We’re talking vaginas folks. Yep, you heard me right, vaginas…now say it. Va-gi-na!
About a month ago, maybe even two (I’m old and easily forgetful, or maybe it’s because I try to block it out) I had a gynecologist appointment. It’s something that women around the world dread. And when you are me, you put it off until they threaten to come drag you in themselves… I know I don’t have to explain if you are a woman how terrible pap smears are. In Fact, most women are squirming in their chair trying NOT to think about it as they read this…but for the men… let’s essplain Lucy!
About once a year, you have to walk into a nice arctic room, remove all of your clothes (without a nice romantic dinner first), climb up on the stupid paper topped table,which is also fucking cold… put your legs in these barbaric looking metal stirrups so that your lady bits are open to the world…. while you my friend… are spread eagle.
So there I was… disrobed, getting ready for the doctor to insert the ice-cold spreaders that look like salad tongs covered in lubricated goo. I was still second guessing my decision to come in, and still trying to come up with a great excuse to jump off the table and bounce out of there. “I think I left the iron on!” wasn’t going to work because my shirt wasn’t ironed.
I’m spread eagle feeling completely uncomfortable, trying to ignore what’s going on down there whilst staring at the ceiling, (I still think they need some Sunday funnies posted on the ceiling or something to distract you) and at that moment…he decides to tell me that I had the most beautiful vaginal walls, and he couldn’t believe how beautiful my vagina was after giving birth to eight children.
So glad I decided to primp before coming in.
What in the ever-loving fuck am I supposed to say to that doc? I mean here I am already feeling uncomfortable and a doctor is telling me I have a beautiful vagina. Am I supposed to say thank you? So of course it got me thinking… because what else would I do while he’s rambling on about my vagina as he shoves and probes for tests?
Why is there such a hang up on vaginas? Nowadays you’re supposed to wax, shave, trim, primp… cause you can’t have the lady bits covered in carpet because some freak decided we weren’t self-conscious enough as it was, so now lets worry about what our vaginas LOOK like.
Then there’s the anal bleaching because for god’s sake, it needs to be the proper porn star color! The steaming of the vagina thanks to good old Gwyneth Paltrow and all her weird shit, sprays that are supposed to make you smell better, douches that are supposed to make you feel like a summer breeze while you dance into the moonlight…
Did you know that there’s a thing called vaginoplasty, where they go in and cut things away, sew things up and they make things the way they were when you were 16?
Already we have to worry about what our face looks like; do we have too many wrinkles? What color is our hair? Pluck the eyebrows in perfect little arches… maybe I’m too fat, maybe I’m too skinny, maybe I have too much cellulite, maybe my butt sags, maybe my arms have flaps. How are my hips? Do I have a double chin?
Why now do we also have to worry about whether or not our vagina is too small; too big, too ugly, too dark, too hairy, too pale, not pink enough… it’s disgusting.
Why do we allow this? Why can’t our vaginas be off-limits?
Women already argue about what our breasts are for….how big or small they are…Cleavage or no cleavage. Now, we even have to worry about the vagina. sigh….
Can you imagine if we decided the penis needed to look a certain way…be a certain size…if man-scaping was a must? “Sorry dude…balls need to be bald, and a landing strip is a must! and good lord wax and bleach that asshole…no one likes a hairy dark asshole”
I’m over it. I get that maybe I should have felt relief that my vagina still looks good at 40 and a plethora of children…but no. I was pissed. I already have a hard enough time with self-image, and now…now I need to pull out the mirror every few months to make sure my vagina still looks up to par? I’m taking back my vagina dammit.
Jeanne Eisele is a tattooed, foul mouth, mother of eight boys and a wife to the ONLY man with the energy to put up with her crazy antics. She has been known to sling words on her blog www.sippycupsandbooze , and has been featured on other sites like Say It With A Bang, Blogher, and OriginalBunkerPunks. When she’s not rambling to herself like a crazy person; screaming at the boys to stop breaking stuff, or tripping over her dogs Syd vicious and Finnegan, you can find her over on www.facebook.com/sippycupsandbooze where you get up front and personal to all her awkward mishaps.
This is the motto of a writing group I belong to. We are a group of writers trying to hemorrhage out our words into the universe for others to read; whilst still trying to give each other the push we sometimes need to keep going… although most of the time I just sit quietly in awe of the writers I am surrounded by… Real writers. Writers that make the whole process look easy because of their absolute brilliance and great editing ha-ha. I mean think about it. A whole group of your peers shouting to write free and don’t let your fear get in the way of all the naysayers.
