These zits are bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S.

I've gone and done another song for your listening/reading displeasure. This time around it's to the tune of Hollaback Girl by Gwen Stefani. Listen to this glorious ear worm of a song while you read along . . . if you feel so inclined. If you don't catch yourself humming about zits or bananas after reading this at some point day, I'll consider myself a goddamn failure.

Uh huh, there's another zit.
I need to stomp my feet like this

A few times I've been around this track
So I'm pissed it still happens like that
Because I ain't no dirty crack girl
I ain't no dirty crack girl

Ooooh ooh, squeeze my zit, pop my zit (x4)

I knew about this festive shit
And I thought maybe I could resist it
Families offer us chocolate crap, getting everybody fattened up
So I've gotta accept the flack, gonna pick this ack'
Gonna go to town, gonna squeeze it out
That's right, put those bon-bons down, getting everybody fattened up

A few times I've been around this track
So I'm pissed it still happens like that
Because I ain't no dirty crack girl
I ain't no dirty crack girl

Ooooh ooh, squeeze my zit, pop my zit (x4)

So that's right dude, check out this double feature
No Clearasil, no "healthy preachers"
Gotta have fun and be a sinner, cuz these holidays only come once
So my pants'll get tight, gonna drink 'til I crawl
Sure ain't no porcelain doll, gonna have a pallor hue
That's right I'll be expanding as I bite another pumpkin pie crust

A few times I've been around this track
So I'm pissed it still happens like that
Because I ain't no dirty crack girl
I ain't no dirty crack girl

Ooooh ooh, squeeze my zit, pop my zit (x4)

Let me hear you say these zits are bananas.

B-A-N-A-N-A-S

(These zits are bananas)
(B-A-N-A-N-A-S)
Again
These zits are bananas
B-A-N-A-N-A-S
(These zits are bananas)
(B-A-N-A-N-A-S)

A few times I've been around this track
So I'm pissed it still happens like that
Because I ain't no dirty crack girl
I ain't no dirty crack girl

Ooooh ooh, squeeze my zit, pop my zit (x4)

When I got exactly what I wanted.

At this time of the year, while we are busy being thankful for what we have, whining for what we want, and rolling our eyes at our crazy families, I like to reflect on Christmases past and the lessons I've learned from them.

Picture it; it was 1989.

Big hair was calming down but the bangs were staying high. Girls' foreheads all over the Western world were being burned on curling irons. Neon colours were still staking their claim on at least 30% of "fashionable" wardrobes, mostly thanks to the likes of Vuarnet logos. No one in my class even knew who Vuarnet was, but we still had to own at least one thing from that brand (even if it was from the Tiger brand store which meant it had a slight imperfection that made its price 60% cheaper). I went there a lot with my mother.

Seriously, who the fuck is Vuarnet? I laugh now that I know . . . 23 years later.
I detest skiing!

Anyway, I was then at the stage that I didn't need toys anymore for Christmas.
I was mature.
I was sophisticated.
I was fashion forward.
I was 11.

All I wanted was this utterly amazing and outrageous winter jacket I had seen on a previous shopping excursion with my mother. I begged and pleaded for this jacket. It would be a statement piece! To channel my inner Ferris Bueller, "It was so choice." And also? It was over $100. My mother had flat out said no. Even at 11, I realized that that was a lot for a jacket, particularly to be worn for someone of my age but all rational thought had escaped me. I was fixated on that jacket and I needed to have it.

I played dirty.

Being the only child of a deceased only child had given me a particular advantage — I was spoiled as hell by my grandparents. Whenever my mother noticed me using my "powers", she'd rip into me like an enraged mama tiger, so I had to learn to be subtle and crafty with suggestions. Except for this jacket. I was ready to accept the heat as long as I could feel that cool textured nylon/polyester blend against my neck.

The first chance I got, I took my grandmother shopping and got her to buy it for me. I remember the adrenaline pumping through my veins as my grandmother handed the shop clerk her credit card. I could hear my heart thumping in my ears; I knew it was wrong but I never once hesitated.

Needless to say that on Christmas morning, when I unwrapped my present from my grandparents, while busy expressing my phony expression of surprise, I glanced at my mother; I could tell I was screwed. She was biting the inside of her lip like she did whenever she was utterly furious with me. I avoided her for most of the day.

The next day, she didn't yell or scream or do much of anything. She just walked passed me while she was cleaning and passively but coldly said, "I am disgusted with you." It was the first time since my whole obsession had begun that my actions really became apparent to me. Ugh.

The worst part was when I wore my new "spoils of war" to school. It really was a statement piece alright. I mean, I was always one of those that enjoyed standing out a little bit . . . but . . . not like a sore thumb. This jacket was a sore thumb.

I instantly hated it — more than I think I've ever hated a single item of clothing, ever.

But I had to wear it. All. Fucking. Winter.

And the year after as well.

T'was a worthy punishment.

Not the exact same jacket but pretty fucking close.

Seriously.

The lesson I learned from that year? Well, I guess it's pretty obvious. Be careful of what you think you want or must have at all costs — it might not be worth who you step on to get it.

A lot like fame, I would surmise.


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{Etsy image source}

The ones left behind

I've had the words spinning around my mind since it happened, making me nauseous. I cannot get them to stop. I have been trying to put them down in some form of organized structure, wanting to get it right. Needing to get it right . . .

Those children. Their parents. The survivors. That town.

I have lived in "that" town.

My neighbors were those parents.

My students were those survivors.

In 1996, I was an obnoxious 18 year old living in a different country and I can honestly say that I don't remember "that day", but 8 years later I moved to that tiny little town which is cozily nestled around the river Allan in beautiful Perthshire, Scotland.

Almost every person I have met (and even to this day, if someone asks), when I told them which town I lived in Scotland, they have reacted with raised eyebrows and have forced out a somber and deflated, "Oh."

And it has been sixteen years now.

It stains a small town forever; the name becomes synonymous with tragedy. All other beauties and triumphs are stolen and that is all that remains — to the outside world looking in, anyway.

I remember being taken aside on my first days of teaching. I was told names of students that had physical (and emotional) scars of which I was to "avoid" mentioning at all costs, and yet it still didn't really sink in. It wasn't until the moment that I actually saw those visible 9 year old scars on my then 17 year old students — that was one of the most difficult moments of my life. Fucking gun shot wounds on these children. I just wanted to pull them close and hug them, but of course, I couldn't do that. And I couldn't cry.

Teacher's college doesn't exactly prepare you for that — but really, is there anything that possibly could?

