As my life span rounds month 360, it’s apparent that my future fantasies with my fictional son’s friends aren’t going to be in the cards after all. I think I had some good years, where my face didn’t feel like a pleather wallet from 5-7-9 and my ass didn’t require storm damage insurance. Saying goodbye to that 2 digit that I’ve grown so fond of is proving to be much more difficult than I had anticipated. In an effort to fight my way through thirty without having to double down on my usual dosage, I decided it was time to pay a visit to the dermatologist who can coincidentally service my botox needs.
It was my first visit to this new doctor and I was nervous and excited. I wrote down a plethora of ailments I’m currently battling including incredibly large hair follicles – surprise surprise. It was the end of the day and I was looking forward to shooting the shit with my new doctor friend. While I may have the inability to sustain most relationships, I do find that I try the hardest to maintain a strong and healthy connection to the many healthcare providers in my life. After muddling my way through the pre-consent forms that challenged cheese cake factories menu size, I was led into a room to wait anxiously for my new friend. Minutes later, the unsinkable Molly Brown walks in – kinda like a cross between Kathy Bates and John Goodman. The first sign that this was not going to well was the consistency between her skin and mine. I was anticipating a leisurely chat between homies, but what I received was an irritable exchange between me and a lesbian with a hankering to get home to her box. This wasn’t going good.
She abruptly took out a gown and told me to change down to my full backs. I was confused. Change? What is this? Late night USA? As if my self-esteem couldn’t get any lower, I’m now being subjected to a late day peep show? If I had known there was going to be a strip down, I would have certainly done the following:
- Went to a hot guy doctor
- Trimmed up Yosimite Park’s micro site
- Booked any early appointment while the eight layers of concealer, blush, foundation, BB Cream, powder and illuminator was in a non-melted state
- And went to a hot guy doctor
So there I am – standing in front of Rosie O’Donnell’s angry cousin holding my palms over my un-errect nipples – did I mention STANDING? Like, standing in a florescent lit room. I barely take showers naked much less trot around in well lit spaces with thr ball park wave taking place in my mid-section.
Most people’s reaction to seeing me naked:
So there we are – me and Bates. She seemed to get a thrill out of watching me cup my 359 month old nipples. She takes out a pair of laboratory like glasses that I’m convinced were fake – like as if she just got off the set of “Outbreak” and was diagnosing a revolutionary atom that could cure the chicken pox (doubt it dawg) – ya, well, my age spots and frecks aren’t exactly hard to see by the naked eye. Next thing I know she says – “put your hands down by your side so I can see your chest.” (Reference A through D one more time)
I was just waiting for her to call out the two large moles on the flattest part of my body so I could have hard evidence that she was faking her exam. I was preparing my rebuttal to be something like, “UM, those saucers are my nipples, dick tits, I’m outta here.” I would then storm out of the florescent cell, grabbing only my handbag and a gown that would be open in the front, not the back. I would then throw my hands up in the air as I approached the exit/ entrance, turn around, flip off all the patrons in the waiting room and say – fuck you mother fuckers! It didn’t exactly turn out in my favor.
Just as I breathed a sigh of relief thinking this ridiculous experience had come to a close, she makes me turn around and lift my feet so now she’s got a full view of the ass rings that have developed in my flesh color panties. This take place for what seemed like an episode of Mad Men – but not a really good one, like one of the early years when they were still conceptualizing character developments. Finally the ordeal was over and I was allowed to put back on my Forever41 outfit.
So after all that I was confident that Private Lezby’s assessment and ultimate script approval would turn out in my favor. Unfortunately for me, I left with some over the counter hydrocortisone cream. Well, that along with a few shots of Bo-Magic injected into my face. Dr. Fingers got the last laugh on that one advising me to wear more sunscreen and moisturize often.
By: Kelly MacLeanStand up comic, actress, writer @thekellymaclean
Posted: 09/16/2013 6:37 pm
Whole Foods is like Vegas. You go there to feel good but you leave broke, disoriented, and with the newfound knowledge that you have a vaginal disease.
Unlike Vegas, Whole Foods’ clientele are all about mindfulness and compassion… until they get to the parking lot. Then it’s war. As I pull up this morning, I see a pregnant lady on the crosswalk holding a baby and groceries. This driver swerves around her and honks. As he speeds off I catch his bumper sticker, which says ‘NAMASTE’. Poor lady didn’t even hear him approaching because he was driving a Prius. He crept up on her like a panther.
As the great, sliding glass doors part I am immediately smacked in the face by a wall of cool, moist air that smells of strawberries and orchids. I leave behind the concrete jungle and enter a cornucopia of organic bliss; the land of hemp milk and honey. Seriously, think about Heaven and then think about Whole Foods; they’re basically the same.