I love this saying, I mean as a writer how can I not? I try to remember it often as I am scribbling out my words…but what does that really mean? Can I truly write free when in the back of my mind I am shouting like a heckling troll that I suck?
“What will people think if I say that?”
“What if they hate what I wrote and it’s a complete and total flop?”
“What if they point and laugh and tell me not to quit the day job? I don’t even have a day job!”
What if they sit there judging me…I mean…I’m no Stephen King, although I have written some pretty awesome short stories that I have never shared with anyone but…
Write free mother fuckers!
I have taken many long and arduous sabbaticals in my writing career, but just like quitting smoking and chocolate, I always end up back at the keyboard pounding away about this or that.
The words finally taking over and needing to be said.
The other night while drinking (only the bartender knows how many vodka monsters and tuaca shots at the bar) a guy walked up in all his drunken glory and shouted, “Hey, I saw you had a blog [gulp]). I found it on your Facebook! I think I can do that, it looks simple enough I mean…it looks easy enough right?”
I groaned inwardly trying compose myself while of course thinking this really can’t be happening. Sure, there are times I talk about my blog, because duh, at the bar I am usually three sheets to the wind and my mouth always picks that moment to vomit out what I do, but hey…that’s not all I do. I am not just a blogger. Blogging is just like…practice. Like exercise for my brain. You need to write every day to better your craft…think of it as a journal if you will. A way to keep the brain thinking and the fingers moving. Sure, anyone can do it, but that doesn’t mean that what I do is easy (God do I wish it was that easy) and it definitely doesn’t mean that even if they do decide to give blogging a whirl, they would then become the next JR Rowling making millions. Writing is hard work, and extremely personal.
“Do you even get paid? Because I don’t see why you are wasting time with something you do not get paid for, seems stupid if you ask me!”
I didn’t ask…
Write Free Motherfuckers!
It’s not about getting paid… it’s about ripping off layers of skin to show parts of yourself. It’s about letting go of all the doubt and fear while putting pieces of your soul into each word.
Every day I stare at the keyboard typing away…I am my own worst critic, which leads to 90% of my work getting trashed or put on the back burner; because it’s not something I like, or maybe because it really is so terrible that even my brilliant editor can’t fix it (Which I am sure he is now worried I might send those to him just to give him more work…come to think of it, that might be a fantastic idea, ha-ha).
A few years ago I started a novel, it was one of the biggest things I had ever done. Parts of it were entered in a publishing house competition. It won! However, after a long drawn out process of bullshit I didn’t care for, the contract was ripped up and I moved on while drowning myself in a few bottles of wine. Think of it as a writer throwing a temper tantrum like a toddler; because someone wanted to change the entirety of what they wrote. However, even after that, one thing I did gain from that whole experience was someone actually gave me a little confidence. See, your family and friends will lie to you and tell you they loved what you wrote…but a publishing house will never sugar coat anything; if you suck they don’t feel badly about telling you so…They told me they really dug it, and that, my friends, is probably one of my proudest moments. Yet, buttoning it up and rewriting some to resubmit somewhere else…yeah, I haven’t felt confident enough for that just yet. Baby steps.
Okay, so back to where I was going with this whole rant… Writing free isn’t easy. I mean, look how all over the place I have been in just this one post! Even I feel my neck getting sore from the whiplash. Writers get stuck on what other people might think, instead of writing what they really want too. So just like honing their own writing skill, writing free takes practice. Lots of it.
So the next time you take time to read someone’s words, think about how hard it was for them to get that out. Know that not one part of the process was easy. Know that even some of the most brilliant writers out there still doubt themselves sometimes.
And if you’re a writer….Walk away and just Write Free Mother Fucker!
All over the media right now people are talking/debating/bitching about the restaurant owner who ‘yelled’ at the toddler for screaming and crying at the diner over the weekend. Why is this even something we need to debate? Should the owner have yelled at the toddler? Maybe not the best decision; and clearly it could have been handled with a little more class, however….Why the hell did the parents sit and allow the other diners to endure such hullabaloo?
Am I the only parent left on this earth that believes if your child is causing a scene you need to REMOVE said child from that situation? Parents are absolutely clueless these days. All they see is the big bad owner in her crazy moment of slamming her hands on a counter, yelling across the room for the child to stop…and only after she became frustrated with the situation that most of us would have been frustrated with. Now, some people of course believe that, hey, “Sometimes kids have moments” and “Sometimes kids may have issues that you do not understand, therefore have some common courtesy and try to have a little patience”
How long is patient enough?
My thought… If I’m at a restaurant having dinner, why is my money and time not as important as yours?
