The Vibrator Terminator

Alternative title: Patent Pending, Motherfuckers!

A few months back I was using my favorite little vibrating USB-charged "fairy" to top up my needs... as one often does... and everything was going as usual.

Buzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzz. Ohhh yes. Buzzzz zzzzzzzzz zzzzzzz.

And then, all of a sudden...

Buzzzzz kurmuhhhhhh ffffffggggggghhhh.

Dead from the neck down. Snapped right at the bendable hinge like Christopher Reeve off a horse.

Hubs is laying beside me (yeah, you heard me) and he perked up, "Whoa. That didn't sound good."

"No! It did not. QUICK! Please get me my back up vibrator in the bathroom." And that is how the first toy bit the big one. Then last week, I was using "the back up" and after it had done a satisfactory job, I was cleaning it when I noticed a tear in the bendable hinge on THIS one too. What the fuck?! All the wires were exposed. I can pretty much say that this one was now ready to be put to pasture.

I told hubs and he was all like, "You're a fiend. What the hell do you do to them?!"

Umm.. you're right there beside me watching television - you should know. But seriously - I don't "overly" use or abuse them; in all actuality, I would probably put my average at once a week. Some weeks are more, but then I may go 2-3 weeks without even thinking about it. (Must be when I'm ill or something, but it does happen.)

Problem is that I do really like the firmest pressure going under and up. I'm assuming that's why these hinged designs exist already, but the issue is that the hinge is extended so far that I guess it snaps. I realize that every lady is a little different, but for me? That right there is the spot for me.

Up and over-extended. Ooh yes, indeed.

So, my question is: Why aren't they just in that position to begin with? It would be extremely time efficient, not to mention ergonomically beneficial to my wrists and mild Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.

OK. So, it might look like a Lacrosse stick just humped a Smurf, but I'm hoping you get the idea. I just got a pen for my Android and it's still a learning curve as far as drawing on it goes. Whatever, I digress.

It would hook around and up against my Mini Venus Penis and not need to do any of that tedious bending and straining. Win! So, if you ever see one of these on the market from this day forth, you'll know where they stole the idea from. THIEVING FUCKERS! If it already exists, screw that - I'm claiming ignorance. Mine is definitely better.

On another note, 4 days after my second vibrator broke I was contacted by a sex toy company to review a product. Bring it on! Just waiting for the Canada Post to deliver it to me, hopefully without any limbs. 

And that's how the gods talk to me, I'm sure of it.

And I shall be a champion.

Before I begin, I should perhaps note some kind of disclaimer so I don't get hell's fury rained down upon me.
Texting while driving is bad; don't do it.

OK, now that THAT is over...

I think they're right to make texting while driving illegal because most people can't do it properly. I mean, come on, I remember when car phones first came out (actual portable ones, not the ones from the 80s) and people couldn't even talk and drive - AND THAT IS WHEN THEY STILL HAD BOTH EYES ON THE ROAD. I often wondered if those people had trouble eating and breathing at the same time. Life's tough for many, I know.

Just like only certain people who are really good at driving fast are allowed to do so on a race course as a competitive sport, I think there should be a "distracted drivers" circuit... and of course, I would be the Mario An-fucking-dretti of said circuit, just with nicer boobs and my penis is detachable.

Here is my proposed course and the particular challenges, of which all of them I would ROCK. Hercules can take his 12 labors and push them out his coccyx. Here's where it's at...

1. Off to a good start and then WHOA! I see you, first corner. You're of no consequence to me.

2. Motherfucker pulled out from a hidden driveway. Yeah, I saw that right in between my texts of "yr so funny" and "c u soon".

3. LEFT TURN. Switched the phone to my right hand as I crank that wheel and text like an ambidextrous rockstar.

4. School bus stopped to pick up kids. How could I NOT see that giant yellow bus. Fucking amateurs.

5. I laugh in the face of a roundabout. See? I just texted: "LOL" while going around it.

6. Stop light? Well, we're on a course, so I'm just going to go ahead and ignore that one, mmmk?

7. Cyclists! Your attempt at thinking you're equal to a motorized vehicle is amusing. If you had your mobile on, I would text, "Go fuck yrslf in the bicycle lane" as I drive past you at twice the speed.

