Savvy Suckers

My husband and I were watching TV (as usual) when one of my favourite cheesy commercials came on -- the Durex Savvy Lovers. Since according to the television people, I shave my hoo-haa, so therefore, I DESERVE the best sex ever. Well, doesn't that just go without saying?

Ahem.

Anyway, this time it aired — having been only 8 weeks since I gave birth and had my tubes tied (WOOT!) — I snorted and attempted to be funny by mocking them...

"Ha! They have to use condoms like suckers!"

My husband raised his eyebrows and rebutted with a tone of snark while he pointed to Little Miss Fussypants, who I was currently rocking on my chest...

"THEY ARE THE SUCKERS? ARE YOU SURE?"

Humfph.

Jerk.

Smooth Operator

It had been 3 weeks since I had Baby E. She already had a cold and because of her stuffed sinuses, we hadn't slept for more than 20 minutes at a time for the past 3 days. The boys were being their typical 4 year old selves in the morning, which consisted of completely forgetting what needed to be done in order to get ready for school. Boots? Hats? Jackets? Apparently, I might as well be speaking fucking Greek. No day seems to be better than any other, but they can always get worse.

I had just returned back to the house after dropping the boys off at school after what I commonly describe as "Thing 1's nuclear meltdowns". And the cause this time? Who the hell knows; I can't keep track anymore.

I was fucking exhausted.

Baby was actually sleeping in her carrier when I took her out of the car to go into the house. I noticed my neighbor's 18 year old son across the street, sitting in his car and smoking.

Cigarettes.

Now, I hadn't had a smoke for 9 months -- my last one being about 45 minutes before I peed on a stick.

At least it wasn't 45 minutes AFTER I peed, so whatever. Shut up.

Ahem.

Maybe it was my exhaustion that was driving my decisions, but I swallowed my pride and went over to the kid, "Can I get a smoke off you?"

"Sure. They're menthol though."

MENTHOL?! Things have sure changed since I was in high school, but beggars can't be snobby bitches, I guess.

I lied, "That's fine." All I knew is that I wanted to hold that stick between my fingers and hold it between my lips, so a pansy-assed mint flavored cigarette would have to do.

As the boy handed me the cigarette, he pleaded with me, "Don't tell my mom, okay?"

I backed away from his car and just smiled, "No problem. Don't tell my husband, okay?"

He nodded and laughed.

As I touched a flame to the end and inhaled, despite it being a tad minty, it was so goddamn glorious.

Smooth and satisfying, as if I was living inside a cigarette poster from the 40s.

I haven't had one since that day, but let's not discuss the 2lbs of M&M's I've had instead...

That's me, can't you tell?

She's here!

Although a slightly belated announcement, I thought it was time I got my arse into gear

to post something about my new bundle o'joy -- Baby E (a.k.a. Hiccup, a.k.a. Squeakers).

Born October 9th, 2013, weighing 9lbs2oz -- via c-section. 

No pushing was required.

Thanks so much for everyone's well wishes on The Twitter & emails.

Love and hugs to you all!

The final countdown — it is on!

OK, I've officially made it to October so it's go time, baby! 

In honor of my last few days of pregnancy, I wrote this song. I thought I'd put forth some extra effort, especially since this might be the last post for a couple weeks. Please note my seesawing, hormonal affections towards my husband, mostly based on whether or not he's giving me food at the time, obviously. 

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On the final day of pregnancy, my jerk face husband gave to me an extra load of his laundry.

On the 2nd last day of pregnancy, my high blood pressure gave to me two puffy cankles.

And an extra load of his laundry.

On the 3rd last day of pregnancy, my doctor gave to me three Labetalols.

Two puffy cankles.

And an extra load of his laundry.

On the 4th last day of pregnancy, my true love gave to me four tubes of Pringles.

Three Labetalols.

Two puffy cankles.

And an extra load of his laundry.

On the 5th last day of pregnancy, my cravings gave to me five iced coffeeeeees.

Four tubes of Pringles.

Three Labetalols.

Two puffy cankles.

And an extra load of his laundry.

On the 6th last day of pregnancy, my baby gave to me six extra kilos.

Five iced coffeeeeees.

Four tubes of Pringles.

Three Labetalols.

Two puffy cankles.

And an extra load of his laundry. 

On the 7th last day of pregnancy, my doctor gave to me seven more goddamn days.

Six extra kilos.

Five iced coffeeeeees.

Four tubes of Pringles.

Three Labetalols.

Two puffy cankles.

And an extra load of his laundry. 

On the 8th last day of pregnancy, my whiny husband gave to me eight panicked texts.

Seven more goddamn days.

Six extra kilos.

Five iced coffeeeeees.

Four tubes of Pringles.

Three Labetalols.

Two puffy cankles.

And an extra load of his laundry. 

On the 9th last day of pregnancy, my baby gave to me nine toilet trips.

Eight panicked texts.

Seven more goddamn days.

Six extra kilos.

Five iced coffeeeeees.

Four tubes of Pringles.

Three Labetalols.

Two puffy cankles.

And an extra load of his laundry. 

On the 10th last day of pregnancy, my inner teenager gave to me ten throbbing zits.

Nine toilet trips.

Eight panicked texts.

Seven more goddamn days.

Six extra kilos.

Five iced coffeeeeees.

Four tubes of Pringles.

Three Labetalols.

Two puffy cankles.

And an extra load of his laundry.

On the 11th last day of pregnancy, my true love gave to me eleven bites of poutine.

Ten throbbing zits.

Nine toilet trips.

Eight panicked texts.

Seven more goddamn days.

Six extra kilos.

Five iced coffeeeeees.

Four tubes of Pringles.

Three Labetalols.

Two puffy cankles.

And an extra load of his laundry.