Years ago the husband and I were at Red Lobster with my family. My sister had her daughter (who was later diagnosed with ADHD) with her, my hubs and I had four kids, not to mention my folks, my gram, and several others. We were a huge group…I think maybe 20 people to our party? So there we were looking at our menus (while our waitress brought crayons and paper to color on for the kids; and threw tons of those awesome cheesy garlic rolls everyone loves to snack on. Cuz duh…garlic and cheese)… My niece, however, in her three year old glory, thought that throwing her roll and running around the table was way more fun than sitting nicely and coloring like the rest of the bunch. My sister…well, she yelled my nieces name a few times, but never moved from her chair. I was mortified and of course said something about how uncool my niece was behaving. This then led to a fifteen minute argument about how I raise my kids one way, and she raises hers…her way. I debated for a long time if it would be acceptable enough to hide under the table and eat my bucket of crab legs… without the eyes of everyone at the restaurant staring at the party of 20 with the running toddler.
Now I get that some people do not believe in spanking and that’s okay. I was a spanker with some while others just needed a ‘talking to.’ That’s not what we are debating here… But come on, get your child under control or LEAVE…and for the love of all that is holy, do not condemn others for wanting a peaceful dining experience. There is nothing worse than going on a date with the husband (no kids) and ending up in a restaurant with screaming kids. If I wanted to listen to children throw temper tantrums, I would stay home and tell the kids to do chores. I think our society has become so wrapped up in what is apparently politically correct, that we have forgot that there are things called manners….and we should still be pounding those manners into our children’s heads. There is a time and place for children to run amuck…a restaurant or movie theater is not the place.
While I get that this post will piss a lot of you off, I am totally okay with that….However…think about what lead up to this woman’s rant…Think of all the times you wanted a night out only to have the meal ruined by parents who didn’t think they should have to remove their child…Think about all the times you went to a movie only to miss half of it because your child wouldn’t sit still so you took them outside (because that’s what you do)…Think about all those times you wanted to crawl under the table to eat those crab legs…Then, and only then, make your decision.
Welcome to the new Wednesday flash. It’s where you get a little inside look into conversations between some of your favorite writers. Have you ever wondered what writers talk about when no ones around? Maybe you thought they had something super important to say, but you miss it because you aren’t in their super secret squirrel club? Trust me when I say, you don’t miss much. It’s a little awkward, and never really makes sense. But we are always there to make sure we give each other support.
SCB: Morning Bitch Nachos
Papa: I need a headband
Princess: Drunk duh
SCB: omg I got a million new peeps on scb
Papa: You’re welcome
Princess: it was me
SCB: you guys rock
Papa: really wasn’t me
Princess: me neither
SCB: Jandsport; because school shouldn’t end just because the condom broke
Papa: I need to write more shit about telling moms off at the park. Like thor
Princess: I’m laughing at her name like a 12 yr old
Papa: She needs 2 rulers to measure
SCB: I need to fix my wad. Its was. I need to fix my dictionary. I feel like I need to write something with a lot of tattoos, and curse words. Something to make my kids hate me.
Papa: Someone forgot how to word
Princess: Sure, you can write a post about not being a lesbian
Papa: what is she trying to say.
Princess: My butt was texting
Papa: My next piece is gonna be called dollar store condoms and back alley blowjobs
Princess: And we shall call you peg
Princess: A covered fucking wagon. They can hold an umbrella
Papa: I said all we needed were some leashes
Princess: Okay, I’m gonna sing into the messenger thing, and you put me on speaker and drive around on that thing you drive screaming “help she’s stuck in my brain” because work is stupid
Scb: I have blue tooth…it could be a thing
Princess: twat…you made salads
Papa: the person is going to die and their last wish will be to learn how to roast marshmallows.
Princess: prolly wants to get ya in yer butt
SCB: You would need to say something funny, and not about measuring someones face with 2 rulers …cuz awkward. Id have to show her face
Princess: I’m bleeding like a stuck pig
Papa: How did you get that? Are you holding out on us?
SCB: She got off the dick. You should get off the dick. Everyone should get off the dick.
Papa: I am getting off the dick.
Princess: I’m not fucking so who cares.
And that folks, Is your Wednesday flash!
PPB aka The Precious Princess – The Princess is a twice divorced, recently single, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12-year-old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess’s Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book. Until she changes her mind. Be afraid.