The first thing I see is the great wall of kombucha — 42 different kinds of rotten tea. Fun fact: the word kombucha is Japanese for ‘I gizzed in your tea.’ Anyone who’s ever swallowed the glob of mucus at the end of the bottle knows exactly what I’m talking about. I believe this thing is called “The Mother,” which makes it that much creepier.
Next I see the gluten-free section filled with crackers and bread made from various wheat-substitutes such as cardboard and sawdust. I skip this aisle because I’m not rich enough to have dietary restrictions. Ever notice that you don’t meet poor people with special diet needs? A gluten intolerant house cleaner? A cab driver with Candida? Candida is what I call a rich, white person problem. You know you’ve really made it in this world when you get Candida. My personal theory is that Candida is something you get from too much hot yoga. All I’m saying is if I were a yeast, I would want to live in your yoga pants.
Next I approach the beauty aisle. There is a scary looking machine there that you put your face inside of and it tells you exactly how ugly you are. They calculate your wrinkles, sun spots, the size of your pores, etc. and compare it to other women your age. I think of myself attractive but as it turns out, I am 78 percent ugly, meaning less pretty than 78 percent of women in the world. On the popular 1-10 hotness scale used by males the world over, that makes me a 3 (if you round up, which I hope you will.) A glance at the extremely close-up picture they took of my face, in which I somehow have a glorious, blond porn mustache, tells me that 3 is about right. Especially because the left side of my face is apparently 20 percent more aged than the right. Fantastic. After contemplating ending it all here and now, I decide instead to buy their product. One bottle of delicious smelling, silky feeling creme that is maybe going to raise me from a 3 to a 4 for only $108 which is a pretty good deal when you think about it.
I grab a handful of peanut butter pretzels on my way out of this stupid aisle. I don’t feel bad about pilfering these bites because of the umpteen times that I’ve overpaid at the salad bar and been tricked into buying $108 beauty creams. The pretzels are very fattening but I’m already in the seventieth percentile of ugly so who cares.
Next I come to the vitamin aisle which is a danger zone for any broke hypochondriac. Warning: Whole Foods keeps their best people in this section. Although you think she’s a homeless person at first, that vitamin clerk is an ex-pharmaceuticals sales rep. Today she talks me into buying estrogen for my mystery mustache and Women’s Acidophilus because apparently I DO have Candida after all.
I move on to the next aisle and ask the nearest Whole Foods clerk for help. He’s wearing a visor inside and as if that weren’t douchey enough, it has one word on it in all caps. Yup, NAMASTE. I ask him where I can find whole wheat bread. He chuckles at me “Oh, we keep the poison in aisle 7.” Based solely on the attitudes of people sporting namaste paraphernalia today, I’d think it was Sanskrit for “go fuck yourself.”
I pass the table where the guy invites me to join a group cleanse he’s leading. For $179.99 I can not-eat not-alone… not-gonna-happen. They’re doing the cleanse where you consume nothing but lemon juice, cayenne pepper and fiber pills for 10 days, what’s that one called again? Oh, yeah…anorexia. I went on a cleanse once; it was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I detoxified, I purified, I lost weight. On the other hand, I fell asleep on the highway, fantasized about eating a pigeon, and crapped my pants. I think I’ll stick with the whole eating thing.
I grab a couple of loaves of poison, and head to checkout. The fact that I’m at Whole Foods on a Sunday finally sinks in when I join the end of the line…halfway down the dog food aisle. I suddenly realize that I’m dying to get out of this store. Maybe it’s the lonely feeling of being a carnivore in a sea of vegans, or the newfound knowledge that some people’s dogs eat better than I do, but mostly I think it’s the fact that Yanni has been playing literally this entire time. Like sensory deprivation, listening to Yanni seems harmless at first, enjoyable even. But two hours in, you’ll chew your own ear off to make it stop.
A thousand minutes later, I get to the cashier. She is 95 percent beautiful. “Have you brought your reusable bags?” Fuck. No, they are at home with their 2 dozen once-used friends. She rings up my meat, alcohol, gluten and a wrapper from the chocolate bar I ate in line, with thinly veiled alarm. She scans my ladies acidophilus, gives me a pitying frown and whispers, “Ya know, if you wanna get rid of your Candida, you should stop feeding it.” She rings me up for $313. I resist the urge to unwrap and swallow whole another $6 truffle in protest. Barely. Instead, I reach for my wallet, flash her a quiet smile and say, “Namaste.”