And yet, through my anger, I maintain focus and no less than two bars on my 3G network.

8. Thirty year old skateboarder?! OK, so I just took him out, but that was on purpose. Deduct points, if you must. I shall come back after the race and wrap an Element t-shirt around the poll with a wreath, and simply write, "Sk8r 4eva".

9. Oh, what's this? A rail crossing? I'll speed up and fly over that shit with my gigantic beast of metal and car seats. 

10. Wow, that's a tight one! (That's what he said). And yet, although violently laughing at my own joke, I handle that corner with ease as I text to a friend, "Yr gonna love this 1. Ha!"

And after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, I'll win the race - and they will pour breast milk all over me as I hoist the trophy over my head, (but it would be the pump n' dump breast milk crap from a woman that did a shit load of vodka & Kahlua shots the night before, so what's being poured all over my body is essentially a White Russian).

Like I would take viable breast milk intended for an actual baby. Pisshhha. I'm not a monster.

But still...the moral of this story? IS THAT I WIN.

Boobies, boobies... rah rah rah!

In honor of it being LGBT week, I wrote about the first time I experienced a same-sex couple and my reactions that followed. Please check it out - I am kinda proud of this one and shit...

Shhh. I don't say that often. It's much more fun mocking myself.

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Secondly, I was informed of an awesome charity with a bit of pizzazz. I know there's loads of Breast Cancer charities, but when I saw the wrist bands for this one, I laughed out loud... and then proceeded to buy four.

Also, I've got a weakness for cleaver branding and company names, like The Keep A Breast Foundation.
Oh my gawd. I love it!

As I've mentioned in the past that my mother is a breast cancer survivor, which makes up one half of the charities I support with my whole heart (ironically, the other half being Heart & Stroke, having lost my father to heart disease). That wasn't meant to be funny, it just came out that way. You get the idea.

But seriously, how cool are these? And really... who doesn't love motor boating?!

Also in this set? NICE JUGS, FUNBAGS and NICE MELONS.

If you want to support this charity in a fun way and wear something a little cheeky, you can buy them here.

Who knows, perhaps I'm the last person in North America to hear about this foundation, 

but I thought I'd share my excitement anyway. 

YAY FOR BOOBIES!

I will soon be rolling in it...

Whoa! I just got back from three long-ass fucking days away with the family. (I realize if I dashed that differently, it would have been "three long ass-fucking days", but that is just to illustrate to everyone just how squirrelly my brain is right now.)

Plus, I don't do that, remember? 
Ahem.

So, last week my grandmother called me to tell me she had some money for me. She said it was specifically to be used for gardening supplies. Before she went into the retirement home, I would go to their home every May long weekend and help do all their spring planting. Yes, yes, aren't I a sweet granddaughter? Please try not to gag on all my sugar, okay?

I'm not a complete selfish bitch and I didn't go "just" because she mentioned money - although I'm sure I'd run faster if it was dangled in front of me with a fishing rod. Forget the damn carrot! I went to visit because it was Mother's Day as well, so I was multitasking.

And here's the money I got...

Not. Fucking. Kidding.

Did you count it? It's Nine dollars...

AND TWO PENCE.

I can't make shit up like that even if I tried. Comedy gold. Screw gardening! I'm going to keep this for the boys' college fund. Isn't copper in demand these days?

Anyhow, thanks Grandma. You always know just what I need.

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Also, if you like jewellery (or have a special someone who does) stop by Multitasking Mumma to enter a contest to win some FROM ME. That's right... you heard me! I've been making some pendants and earrings along with a friend of mine, because apparently I need MORE to do with my time.

