Is there a party in my pants?

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. 

My Pants:





Bow – Chicka – Bow – Yow

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:

How do those Dove girls do it?

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. 

Me today: 


Me tonight:

The Sword in my Husbands Stone

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.