On the 12th last day of pregnancy, my fucking hormones gave to me twelve creepy skin tags.

Eleven bites of poutine.

Ten throbbing zits.

Nine toilet trips.

Eight panicked texts.

Seven more goddamn days.

Six extra kilos.

Five iced coffeeeeees.

Four tubes of Pringles.

Three Labetalols.

Two puffy cankles.

And an extra load of his laundry-eee-eee-eee.

Push it or not to push it

Here's a little song I've been singing to myself ever since I was told last week there's a good chance I could deliver this baby "naturally". I'm experiencing intense mixed emotions, for sure. Eik. Sing along, if you like -- I'm pretty sure you all know it :)

Ah, push it
Ah, push it

Oooh, baby, baby

A 9lb baby?!

The vaginal abyss!

Ow! Baby!

The decision's here!

[Now wait a minute, y'all

This pushin’ ain't for everybody

Only the flexi people

So all you fly mothers, get on out there and push

PUSH, I said!]

The decision's here, and the doc

Wants me to push it, babe

Always thought I’d get another C, so it’s a shock

The recovery time’s better, that we all know

But I didn’t overly want my hairy vaj to be put on show

To push it

Ah, push it - push it good

Ah, push it - push it real good

Hey! Ow!

Drugs are good!

Oooh, baby, baby

A 9lb baby?!

Yo, yo, yo, yo, baby-pop

Yeah, you -- don’t gimme a kiss

Better get me the drugs or else I'm gonna get pissed

Can't handle the thought of poopin’ too, like I know I could.

Don’t push it…

Or push it good

P-push it real good

Oh, shit.

The vaginal abyss!

Boy, you’re now gettin’ the snip

If I have to experience my lady bits rip.

Ah, push it.

Where life plans go to die

I have never been good with attitude of "whatever happens tomorrow, happens". Fuck that. I need to know not only where my next meal is coming from, but where my next 1000 meals are coming from, at least. And I've always been that way.

I knew in University that I'd be a salary girl. A few of my fellow artist classmates were adamant on going the freelance, suffer-for-your-art route, but the mere thought of that made me twitchy.

Even as a child, I would get stomach pangs in the middle of the night because my father was SO CHEAP and would obsess about money so frequently that I was convinced that we were going bankrupt and we'd become homeless at any moment. Turns out, we were doing just fine. THANKS FOR THAT, DAD.

It's not that I'm obsessed with money or wanting to be rich; I just want to be "stable". The last few years with the twins has been a reality check and I somehow managed to accept the fact that we'd be dipping into the red every month until the boys started full time school -- which would be this September, 2013.

Husband and I had been calling it FREEDOM 2013 pretty much since 2008. From the latter part of 2009 until the day I lost my job in November of last year, we had been paying FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS a month in childcare.

That would have all gone away next week.

Oh my fucking god, we could finally start paying off our other debts! Perhaps pay off our mortgage a little faster. Or actually contribute to RRSPs for us, or RESPs for the kids (which is laughable at the moment). We were going to have $1500 EVERY MONTH to do whatever the hell we wanted. I had been fantasizing withdrawing that amount at the end of September and rolling around in it; I was totally going to do it too.

See? That pretty much would've been me . . . except with Canadian money, obviously.

And I was OK with waiting for that. It was an achievable goal. There was going to be an end to this annoying clusterfuck that is "not having enough money for the Lightning McQueen underwear that the boys want". Even as I write that, I realize it's a "first world problem" but nevertheless, it was a problem for me.

My boys, at 4 years old, have already begun asking me if things are "too much moneys" for them to have, and it truly breaks my heart. I see history repeating itself, except this time it's a real issue.

I should be getting emotional about my babies going off to big boy school next week, but it's really being over-shadowed by all this crap, and I hate it. So, I'm trying my very hardest not to still be bitter about losing my job, but even in my worst case scenario, I didn't see myself STILL being unemployed by this time. And yet here I am.

Unsure about tomorrow and freaking right the hell out.

Oh, and baby number 3 arrives in 6 weeks...

Tick-fucking-tock.

Flashback Friday: The Sweater

I originally published this story back when I first begun blogging in 2010, but after everything that's been happening recently with bullying, and social media being such a strong contributing factor in teen suicides, I thought I should re-visit this memory.

Even now, as I re-read and tweak the sentence structures (oh-my-god-what-was-I-thinking-putting-that-comma-there-3-years-ago), I can't help but think I dodged a HUGE bullet having this happen to me before the age of cyber-bullying and social media. Something as silly as this could have easily spiraled out of control (even more than it already did) and caused some serious damage. 

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It took me until this incident to realize that although girls are always pegged to have serious peer-pressure issues; guys aren't that different after all.

In grade 11, I had a briefly lived friendship with Scott, a guy in my graphics class. Of course, I would have wanted more, but even being his friend was good enough for me. He was very cute, but also a little odd, which is why I guess I was drawn to him.

Scott and I really got along well; we had a lot of similar interests and I just found that I was comfortable talking to him. Shortly after we first started talking, he started to wait for me every morning at the top of the hill from our school and we would continue together from there. He usually skateboarded to school, so he would either weave around me and talk or just get off and carry it when we walked together. Either way, I really enjoyed our morning chats and looked forward to them.

During school, he didn't really acknowledge our blossoming friendship, especially when his mates were around. That part I understood and it didn't bother me too much – I was well aware that most of them were complete douchebags. He was a ‘member’ of the cool guy skater boy squad at our school, although only about middle-management, meaning basically that he was a puppet to the ‘higher-ups’. In order to have any kind of relationship with one of these guys, whether platonic or otherwise, the ‘higher-ups’ would have to approve, or some stupid shit like that. 

I assume the verdict came in that I was not good enough.