CHECK IT OUT! I MADE IT ESPECIALLY FOR YOU BLOGOPHILES :)

xox

I'm a Cyst'a

For as long as I can remember, I have had cysts. I'm a cyst'y bitch all over.

I have polycystic ovaries.
I have fibrocystic breasts.
I have cystic acne.
And I have pelvic lymphocysts.

For most women, they will tell you that experiencing childbirth is when you lose all dignity - with your legs in the holsters and no less than 2 people looking up close and personal at your steaming snatch. And I ain't talking about ménage à trois here, people! In my case there were 7, but who's counting...

Well, for me it was a long, long time before that.

Let's completely ignore the fact that I had 12 interns present at my first pap smear at 14, all staring intently and taking notes as the chosen student proceeded to insert the vaginal retractor IN-COR-RECT-LY. Yes, that's right. I know you're all crossing your legs right now - and so you should. It was NOT a pleasant experience. Every time I've heard the line, "This is a teaching hospital" on shows like ER or Grey's Anatomy, I have done an involuntary Kegel. Fucking students.

So, indeed, let's all forget that.

But if it wasn't from that, then it would be from the two dozen times I have had a lymphocyst bordering dangerously close to my holy grail that was so painful that I couldn't walk. Then in 2006, one impacted so badly that I had to have an emergency operation... while my then current fiancé was back in Canada for a cousin's wedding. I had to call him from my cell phone on pain killers to tell him I was in the hospital. Plus, we didn't really know anyone well enough to call to help me in the UK, so I had to look up my neighbor's phone number and get his adult son's wife (that I barely knew) to come and drive me home after the surgery. It was a humbling experience, to say the least.

Try explaining THAT one to a bunch of nosy pupils that all wanted to know why I had been off school for 4 days and am now limping. Why, Miss, why, Miss, why, why, why?

BECAUSE I JUST HAD MY MEAT CURTAINS OPERATED ON - HAPPY NOW?!

(You must be shocked to know that that was my final year teaching. Uh huh.)

So I have done everything to try to help with these cysts. I've changed my clothing. My detergent. My soap. I've lost weight. I've gained weight. I've soaked in tubs with Epsom salts. I've seen dermatologists, homeopaths, plastic surgeons, you name it. Nothing has made them occur any less frequent.

I had a doctor recently nonchalantly tell me that all I would need to do was lose weight - because the old scaring that would indicate exactly how long I've had this issue was apparently irrelevant. So that doctor could take his 'professional opinion' and go eat a dick.

Thankfully, my husband is very understanding and is so used to my occasional giant band-aid that he barely even notices now. He's explained my condition in the most perfect way:

"It's not the cave that brings the real estate down, it's the neighbors."

If I ever find myself back in the dating game for whateverthefuck reason (I like to be prepared), I would most definitely have to add that to my profile description.

What's so fun about dignity anyway?



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This post was inspired by the TMI chatter that I just love so much over on The Twitter -
with the lovely Momofthreeunder, jlweinberg and kdwald.

~Muah~

Owning My Lame

Recently, someone I know mistook a 'tongue and cheek' comment on my twitter as a personal attack. I don't know what's more upsetting - the fact that someone I know and love took any of my hyper-dramatized rantics (yeah, I just made a new word) in place of reality, or the fact that I now know that people parooze my timeline without following me. DUDE! If I wanted cyber stalkers, I'd much prefer ones that want to have sex with me.

Just sayin'!

Oh, and one more thing...

If any of you follow me on The Twitter, you know I spew out a lot of shit - and yes, much is directed at family members - but that's the place to vent and have some fun. Take a couple steps back from our stressed out, often ridiculous lives and type out some shots... and then 10 seconds later, it's buried and gone into the Twittersphere's abyss of endless words and emoticons.

If people truly follow my tweets, you would know that out of my almost 30,000 tweets, I'd say that about 25,000 are self-deprecating. And I'm OK with that. I find it rather entertaining and I don't take any of my personal insults... well... personally.