How I’m dealing with authoritative figures in my office at the moment:
The project my boss just landed on my desk:
My overall feeling towards life at this moment:
The only thing getting me through this day is knowing that Ill be face to face with my favorite east Hampton’s Jew tonight.
The one. The only. Ina Garten.
I hope Jeffrey is there!
After taking a long lunch at Bone Daddy’s, I was excited to get back to the office and snag an open visitor parking space. As I got out of my car I felt this moist sensation in my pants, like a wet dump had suddenly dropped. I figured it was a result of too much giggle time over mid-day Boob-A-Que and just peed all over myself and was just now realizing it. I think I should mention that in an effort to impress a client in the office today, the staff was tasked at looking somewhat presentable. I opted for my size six navy suit from Banana Republic, so I’m not exactly thrilled that the one day out of the week that I’m not in my usual Ross Less Mess, my pee pipes burst. I hurried inside the building to investigate. I pulled down my pants to find a massive clot of clear jello had landed in my full backs and was overflowing to my inner beef thighs. What the fuck? Was it the twerking waitress at Bone Daddy’s that had this effect on my toaster oven? Is there a party in my pants and I didn’t get invited? It’s like it’s Friday and my vagina is ready to party. I think this is a sign? I’m going to instigate sex tonight thanks to the hint that just dropped in my pants. Yes. I. Am.
Ok, enough is enough. This post ectopic-pregnancy nightmare is officially coming to a close tonight. I’m preparing to take my husband’s penis to the house or my house rather, tonight….. stay tuned.
My reaction to his penis before today:
My Reaction to his penis after today:
Since when did weighing 139 feel like 129? Yesterday morning, I eagerly made my way to the scale with high hopes. I’ve recently cut down on my usual cow a day feeding frenzy and was hopeful that my diligence had paid off. When the 3 showed up as the middle digit I enthusiastically threw my hands up in triumph like I was Kerri Strug in the 96 Olympics – And then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and it occurred to me, I am celebrating over 139? It’s like I got married, stopped giving head, gained ten pounds and have subconsciously slipped into the 139/140 weight class? Good lord.
Now, don’t get me wrong – 139 is a perfectly fine weight, just not when you’re 5’4.5” and come from a family of Legos.
At this point in the morning, I’ve gone through a plethora of emotions and coming down from my gymnastic midget moment I’m face to face with the every girl’s Osama – the mirror.
Realizing that my ass and under arm carriage have all of sudden started procreating in the last year. Like, not only is my reproductive system crying out for an oil change, so are my limbs. I broaden my evaluation for a comprehensive overview of the state of my body, among my findings:
Ass & Thigh hail damage – the kind without insurance so you just have to live with these oddly placed bug bites that have somehow created pockets inside your skin, but have kindly done so in places that are not easily detectible so your forced to examine the destruction through a downward dog position in disbelief of what’s happening right behind you.
Upside down mountains sprouting out from under my arms like the rolling hills of Missouri – like the kind of mountains that are interesting but you don’t ever need to see again.
Weird inner thigh fat, like when you’re driving and you look down in shock like you must have had one leg amputated because you can’t find where the second leg starts and then you realize that your thighs have somehow merged together as one. Like your thighs are these lonely creatures that started dating and can’t get enough of each other so now they’re inseparable. They sit together, walk together, sleep together – you literally cannot pull the two apart…. Two boulders in love.
One of my new favorites – Areola hair… Now I’m not talking bushels here, but definitely some weed sprouts strategically placed in areas that your husband can quickly identify so in a panic you grab the razor only to find that in a haste you’ve somehow managed cut your nipple turning your milk straws into a spongebob characters.
And if all that’s not enough, my skin has somehow morphed into a polka dotted leather boot, or more like pleather. Like a cheap imitation of late 20 year old skin. All of sudden my body is like a deserted dessert terrain from 2000BC and as a curse on its civilization it’s drained all of the natural resources and left a drought in its wake.
On my grocery list today:
Dove Body Soap – to roll up and smoke, those big girls on the commercials gotta be doin something I’m not
Vaseline – to coat my entire body with
Spanks – to separate my Siamese thighs
Nair – for my nipples
Tanning lotion – to disguise the craters in my ass
Vodka – so that I’ll start hitting on myself later tonight
This should do the trick.
OHHHHH HEEEEEY HEEEEEY!
Well, it seems like just yesterday I was challenging my way through ten days of one on one scissor time with my husband. While it wasn’t exactly a triumph, I did come face to face with his rape kit 5 outta the ten days. For some people, this may seem like a lost battle, but considering my life long struggle with commitment, I think it was an overall success. Making my way through the course of the ten days, I felt a strange connection to Lance Armstrong – like I knew what I was doing couldn’t last, the momentum would ultimately die down and I’d be caught dick handed. Well, that brings me to today.