On the 10 year anniversary of that horrific day there was not an official memorial or gathering, but every resident quietly lit a candle in their windows as a tribute to those 16 children and 1 teacher that have not been forgotten.

And that night, as I walked my dogs around my dark and silent neighborhood, it glowed.

It glowed with sadness.
And love.
And loss.
And hope.

So after the events of Friday, I wept for the people of that town. I wept for a loss that I cannot possibly comprehend. And today, as I write these words, I weep for their future because that, I have lived in.

Who's a Skor Whore? Me!

I did my very first recipe a few weeks ago and I have to say, it was pretty fun -- likely because I suck at cooking most things, but boy, oh boy, I can bake the fuck out of a boxed recipe!

This recipe is as easy as the first one, plus it's a great stress reliever! You'll see why.

I call this one, "Four Skor and 3 dress sizes ago."

You will need:
1 Betty Crocker Butter Pecan cake mix - Oh my God, I didn't even know that existed until I discovered this!
1 bag of SKOR minis (or SKOR bits, or 4 SKOR bars) - If these are hard to get in the USA, well . . . that sucks to be you. Come visit me in Canada and we'll work it out.
1 can of Sweetened Condensed Milk - I will add that my MIL insisted that it be Eagle Brand, I have no fucking idea why, but just thought I'd put that out there. Use another brand and tell me how it goes on the other side of the law, mmmk?
1 chopstick
1 mallet

Aside from these items, you'll need whatever the box tells you. Seriously, you know how this goes. Probably an egg, some oil and usually water or milk. Whatever.

1. Bake the Butter Pecan cake in a tin or something. I like the big flat ones but the circles would work too; it's not like it'll change its molecular structure or anything. **Using PAM or butter is a good idea unless it's a no-stick Teflon surface**

2. While it's baking, empty the SKOR minis into a giant freezer bag. HAMMER THOSE FUCKERS INTO TINY PIECES, like, not into oblivion but good sized little bits. A rubber mallet or meat tenderizer is good to use. Don't break your counter top whilst hammering in a fury. Try not to eat too many bits, but who are we kidding? They are so goddamn good.

3. Then, after the cake is done and while it's still hot, STAB THE MOTHERFUCKING SHIT OUT OF IT with the chopstick or something comparable.

Here's my attempt, but apparently, I could have stabbed it twice as more. Pssfftt. Everyone's a critic.

3. Pour about 2/3 of the sweetened condensed milk over the cake. Again, don't wait too long, do it while it's hot. You can put the entire can on it, if you like -- it' really a personal preference on how "gooey" you like your cakes. I found 2/3 was a good amount.

4. Immediately after you pour that crap over the cake, sprinkle all the SKOR bits you have left over the cake.

5. Calm the fuck down and try to let it cool for an hour or more. I know the smell is making your pupils dilate but if you wait a little while, the milk and chocolate will seep into all of the stab wounds and make it even that much more fabulous.

Enjoy this amazing meal dessert. If it wasn't for the fact that I'm a slave to anything with pumpkin, I would claim that this is better -- but since I am, I'm going to have to say it's a close tie.

Let me know how it goes if you try it!! I love seeing pics, even if they do look like roadkill. Ahem.

x

Chicken for the Tuna

Welcome to WHAT'S YOUR DAMAGE? If you're just tuning in, people send in their problem (anonymous or whatever suits you) and I will do my best to answer in all my dysfunctional glory.

Dear Lady E,

I have always wanted to have a threesome/foursome/moresome. In my head it seems like one of the most exciting things my partner and I can do together. I have been with women before, and found it exciting, but always missing something. That something, of course, is the sausage. I am crazy about the sausage. I love to hit the sushi bar, but I truly miss the raw, unbridled power of the penis.

In the past, I have attempted a threesome with disastrous results. I had been with a woman several times, and the opportunity came up to be with her and her husband. We ran with it. The evening started out great, with drinks and laughs, but once the bedroom time began, the husband was strangely silent, and did everything he could to avoid eye contact. As a seasoned watcher of behavior, I knew right away that this wasn't good. Things never recovered from the initial awkwardness, and I left scarred forever. (Well, mostly). I was single then, so I had nothing to lose by trying it, but it was a pretty unsatisfying experience from my point of view, and I was left feeling very gun shy.

Fast forward a few years, and I have met and married the worlds greatest man, and am finally happy and secure in my life. I am completely fulfilled sexually, and know that my husband digs me above all others. I have 100% trust in him, and never for one second believe he would want to give up what we have together. We are both interested in experiencing a threesome to add another layer of intimacy and fun in our relationship.

Recently, a crazy opportunity presented itself. I was drinking with a very attractive, very sexy new friend who indicated that she hoped our first threesome experience involved her. (JAW DROP). This woman is beautiful, funny, quirky, fun, and generally way, way out of my league personally. I actually can't believe that she said it, and I'm 100% sure she's serious. This all could have gone down THAT NIGHT, but guess who chickened out and ran scared? Yep, me.

I don't know what the FUCK is wrong with me? I do want this. I do trust myself and my husband. I know he's not leaving me. I totally 'get' that this is a shared experience that will be fucking incredible. I WANT TO DO THIS!!!! Why can't I get the hell over my tendency to RUN?!?

Help me Lady E, before I fuck myself out of a sweet threesome opportunity!

Sincerely,

Chicken for the Tuna

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Dear Chicken,

Ohh, Chicken, my dear. I know where you're coming from on this one all too well. I believe that much of our hesitations stem from our own insecurities about ourselves. I have no doubt that you do have a great relationship with your husband and have a genuine desire to share this sensual experience with him, and that's the first hurdle conquered!

Some people will get on their anally retentive high horses and judge, saying that if you're seeking a third that there is something wrong with your relationship, but that's bullshit. People can believe what they want, and we can ignore them profusely.

The one thing we must accept is that we're all strange creatures with varying levels of fuckedupness. To find 3 people that are all on the same level can be quite difficult -- if it was so easy, there'd be a lot more threesomes going on . . . probably. You need to shed that awkward experience you had in the past and realize that it had NOTHING to do with you. Obviously, that guy just wasn't on the same level as you and your lady friend. It does take a special guy that can step up and handle two women at once; I understand how it could be intimidating. Men LOVE the "idea" of having two women at once, but in reality, many of them would take one look and . . . sppppluuurt. (The sound of their brain popping, as well as some other fluids. Ahem.)