Punk Rock Papa Briton’s popular blog, “Punk Rock Papa: Adventures In Fatherhood” is a hilarious yet heartfelt take on being a young father. He is a self proclaimed hipster and father to two Punk Rock toddler twins and an up-and-coming baby Punk. Briton believes that Jesus loves all of His children, even the ones with Mohawks. Briton reigns over the blogging group, the “Brainstorm Bunker, a fast-growing blogging group who shares ideas and laughter with each other every day. His most prized possession is his pair of green skinny jeans. You can also follow him on his Facebook fan page Punk Rock Papa.
Sippy Cups and Booze is a foul-mouthed, tattooed, forty something mother of eight boys; who by the way, is married to the only man who could put up with her. While she plays mother of the year during the day, she cuts lose a few nights a week playing rock star with her buddies and husband at her local watering hole. She has an obsession with shopping on amazon, and can’t stand for people to touch her…no hugging please! You can hear all about her on her blog sip cups and booze, or find tidbits into her weird life on her Facebook page here.
The Dad Bod … I still can’t get over that this is a thing now. Why is this a thing? Who came up with it? I bet it was a dude. Had to be. I can see it now, a group of guys sitting in a bar (or maybe a park with the kids) discussing their bodies like a bunch of teen girls over beer and fried food, smoking cigars.
“If we start the dad bod movement, women from all over the world will dig us and not just drool over the six pack bods! Beer and brats for everyone! If this works we’re totally moving on to the hairy bod movement! Start blasting it on twitter and Facebook!”
I have The Mom Bod. Eight births tearing through me like a dog with a smelly bag of trash will do that to a gal. It left my stomach flabby and my boobs not so perky… and hey, we won’t even get started on the huge ass that now sags instead of the huge ass that looked bitchin in a pair of Levis. Yet you don’t see women (or men for that matter) screaming, writing, twittering, or newsing (shuddup, I’m making it a word) about how mom bods are hot… or a thing… or that men should dig mom bods… okay wait, maybe that IS the purpose of this post.
Mom bods ARE hot, a thing, and totally not perfect.
It has taken me years to accept what I look like although I am sure if I won a million dollars I would try to perk this old ass up with a nip and tuck, because I’m only human, but in the mean time I will say I’m okay with not being perfect per se. I am okay with the fact that if I wear a skirt it should probably cover my knees and I should definitely wear a bra in public…
Nonetheless, there are always those moments when I’m getting dressed and something is pulling here or there, and maybe my gut is spilling over my jeans, and I think to myself, “ Fuck I hate this, I’m going to start hitting the gym again….maybe starve myself”, but then give up and shove that last cupcake or shot of tuaca into that suckhole of mine whilst I sit on the couch playing dice with friends on my phone.
When I was growing up I had two sisters that were a size zero. I was never a size zero.
I had a mother, who, although she never came out saying I should “diet”, did make comments like “Are you sure you want to eat that?” or “Someday you won’t have the metabolism you have now so you might want to think about eating that second helping”
And god was she right.
I was the 15-year-old in a size 7, with size D knockers, and hips for breeding. I hated myself and no amount of running or starving diminished those hips or boobs. Believe me, I tried. It also never helped me feel comfortable in my own skin or get into those size zero purple Guess jeans my best friend owned.
Feeling comfortable in my own skin is still not that easy… As hard as I try I just haven’t mastered it yet. In Fact, I am ALWAYS self-conscious. I hate pictures, I can’t take a compliment, and, for god’s sake, I LOATHE clothes shopping. I would rather scrape shit off the wall with my fingernails in a public restroom then go clothes shopping.
Over the weekend, someone asked me how to shop for “Fat girl” clothes. She wasn’t saying it to be rude, she herself had gained some weight and said, “I can’t always live in yoga pants”, which was funny because this was the same weekend I wore shorts in public for the first time in ten years and all I wanted was my favorite pair of yoga pants.
I’m no clothing expert… If it fits, I buy it and, if I can’t find anything, I throw on my give up on life pants and drown my feelings in a bottle of white zin. Wine loves me and doesn’t make me feel self-conscious about how fat I am.
Apparently I have not only grown in size, but in maturity. There was a time, years ago, when I didn’t even want to leave my house. I hated meeting my husband’s friends (or coworkers) because I was embarrassed for him. I thought people would judge me and wonder why my husband was married to such an overweight sow who obviously let herself go (and mind you I wasn’t really that overweight)… I thought that he could do far better than me. It didn’t matter what my husband thought about me. It didn’t matter that HE thought I was sexy, or that HE thought I was good enough. I lived in a world where self-image was more important than going out and having a good time. It was a sick way of thinking and took years to overcome.