And I don't do it because I am cool with self loathing, because I'm not. Au contraire; I think I'm awesome, but I am able to laugh at all the lame things I do and say and watch and feel.

I think people would be A LOT less susceptible to hurt feelings, and even bullying, if we could all be more self aware about our qualities and actions that are perhaps a little bit quirky. Instead of curling into millions fetal positions all across the world while we get metaphorically kicked in the nuts with words, we should laugh along with them and say, "Yeah, OK. Ya got me. I know it's lame but I love it. So. Fucking. What."

Then, what would or could they do?

Nothing.

 So, here are a few things of mine that I totally realize range from mildly lame to completely ridonk!

1. I watch Days of Our Lives AND Young & the Restless every gawd damn day.
Ask me something - whatch'you wanna know? I got your updates or back stories for the last 20 years, like an over achieving drug dealer... except with far fetched plot lines.

2. I own two pairs of Crocs and they are so fucking comfortable.

3. I also own two pairs of polyester pants - like the kind from Walmart. When I worked there and had to fold them, I laughed my ass off, thinking, "Who the fuck wears these? Some old grannies?" Yup. Now this fat granny ass fills them, and I LOVE that they have an elastic waist and they are wash n' wear.

4. I collect figurine turtles. Like... a lot of turtles. From all over the world. Or given to me by family (or even some from ex-boyfriends) Meh. They all have a story - which I've cataloged and colour coded with stickers underneath each turtle. Seriously.

5. And for the past 20 minutes, I've been balling my eyes out over the series finale of Desperate Housewives.

Yeah, OK. Ya got me. I know it's lame but I love it. 
So. Fucking. What.

Bring it on - I can take it. Yay!

Mommy Dearest - Revisited

I wrote this last year and in honor of Mother's Day, I would like to air it out one more time...

I'm finding it difficult finding the words to pay tribute to such an amazing woman:
My mother.
I think what astounds me the most is although she has taught me so much, I struggle every day to be like her; to be a better person.

She is forgiving; I am not.
There have been some atrocities that have been done to my mother in the past and I know about them and who did them. She has forgiven them and yet I detest them. I will never forgive them and I have zero intentions to rectify those relationships.

She has over-come so much. Many (who have gone through much less) use their pasts as crutches as to why or how the world has done them wrong and it's at the root of all their current misfortune, poor choices, and short-comings. I often fail to empathize with these people because I think "If my mother could have done it, why couldn't you?"

She is able to move forward; I cannot forget the past.
I hold on to both good and bad things that have happened so tightly and I really cannot understand why I'm always so terrified to let go. I often feel that they make up a part of me and if I forget them, move on or let go, that I will be losing those parts of myself forever.

My mother has let go of many things and yet she remains whole. I see her lead by example and yet I cannot take that leap of faith.

Faith.
After everything, she still has her faith. I lose mine on a daily basis. I see my faith more like genetic trait. I will not fight it and I will surely pass it down to my children, but I have no passion about it. 


I do believe, but I am often angry with God.

My mother may be divine, but she is no saint. She has a fantastic sense of humor and whether she wants to admit it or not, it's one of the few qualities I did manage to get from her. Don't try to fight it, Ma, you're good and warped... and that is why you are so incredible to me.

You are my hero, my best friend and I love you. 

The PYT that would never be

During my fourth year of University, I had to do the unthinkable -- I had to go backtrack and do a first year course. And not just any first year course, it was Introduction to Art. Fuck me. I didn't take it even in my first year because I was too much of a cocky bitch to take it, and since it wasn't a prerequisite for anything, I skipped it. Then, the graduation forms come 'round and SURPRISE, as it turns out, I did need it.

(To my guidance counselor, I give a huge retrospective middle finger! )

Anyway, I had to go to this soul sucking class for an entire year (at the same time as completing my honors for fine art, so... yeah). On the first day, I walked in to the massive lecture hall and I quickly noticed a Pretty Young Thing that was sitting with some friends, but the seat to his left was vacant.