I believe we, as woman, are able to "handle" the situation much better, maybe because it's easier for us to contain our enthusiasm, but whatever; our hang ups are much more personal. Even women that appear to have the perfect body still hate something about themselves. Is this a good thing? Of course not, but I just thought I would point that out. If someone (man or woman) has expressed a sexual interest in you while you have your clothes on, it's pretty safe to say that they have a good understanding of what is underneath, bumps, stretchmarks and all. I mean, we aren't exactly freshmen and that's actually what makes us awesome! We know what's important by now, and what's not.

False expectations, silliness and idealizations are rookie mistakes. And we ain't rookies, baby!

It's actually less stressful with a married couple (that are happily secure with each other) rather than 3 singletons because there's no "What if he likes her more than me?" crap. Because, hello! We are female humans and that would totally happen. You already know he loves you more than anything, so relax and enjoy the dual pleasuring.

Going back to the varying levels analogy, just remember that it's NEVER personal. There's some people that will click and some that will not. Who cares! Move on and try again . . . or don't. It is not a big deal. I mean, look how long it took to find the GUY, amiright? Snort. When the timing is right AND the people are right, it will happen and it will be fabulous.

It will be just like watching a really fucking cool planetary alignment, you'll throw your head back and there will be lots of ahhhh's and ooooohhh's.

Good luck with your quest!

And if you ever want to do a trail run, I'll shoot you my number, I mean . . .

Never mind.


Love and smooches,
Lady E.


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Have a question for me about life, love or sex? 
Let me impart my wisdom upon you. Submit here!

1984, bitches!

My mother has finally decided it's time I get the rest of my crap from her basement, much to my husband's horror. On the plus side, I discovered my school treasures dating all the way back to kindergarten. My mom likes to blame all the hoarding on me, but there's no way I started keeping those things from way back then on my own - all neatly categorized in order by year. Ahem!

Anyway, I have been laughing my arse off at my seven year old self for the past two days, so I thought you might as well join in on the ridiculousness that is mini me.

Loving the fake tan and leg warmers, Cyndi!

I don't know about this one, but the accuracy is amazing.

This actually explains a lot . . .

I was scrap booking before scrap booking was cool!

Holy fuck, I really do love winning!

And it appears my artistic abilities peaked in 1984

because I'm pretty sure I still draw sunsets like this:

Magritte can stick this in his pipe and smoke it.

Does this look like a "Bring Your Own Porn" establishment?

If you've been around my blog for a while — or at all, really — you'll know that I like'a the sex. Sex is good. But in saying that, I'm also not a skanked out slag that has no morals or tact; there is a time and place for everything, including porn . . .

When you are dining out in a restaurant is not one of those times!

Ooh, yes. While my good friend was waiting on a table of two moms with their children in tow, she overheard some strange moans coming from the next table, and more specifically from a 50-something man's smart phone. No headphones. Volume turned way up.

They were the sounds of a woman getting filled out like an application, if ya know what I mean - and I think you do. Are you fucking kidding me?

In a public place! Where people are trying to have a nice dinner! My friend, being both appalled and non-confrontational, asked one of the guys from the kitchen to have a word with the man. And here's where it gets even better, because when it was time for my friend to take their order, he had the nerve to complain to her about having been asked to turn off his device! She defended the request, mentioning that it wasn't exactly "appropriate content" for either the staff or other patrons to be overhearing.

And apparently, this guy was either the world's most pathetic liar, or was born yesterday . . . in a bubble, because his defense was, "I didn't know this type of material was on the internet!"

Yeah, right. Just like I had no idea how that bottle of Calvin Klein perfume appeared down my pants when I was fourteen.

Uuuuuuh huh.

So, really. If you know someone that cannot even go out to dinner without pondering ways to thicken their Alfredo sauce, then it might just be time for an intervention . . . or at the very least, please order take away from now on, for fuck's sake!

Ew.


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Completely unrelated!
I had the awesome pleasure in meeting 
Jenn from Fox in the City this weekend. 
Here's her take on how those shenanigans all went down.

(PS. That's totally my West Side gang sign.)



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Because who doesn't love dirty words?

I've only been home with the boys for one week . . . five damn days . . . and I'm already sinking deeper into my shameful, juvenile self-amusement to help pass the time. Don't get me wrong, it's been amazing not being in a RUSH to get anywhere, but of course, I have my moments.

Like this one - since apparently, I cannot be trusted with alphabet beads - I thought I might as well share my warped, yet satisfying word making joy with the rest of you! (And yes, Bearded Iris, I thought of you most of all. And that's why we're friends.)

So here's the deal: There are TEN dirty words in this jumble. THIS IS NOT A FUCKING WORD SEARCH. It's just all the letters of 10 words jumbled together in a hot mess; there are no extra decoy letters, I promise. Get it? Good.

I will give one hint: DOUCHEBAG is not one of the words.

The convenient thing is that just a short while ago, I received TWO copies of Michelle Rumball's new album with a personal "thank you" from her and I'd been meaning to figure out how I was going to give them away. Who's Michelle Rumball, you ask? Remember when I did that video a while back? That's the musician and yes, THAT song is on the album. She's pretty fantastic! If you enjoyed the video, you'll love the album!

So, those are the prizes; and I have twoooo. Enter your 10 word guesses in the comments -- two people who get them all right (or the closest to getting them all right) will get sent this fabulous CD.

Forgot the song? Oooh, here it is . . . (cough, cough, self promotion, cough, cough)

And yes, I was doing all this while the boys were making "I LOVE GRANDMA" bracelets. 

I realize I'm a horrible mother, whatever. 

They can't read yet! 

Ahem.

Top 10 Movies I'm Ashamed to Love

Some horrific movie was on television over the weekend and my husband casually observed, "Isn't that one of those stupid movies that you love?" To which I replied, "Umm, which one? I should have a list . . ." Then lo and behold, a new Top Ten was born, forged in the pit of self loathing and masochism with flecks of premature ejaculations of hopeless romanticism. Yes, that sounds just about right.

10. Sky High. (Rotten tomato meter: 6.5/10)
Honestly, I have no excuse for this movie. It's like the cheesy Disney version of The X-Men but I love it hard; just looking at the movie poster makes me shake my head with shame. The only defending quality I can think of is that they cast Lynda Carter as Principal Powers, and that's fucking awesome.

9. Sister Act (1 & 2). (Rotten tomato meter for 1: 5.7/10, for 2: 3/10)
Goddamn you, Whoopi! I just cannot resist you funkifying all the old church tunes with your more-often-than-not off key "show girl" voice. (PS. If Whoopi Goldberg can pass as a Vegas show girl/headliner, than I'm gonna sign up for the next Victoria's Secret runway show.) Anyways, I wanted to spoon all those adorable supporting actress nuns. And I own both of the soundtracks too. Suck it!