Do you know what it’s like to have sex with someone who is not enjoying it; because all she can think about is how her stomach looks or ass jiggles? And sorry ladies, but the men you are having sex with are not thinking about your stomach or your damn ass jiggling. They can care less if your thighs are bigger than the new Victoria Secrets model. They are just happy to have you in their bed and hope you are enjoying it as much as they are. Trust me, ask them. I know things.
I would love to blame everything on the media. “Maybe if they didn’t show the perfect airbrushed bodies on tv and magazines I would feel good about myself”. However, that’s a serious crock of shit. It’s us women that have done that to ourselves. We are the ones judging not only our own bodies but everyone else around us.
Where was someone to tell me that a mom bod was cool? That all those jiggles were brought on by the children we were so happy to bring into this world? Since when did the stretch marks become something to hide instead of a badge of honor? I mean think about it, YOU grew this little life and needed to make room.
And sure you could spend the rest of your life exercising three hours a day, never eating carbs and counting every calorie, but will that make you happy? Of course not. So eat that damn cake and enjoy your life because soon you will wonder why you wasted so much time staring in a mirror picking yourself apart.
Oy vey. For the last few days I have sworn I would stay out of this whole damn mess… I swore I would not allow other people’s views to anger me, or turn me into a belligerent arse. Nonetheless, I can no longer do this without feeling like I am failing my boys by doing so. Furthermore, as a parent of eight of our future generation, I cannot continue to stand by and watch the complete and utter hate strewn through my news feeds, television, and even through the mouths of some friends and family members, without putting in my two cents.
What I am about to say will cause some to feel uncomfortable, while others may become angry. I will lose a few friends, and I am perfectly okay with that, if not for anything other than knowing I have stood up for something that needed standing up for. I am here to guide my children into being better men who are loving, kind, and accepting of others despite if they agree with them or not.
I feel completely saddened that in this world, some are still using religion as a mean to condemn others, especially when in their idealism, it clearly states they should not be the ones passing judgement.
The other day there was a lady in a local facebook group I am apart off. In the picture, you can clearly see that she is comparing the confederate flag and its offensiveness to African Americans to that of the gay pride flag; stating that the gay pride flags are just as offensive to Christians.
Okay wait… hold on a second… I get that for some, homosexuality is a complete sin in the eyes of Christians (as well as other religions)… However, lets use Christianity (for arguments sake) to explain how awful and hypocritical that is. According to the bible, sin comes in many forms;
Lying, gossiping, slandering, backbiting, spreading rumors, deceit, extortion, railing, slander, defrauding, breaking promises, craftiness, hypocrisy, dishonesty, whisperers, idle words, withhold all of the truth, double-tongued, bragging, boasting, flattery, exaggerating the truth, whining, speaking evil of others. Idolatry, greed, covetousness, love of money, gluttony, complaining,
Still with me?
Not loving God with all your heart, mind, soul, and strength, tempting God, high-mindedness, disobedience, Coveting, envy, lust, jealousy, drunkenness, sorcery, materialism, wantonness, sensuality, gambling, revelings, attachment to riches or material goods, emulations, extortion, desire for money, desire for power, desire for sex, anger at other’s good fortunes, desiring things of others, flirting or playing with temptation. And that’s just the old testament!
If you made it through that long boring list and haven’t moved on to videos of cute little kittens, I commend you because it was hard for me to write. Now try to mull that information around in your brain for a moment… Why is one sin worse than another?
Why pick this one sin as the one to rant over, fight about, and get ugly towards others with? What about turning the other way when someone is hungry? That’s something that people should really be screaming about!
Just because people want equal rights put into GOVERNMENT law. Law that will not affect anyones personal home, nor will it affect anyones relationship with their own personal god or church. No one here is trying to change the laws of anyones religion.
How do we even compare a gay pride flag to that of a flag that some view as a flag of hate, oppression, death, and slavery? (And yes I know some do not, so need to send that hateful rant to my email ) Are we really reaching that far; grasping for anything to hold on to… anything to make the hate we vomit acceptable within ourselves?
Why can’t people just love one another, be better humans,
shut the f*ck up and allow god to judge at the end. I mean, isn’t that what people claim the bible says?
“Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven”
There is already so much hate in this world, that it’s hard to comprehend why in 2015, we still struggle to treat people with love and respect. Furthermore, all over the world people die and are persecuted for their beliefs. The one place everyone is supposed to be treated equally is HERE. Here in our country. A country that was founded by people trying to escape persecution.
Is this just the way of humankind? Can we only survive by looking down our noses at others?
