A Party For WHAT?!

Do you remember when you got your first period? I was 11, and on a camping trip with my Mom, and her best friend. Anyway, after going to the bathroom, I was a little freaked out.  Dude, it was the 70's!  Sex education didn't cover much back then!  I called out for my Mom, she called her BFF into the melee, and then they gave me:

The Supplies:
 A thick ass maxi pad, with some kind of elastic torture device to hold it in place and a roll of toilet paper.

The Lowdown, Info, 411:
1. The toilet paper was to be used to wrap up your used pad before throwing it away. That way, no one really new you were on your period. (What?)

2. I was now a woman and could pregnant. The hell?! I'M ELEVEN! I"M NOT EVEN SURE I KNEW WHAT THAT MEANT, FOR FUCK SAKE!!  IT WAS ONLY THE 70'S!!

3.  A snicker, an eye roll and the sound of clinking ice in her highball glass was all I got.  I certainly was not the guest of honor at a Period Party.

Yep, you read that right. A motherfucking Period Party!  One of my cousin's daughter's just got an invitation to a Period Party!  Apparently, it’s not enough for a young girl to start menstruating; now that particular life event needs to be celebrated with a themed, invitation-only party. Much like everything else in some of these entitled little asshole's lives today.

Seriously people, are we raising a fucking generation that’s going to expect balloons animals and a godamn cupcake every time they fart or put the toilet seat down? When will this nonsensical bullshit end?

Sure, I agree it's an important time for a young woman, but is it necessary to do it with a party?
Especially seeing as how this will become her least favorite time of the month, starting one day after the "Hey, I'm bleeding" shindig and lasting until menopause or until she can convince a doctor to rip that shit out, roots, eggs and all.

As I sit here, I wonder... Do the guests eat red jelly beans, red Jell-O, drink Big Red soda and give their red balloons panty-liner mustaches?  Does the crazy ass Mother then read them excerpts from Judy Bloom's, "Are you thee God, It's Me, Margaret" or "The Period Book", while they dunk tampon shaped teacakes in their damn teacups?   Um, is it just me or does that sound like a scene out of some fucking whacko Woody Allen movie? 

How do you even plan a Period Party?  Are there places out there to go for supplies?  Are there sections in the party store that sell pretty princess period party pack that includes plates, cups, and pink feminine disposal goody bags? 

Are there games like, “Get The Egg Out Of The Ovary” (Don't get stuck in the fallopian tubes!), or "Tampon Basketball," or, "Pin the chocolate on the menstruating woman's mouth"?  Maybe there are word games like, "How many words can you make out of “Puberty Really Sucks!" or "Help I Have Cramps From Hell!" or my personal favorite, "Bitch, I have raging PMS and will kill you!"

Well, that sure sounds like way more fun than the traditional “run to the fucking bathroom and hope your period doesn’t go through your white pants or everyone in the 6th grade will taunt you until you fucking graduate, dumbass” game we all played, right?

What about gifts for the guest of honor?  What exactly are "Welcome to Womanhood" gifts?  How about a pocket calendar, a red candle, a case of douche, and pimple cream?  AWESOME!  Just what every 12 year old dreams of unwrapping!

And if that weren’t humiliating enough, does Mommy dearest invite older women to the party to “share their menstrual stories” with the tweens?  Yeah, because that's not fucking traumatizing at all!

“And then, girls, there was the time I had my period on my honeymoon, so my husband spent the entire time gambling in the casino while I cried and drank minibar vodka on the bathroom floor."

"Well, at least that was still better than that time I had cramps so painful that I took three Vicodin and crashed the car into Dunkin Donuts."

"OOH!  What about that time I got toxic shock syndrome and almost died from sepsis."

Such good times!  Welcome to womanhood, Sweetpea! Pass the Midol Martinis!”

Look, I know it's important to talk with our daughters about their bodies. Just do it without the fucking the red balloons, please.

Summer Is Harsh, Baby

Where have I been since late Monday evening?  Well, pull up a chair kids, I have a cautionary tale for you.  You might just learn something, or not, but what the hell else do you have to do?  Not a damn thing, since you are here reading me, so, sit the hell down!

Anyway, the great bathing suit/exercise debacle of the PREVIOUS POST was followed by a ride on the Emotionally Menopausal Rollercoaster Of Shame. 

The sweaty trauma train cruised through The Hopeless Tunnel of Youth, across Super Bitch Boulevard, up Hormone Hill, and ultimately stopped at Three Day Bender Station, in the city of Crocked. (Also known as my back yard) 

I put on my best mu-mu, grabbed a cooler full of Corona, a vat of Pirate Rum Punch, and a couple of Willie's smoke-em-if-ya-got-em special cigs.  I carefully plopped onto the new raft in the pool, and proceeded to drift, drink and mourn the loss of my once, greatest asset..., my ample, perky bosom. 