8. Ever After. (Rotten tomato meter: 7.5/10)
I love Drew Barrymore, but by Christ, she was fucking awful in this -- and I barely care. Why? Two main reasons: A. Dougray Scott wears mantards the entire movie and is a proper piece of eye candy, and B. Melanie Lynskey plays one of the step-sisters. You likely know her best as bat shit crazy Rose on Two and a Half Men. Yes, her. She's super funny and lovely in this movie: "Of course not, Mother! I'm only here for the food."

7. National Treasure. (Rotten tomato meter: 5.3/10)
It's Disney doing action; they've got the formula down to a fine art and dammit, it reels me in every time. Even Nicolas Cage (whom my loathing for is only surpassed by one other, and I will get to him later down the list) and his dopey melodramatic epiphanies of problem solving genius don't bother me. It's exciting and I love phony historical action mysteries that are neatly tied into Hollywood bows, perhaps something I shouldn't be okay with, but I really am. It's like the Walmart version of Indiana Jones, and shit, I just love me a bargain!

6. Blast From The Past. (Rotten tomato meter: 6/10)
My husband told me I'd have to put at least ONE Brendan Fraser movie on this list and I had to choose this one. I knew it was going to be fabulously gag-worthy when the main characters are revealed as Adam and Eve, I mean . . . really? However, I think my love for this movie is similar to Sister Act - the supporting actors fucking rock. Christopher Walken, Sissy Spacek and Dave Foley? Just fantastic.  Alicia Silverstone plays pretty much the exact same character as her Clueless's Cher, which is the role she was born to play. I would have put Clueless on this list, but then again, WHO DOESN'T LOVE CLUELESS?

And now I just thought of Brittany Murphy and I'm sad . . .

OK, back to the countdown!

5. Save the Last Dance. (Rotten tomato meter: 5.5/10)
Awe, shit. I'm not even allowed to watch this movie while my husband is in the house; anywhere on the property, actually. I still think it's because he's never gotten over the fact that I've had my ebony and ivory phase, but whatever - he shouldn't have asked if he didn't want to know the truth. HA! I ate up the whole "I'm a ballerina but I have to go live in the 'hood because my mom's dead because of me because I'm a spoiled brat" thing with a giant shovel. And Sean Patrick Thomas? Mmm mmm mmm. (Ssshhhhhh.)

4. Just Friends. (Rotten tomato meter: 5.2/10)
I am a massive Ryan Reynolds fan, and I have been since his Van Wilder days. Me and my Alanis Morissette Scarlett Johansson Sandra Bullock Blake Lively voodoo doll cannot hide this fact. I have to say though, on a more serious note, this movie is pretty much the gender reverse of my life, so I related to it on a very personal level - except my fat suit is fucking fused on! Snort! And if you never watch this movie, you have to at least watch this . . .

3. Constantine. (Rotten tomato meter: 5.5/10)

Fuck you, Keanu Reeves. I hate you so much! But apparently, what I love even more than hating Keanu is freaky religious Apocalyptic shit based on a comic book. I'd be slightly torn if I had to decide who's the better Satan, Peter Stormare in this movie or Viggo Mortensen in The Prophecy, but I might have to lean towards Peter - he's that fucking bad ass. As a warning, I'll admit that this movie drags in and out, and, umm, Keanu being Keanu, but the last 20 minutes are seriously hardcore and it blows my freaking mind. 

2. Bring It On. (Rotten tomato meter: 6/10)

Sigh. Cheerleaders. Double Sigh . . . Awesome. Oh wow. Like totally freak me out, I mean right on! If this movie is on television, I must watch it. I think the husband secretly doesn't mind it either, because of, well, the cheerleaders. But I think the script is hilarious and cleaver -- not to mention that I'm a big Eliza Dushku fan. I might have even called my husband Eliza once or twice, but he didn't mind. Ahem.

1. BioDome. (Rotten tomato meter: 1.8/10)

Yup. It's one of my dirtiest secrets. And I enjoyed Son In-law too. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? I can't even blame myself for clinging to nostalgic tastes from my youth on this one because I just watched it for the first time in years a few months ago and I still laughed my ass off. The scene when the get high on the nitrous oxide is extremely funny to me, along with many other parts that I adore for their utter ridiculousness. But, yes, I'm still kind of embarrassed, and it's one of the main reasons that prevents me from mocking someone who believes that Twilight has any cinematic integrity whatsoever, because . . . BioDome.

And I fucking love it.

"Dennis Hopper Blue Velvet. Oh I'm slutty! Oh I'm slutty!"

~ Bud Macintosh

A blessing in disguise

There was hurt, betrayal, nausea, panic, and the feeling that my life had been ripped right out from underneath me. I imagined an obnoxious douche muppet laughing at me while he held the edges of the rug as I fell, but make no mistake, his identity was clear. Very clear.

Now it's been a few days and I have finally been able to catch my breath. That nauseous pain of looming dread has subsided. I have even been able to sleep a couple nights without angry words swirling around my mind like a screaming motherfucking tornado.

After all that had calmed down, I began to think.
I thought about all the long nights I stayed up to 3am working with no compensation.
I thought about how even working as much as I did, I was still being paid about 20% less than I should have been earning, and had been refused a raise twice.
I thought about how I was guilted into coming off my maternity leave early because they "needed me".
I thought about how I was paying so much for childcare that I could barely afford other essentials, like groceries.
I thought about how I haven't been able to switch off even once since 2007, even on holiday - even on my trip to Australia in 2010, I worked on my laptop every night when I could have been, oooh, I don't know, enjoying my friends that I traveled 22 hours on a plane to see? . . .
I thought about how I even began seeing a therapist because I feel like I was unraveling. Me! The one in the group who "always had it together".

Yes, I have been thinking about all of that and wondering why I had let it go on as long as I did.
Fear, most likely.

But now this fear has been made my forced reality, and do you want to know something? It's not so bad.

I've been angry and stressed out for so long that this fear is nothing more than the sickly little runt of the litter . . . box.

And for the first time since my children were 8 months old, I've been able to play with them -- I mean REALLY play with them -- without all the shit I was going to have to deal with at work the next day running through the back of my mind. Distracted.

After putting up with 5 years of bullshit, my mind in finally clearing and it's pretty damn spectacular.

A Whore Week

Well, here is another Friday that is about to pass this November, and I have to say that from my perspective this month is still kicking my ass. Last week, Thing 1 contracted impetigo, which is like the daycare version of herpes, as far as I'm concerned. Fucking disgusting germ factories, they are - the institutions and the little people inside them. But this all will soon be a distant memory, however, since they will be stopping daycare in a few short days. Why, you ask?

