is shared by all bloggers - and as such, I try to comment on other blogs. You get what you give, or something like that.  While I am very interested in whether the blogger comments on my comment and appreciate being alerted when this occurs, I do not appreciate 98 emails worth of comments from others weighing in on the blogger's post.  I'm like the honey badger in this respect.  I don't give a shit what everyone else has to say.  That probably comes off sounding a lot meaner than I mean it, but I'm just sayin.'

7.  I've been suffering with extreme heal pain for four weeks and counting.  Was diagnosed with plantar fasciitis, which is when nipples grow on the bottom of your foot.  Or not.  I don't really know because my podiatrist likes to breeze in, freeze my foot, shoot me up with what I can only assume is heroin, and tell me to walk through the pain.  He is at the top of this week's Douche Canoe List.

8.  Vagina joe is not defined by the urban dictionary.  Someone please go over there and define it for me so I can sleep tonight.

9.  However, vagina jack IS defined:
     it is the headphone's jack under the ICON console mixing desk (by digidesign) on the right hand side, it looks like a vagina and feels like one it has the shape of it, and the hole for the jack it self feels like the clitorice or to be nice the ''soft spot'' or a womans body, discovered by Amro, Jesse and Stefan
    I'm going to go out on a limb here and say Amro, Jesse and Stefan have absolutely know idea what or where a woman's "clitorice" is.  I also highly doubt they have any idea what a vagina feels like.  Stop sticking your wieners in headphone jacks Amro, Jesse and Stefan.

10.  Great.  Now I have the word clitorice stuck in my head.  And the accompanying image?  Is.  Not.  Pleasant.

11.  Dear Child of Indeterminate Age Shrieking and Thrashing About in the Pool,
If you have to ask someone six times if they want to see your back-flip, it's not because they can't hear you, it's because they are ignoring you, which just so happens to be your answer.  Shut up and move on to more productive activities, like practicing silence.

12.  Sometimes I think my brain is on backwards.

This post is the result of a vow I made to myself that I will post more regularly.

You're welcome.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

It is About to Get Political Up in Here. Or Not.

By now you've all heard the news, Osama be dead.  Well, I suppose you haven't heard it if you've been living a cave, which apparently?  Osama was not.  Although from what I've heard, that mansion?  Wasn't all that nice.  I think that's probably beside(s?) the point.

The news of his death has elicited a multitude of reactions from people all over the world.  Don't worry, this blog isn't about to become political or insightful or anything (oh the horror!), but allow me to say that some of the people who are reacting are first-class wieners.  I'm not talking about Osama supporters who are all, boo-hoo.  That reaction, we predicted.  And I'm declining to comment on what I think about their behavior.  I'm talking about the football player who tweeted something wiener-esque.  Don't remember what the tweet said, (the husband told me about it yesterday during dinner, you don't honestly expect me to remember what it was almost 24 hours later, do you?) but it was really really dumb.  And then, THEN, there was an article on Yahoo! by some yahoo named Ted who was talking out his bum.  Seriously, I'm nominating this guy for douche of the year.

Now that I got that off my chest, let's get to the real purpose of this post: what went down in the Sarcasm Goddess household as the husband and I awaited the announcement from the President.

As usual, it highlights my total and enviable awesomeness.

We were watching a sex-trafficking-in-America-show (it's a problem, y'all) on MSNBC when we were alerted to THE BREAKING NEWS: President to speak at 10:30.  My first reaction was hmm...I wonder what it is.

Then we switched to CNN and bring on the panic and anxiety.  The reporters on CNN were all, "oh this is extremely rare.  the President is giving a speech to the nation, to THE WORLD, at 10:30 on a Sunday night.  this must be big.  oh my.  never in the history of civilization has this happened.  things are about to get messy.  uh oh."

The husband first speculated that the speech would be about the tornadoes that hit Alabama or about Libya. But then the media said it had to do with national security.  Being the non-worrier, glass-is-half-full, I'm-sure-everything-will-be-okay person that I am, I assumed the worst.

Me: Do you think he's going to say there's an asteroid headed for earth, one that will completely wipe-out civilization?

The husband: No.

Me: It's totally an asteroid.

Media: Oh my.  This is bad.  This is awful.  Wrap your house in cellophane, folks.  The end is coming.

Me: Do you think we're at war?  Like a new one?  Do you think we're being bombed?  Like right now?

I kept checking the front door, waiting for troops to storm the house.

Wolf Blitzer: It looks like the President won't speak until 10:35.  I have a pretty good idea of what he's going to say, but I'm not going to tell you. Hahahahaha.

Me:  My stomach hurts.

I began shoveling popcorn into my mouth by the fistful.

Me: Are you sure it's not an asteroid?

The husband: Totally sure.

Me:  It's totally an asteroid.  We're all dead.  I'm not going to work tomorrow.  Are you sure there is no chance it's an asteroid?

The husband: none

Wolf Blitzer:  Looks like the President won't be coming on until 10:40.  I totally know what it is. But I-ii won't te-ell.  I'll give you a hint though: you're all going to die.  Except for me. I'm going to hide out in a bunker buried deep inside the earth and after the catastrophe has passed I will single-handedly re-populate the earth.  The earth will be filled with little bad-ass, know-it-all blitzers.

Me: Do you think nuclear missiles are being launched at California?

Me: Do you think we bombed Canada?

Me: Does New York still exist?

Me: Why would we bomb Canada?  WHY???!!!

Me: My stomach hurts.

Wolf Blitzer:  The President isn't going to come on until 10:50.  Have I mentioned that I totally know what he is going to say?


Me: Are you worried?

The husband: I'm a little concerned.  I want to know what he's going to say.

As the minutes ticked on, the delirium set in.

Me (being the President): My fellow Americans, we have discovered the location of William and Kate's honeymoon.  They are coming to the United States.  Thank you and good night.

The husband (being the President): Has anyone seen my keys?

Wolf Blitzer: I know what the President is going to say and it is going to make Americans very hapsfasd...

Me: Did he say happy or sad?  Happy or sad?  Are Americans going to be HAPPY OR SAD?

The husband: He said happy.

Me (wide-eyed and full of wonder): Do you think they got Osama?

Wolf Blitzer:  The President is personally calling each and every American before he comes on to the make the announcement.  I know what it is, but I won't say.  Now let me pass it over to This Guy over here who looks like he just got out of bed, because guess what?  He totally did.

This Guy: Well folks, the President is going to announce that Osama bin Laden is dead.

Wolf Blitzer: YOU ASSHOLE!  That was my thunder! There will be hell to pay.  I will unleash my army of little blitzers all over your pansy-ass.  ASS!  HOLE!

Me: I was right!  I was right!

The husband: About which part?  The asteroid?

Me: No!  Osama!

The husband: Oh, right.

Media:  Osama was killed in a mansion in Pakistan.

Me: I'm so glad we're not being bombed.

It still took another twenty minutes or so for the President to speak.

Me: Remind me to never go to a party at the White House.  They obviously have no regard for starting on time.  I hate standing around in stilettos waiting for things to happen.

The husband: Remind me never to go to a party at a mansion in Pakistan.  No seriously, remind me.  I have the worst memory.  One day you'll call me and say, 'dinner's ready, where are you?'  And I'll be like 'ohhh...I'm in Pakistan.  At a party.  In a mansion.  I told you to remind me!'

I stayed awake to listen to the President.  The husband fell asleep.  That's it.  That's what happened in the Sarcasm Goddess household the night the world learned Osama was dead. 

Thank you and good night.