Ok, ok, these babies have always been large and not exactly perky, but in my heyday, I never had a shortage of, onenightstands, suitors, wanting to juggle my giant pleasure orbs. 

Fast forward to the great bathing suit debacle of 2015, and all of a sudden, my 'effin' tits have taken a fucking dive, and my godamn nipples now face due South!  Also, the awesome new udder like shape my breasts have morphed into, could be mistaken for motherfucking bellybutton ears.  Traitorous assholes!

It all gets a bit fuzzy after that because of the ugly crying, the buzz from the cigs, and imbibing until I was ha-aaaamm-ered. 

I passed out, fell asleep, at noon, floating around the pool, in my mu-mu, on a raft.  Five hours later, I wake up and realize that my lovely, generously, free flowing cover up is bunched up between my damn shoulders and neck and there I am, floating around in all of my flubberous glory .

My lucky neighbors got an extended peep show from hell, with bonus snoring, (and maybe farting, whatever, don't judge me!), included. Fan-fucking-tastic!  The Home Owner's Association aught to love this one.

Note to self:  Send booze, fruit baskets and cookies to all neighbors.

Best of all, however, are my southern-pointing bellybutton ears.  They are fire engine red, have changed their name and are trying to get into the witness protection program.

The Summer Cycle

Every year, it's the same old routine.  Summer comes, pool is opened up, the deck furniture is put out, and pretty planters brimming with gorgeous flowers are put on the hanging plant hooks that surround the deck.  Poor things, will die long before summer is over, but that's a story for a different post. 

 

After all the prep work is finished, there is the reward of sweet summer days and warm, sultry evenings spent hanging out on the deck and in the pool.  It's riiight about then that I remember, HOLY FUCK I'M GOING TO HAVE TO WEAR A BATHING SUIT!

 

Cue the anxiety, the panic, the cursing and sobbing.  Then comes the self lecture about skipping breakfast and lunch for most of my teenage and young adult life.  Sounds like a good idea, but that shit catches up with you, and not in the way your think, trust me.

Next comes the reminder that a Corona drinking, Xanax popping, stay at home Mom that sits on the couch with my laptop, remote control and a stash of peeps close by has my ass spreading faster than the goddamn swine flu. I have to do something.

Okay, I got this!  I will join all the other crazy assholes who jog. Then I remembered that when I tried this last year, I made it through a quarter of a mile before my goddamn tits jumped off my chest and went home. I found them in the kitchen, eating frosting from the container and drinking my fucking boxed wine.

Scratch that, maybe Tae Bo!  I love that, and I know I have some dvds around here!  I just have to remember where I put them. wait!  I remember what happened!  Two years ago I made it 3 damn days before I cursed Billy fucking Blanks and his shiny, bald head to hell and back. I limped outside and set that fucking DVD on fire. I sat drinking a cold Corona and watching it delicately melt the edges off. I may have been maniacally giggling my ass off too.

Well, I probably won't do anything about the size my ass if I'm not held accountable, so I opened a phonebook.

"ACME Fitness Club, how can I help you?"

"I have an ass spread the size on fucking Montana. Help me."

She explained the process to me as I sat there dumbfounded. Basically, for the low, low price of HOLY SHIT YOU PEOPLE ARE FUCKING CRAZY??? I could pick a body out of a book and they would get me there. The fourth time I asked her to repeat the membership fee, I demanded it come with "a bodybuilder to ride around in my goddamn trunk and keep me pepped up. The Bitch hung up on me.

My next call was to a fitness boot camp. When the dickwad screamed at me with so much enthusiasm that I smelled his fucking breath over the phone, I quietly disconnected the call and then ripped the goddamn phone out of the wall for good measure.

I have decided to say, fuck it and just buy a mu mu.  I'm old and fucking tired. Give me my goddamn peeps, a cold Corona and a container of  Ben & Jerry's, then go fuck yourselves.

Patriotic Vajayjay? Just, NO!

With all of this flag business going on, I figured I'd throw my opinion in the ring.

There are lots of things I love: Rum punch, Kenny Chesney, Corona with a lime, the beach, my beloved island, Irish Coffee, and, of course, shiny things!

There are many things I hate, dislike, and find repugnant, and high on that list is American flags as bathing suits.

I'm all for being patriotic.  I love this country, warts and all.  I proudly display an American flag on my porch, support our constitution, inalienable rights, and have the utmost respect for our troops. However, some things just piss me off.

Today, I had to go to the store I loathe going to.  It's always crowded, there are only 4 registers open, EVER, and people are just fucking rude there, it rhymes with Walmart.  Now, everone knows it's not my favorite place, but seriously, where else can you get 487 rolls of toilet paper, a 20 gallon jug of laundry soap, ammo for the gun and a giant jar of beef jerky, all for under 30 bucks?