Our friendship had gone one step further and he invited me to his house after school a couple of times. I had met his mum and even had dinner with them. Of course, being the curious person that I was, while we were hanging out in his room, I had gone through some of his wardrobe drawers. We had a good laugh when I found a few old "nerdy" items and I also found a really nice black sweater. He said he hated it and that it was a bit "faggotty" for him, but I really liked it. He said I could take it, if I wanted to – so I did, and I wore it to school the next day.

He met me that morning as usual, and everything was cool between us... until lunchtime. I still have no idea how the ‘guy squad’ pieced together that I was wearing Scott’s sweater – it was a pretty generic all-black sweater – but they found out somehow. I guess that let the cat out of the bag, and from there on in, I could only speculate how things went down. I am guessing that they confronted Scott about me and they must have been extremely disapproving or made fun of him, because the next thing I knew, they were all approaching me – like a swarm of hyenas surrounding an injured gazelle. 

Then Scott yelled at me, “Hey, you stupid bitch! Are you a klepto or something? What they fuck are you doing with my top?” 

I really wasn't sure what was going on, and I didn't answer for a couple seconds; I was completely stunned, confused and terrified. This guy was supposed to be my friend. I just had dinner with him and his mother the night before, for fuck's sake! 

Then, one of the upper-management assholes took over, “Answer him, Klepto Bitch! What the fuck are you doing with his shit?” 

I didn't even think that trying to defend my honor would have served a purpose. I just kept leering at Scott, like I was telepathically begging for his help or something, and he didn't even flinch from his stare of hatred that he reciprocated back in my general direction. 

Luckily, I was wearing a T-shirt underneath that damn sweater, and I quickly pulled it off over my head and threw it back at him. The only thing I drummed up the courage to say was, “You can take your stupid fucking sweater, assholes!” And then I ran away, so as to save myself from getting my ass kicked by a bunch of guys (which I wouldn't have put past them) and also so that Scott or the others couldn't take any satisfaction in seeing my tears of pure rage that began to burn down my face. 

I could hear them yelling and taunting me as I ran away, as well as them victoriously high-fiving each other.

The next couple months felt like an excruciating eternity. 

They called me ‘Klepto Bitch’ for the longest time. I tried to ignore it, but it really drove me a little insane. I couldn't sleep and was having serious stomach and digestive issues. I tried to avoid them whenever possible, and if I did see them travelling in a pack, I just cringed and got ready for the insults to be viciously hurled at me. Of course, they were fine when it was just one of them; it was "the herd" that I had to fear. As for Scott, I didn't even try to approach him about the situation. It was clear that his role as a ‘puppet’ was far more important than any scrap of friendship that we had developed. If I was forced to come within close range of him in class, he pretty much ignored my existence. It was so utterly disappointing. 

I hated him. 
I missed him.
And I felt sorry for him, all at the same time.

Eventually, their herd started to ignore me in the halls — I guess the joke got old, even for them. It took about 3 months, but it did come to an end, and it was so gradual that I barely noticed when it had been weeks since any of them taunted me. Those locusts likely had moved on to someone fresh and new to devour. 

I was usually out-going, the life of the party — but they paralyzed me and for once in my life, I welcomed obscurity.

You Have Lipstick On Your Teeth

There's this crazy lady, you may know her by The Bearded Iris. Anyway, she contacted me a while back to see if I wanted to submit an essay for a collective book she was putting together and editing. It took a lot of effort but I actually managed to get off my arse and offer up one of the more personal stories about womanhood and motherhood (more specifically, my vagina) and about 30 seconds before the final deadline, I sent it in.

The reply I got back was a firm, "Oh, hell yes!"

**Insert a Napoleon Dynamite SSSWEEET.**

And after months of The Bearded One (a.k.a. Leslie) wasting away as she edited this fabulous book that consists of 39 essays/short stories by ladies of who I am honored to be listed along side every one of them.

Please check it out on Amazon and buy it in paperback or Kindle. We need lots of reviews so get reading, laughing . . . and maybe gagging a little . . . but in the best way possible, I promise!

GET IT IN YA!

Children's Programming Mostly Blows

Since I've been home with the boys for the better part of a year now, I think I'm starting to crack at the seams a little, particularly with my intense criticisms of children's programming. Unfortunately, I'm still having to do freelance work here and there, so babysitter à la television has been a huge help, but I have reached my tolerance limit with certain shows. I just can't take them anymore.

10. Bubble Guppies - I cannot fault the music element in this show; it's quite impressive. But what the shit is going on with their environment?! Are they under water all the time? They're fish, right? So they must be! Then they travel on airplanes and attend rodeos and partake in desert adventures . . . under water? The cows have fins but the elephants do not? I'm confused and I don't like being confused by inconsistencies in a cartoon! Fuck it.

9. Toopy & Binoo - Not sure if this one is exclusive to Canada or not, since it's a French-based show. If you've never heard of it, consider yourself lucky. My kids LOVE it, much to my horror. I don't mind Binoo because he/she/it doesn't talk, but Toopy? Let's just say that if you believe in an existence of Hell, it's likely where you would get strapped to a chair & be forced to listen to Toopy narrate The Bible for all eternity.

8. My Big Big Friend - This would actually be a half decent show if it wasn't for one character - LILY. She's a little cunt! It actually upsets me that even though the two boys have rare moments of imperfection, she is a HORRIBLE girl that's usually quite mean to the boys. Is this necessary? I don't think so. It's very gender biased and it makes me twitchy.

7. Max & Ruby - Ditto with what I just wrote from My Big Big Friend. Ruby is a bossy bitch who's constantly talking down to her brother even though he's clearly not an idiot. And where the fuck are their parents?! Did the writers just decide they'd be too much of a hassle to create? Maybe if Ruby had a parent around, she wouldn't be such a skunt.