Ohh, because I lost my job. Ya know, no biggie . . .

I mean, holy motherfucking tripping balls.

I realize that it's nothing too huge in the grand scheme of things and that it happens to families every second of every day, but when it happens to you, it really does feel like a giant kick to your stomach.

Mortgage? Debt repayments? Car? Insurance? Groceries? TWO OF FUCKING EVERYTHING?

We were "just" scraping by and were counting down the days when the boys started "free" school in the fall. Well, didn't that grandiose plan just get flushed down the proverbial shitter? I've been employed continuously since my first job as a golf caddie when I was 12, so I'm not quite sure what to do about this whole "not having a job" thing.

I think I'm meant to cook, clean, take care of the child'ens, and shit, right?

Well, fuck me; that sucks.

I commend anyone that can stay home and happily raise their children, it's hard ass work. I know this, but I've also known that it's never been something I would be good at. I will admit that I love my kids the most when I only see them a limited number of house per day. I love working and creating - it is when I'm my best me. And that's the me that is the best me for my kids to have as a mom.

Does that make sense? I'm going to go ahead and assume you said, "Yes!"

And through fights with my work (who are trying to withhold pay that I've earned), to ruining relationships over a decade old, to realizing we'll have to be eating a lot of 27¢ packets of instant noodles for dinner and could very well lose our home, and my son's face is peeling off into crusty bits, I'm trying to focus on the fact that it's all superficial shit at the end of the day. We'll bounce back, eventually.

And maybe I'll get ripped off for the ump-teenth time by the same douche muppet.
And perhaps we'll have to get a different address.
And I'm sure that Thing 1 will survive.

But my friend around the corner is dying.

So yes, I had a fucktastic week that proceeded to bend me over and ram a fat one up me, but it could be worse. It can always be worse.

"Well, I say we get drunk, because I'm all out of ideas." (Metatron, Dogma)

Yup, it's about that time, folks.

Cheers!

Breaking Amish: Illustrated

I've always had issues with the Amish and Mennonite ways of life, ever since I was a teenager and spent a week with a Mennonite family and I was all like, "Your shit is ridiculous!" They fascinate me in an infuriating way. Don't get me wrong, I have issues with pretty much all organized religion, mostly for all the same reasoning: hypocrisy. Anyway, since the first time I saw that there was going to be a show called Breaking Amish, I absolutely knew that I would have to watch every episode. With the controversy that it's mostly "staged" (aren't all "reality" shows staged?), I take it with a grain of salt, but there are some core conflicts about the Amish way of life that have been addressed -- ones that drive me to literally eat my hair (I do that when I'm stressed; I realize it's disgusting, let's move on, shall we?). I thought instead of streaming a list of complaints, I made some illustrations for your viewing pleasure . . .

And that's all I really have to say about that.

What's Your Damage? 2.0

Welcome to the very first edition to WHAT'S YOUR DAMAGE? on this blog. I did a trial run over at Change The Topic and it seemed to have gone over pretty well, so here we all are on a brand new day and brand new issue. If you still have zero idea what the hell I'm talking about, basically, someone writes in their problem and I will do my best to answer using my plethora of bullshit knowledge about useless things.

Dear Lady E,

I have been married for 5 years, 5 months and with my husband for almost 8 years. We are best friends and very happy together and have a 3 year old son. I have a friend, a guy friend, who I've known for a little over five years. We've always been good friends but in the last several months I have developed a raging crush.

My husband knows how I feel and, honestly, he feels threatened because my guy friend and I would make a good couple if I were single and my husband is afraid I'm going to leave him for my friend. I'm not going to ever leave my husband but I have expressed a physical interest in my friend and my friend has expressed the same about me. My husband is an amazing man and has been very understanding of my... needs? desires? ... in the past. 

I made out with a good female friend a few months before my husband and I got married, and I also made out with a female acquaintance last New Year's. I understand his reticence and I also understand that my interest in a long-term male friend changes things quite a bit. But it still remains that my friend and I have feelings for each other. 

All 3 of us may be going to a party next month and it's pretty much a given that if he and I start drinking that something is going to happen. I'm not sure what to do but I am now dreaming about him and it's really on my mind. I really need any advice you can give me.

Sincerely,
Wanting all the Cake

----------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Wanting,

Dooooode! The first thing I have to say after initially reading this is WHY THE FUCK DID YOU TELL YOUR HUSBAND ABOUT THIS CRUSH? I mean, perhaps some might applaud the honesty that you have with each other, but I'm going to have to side with my very wise mother on this one and say that they are just some things that are best left as secrets; secrets that are to be offered up as sacrifices to the "marital preservation gods". No matter how great we think our relationships are, everyone has insecurities . . . especially men. It's mostly because of their egos, but whereas men are almost "expected" to have a wandering eye over the years, if they see that their wives are viewing other men as being sexually desirable, it freaks them right the fuck out! Holy hell, I made the mistake about telling my husband about a man that I had a thing for (who is somewhat local and obtainable) and it still bothers him and it happened before-we-were-even-together. Imagine if I told him about all the guys that I've literally ached to take a ride on since we've been married? Forget about it. I'm just pretty damn proud of myself for always calling out the right name during sex. Ahem.

A woman's heart is as deep as an ocean, and many things should be left to lurk through the darkest depths, like sea cucumbers. But since that ship has long since sailed for you, these are a few scenarios that you need to work though and consider.

Scenario A
Your husband realizes that this is just an itch you must scratch and gives you a "hall pass". Afterwards, everyone is happy and you go about thriving in your marriage. Your husband will never carry resentment towards you and everything will be perfect. Also, ice cream now helps people lose weight and a cure for cancer has been discovered.

Scenario B
Your husband realizes that this is something you need but still wants to be a part of it, so he agrees to a threesome, having you in the middle of a handsome sandwich and your new nickname shall henceforth be Fingercuffs. Also, ice cream now helps people lose weight and a cure for cancer has been discovered.

Scenario C
You need to put your big girl panties on and have a serious soul search within yourself about what you want in your future. This is made much more complex since a child will also be affected by your decisions/actions. Is having sex with this other man more important than keeping your son's family together? I'm not even being facetious when I ask that. Sometimes the answer is yes, sometimes it's no. There's a reason why over 50% of marriages end in divorce - they don't call it the "Seven Year Itch" for nothing - but you need to decide what is best for you. It seems like you do not want to leave your husband, so you're likely going to have to do what I do: Get a dildo and secretly name it after the other guy so you can scratch your itches that way. Maybe not seeing your friend quite as much would also help, which TRUST ME, when you have an addiction, it sucks trying to distance yourself from him, but it's really for the best - even if just for a little while. Marriage is (usually) for a long time and this probably won't be the only time something like this will happen, so you're going to have to learn how to deal with it when it does.