As I walked in the store, I was greeted by this on a sale rack:

Here’s the thing: the American flag isn’t even supposed to touch the ground! Did you know that the people handling the flag always wear gloves? Do you want to know why?

It’s a respect thing, asshole! If people have to wear gloves to touch the flag, I am pretty fucking sure rubbing your damn pleasure taco on it is NOT OKAY!

Like I said, I am all for freedoms and thankful for those that have fought and died to protect us.  BUT, perhaps while you are recreating a Girls Gone Wild type escapade while chugging beer from a fucking funnel, how about you wear something other than our nation’s colors? A corona bikini, or maybe something sinister airbrushed on those perky little ta-tas? Whatever, just leave Old Glory on the damn flag pole!

Hey Guys?  This request is for you all too.

Please don’t wear flag swimtrunks and have your saggy ass and wobbly man bits defiling the flag, dammit!

By all means. Celebrate. Get drunk on a plane, Watch fireworks on a boat... With beer... With fireworks and fucking sparklers for all I care.

However, for the love of Mom and apple pie, do NOT prance around in an American Flag bathing ensemble. I can’t fucking take it!

Insect World 1 - Dutchess 0

I hate bugs.  Well, butterflies and lightening bugs are ok, and dragonflies are kinda cool, but as a rule of thumb, all bugs suck.  If they cross my path, try to fly in my hair, (because they always do), or invade my castle, I will kill them.  Nope, I don't feel bad at all, so all of you tree hugging, -ants have feelings too- assholes, sit down.  Save it for someone who gives a shit, m'kay?

Today, the insects hated back.  Let me explain...

Where I live, we are lucky if we have 3 months of summer like weather.  Autumn is rainy, cold and I've had to put snowsuits under my kid's Halloween costumes some years.  Winter is harsh, grey, snowy and ass clenching cold.  Spring doesn't always show up, and when it does it can bring snowstorms, tornadoes, and monsoon like rain, all in the same day.  So, when Summer actually arrives, it also brings a shit load of bugs.  Spiders, bees, june bugs, mosquitoes, ticks, and so on.

This year, there seems to be a lot of hornets.  Those little assholes are sneaky, fast and mean.   The past week, they have been getting into the house, and they seem to congregate in the hallway between the kitchen and bathroom.  Today I killed 4. Seriously.

I have this super high-tech bug killer.  It is the finest electrocuting tennis racket that $10 can buy. I bought it last year because the carpenter bees were eating my deck.  Anyway, I think the battery is dying because it only mildly sparks and makes subtle flesh burning smells when I swat and connect with my victims. 

One of the hornets I killed today fell to the ground still squirming.  I picked him up with a paper towel, put him in the toilet and flushed.  DAMMIT!  The damn hornet and paper towel bobbed back up to the surface.   I flushed again and walked away.

I had a ton of shit, (no pun intended), to get done today, so, along with my 3 glasses of water, I had 2 extra cups of coffee this morning.  Exactly 11 minutes later, I had to pee. Coffee/water in, pee out and all that.

Well, I sat down, started to pee and then? THEN? I felt a sharp, very sharp, stab in my right ass cheek.

That freaking hornet? Hadn’t drowned and was out for motherfucking revenge! I’m guessing that the second time the tiny asshole went around the bowl didn't go down the hole, he floated on his paper towel raft, slowly gathering his strength plotting and prepping for battle. He somehow dragged his ragged,  mildly electrocuted, slightly waterlogged self to the inside of the fucking toilet bowl where I couldn’t see him, and then he fucking pounced.

The aftermath wasn’t pretty.  There may have been some screaming, shrieking, swearing and general mayhem. I also may have ever so slightly rammed my head into the wall as I leaped from my throne of torture in hornet escapism mode.

Of course, I used the zig zag pattern that someone told me I should use when I am trying to escape a predator. That may have only been in the case of a gun attack but at the time, I couldn’t quite think clearly.

So there I was chasing that fucking hornet with my granny panties around my knees as I screamed and flailed.

This time? That little asshole is dead for real.  I seriously already have a fear of toilets, so I ALWAYS look before I sit down.   I once read something about snakes slithering up through the pipes and biting people on the ass. But that hornet? Knew my fear, was crafty and hid.  Score one for the Insect World.  However, take heed you little fuckers, as that was just the battle.  I WILL win the fucking war! 

Well, after the pain in my right ass cheek lessens and the bump on my head goes down.

Like A Good Neighbor...