6. Little Einsteins - (aka. Little Pretentious Bastards) When a good accomplishment according to my sons is removing a giant booger from their nose, I find it almost embarrassing for this show's creators that they believe toddlers give one ounce of fuck about Beethoven and what he looked like in 1800. They try way too hard. They put up a flash card portrait of Warhol the other day, like, near the end of his days when he was frazzled and freaky looking. What the hell? I have a degree in Fine Art and even I don't need to see that shit on a Saturday morning.

5. Yo Gabba Gabba! - I have issues with any "human" hosts (or children's TV actors) that talk too animated where their mouths open too wide & their entire pupils are showing like a deer in headlights. It's not necessary and it creeps me out. And the puppet characters? I'm sorry, you'll never be Fraggle Rock. No amount of celebrity guest stars will ever get me to tune in to this clusterfuck. Banned.

4. Dora the Explorer - FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, WHY IS SHE ALWAYS YELLING? Banned.

3. Peppa Pig - Oh, that voice. I even mute the commercials for this show. I think they searched all of the United Kingdom to find the single most annoying girl to voice Peppa. I haven't even watched it long enough to determine if she's a nice little piglet or not. She would likely cover Toopy's lunch breaks and read The Bible to you IN HELL. My husband was the quickest to ban this one.

2. Mike the Knight - The biggest little asshole in all the land. Seriously, he's a fucking selfish jerk and treats his friends like complete shit. My son said to me the other day, "I don't like Mike the Knight because he's not very nice." And it was one of the best parenting moments ever! Banned.

1. Caillou - The whiniest weirdo, bar none. A show that teaches kids how to whine, have tantrums and have a spoiled attitude. No fucking thank you. AND WHY IS HE BALD? No one else is bald, not even his baby sister. And I'm pretty certain he's not on Chemotherapy.  Banned for eternity.

Dishonorable mention: Thomas the Tank Engine - You are NOT a very useful engine. In fact, you are a defiant, ignorant, trouble-making pile of metal that causes the train company likely hundreds of thousands of dollars in damages every year. You suck and I resent the fact that half of my house is covered in your over-priced merchandise.


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On a positive note, I should add that I believe good programming for kids DOES exist -- just few & far between. I'd give my tramp stamp of approval to the following:
1. Octonauts - I learn new shit about the ocean every damn day.
2. Imagination Movers - Scott is my boyfriend and Dave is my homeboy.
3. Cat in the Hat - Dr. Seuss and Martin Short, enough said.
4. Handy Manny - You can't deny that the sexual tension between Manny and Kelly is intense, yo!
5. Mickey Mouse Clubhouse - Although mildly annoying, it's the type of annoying most of us have been desensitized towards, having been raised on that weird little mouse ourselves.
6. Agent Oso - OK, there was a time I detested Oso on the sole ground that he's the dumbest fuck of all time. I've since learned to tolerate him now that the boys are smarter than him & find his stupidity funny. And there's bigger fish to fry, so to speak.
7. Sesame Street - Because it will always be awesome.


What shows do you enjoy, tolerate or absolutely refuse to have on? 
. . . even in the distant background, while you try your hardest to ignore it.

So everyone's going to BlogHer13

It's that time of year again -- BlogHer season. I had my Early Bird ticket and I was all set to go, and then this happened, so with a heavy heart, I sold my ticket. This is not to say that I'd trade one for the other, because WHAT KIND OF MOTHER WOULD I BE? but nevertheless, I was looking forward to seeing the friends I made from last year's BlogHer12 in NYC as well as meeting new bloggy & Twitter friends.

Anyway, I'll keep this sulk short since most of you will be in Chicago, likely drinking, and not reading this anyway! I've channeled my inner teen angst for this one . . .

YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

Portable, disposable penises - Yes, please!

I was shopping at an outdoors'y store the other day (looking for a fanny pack, as ya do) and nestled right between the travel eye masks and the reading lights, I found unexpected gold.

I remember a while ago finding a similar contraption to this, but they are bigger and kind of remind me of the stainless steel ice scoopers that I used during my bartending days -- not exactly something you'd want to carry around in your over-sized purse unless it really is the ice scooper that you're stealing from the bar. Amirite?

They do have a very nice website, though.
http://www.go-girl.com/

Anyhow, my initial reaction to these products are always giggley and immature. I mean, the function of them is quite silly, BUT then my ever-existing phobia of public toilets kicks in, and I think it's an amazing concept. The further away my ass can be from where some other stranger's dirty ass has been, the fucking better!

I know I'm a bit of a different beat when it comes to my toilet logic, because it's not "germs" per se that make me squirmy (I actually don't give a crap about germs), it's the human filth; even my own filth. Anyone in public health has my utter respect, because I just can't go there. Ever. This is another reason why the "GoGirl" and other reusable devices like the Diva Cup are things I have a hard time with, even though I know they're better for the environment as well as my body . . . blardy bargh blar. And let's face it, not everywhere has a working sink or clean water, so the thought of not being able to properly clean off said reusable device terrifies me beyond anything that could gross me out from the old fashioned alternative.

That's yet another reason why this "new" disposable (yet biodegradable, so that's at least something) product tweaked my interest. Perhaps some day soon, when I can actually SEE my vagina again, I might entertain the idea of trying out one of these little P-Mates -- on a plane comes to mind for sure, because BARF-GAG-WRETCH.

So what?! We still cannot know what it's like to jerk ourselves off just yet, but this is a good start in the right direction to conquering penis envy, for sure.

Somethings are priceless, apparently.

I recently had a one on one consultation-slash-tutorial to pass on some of my social media and other various interweb skills. I had been referred to this older gentlemen by a past colleague (thanks, by the way) and at $100/hr, I couldn't refuse.