Also, if you're genuinely concerned that you won't be able to control your urges while you are drinking, there is really one easy solution to that - don't fucking drink. "But baby, I was drunk!" hasn't been allowed as a valid excuse for sexual indiscretions since your freshmen year at college (or your 21st birthday, whichever came first).

And on that note, I wish you all the very best in your itch scratching, however which way you choose to do it.

Love and smooches,
Lady E

And you answered

Life can deal some terrible tragedies.

From that comes unity.

Community.

Love.

I want to tell each and every one of you

That have shown support and charity

To someone that they've never even met,

That you have truly moved me.

Life keeps moving,

We carry on and do what we must

But for some families, it freezes in a moment

And then everything changes.

When I first thought to raise some money

I was thinking in terms of weeks,

Not days.

You have amazed me.

It isn't much in the grand scheme of things, 

But it will surely help.

And with my utmost sincerity,

  I thank you all.

A special plea

Today I found out some news. The kind of news that punches you in the gut and burns your skin from the inside out. A friend of mine has been given 6 months to a year to live. She battled breast cancer in the past and won . . . but it's come back now like a vengeful whore.

It's not supposed to happen like this.

She is just like me - a young mother in her early thirties. Her son is my boys' best friend in their entire world. He knows that his mommy is sick and he's scared and sad; he's only 3.

And she has twins that just celebrated their FIRST birthday last month.

It's not supposed to fucking happen like this.

I have always claimed that I wish my father lived at least for a short while after I was born so we could have shared something, anything; 1 year, 6 months, 3 weeks even. These children will have had that time but it still doesn't make a damn difference. When they grow up, they will not remember who their mother was, and that wrenches my heart to the point where I can barely breathe. And I don't know how she can even get up every morning knowing that will be the fate of her own children.

They will have photographs and foggy segmented memories, but they will not have their mom.

She doesn't know that I have this blog or that I'm writing this, but I need to do something. I told her that I could have her son stay over whenever she needs a break; I need to do more. She couldn't even go back to work because what's the point? She just finished her maternity leave 3 weeks ago! GAH.

So here's what I want to do. I want to raise $1500 for her, which would work out to be 2 months of childcare for her eldest son, so he can continue to be with his friends, as well as alleviate some stress from her at home. It's not much, but I'm hoping it's what I can do for her and her family.

Now, after factoring in web server costs (etc), I've never made a dime from this blog (and I'm fairly broke) but I'm okay with that -- this just means that I need a favor. It will be the only thing I'll ever ask from you, my readers. Even if only 10% of you give ONE DOLLAR, I can reach my goal! All you have to do is click on this donate button and it will go directly to a PayPal payment page. Easy! I've also added one of those cheesy-assed thermometers to track my goal.

Sadly, time really isn't a luxury with this. 
Please help today!

Scratch is for suckers!

This is the first time I've ever posted a recipe on this blog (or anywhere, ever) for one main reason - I fucking hate cooking. I pretty much suck at it, except for the odd dessert. Imagine that. Ahem.

I'm actually not bad at taking a mix or instant food and altering it into something fabulous. Whether or not that can be deemed an actually skill or not is probably open for debate. In what will be most likely a VERY rare event (and because I've made this particular dessert 3 times now) I am going to share it with you; I call it . . .

"Better than a blowjob pumpkin cake with butter cream that makes you scream"

The first thing you'll need straight away is one of these puppies . . .

Shameless? Most definitely.

As it says on the back of the box, you'll need:
3 eggs
2 tablespoons oil
And even though it says 1 1/3 cups water, ignore that shit and only use 1 cup.

Why, you ask? Don't ask questions, just do it!

You will also need:
1 cup canned pumpkin puree (Because really, like I'm going to get fresh pumpkin. Pssfft.)
2 teaspoons cinnamon (Plus a little extra for sprinklage on top of the icing.)
3 teaspoons nutmeg (I love nutmeg, but obviously you can use less if you didn't come out to play with the big kids.)
1/2 cup golden raisins (Raisins optional, although don't be a pussy and just add them, mmk?)

And of course, Duncan Hines Butter Cream Ready-Serve Icing.

1. Do all the shit it says on the back of the box. For real, I'm not re-typing it out.
2. Then add the pumpkin, spices and raisins.
3. Pour it into whatever tin you have available and follow the cooking times on the box.
4. Sit your ass down, watch TV and enjoy how your house gradually starts to smell seriously fucking awesome.

I feel you've pretty much got it from here, but anyway . . .

5. When it's done, let it cool down. Obviously.
6. Spread that butter creamy goodness all over the cake.
7. Eat the leftover icing straight from the container.
7. Sprinkle some cinnamon on top for a little pizzazz.
8. Stuff your face with way more than what's considered the recommended serving.

And there you have it!

Please let me know if it does, in fact, live up to its namesake and it gets you out of having to perform any oral favors. If it's anything like my house, the pumpkin will win. Every time.

Hard Lessons & Broken Records

I began writing this with a heavy heart since recent events have left me quite speechless — which I will be the first to admit that it doesn't happen often. It is one thing to bully someone to the point where they take their own life; it is an entirely new level of hell that one is striving towards when you continue to mock and disparage that person after they have died. What is the motherfucking point of spitting gas on a fire that has been extinguished? It's disgusting and sociopathic, if you ask me.

You want to know the one time I would slap my own teen? If I found out that he was contributing to that fucking mess, that's when. Just in knowing that we, as a generation, have raised these kids to hold such little value and honor in other people's lives makes me physically nauseous. And what does that mean for our future as a society . . .

I clearly remember incidents when I was in middle school where the "mob mentality" would take over and 4, 5, 6 people would bully and laugh at a single person until they cried or ran away. Can is still be called a "mob" when everyone is isolated in the comfort of their own middle class rooms, sitting nicely behind a computer? Fucking cowards.

I know there has been a plea for all these mindless douchebags to stop posting negative comments about the deceased girl and to "think what they are doing." But that's just it — they do not think. They believe it's all fucking hilarious and they won't see the err of their ways for likely another 5 years to even a decade. And for the REALLY thick ones, it won't sink in until they, themselves, become parents (which is ironic considering those are the people that give me a strong "pro" argument for involuntary sterilization).