As write this, I keep glancing at my boys while they play an epic game of Mario Kart; I am praying through their giggles to anything/one that will listen; that the world will change just enough that despite where life may take them, despite what their sexual orientation is, they will be happy and feel loved no matter who that love comes from. I do not want them to fear what others think. I do not want them to hide who they are just because it makes someone else feel uncomfortable. I do not want them fearing that the person they are, turns others into hateful cruel people.
Less than fifty years ago it was against the law to marry someone of another race. Some (Not all) people believed that the bible said it was bad. Our own President Truman said it was against the bible’s teachings… in his opinion, it was a sin and it should be dealt with the most heavy of hands.
Less than fifty years folks… Now take a look around and tell me how the world ended because people who loved each other were allowed to marry?
In conclusion, Trust me when I say I do not condemn anyones beliefs. I am also not saying they are wrong to have them, however I am saying those beliefs are just that. They are theirs and theirs alone, and maybe the next time someone feels like spitting out those hateful words, or condemning or persecuting someone for who they are, or whom they love, they will find something better to do. Maybe make a sandwich for a homeless person, because at least then, their child will see the good in them, and not the evil hate spewing from their mouth.
We have to do better for our children.
I have spent the majority of my life fearing age. Sounds stupid right? All that time wasted fearing the inevitable. I couldn’t help it though. I didn’t want gray hair or wrinkles, and I certainly didn’t want to end up frail needing others to help me get around. I saw forty as the age you would be driving around one of those scooter chairs you know, the ones with the little flags and horn to move people out of your way. I was a cocky little shit that never paid attention to reality. However, it was this year I let it all go. It was THIS year I realized that getting older DOESN’T suck like I thought it would.
I can’t help but remember how devastatingly traumatic thirty was. I hid in my room for a week crying like a baby; already planning my funeral. It was the most depressing birthday thus far. I was no longer in my twenties, which statistically meant that I should have had my life in order. Which of course…I did not.
This year I turned the big 4-0, and although I may not always look like I have my shit together, I definitely haven’t hit scooter chair age. I actually took hitting forty far better than I thought I would, which just goes to show my maturity level.
Nonetheless, I want to say I took things better because friends made it a week-long celebration of drinking shenanigans, followed by the car the husband bought me which HELLO! This is the first brand spanking new car I have ever owned…at least one that was just for me and not the practical –drive the kids around in-car.– I usually owned. This is like a midlife crisis car, but more comfortable and better economically. I guess in reality, this is what forty looks like. Its economical and comfortable.
Now back to where I was going with this. Aging…Its not all that bad.
So sit back, grab a chair, (is it too early for a drink?) and lets discuss all the great things about being over 40.
1. You will no longer care what people think. Honestly, it’s like this calm comes over you. You will now surround yourself with people you like, and not the people everyone else likes.
2. You are halfway to dead. Trust me when I say that’s a good thing. This means you can be an asshole because everyone knows old people are crabby assholes. So next time someone slow walks you at Starbucks because instead of getting your coffee, (because they are texting or talking to some cute boy) you get to yell out things like “When I was a kid, we did our coffee bringing really fast. Because we had work ethic!” and no one will even think twice because you are old!
3. If you don’t feel like wearing pants, then why wear them? You’re 40+ now…so all those young 20 somethings that spend oodles on the latest fashions…ignore them! You my friend get to worry about what’s comfortable. You are older)… no one will think twice about you wearing give up on life pants in Wal-Mart because hey…at least you have pants on and maybe even brushed your hair.
4. Remember all the years you had to shave your legs? Well, soon there will be less hair to shave, well… kind of. Because now there will be patches of hair that will stop growing on your legs, and will start popping up in places like your chin or even on one of your boobs. But don’t fret, you just need some glasses or a magnifying glass to pluck that bitch until it comes back laughing at you tomorrow ten feet longer. 1 hair vs a patch is a win folks!
5. No need to worry about winter, you now have a built-in furnace! Otherwise known as hot flashes. While other people are adding layers to their attire, you are now stripping down to cool off. This will save you tons of cash when it comes to the heating bills, and saving cash is always a good thing at our age.
6. Want to save even more money? No problem! People around the world have now decided gray hair is the new trend! Twenty somethings are PAYING to strip out all their color and dye it silver (trust me, it’s a thing)…you don’t have to! You can just let all that gray go uncolored and viola! They will just assume you are one of those crazy 40 plus year olds trying to stay hip!
7. Sex! Sex is so much better when you’re older! You stop caring so much about your looks, and start caring more about what’s going on, and you will enjoy it far more!
8. You start to forget things, which is cool. Sometimes you forget where you’re driving, so you end up finding cool little new places. Or you forget you bought a candy bar and later find it in your purse. Its like the chocolate fairy. Makes for new and exciting adventures.