I'm sure this is how the first prostitute began as well, probably.

After being led down to what could best be described as THE BASEMENT OF DEATH, he revealed a tiny (very, very tiny) corner that had been carved out from the mountains of boxes and clutter . . . and saws and other electric tools that could have cut through a human body like butter.

I knew from the moment he first opened the door that he was harmless, but considering a guy I went to high school with was just murdered by someone he met off Kijiji, I couldn't help but get crazy, awful thoughts racing through my mind.

Stranger, danger and all that.

Anyway, once we got settled in the claustrophobic work space, he began walking me through his dozens upon dozens of dusty "get rich on the internet" schemes, binders, videos and products that he had bought into, and it exhausted me.

He was full of quotable quotes and deep thought observations which I'm sure I've seen all of them assaulting my Facebook feed at one time or another . . . in Papyrus font and pasted on top of filtered sunset photos, of course.

Then he hit me with the golden tuna of sayings: "Your true wealth can only be measured once you've lost all your money."

And I gave him a raised eyebrow, nodding expression as to politely acknowledge the "wisdom" he was attempting to share with me.

"Do you know what that means?" As if he mistook my expression for one of confusion, and he continued to explain, "It's about your family; your children. How much are your children worth?"

"I dunno. How much do you think I could get for them?" I smiled.

He didn't smile back. "THEY ARE PRICELESS."

Oh yeah, right.

Obviously, my humor wasn't appreciated, so we cut short the chit chat and got down to work . . . showing him how to write a blog and make his millions.

LAUGH. OUT. LOUD.

That will be one hundred dollars, thanks.

The Michael Douglas Effect

I was going to write a long rant the other day about the idiocy that is Michael Douglas's claim about the origins of his throat cancer being linked to cunnilingus. (Like dudes need ANOTHER excuse not to go downtown. Gah.) Anyways, I decided I didn't want to waste my energy, so I drew this instead . . .

Looking forward

I'm still not always convinced that a third child will be coming into our family in a few short months. Then yesterday, I saw my sons' faces light up and eyes bug out when they saw the ultrasound for the first time and gosh dang it -- what can I say? My stony heart melted.

Certain things I can now start to look forward to have begun to set in, like:

• No more sad attempts at trying to use those stupid pee-pee tee-pees for the pure novelty of them. 
• No more urine soaked drapes and walls.
• No more clumping Vaseline around miniature circumcisions.
• My yelling of, "Get your hands out of your pants!" will not increase by another 1/3.
• No more (than usual) walking into bath time where I've indeed uninterrupted something special between a boy and his penis.

And why's that?

Well, because this baby is a girl!

Probably.

Woot!

Abercrombie's a Bitch

I don't know if you've read the lasted "fashion philosophy" by Abercrombie & Fitch but basically, they refuse to make clothes over a size 10 because they only want thin, popular, beautiful people wearing their clothes. A-to-the-motherfucking-Hem. (Here's the full, nauseating article.)

Because everyone over a size 10 is ugly and uncool?
Obviously.

Since the "average" woman's size is a 12/14, I'll like to wave to Abercrombie while they sit up there on their high horse . . .
all by themselves.

What I'd like to ask A&F is whether or not they are, in fact, aware that "uncool" people come in small sizes? Do they have their own version of the Walmart people greeter standing at the door, inspecting each customer's attractiveness before they're granted permission to enter through the velvet rope?

Not bloody likely.

I made these ads to illustrate my disdain for this company. Yay!

Uh huh.

I should mention in that article, there are shout outs to fashion brands that are much more on the level when it comes to enforcing positive women's body images in all sizes, and that's fantastic. 

As for Abercrombie? Adios, douchebags!

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*Creative note: I don't like labeling people on degrees of "coolness" either, but I typed in "nerd girl" and got that first image, so really, a search engine chose it for me ;)

One Slippery Winner!

The results are in! Thank you so much to everyone that entered my slippery giveaway! It was so much fun -- both reviewing it AND checking out all the entries. I remember reading this particular entry and thinking, "What a cheeky, lazy bitch." And when I called her on it on the Twitter, this is how it went down . . .

@ladyestrogen I can't believe you expect ANYONE to count all that. Come on.
— Rebecca(@ManicMamaG) April 16, 2013

So needless to say, when I went on my trusty Rafflecopter app (which is pretty easy to use, btw) and chose a random winner FOR MY MOST AWESOMEST CONTEST EVER, which was Rebecca's entry (out of 118 possibilities), I laughed my fucking ass off.

Congratulations, you damn underachiever!

And by the way, the answer was 12, including the subject line. Here's a nerdy little secret to these types of questions -- just hit Ctrl + F and enter the word; it will give you the answer instantly. Because really, I wasn't going to count them manually either. Heh.

Thanks again to everyone that entered!

Hopefully, my sponsor was blown away with my amazing review & will continue to send me a plethora of goodies for me to share with all of you. Ahem.

x

Lube Me Up, Buttercup!

Hoe-lee-shit. This marks my 400th post and never in a million years, if 399 posts ago you were to tell me that by this time I would be pregnant and testing lube . . . and at the same time . . . I'd call you a dirty fucking liar. But here I am, up the duff and getting my husband to spread heat-inducing lube all over my pleasure zones.

This is technically a sponsored post by Trojan, since I got all the lube for free, but, umm... FREE LUBE, PEOPLE. Plus, since it's my 400th post, I feel like celebrating and I'm giving away probably thee best prize package that I've EVER had on my site. Again, thanks to Trojan, because when I got their package in the mail, it was huge, first of all. And I couldn't figure out why, but then I opened it and it has not only 3 boxes of lube in it, but a purple sexy satin body wrap. I was impressed! Needless to say, I took one look at the robe and saw that it would likely wrap 1 of my thighs . . . maybe. But the kind gesture will not go unfulfilled, because it will also be a part of the fabulous lube inspired giveaway! Umm, yes!