And like a broken record, I am once again expressing that this is one of the key reasons I had to resign from teaching high school. SO MANY TIMES I just wanted to kick them hard in their asses and say, "You're a fucking asshole. Don't be an asshole!" These thoughts mostly came about while I was sweeping ripped out hair that covered the floor outside my classroom from the latest fight which usually involved two (or more) 12 year old girls trying to kill each other over the affections of a 12 year old boy who's balls hadn't even dropped yet.

I realize that it's a different social climate than 20 years ago (when I was 14), but mean bullies have been around for thousands of years – it's in our human nature – not one of our more admirable traits, but there it is. Call it insecurity; call it ignorance; call it over-inflated entitlement; hell, you can even call it Darwinian, but it's always been there - it's just the medium that keeps changing and evolving, each ugly head being more hideous and cruel than the last.

These are 5 ways to defeat a bully, and all five (in one way or another) are ways I have personally done to overcome the suck ass years that we have all had to battle though:

1. Ignore them. Getting upset is what gives them a hard on. Don't give them that pleasure! They'll likely be pumping your gas in 10 years (or doing nothing but playing video games and reminiscing about how  cool they were in high school and living in the basement apartment of their parents' mansion well into their thirties), so who the fuck cares if they call you a nasty name? Let them have their moment - it might be one of the few they get in their sad, little lives.

2. Beat them at their own game. They post something about you? Post something about yourself that's even funnier. This also goes back to #1. If you cause a stink about it, it will snowball into something that will get out of control until you feel you can't breathe. They will feed on that like starving vultures.

3. Punch them in their fucking face. OK, so this is probably frowned upon the most, but I gotta say, it worked for me . . . twice. Same dude; he wasn't so bright. And he grew up to be a Minor League hockey drop out and date rapist, so really, I don't regret assaulting him for a single moment.

4. Leave. Strategically, it's not the easiest solution, but if you're simply just fed up with their douchebaggery, change schools. It's best to not make a public event about it or else it will just follow you to your next school. And obviously, having a car helps. The further you can go, the better, because assholes have spies. I moved schools twice, although it wasn't from a specific bully per se, but there were a lot of asshats that just really annoyed me.

5. Become a fabulous success. I'm still working on this one, ahem, but success as revenge is (I think) just about the best incentive/motivation to do good things in your life. Take something negative and let it be the driving force to do something positive! Rise above their stupid, juvenile bullshit and take solace in knowing that after you graduate, you will be stronger because of it. You have the choice to close that door behind you and never look back. Killing yourself accomplishes nothing. Start over with a new phase of your life and have some goddamn fun. Blog about it, for fuck's sake!

Whatever we need to do to help process the fact that we lived through the bullshit and came out the other end . . . a little dirty but still alive - kind of like when Andy escaped through the raw sewage and into the fresh water in Shawshank Redemption.

Yup, that's high school.

The Whitney Season 1 DVD is available now folks and people who were mean to me in high school.
— Whitney Cummings (@WhitneyCummings) October 9, 2012

Yes, Whitney, exactly this.

I think a show on NBC prime time is just about thee very best way to tell your bullies that you are absolutely awesome. Everyone else can suck it!

And to all the victims and their families that have had to experience a tragic ending, my heart truly aches for you because it should never have to end like that.

My Top 10 Soundtracks

I did my Top 10 Albums before, but there were a few that I purposely left out of the list and even from the honorable mentions because I believe they deserved an entirely different list: Soundtracks. They are usually an eclectic arrangement of songs that embody the movie; it is an art form all by itself. There are many that have one or two songs but the rest can be a bit vague, but some are simply brilliant, from beginning to end. Here are my favorites:

10. The Crow - It's dark but has some pretty awesome songs from The Cure, Stone Temple Pilots, NIN and Rage Against the Machine, to name just a few.

9. Mallrats - I don't know what I like better, the songs or the dialogue segments in between them. They all consist of "deep and meaningful" observations from Jason Lee, JEREMY LONDON (cough, cough) or Jason Mewes taken from the movie.
"But they're engaged."
"Doesn't matter. It can't happen."
"Why not? It's bound to come up."
"It's impossible. Lois could never have Superman's baby. Do you think her fallopian tubes could handle his sperm? I guarantee she blows a lobe like a shotgun right through her back."

8. The Lion King - I had to put one in here, and although I have most of the Disney movies' soundtracks, if I had to choose just one, it would have to be this one. No contest. Hakuna Matata.

7. Dirty Dancing - The odd thing about this soundtrack is that practically all of the songs, on their own, I would NEVER have listened to, but since they're in this movie, all I can picture is Baby & Johnny and my heart melts. Sylvia? Yes Mickey!

6. Singles - Two words: Seattle grunge.

5. Pump Up The Volume - Wave of Mutilation. Picture it: It's the late 80s and Christian Slater is on top of the world.

4. Bram Stoker's Dracula - It seems as though I could never study with music that contains lyrics because I just start singing along and lose all concentration, so I used this soundtrack all throughout University as my study music . . . and for some sexy times, of course.

3. Pulp Fiction & Reservoir Dogs - Sorry, but these two go together; they always will.

2. William Shakespeare's Romeo + Juliet - Some pretty awesome songs on here - a really well put together, kick-ass album that pounds throughout the movie like hallucinogenic drugs screaming through your veins.

1. Moulin Rouge - I quote movies in my every day vocabulary... a lot. But this is a movie that recycles songs to express their feelings? Oh my lord, that's just taking it to a whole new level. Plus, Ewan McGregor is singing - I can't see anything else topping that; neither can Mr. Purple. AHEM.

Honorable Mentions:
If Lucy Fell - They used the entire album by Marry Me Jane as their soundtrack. If you like Alanis Morrisette and Sheryl Crow, Marry Me Jane is wedged nicely in between them. Fabulous!

Shine - If I'm ever in a Classical mood, I'll put in the soundtrack to this movie. I thought Geoffrey Rush was brilliant in this movie, and the piano solos took my breath away, especially the 'Flight of the Bumble Bee' scene in the restaurant.

Heathers - Yes, there is a soundtrack. It is all instrumental and completely consists of 80s synthesizer riffs. If you love the movie, as I do, (that especially means you, SAHMlovingit) you will laugh so hard at all the dramatic tsh-tsh-tsh...ka-ka-ka's throughout the arrangements. I must admit, I don't really listen to it, but it's one I'm glad that resides in my collection.


Which ones would make your list?

Bay-bay. May-bay?