Jackpot!

My initial intuition was fairly good. He was charming, friendly, a natural smart ass, and had a wholesome, Victorian country town accent that worked like panty remover to me.

The only problem was that he was a little on the young side. OK, when I was 23 and he was 17 -- that is A LOT on the young side. I was just wrapping up my “crazy University years” while he was barely 48 hours into the beginning of his. Ugh. But once I decided I wanted that ass, I powered though it. I dedicated much time and effort pretending to be interested in his first year issues and how “fucking cool” it was being away from his parents for the first time. 

(Yeah, OK kiddo… just shut up and take off those pants.)

The worst was going out to celebrate his 18th birthday (the legal drinking age and a huge deal in Australia). Aside from him and myself, there was his twin brother (to whom he also shared a dorm room with) and a bunch of girls from his boarding house – most of which were under age. There were some girls that had JUST turned 17 and were giddy just by being at the bar and claiming to be tipsy from a pot of beer (1/2 pint), like I was living through the made-for-TV-movie nightmare of Hannah Montana coming of age -- without the cock cake.

All the while, I was imagining how much it would hurt if I stabbed my thigh with a fork… because it was THAT much fun listening to their conversations. Christ, I felt really fucking old, but apart from a couple brief lip-on-lip pecks, I hadn’t sealed the deal… so I endured. 

The next weekend was so fucking on – enough of this bullshit, it was time to bring in the closer. Just the two of us went out for some drinks, which was MUCH better. I didn’t notice quite an age/maturity difference when we were alone, since we did have a very similar sense of humor. The drunken kisses began late into the night and I thought, “Sweet fuck, here’s my chance!”, so I took charge and suggested we go to his dorm (my flat was a lot further away, but in hindsight probably would have been the smarter option). He agreed and off we went. Clothes were quickly removed and foreplay was underway when his brother walked in on us! 

I popped my head up from under the sheets, pleasantly sarcastic: “Hi Mark, bye Mark!” He did a bit of a flustered ‘oops shrug’ and off he went. As I turned back to Dave under the covers, one thing was painfully obvious… he was soft and had retreated so high up into his cave that only one of the fucking Seven Dwarfs could locate his cock at that point. 

Hi ho.

Hi ho. 

It’s off to work I go… 

And work I did for a short and awkward while, but he was done for the night. 

And so was I – for good. 

Fun sex shouldn’t have had to be THAT much effort… so we still sat together during that God forsaken class, but that was it. We never spoke about it again. I decided it would be much better if I pursued an older guy that wouldn’t take four months to decide whether or not he wanted to fuck me until I walked wrong.

And so I did.

Screws n' Farts n' Balls. Oh, my!

Whether it be through Twitter or just passing thoughts in my own warped brain, I finally put to (virtual) paper some slogans for some popular brands. Let's just say that if I was in charge, marketing would be A LOT more entertaining...

He says it in the latest commercial, but it doesn't quite make it to slogan status. Pity.

It would be the ONLY airline that I would fly. Ahem.

Whomever smelled it, dealt it. And whomever named a cell phone network WIND is a dumbass.

Well... duh.

Yes, please. Although I've found they are NEVER there when I need some assistance.

I'm sure it has some good qualities... right?

It's my kind of drink!

And just for good measure, I thought I'd throw in one that actually IS on a billboard in L.A., 

proving that there is someone out there in marketing with my sense of humor :)

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Also, a BIG congrats to last week's winners. 

Leigh Ann (Genie in a Blog) won the signed copy of Unmarketing. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!

And also to Brandon and Suniverse who tied for winning the Platypus contest. I based this win by the 2 people that were able to guess the (apparently) 2 most difficult characters - ZoolanderPus and PriscillaPus.

Brandon requested a MormonPus (I should've known ;) and Suniverse got her very own platypus portrait,

complete with a custom made David Beckham vibrator.