Now, firstly, I need to admit that among all my weird and wonderful sexcapades, I've NEVER used lube before. It could be the fact that the mere mention of sex turns me on like a cool faucet on a hot summer's day; or it could be because I've always been too fucking cheap to spend $20 on these products, even though I've always been curious about them. If it's solely the later reason, I would like to go back and bitch slap that cheap ass woman and buy it. It's worth it. Every penny.

I tried out 2 of the 3 varieties I was sent, which seems to have done me more than enough favors, so I kept the 3rd bottle unopened to contribute towards the giveaway. I splooged out some "Arouses & Intensifies" while my hubs cracked into the "Tingly Warmth" lube. They are both slightly similar, but in the best way possible. What I mean is that I get warm when I'm aroused anyway, so they were both winners.

If you were a fly in the room, you would have heard things like, "Hey, I could probably get my whole hand up there with this lube!"

To which you also would have heard, "OIYE! Let's leave the fisting up to the professionals!" 

But seriously, it is quite effective as far as greasing up the runway goes. Hand jobs are also waaaay easier with lube. Just sayin'.

And yet, it's not actually "greasy" at all. I was impressed with how it didn't make me feel disgusting afterwards -- something that I guess I always assumed when thinking about lube.

My ultimate opinion about these products can be spelled out in one simple phrase: I climaxed during actual intercourse. I don't know about you, but the last time THAT happened for me was somewhere around 2011.

So, thank you, Trojan! 
(Which actually sounds a little weird when I say that since I'm pregnant, come to think of it . . . but whatever ;)

And since I'm in such a goddamn awesome mood, I'm also including a double bullet with dual remote control into the prize package, courtesy of Eden Fantasys.

Behold. All of this could be yours . . .

RIGHT? I'm pretty excited about this prize so I hope some of you are as well.
I'm also trying out Rafflecopter for this contest -- high tech shiz, I know. Please use it and enter so I can keep track of crap and be all official. YAHOO!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Breaking News from Crazytown

So, there's a reason I've been a bit absent these days, and now I can finally tell you.

I'm having Gerard Butler's love child. It's OK. My husband knows and he's agreed to raise it as his own. Isn't that amazing of him?

Okay, so I'm kind of joking. I bet y'all were totally fooled, RIGHT? Ahem.

But, there is some truth to my bullshit.

I'm having baby number three.

Oops.

Hold me.

It's been a bumpy ride so far; pregnancy sucks, yo.

I shall leave you with the words of my beloved grandmother when I told her the news:

"You're pregnant? Well, that's what happens when you let him stick his dick in you."

You think I'm kidding, but I'm totally not.

Oooh. And by the way, you're a fan of my granny, you can follow her on Twitter to hear all her other gems. *wink wink*

Good times.

Fuck.

So this happened . . .

"Honey, check out the hot deals on the end cap shelf there."

*wink wink*

Husband: "Ohh, ribbed for her pleasure. And on clearance! Sweet."

"For that price, we should probably buy them, ya know, to test them out."

H: "Yeah. That's totally the reason . . . for the greater good."

"Well, it might be a good idea anyway. With me not working, it'd be the absolute worst time for us to have an 'accident', ya know what I mean?"

H: "Fine. Good point. Very good point."


--- Later that evening ---


H: "Here. You can put it on."

"Awesome. I love when you talk dirty to me."

"Oh my god. I feel as if I haven't done this in a decade."

H: "Yep. It's been about that long!"

"I feel like a teenager!"

H: "Oh yeah. I always forget about your slutty high school years."

"This, as you're trying to get me to put a condom on your cock? I love you, baby."

H: "Uh huh."

"Ohh, I remembered to leave room at the tip!"


--- A couple minutes later ---


H: "Am I in?"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, ARE YOU IN? YES, YOU'RE IN."

H: "I can't feel anything."

*pound pound*

"Anything? You're pounding just fine."

*pound pound*

H: "Do you feel the ribbing?"

*pound pound*

"Umm. Nope."

*pound pound*

"Are you going to be able to finish if you can't feel it?"

*pound pound*

H: "Oh yeah. I'm close."

"But you can't even feel anything? Life is tough for you, babe. Humm."

*pound pound*

H: "Here I come!"

*rolls over*

"Here's a tissue for that ribbed disappointment . . . where is it?"

H: "Ugh. I dunno."

"YOU'RE MEANT TO HOLD ON TO IT WHEN YOU WITHDRAW."

H: "Oops."

*I fished the condom out of my hoohaa*

"It was unsatisfying for both of us, kind of, and didn't even work as birth control?! Well that was fun."

H: "Meh."

"I want a do over. Soon."

*he reaches over and hands me my toy.*

"Humph."

Amurikan Food

I've been wanting to compile these since I got back, but I've been otherwise indisposed -- all will be made clear soon enough, I promise. Aside from the outrageous pro-gun, anti-abortion, anti-Obama billboards that accosted my eyes for the majority of the trip, there were some strange food-related things that I witnessed that I wanted to share . . . especially if you happened to miss them on The Twitter.

Dear Dirty Ernie's Rib Pit, You might just have the best ribs in the state, but personally, I'm not willing to take that chance.
— Lady Eströgen (@ladyestrogen) March 11, 2013

Seriously, Ernie. You might very well be dirty, but don't mention that in the title of your restaurant; just a thought, purely from a marketing perspective.