I have a confession. When I shop alone, I often go to the "family planning" section to parooze all the flavored lubes and massage oils that I can't afford. It's just something I like to do – maybe to keep myself in the loop, I don't know. Anyway, the other day I was in the shop doing what I do when I came across a product that I hadn't seen before. It's called Zestica and it's meant to help with fertility. The product itself wasn't what caught my eye (because seriously, I don't need fertility help) but it was the main product benefit that raised my eyebrow. See exhibit A that I found on their website:

Umm, yeah. So, sperm collection, eh? I thought that was done into a sterile plastic cup, or, hummm, I don't know... A VAGINA? Could you imagine walking into a fertility clinic with a knotted up used condom and saying, "Here ya go, Doc. I'd like to make a baby with what's in here." Eww.

The other issue I have is . . . why are they talking about condoms at all?

Using condoms while trying to conceive is as dumb as, ohh, I dunno... USING CONDOMS WHILE TRYING TO CONCEIVE? Snort.
— Lady Estrogen (@ladyestrogen) September 28, 2012

As far as I'm concerned (or maybe it's because I watch too much television), but there's only one other "logical" reason why this product would ever be used in conjunction with condoms, and it looks a little something like this... 

Yeah, that's what I thought.

First World Problems & Some Crack

Holy hell! The last seven days have been a flurry of craziness. First, there was my sexting drama, experiencing racism in my town, and getting my boobs squished. Then we lost cable, including 2 whole hours of television watching that I'll never get back; and finally, tipping the balance was when I found out that these pants are being sold to the general public - and NOT in a Halloween'ish, ironic sort of way . . .

If I had to choose, I would actually prefer if every woman on earth wore tights as pants than to see one woman wearing these (and that's saying a lot), especially with those hooker heels. I think my exact words were:

And now I'm seeing leopard print Peggy Bundy pants in the new arrivals. What the fuck ass year is this?
— Lady Estrogen (@ladyestrogen) October 2, 2012

So while I'm busy recuperating from these horrendous crimes against my senses, please check out my guest posts this week. I'm in TWO places, so pick your poison or if you really love me, choose both!

1. I'm In The Powder Room today, talking about my post "multiples pregnancy" body and all the glorious ways it's fucked up . . . in the most humorous way possible.

2. My good friend Q over at ThankQ is basking in the sun right now and asked me to hold down his virtual fort. I am ranting about teen pregnancy, but more specifically when they are barely teens themselves. My boxing gloves are thrown down and it's bare knuckle time. Gah!

And to all of my Canadian homies reading this, I hope everyone has a fabulous Thanksgiving weekend, full of gluttony and complete invasions of personal space by drunk relatives. I shall leave you with a special Thanksgiving message that can only be expressed properly by Adam Heath Avitable. (Warning: You might never be the same after clicking this link.)

Enjoy!

When Sexting Goes Bad

If you follow me on The Twitter, you might see me dropping a "sexting" joke every now and then, and you might be surprised (or not at all surprised) that it's usually coming from truth, not make believe smartassery. The truth is, I enjoy sexting. And a hipster can come over and fellate my USB stick, because I've been a sexter before it was called "sexting". I began this hobby over a decade ago, when I first started dabbling in online dating and it was then called "cybersex". After the initial flirting went well, good old MSN handles were exchanged and often things turned into some steamy internet chats.

AND I LOVE IT.

I simply enjoy expressing my sexuality through words. I realize that many people don't get anything out of it, and some find it repugnant, but I think it's fabulously good, clean fun.

There's always been the on-going debate about what constitutes "cheating" when you have a spouse and what doesn't. Meh. Obviously, I'm on the "doesn't" side (there's bigger fish to fry in this life as far as I'm concerned), but I realize that my view isn't gospel, so whatever. Chacun à son goût. I will say that that whole scandal with Anthony Weiner was laughable to me . . . and not just because of his unfortunate last name.

I just hope that if I ever run for public office that all my sexting photos DO come out because for every one that I've sent, I've taken at least 10 to get just the right angle, so I know they all have my boobs looking smokin' hot, so bring it on! "Vote for me. You've seen my DD's. Yee-haw!" I mean, isn't that why people bother listening to Jenny McCarthy? Ahem.

Anyways, this means that over the last 10 YEARS or so, I have had (needless to say), many online/virtual friends. M-A-N-Y. Some lasted for a few weeks or even months, and some were one time anomalies, kind of like in real life relationships, really. Things in my personal life would change or get hectic and I wouldn't sext anyone for months, but everyone had been cool with boundaries and space and above all . . . HINTS of nonavailability . . .

UNTIL LAST WEEK.

It started out like any other sexting exchange and it was great! And then he texted again the next day. And again. And again. And again at fucking ridiculous times in the middle of the night, which I had told him once before wasn't cool with me. Here's two vital tips for all you guys out there:

1. If a woman doesn't respond to 3 texts in a row, just stop. 3 is good number. She either isn't interested or she's dead. Either way, you ain't going to get to see her posing her supple breasts for you, so just drop it.
2. When a woman gives you one simple rule, don't fucking break it. Period. 

In the nicest way I possibly could, I told him he was coming on a bit strong and I just can't be available for sexy times as much as he would like me to me. I mean, com'on! I know I have an overly active sex drive, but between work and family and my seemingly constant illnesses, my window for opportunities are slim, to say the least. (And this would mark the SECOND time I had had to tell him this as well, apparently not stopping his daily texting frequency whatsoever.)

That is about the time when he went off on a tangent that would rival both my 3 year olds put together, and mentioned to me that I had slipped into "cunt mode" and that I was nothing but a "fat, unhappy housewife".

A. It's MRS. CUNT DRAGON to you, douche muppet. Buy the fucking mug.

B. I replied with, "Actually, I'm a fat, moderately happy professional wife, to be clear."

And then I blocked him from my life, because HELLO, CRAZY. I could very well have shot back with personal attacks about him (which would have been eeeasy), but I wasn't going to lower myself to that or waste my time with a Stage Five Clinger. I guess I should feel lucky that it's taken this long for someone THAT thick to come into my virtual life and get all psycho up in my beh'ness. 10 YEARS. This is my first cray-cray in ten fucking years. If by some off chance he is reading this, I think you need to chick-it-y check yourself before you wreck yourself!

Also, being my very first peer to verbally abuse me by stooping so low as to making fun of my weight SINCE I HAVE BEEN IN MIDDLE SCHOOL, I feel like he really deserved his own award, don't you think? Something like this . . .

And I made another one, because they were actually quite therapeutic

and I couldn't choose between the two.

I though the "housewifey" rubber glove giving the ASSHOLE sign was rather poetic.

I have no idea why this guy is still single . . .

Anyways, all the best!

Smiting you,

Lady E