9. Staying out at the club until 2 am is no longer expected. If you want to go to bed at 8pm you can without the weird looks from your clubbing friends, because by now, most of your friends have probably beat you to bed.
10. Last but now least, You now can buy shoes because for comfort and not kill yourself in those eight inch pradas without anyone thinking twice about it.
A group of us writers were asked to sling some words about Mothers Day for a special link up this weekend. For three days (maybe 4ish) I have relentlessly stared at my stupid keyboard, trying to come up with something funny and lighthearted. I mean, I have 8 frecking boys. There has to be some funny stories about Mothers Day that I could pull out of my head… right? For all that is holy, I have been a mother for more than twenty years.
So I thought I could come clean and write about my Mothers Day about 19 years ago, and confess that it was the first time I hid in the closet and drank myself into a wine stupor. On the other hand, I could easily write about all the years I spent Mother’s day with just the boys, (who of course fought all day) because that husband of mine could never take it off… Matter of fact, his ass is working again this year because, duh a plethora of boys who eat quicker than a rabid coyote
Yet try as I might… I couldn’t, because I fucking hate Mother’s Day. Loathe it. Would rather do anything other than think about it. Honestly. Need a bathroom scrubbed? Need me to help with math that needs mathing? Maybe a thousand pairs of socks need folding… okay, wait. I wouldn’t go as far as sock folding– that’s just over the line, but you get where I’m coming from.
For me, Mother’s Day is like a poke in the eye with a flaming hot stick; all whilst walking through a path of hot coals, then jumping barefoot off a cliff into the mouth of a dragon.
Mothers day is the time of year where no matter how hard I try to make it not bother me….It always does.
My mother and I have a fucked distant relationship. I was the first-born of three girls. I could never hold up to the expectations she had of me, unlike my sisters that were pretty damn perfect.
But why should that effect my mother’s day?
It’s the day I ponder about the mother I never had. The mother my sisters had. The mother that I wish with all of my heart I could be to my boys, yet always fail miserably because lets face it, other than Beavers mom Beverly Cleaver, no one is perfect. (If you do not know who that is, I am afraid I have also confessed that I am way older than you)
For a week leading up to Mother’s Day, I argue with myself. Maybe you should be the better person and call your mother. Maybe you should put the big girl pants on and send her flowers. Maybe you should offer to take her to lunch. Maybe things would have been better if you hadn’t lost it on her all those years ago about how unfair she had been to your family, severing that final thread.
Then I think she should call because aren’t I the kid here? Shouldn’t a mother want to have a relationship with her child? I’m a good person dammit.
I get sick of listening to the “My mother is the best because…” all over the media. You have a great mom, I know this. But I really don’t care to hear it again.
The only thing that has caused me to be overwhelmingly jealous of someone, has been from knowing that they have a great relationship with their mother.
Mother’s Day, Can’t we change it to Tacos and Margarita Day? I think that is a wayyyy better idea.
Over the past weekend (technically 3 nights and 4 short days), the husband and I went on an adult only [alcohol induced] trip to Viva Las Vegas! It was fantastic, and definitely needed. We partied like rock stars —okay, more like old has-been rockstars— and three days post trip, I am still paying for it. Hard.
I still feel like I’m in a fog, and my body hurts in places I didn’t even know existed. Like, Hello strange side muscle under my left arm!
What happened to partying all night without repercussions? I remember when I could stay up all night; then go to work after running a brush through my hair, and a quick brush of the teeth. I didn’t care how little sleep I had or where I found it, I was ALWAYS ready to keep going. Now… just one night of drinking turns into DAYS of recovery. This trip was absolutely no different.
Furthermore, I learned a few things about myself that I think anyone over the age of 35 can appreciate. Think of it as, Rules Everyone Should Live by, When Partying Over Thirty-five.
1: Everyone is younger than you. They look younger, and dress younger. They can wear the five-inch heels —while intoxicated— however, you… you may NOT. You need to stick to flip-flops or cute little loafers. (A good pair of Nike’s would be ideal) Otherwise, you will kill yourself. You will roll your ankle in those heels, trip over a crack in the sidewalk, only to slam into a car with your ass in the air, killing yourself on impact. It will be all over Facebook, and Twitter, they will make vines and funny memes. You do not want to be remembered as the old lady who died ass up in Vegas all because she wore heels. EVER!
2: You are seriously way too old to stay up all night. If you want to stay up late, you WILL have to plan ahead. You will need to stop what you are doing at some point, and take a nap. Naps are good. Cherish the nap. Do not let the inner 20 yr old talk you out of the nap, or you will be asleep on the bar stool before the ten o’clock news. Do not let that be a thing.