Also passed a store that was both a Greek takeaway *AND* an adult video store. Their slogan should've been "Satisfies Both Your Appetites".
— Lady Eströgen (@ladyestrogen) March 11, 2013

I would have LOVED to be a fly on the wall for that family discussion: "Greek food!" "Porn!" "No, Greek food!" "How about both?" "Humm, okay."

America, need your help with this: Quaker STEAK & LUBE?! I thought it was a typo & hubs thought I was on crack until we saw it 3 more times.
— Lady Eströgen (@ladyestrogen) March 11, 2013

This still confuses me, but apparently it's a Pennsylvania thing?

Passed a sign that said, "WARM BOILED PEANUTS." . . . like, for eating? Sounds repulsive, unless they're drowned in chocolate.
— Lady Eströgen (@ladyestrogen) March 10, 2013

Ew. They should call them Squirrel Testicles, because if they were warm and mushy, it's kind of what I would think I'm eating. Peanuts are meant to be either crunchy or smooth as hell in a PP&J sandwich; there is no in between.

Ordered a baked sweet potato & it came covered in marshmallows . . . America, please explain!
— Lady Eströgen (@ladyestrogen) March 9, 2013

I would have thought when I said, "Hold the chives" that it was a hint to my waiter that I was NOT expecting marshmallows on my potato, but no. I still dry wretch when I think about it.

On a positive note, I did eat at an iHop for the first time during this trip. I had pancakes that were drizzled with the cinnamon filling AND the cream cheese icing from a Cinnabon roll. Are you freaking kidding me? It was goddamn divine. Myself and my newly formed triple chin thank you.

What foods in other countries (or your own) do you find awesome, bizarre, hilarious or just plain disgusting?

America Saves Poor Little Veronica Mars!

It's truly a heartwarming thing when a nation rallies together to rapidly raise $1 million dollars for a movie about a girl who's . . .

dying of cancer

orphaned from tragedy

impoverished but had a cute YouTube video

ooohhh, that's right . . . Veronica Mars is a fictional character from a mildly amusing TV show played by Kristen Bell . . . who could have easily either self-funded the movie or had no problem finding Hollywood funding with those oddly inset eyes and that million dollar smile of hers.

It's so refreshing to see a "fundraiser" as important as the making of a Hollywood movie go so extremely well, and so quickly when it's endorsed by celebrities. I am amazed, for real. Especially when small, "faceless" organizations all over the world are screaming for donations for, ohh, I don't know . . . let's say arts education, abused woman & children's safe houses, foster programs, Cancer & HIV research and treatments, disaster relief, etc, etc.

It's awesome to see that America has its priorities straight.

Congratulations on reaching $1 million of every day people's dollars to create a movie that will earn you at least 50 times that amount. Then, those same donors will pay you a second time when they then go see the movie in theatre. I assume you have every single donor's contact details so you can repay them, and at least double their contribution as a token of your gratitude . . .
because you'll totally be doing that, RIGHT?

5 Reasons Why Soap Opera Pregnancies Suck

It's no secret that one of my many vices, (after chocolate, cheese and cunnilingus) is my addiction to soap operas. As I'm vegging out on the couch during my currently very stress-filled life, I watch all these women (and often girls) go through these tumultuous pregnancies -- I mean, really -- has there ever been a full term pregnancy go by on a daytime show that was uneventful? Preposterous!

And we thought we had issues? I guess it could always be worse . . . like, soap opera worse.

5. Your pregnancy is high risk because a few years back you got shot in the Fallopian tube & the very fact that you conceived is nothing short of a daytime miracle. You lose it anyway and feel you should make the most of it, so you throw yourself down the stairs and blame it on that bitch that you hate so she can be charged with murder.

4. You have your entire pregnancy in hiding & let no one know about it because the father of the baby is a guy who is a crime boss that you just so happened to shoot in the head a while back. He must have managed to let that little detail slide and decided you two needed to have sex . . . obvs!

3. You're rushed in with premature contractions, get drugged and have your baby taken right out of your womb. Then, when you come to, you're told that your baby was still born and are handed the ashes, all the while your actual baby is fine and healthy and has been given to someone else to raise.

2. You actually lost the baby but in order to hang on to your man, you get various sizes of fake baby bumps and try to pretend that you're still pregnant, while plotting to steal someone else's baby. You get around the whole intimacy thing by telling him that due to the "high risk" nature of the pregnancy, no intimacy whatsoever is allowed. Baby kicks? Fuck that. Stay away from ma' fake belly!

1. You have sex with two different men within 48 hours and end up falling pregnant with twins that have different fathers. Shut up! My twins were apparently conceived 3 days apart, so it could, like, totally happen.

Heavy Heart

I was going to write about how I think I did okay at my Dragon's Den audition,
but I'm not going to be holding my breath for a phone call.

Then I was going to write about how this weather is really starting to make me crazy . . .

But since I will be off to Florida in a couple days, I was going to write about how I have to suck it up.

And then I got a phone call.

Thee phone call.

Anna passed away.

And everything else seems frivolous.

I will be missing the visitation and the funeral, and I feel ill about it.

But I will be there for them every day after.

If those 3 beautiful children need anything that I could possibly provide, I'll be there.

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

Douche regularly with Lysol

I saw this somewherethefuck a while ago and tucked it away for a day like today. Please consider this my belated Valentine's Day gift to you -- because I just love Valentine's Day. Ahem.

But seriously, how horrifically hilarious is this?! Wow. We were even MORE stupid back then that I could have ever possibly imagined. I wouldn't be surprised if we found another old ad telling us to blow carbon monoxide up our asses to make our farts disappear.

Doubt. Inhibitions. Ignorance . . . INDEED.

And if by some chance it's fake (I actually hope it's fake), then it's just amusing in a fabulously warped way.