I think it’s time I let you know that hell decided to freeze over inside my uterus this summer by implanting a little baby Phelps. I’m assuming this was a result of left over challenge guilt. Upon news of this strange occurrence, I was somewhat, uuuuu, how shall I say……… perplexed. While my hips don’t lie, my body isn’t exactly a vessel that you’d want life housed in. For the longest time, I just thought my insides were in a perpetual state of darkness. Finding out that my body could possibly facilitate life was confusing. For the first 2 days after hearing the news, I went through what I can only describe as phases of grief – confusion, panic, anger, sorrow, fright and then ultimately peace (I think one through three of these stages were directly influenced by the abrupt sobriety that my body found itself facing). Once I peeled myself out from under the covers, emptied out my bed pan and turned off the 90210 marathon from WE tv I came to a state of acceptance what ultimately turned into a strange feeling of dare I say – jittery excitement? I mean, prostitutes and refugees have kids every day – why can’t I? I knew I’d have a whole new challenge ahead of me and a sober one at that, but I was preparing for battle. I realized my prep time was only 9 months compared to the 18 year war that I’d ultimately face, but I came to terms with it. Mommy would be my new schtick.
Well, fast forward a few weeks and it turned out that I didn’t have a Phelps – it was actually a Lochte who got confused about where to go and implanted itself outside of the utero-studio apartment and in the hall ways of my tubes. Apparently, this is somewhat common and not at all related to lifestyle behaviors – at least that’s what they told me, I’m choosing to accept that explanation.
As a result of this confused swimmer, I’ve been in a state of mommy limbo for the last few weeks. Semi pregnant but not really pregnant, I’m starting to think I may be perma pregnant, like I’m going to have a 5,000 month old baby inside me when I’m 50. For all of my doctor friends and readers, you may know this to be an ectopic pregnancy. Oh wait, I don’t know any doctors – well except that one guy I dated for like four seconds until my friends attempt at convincing me he had a poop sack attached to his abdomin (this conclusion was brought about by the fact that he refused to take his shirt off or allow any hand on chest action) which ultimately ended the relationship, well it was either that or the fact that he wouldn’t ever turn on the radio when we were in the car together, nor would he make small talk. I correlated our car rides to a future sex life and was not impressed with what the I envisioned. Not to mention he was an extreme Cathy. Since I don’t even take my hygiene to the extreme, I’m certainly not equipped to deal Dr. Pope. Back to the issue at hand, long story short, my body is in the process of hitting the flusher and it’s ultimately ended in an early term miss.
Among the colorful array of side effects, I’m finding myself for the first time in my life scared of my husband’s penis. I mean, yes, I’ve been annoyed, grossed out, irritated with his penis before, but never scared.
Every time it gets near me all I can think about is the power that it holds – like it’s the sword in the stone and unlocking its power can create people. UM – that’s not exactly something you wanna play around with, ya know what I’m sayin. I envision it lighting up inside of me and speaking in tongue (pun intended) inside of me creating space ships and planets.
So on this day, I find myself facing a new challenge.
I can either throw my vagina a retirement party – which I’ve definitely considered. I could dress in pink and drink blush wine and reminisce about the good ole days when I was slingin hos and droppin dollars.
I can shave the monstrosity that I’ve let grow into my thighs and up my belly like a bougainvillea plant, push up my hormone enriched ex-MITs (ex-mommy tits) and invite Merlin’s powers back inside my vessel of terror.
I’m not going to make up my mind today. I’m thinking too clearly and prefer to make big decisions over a glass of red and a popsicle. Ill keep you posted.
p>OK, so the challenge didn’t quite go as expected for me. As a neglected child from an athletic family, I can proudly say it wasn’t a losing season (thank gawd), my challenge record was 6-4.
Not that good, but not that bad either.
Plus, the challenge inspired other tired wives and lady friends to mix up period panty Tuesdays and full back Fridays for something a little more, how shall I say, less mommy-like. I can also proudly report that I met my husband at home, on a Monday, in the afternoon, for a little vagin / penis meet and greet. Can I get a WHA WHA? I think I let our mid afternoon throw down get to my head though, it was like this act removed me from my obligation to finish the challenge strong. After day five, I got tired. Real tired. it went something like this (minus the fuchsia dress).
I was actually a bit surprised by the level of enthusiasm by my fellow challengers. Two of them in particular had an almost perfect record.
So what did we learn?
Well, we learned that I can in fact get turned on a Monday and married women can challenge themselves and take their pop tarts to new – well really old heights. That’s pretty much the big take away for me.