3. If you don’t want to spend your weekend in the ER, DO NOT eat the $.99 shrimp cocktail. I know it sounds like a great deal, and us old people LOVE a great deal… However, think about this for a minute. There isn’t an ocean full of shrimp for hundreds of miles. Our stomachs are not young enough to fight those f*ckers off!
4. Do NOT under any circumstances; EVER get on top of the bar with the dancers, just so you can show them your epic dance moves from the 80’s. The tequila sunrise is a f*cking liar! This is not American Bandstand. No one wants to see it. (Okay, maybe your friends do just so they can take pictures, but the rest of the world… does not.)
5. Drinking all day and night may have been no big deal in our 20s, but now hydration is a MUST. Drink water. Lots of it. I know what you are thinking. There’s water in Beer! Don’t let that asshole 20 something inner self pull that shit. You need actual water, or you will find yourself with a migraine at 2 am. Old you knows things.
6. You are not a hooker. (unless you are, and then just disregard number 6) You do not need to wear a vagina skirt anymore. We passed the age of the vagina skirts years ago, so lets start dressing our age. Trust me, you will feel so much better wearing something comfortable, than you will having to pull and tug to hide the lady bits all night. Let the young girls show their vaginas. Trust me. Old you knows this, and will appreciate it. You can still look sexy without the vagina showing.
7. Nachos at 3 am… Come on. Do I really need to explain all the reasons why this is a bad idea? Between the bloating, belching , and farting… we are too old for 3 am beans and jalapeno’s, and everyone you are with will thank you for NOT eating them.
8. That club you keep walking past, the one you keep thinking you might want to saunter into, because of the sexy beat and flashing lights… Don’t. Keep walking. The noise, sticky floors and the well vodka, will have you in the fetal position begging for mercy! It’s not our place anymore. Leave it to the twerking twenties. Go have a cocktail where the house band is singing old classic rock. You will have way more fun rocking out to Foghat and Bob Seger covers, than you will listening Pitbull & Ne-Yo.
9. Your body will hurt. A lot. That means drug it. Calm down, I’m not talking about morphine. There is nothing wrong with downing a bottle of ibuprofen (Old persons best friend) whilst chugging a beer. Do not feel embarrassed by this. Do not hide the fact you need it! EVERY old person you are with, was waiting for someone to finally crack. Break that cycle and DO IT!
10. Four-Loko… No. Just no. If you don’t want to wake up hugging some random toilet three counties over… Don’t fall for the young kids wanting to “hang” with you. It’s a trap! They just want pics of the old person humping the streetlights.
Do you have more to add to the list of don’ts? Have you learned a hard lesson about growing too old for the party scene? Leave a comment below!
The other day I was in a writing group (OBP) bitching about writer’s block, because who else but a bunch of writers would understand my plight? See, the problem with writer’s block and being a writer… You start to second guess yourself. All those assholes from high school english class, or the creative writing classes in college, begin their slow creep into your mind just to remind you about how terrible they thought you were..
You begin to remember all the times someone told you to “Find something else to fall back on” or “Why do you waste your time on this?” because there is no way anyone would buy into me being a writer.
This time was no different, because the longer you suffer, the more you mindfuck yourself. Sure, you can try some writing exercises. You might try reading a book (or ten), and even try going for a walk to clear your mind… but sometimes, it’s as if you don’t even remember what words are used or.
Then someone –not letting us fall deeper into writers despair– pulled a doozy out of her hat. “What if we all put in a word, then pass them out anonymously. Then you write about this word”
I agreed. Then prayed to the writing gods that I could actually write something.
The word I received was Different.
For a week I threw around ideas about what I should write about using that word. I have never done well with the word different. Different has always been vulgar. It has meant not fitting in, or having a safe place.
While growing up, I was an outcast- at home and at school. I was the oldest of three girls who was never as pretty, never as skinny, never as smart as, never as…
I was just different.
So while I sit at my computer; in a chair that has been missing a leg for over a year, I have come to realize I have always allowed that word to crush me. It is my kryptonite. It is the one word that actually makes me cringe, because it has always meant: Drugs, loneliness and Sex. It screams eating disorders and sadness.
It would lead to Mohawks and Punk Music.
Different is ugly.
It is mean and angry, and full of self loathing. It is proof that I will never be accepted by my mother.
It is dark, but without it I wouldn’t be me.
Want to read more from the word swap? Follow the hashtag! #OBPwordswap