I would feel much better in knowing that our grandmothers did not, in fact, douche with Lysol. But then again, it might explain some things . . . like Donald Trump.

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

Spillin' Some Beans

So, I haven't had my mind on writing the last couple weeks, but I have a pretty big reason why. In 2 weeks from now, I'm going to be putting myself (and my ideas) out to the Dragons (or Sharks, if you're reading this from The States). It's the first round, so it's actually the producers that I have to get passed first, but you get the idea.

I'm auditioning for Dragon's Den 
and yes, I'm freaking out.

But in a really great way.
This is the stuff that really gets my eyes twinkling and my lady bits all pudgy.
Adrenaline through invention.
Oooh, yes.

I'm going to side step a minute and share a little "hard lesson learned" story that happened to me 2 years ago. I didn't write about it then, mainly because I was so devastated that I didn't want to relive any second of it, even through writing.

I approached a very large, Canadian-based company that makes luggage. I submitted 6 concepts to them, with a pitch and I stamped each page with a "©2010 Intellectual Property . . . blardy blargh blar." I never heard back from them; not even an auto-reply. Then, about 10 months later, I happened to visit there site because I was going overseas and needed a new suitcase -- and there, in the "new additions" where T-H-R-E-E OF MY SIX DESIGNS.

SERIOUSLY?!

I called immediately and of course, the first person I was directed to had never heard of me. Then I became more irate. The higher up that I was passed to . . . knew exactly who I was. He told me, in a slightly more politically correct but no less douchey that they had changed the designs "just enough" that I could take them to court if I wanted to, but I'd never win against their team of lawyers. Asshole.

And he was right. I looked in to retaining an intellectual property lawyer and he said that it would require no less than $10,000 to go to court. So, I learned the hard way and at the end of the day, the artist gets screwed as a corporation gets fat off my ideas.

AND IT WILL BE THE FIRST AND LAST TIME
I ALLOW THAT TO HAPPEN.

So back to present day. I have 5 designs that are simple but fantastic for twin infants. They really are, I promise you. I have tried to get prototypes made but since my prior experience, it's been difficult approaching random people with my designs, not knowing where they will end up without my permission.

Instead, I'm going to approach the Dragons/Sharks for manufacturing investments; I've done all my facts and figures and I have to say, they are pretty damn sweet.

So, here's my young little pipe dream -- hoping that one day, it will be the "go to" brand for everything for twins (and triplet stuff too, but not as much, sorry!)

If you have twins, or just want to support my bid because you love me, please go to the site (www.artandpolly.com) and tweet your support! The more tweets, obviously, the better. I'm also trying to get some celebrity buzz happening, but sheesh, that Angelina is one tough lady to pin down. Jerry? Molly? Anybody? Pssfftt.

Anyway, thank you to everyone in advance!

I'll let you know if it goes well. 

If it goes shit, I doubt I'll mention it. 

Just being honest.

Deep breath . . .

Twitter is tough crowd to please

Alternate title: Why I'll never have 1 million Twitter followers.

I don't think I've had the ambition to do a Top 10 in a while, so amidst seemingly non-stop customized resume preparations, I thought I'd take some time out to procrastinate attempt to entertain you.

My follow and unfollow rates on Twitter are fairly consistent with each other; I've written before how it's all okay - to each their own and all that codswallop . . . but whenever I get a mass exodus in a single day (more than 20), I can never be sure exactly why, since my tweet content is more across the bloody map that Carmen Sandiego.

So, here are my thoughts on that phenomenon.

- 10 -

-9-

-8-

-7-

-6-

-5-

-4-

-3-

-2-

-1-

I rest my case.

And I don't really mind, but it's just a mildly interesting observation of what happens when one doesn't fit exactly into a specific genre, interest group or clique. Hey, kinda like when I was in high school. Ahem.

And on a completely unrelated note, I can't believe January is over, mostly because that means I've survived another 4 weeks being home full time with the boys. 

Sweet Cheeses, it's a damn miracle!

Femstaches & Hot Asses

First off, today is my 35th birthday. 
I'm not going to ask you all for naughty photos because then they wouldn't classify as being "unsolicited" and I couldn't claim ignorance . . . but ya know, you do what you gotta do . . . mmmk? Ahem.

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

I haven't done a Writer's Workshop for a long time, and I don't even know if this overly qualifies, but I saw that one of the topics was: Something that made you laugh this week — and I couldn't pass up the chance to share this piece of journalistic brilliance with everyone.

I was in the waiting room at my doctor's appointment, minding my own business and reading one of the manky, out-dated women's magazines from the pile. I usually choose the one that has a famous woman on the cover that I detest the least, which isn't always easy. After flipping through page after page of advertisements for all the ways I can make myself a better woman, I found an article with a huge Frida Kahlo self portrait.

Ooohhh, art. I can read about that.

And then I read that the article was essentially about women with mustaches. Whatever. Fine. I've already invested my attention and I likely wouldn't find anything better, so I read further down the page and found this . . .

I had to take a double take and then I back tracked some reading and took a third take before I burst into laughter. I think I jump-started an elderly man's heart that was sitting across from me. You're welcome, sir, by the way. Mona Lisa, Mariah Carey, Tina Fey . . . and JUSTIN BIEBER.

That is hysterical as hell.

Bravo to Elle Magazine Canada and Joana Lourenço for that hilarious dig on the popstar. Loved it!

And since I have a plethora of useless art knowledge stored in my brain, I feel compelled to also share with everyone the amusing tidbit that Duchamp's L.H.O.O.Q. is actually a French pun that when said out loud, the sound of it translates in English to say, "She has a hot ass."

You go, Mustache'y Mona . . . and Lady Bieber!

Have a fabulous weekend, everyone! I'll be off stuffing my face with pizza and ice cream cake.