Guess what?     No!  Willie is NOT using my shed as a grow house!  NO!  I have not put up the  "Hookers "R" Us" "OPEN for Business" door sign!  I haven't even been found passed out naked in the front bird bath while yammering about the fucking sky falling and the pool shrinking!  Your guesses suck tits, people!

"I have new neighbors!  Yep!  That's right!  Brand spankin' new neighbors!  Now, I know what you're thinking,

"OH HOLY HELL! NO ONE WARNED THEM!"
"ABORT!! ABORT!! DON'T BUY THE HOUSE, PEOPLE!
RUUUNNNNNN, YOU DUMB FUCKS, RUUUUUNNNNN!

I know, I know, but hang on!  History doesn't have to repeat itself, right?  I'm the simpler, kinder, changed by life, Dutchess.  I am the Dutch that can learn from history instead of being confined by it!  I can be informed, and empowered by it instead of being dictated by it!  This is going to be GREAT!  I'm finally going to be a good neighbor!

I cut a pretty bouquet of fresh cut Peonies from my front flower bed, wrapped them in a pretty bow, and went and welcomed them to the neighborhood.  I smiled, made nice, and I was charming, dammit!  I was feeling pretty great about my new self! 

Well, a couple days later, the wife of the new neighborhood BFF's knocked on the door.  She noticed my grandbaby playing outside earlier and figured him to be close to the same age as her darling rug rat.  She went on to say that she really needed to run to the grocery store and wondered if I'd be interested in watching kid dynamo for an hour.

SHUT UP!    I can hear you laughing, asshats!  These people don't know old me!  I have too changed!  I even took down the pentagram, and the sign over the door that says we keep and eat all girl scouts whom dare enter!

So, of course I said yes!  She then tells me her little angel is gluten free, and she doesn't believe in sugary soda.  The hell?  Believe in it or not, bitch, the soda exists!  But, I smile, say sure, and wave buh-bye.

Ok, here I am going to stop and explain that I am old.  I'm not even sure what the fuck gluten free means, but I decide a snack is in order.  What better way to get to know a child than to feed them?  Genius.  I called for my grandson, and he and rug rat sit at the breakfast table. 

I decide Kool-aid isn't a soda, and grab a couple boxes and hand them to the boys.  The phone rang, and it was some asshole telemarketer.  I swear, I had my back to the boys for 3.437 seconds and I turn around to ask the boys if they would like an apple, because an applies healthy, right?

Holy Fuck!  The grandson and his angelic rug rat sidekick have managed to get the lid off of a box of Costco cupcakes and have crammed as many as they could into those darling little piranha mouths in some whacked out competition!

I glance at this once angelic kid who now is in a wild eyed eating frenzy with a face smeared in frosting muttering something about how could his commie bitch parents never have told of this bliss!

Well, fuck!  I don't think those are gluten free, and maybe the kool-aid wasn't such a good idea.

Needless to say, when Mom picked up kid dynamo, he was at the height of his sugar rush and kinda reminded me my Uncle Shorty.  A tiny, sugared up, flesh colored blur of fury with incoherent stuttering, and swearing, pinging off the walls.  Sorry!

I think my neighborhood BFF status just lost an F.

Pass the wine, Please.  This good neighbor shit is hard!

WHOA! It's Been A Whole Year?!.

Well.....here I am...dipping my toe into this water...again, and I'm not sure exactly where it's going after that. 

So many things have happened since I lived, breathed, wrote, shared and put my heart and soul into this place.  This blog, my own little corner of the world, started at one place, and ended somewhere entirely different.  I loved every single twisty little turn. 

Then social media took over.  Let's face it, it really is a fast way to connect with other people and keep up with their daily lives.  The problem is, it's not really a connection, as much as it is a fly-by.  It's much easier to post a picture with a small caption or quip than it is to have to tap into your creative side and paint the wordy picture of the thoughts and moments you wish to share. 

I've also had life changing events happened in the past year which, out of necessity, forced me to push the writer, funny, creative sides of me, to the end of the line. Although I love fun and spontaneity; change, grief and loss are 3 things this Dutchess doesn't do well, and it has been a long, blue season. 

However, I think I'm finally seeing a light...a realization that I like to write...I need to write.  Writing has always been in my bones...in my soul.

I'm not sure where this is going, but I do know that I am entering the next chapter of life, of this blog, and with a deeper understanding of myself, the ones I love, and the world. 

I'm not always going to be funny, but I am going to bring back "We Snapped", which I will explain at a later time.  I'm also thinking about bringing "Reflecions From A Bathtub" back once a month too.  I think you will still see you're crazy, wild,  Dutchess and her stories of her Royal Family, but I hope you also get to see, know and like, the other sides of her too. 

Mostly, I just want to write again, ad I sure hope you all come along for the ride, but no pressure, either way m'kay?

Now, I have to go, I'm late for my bubble bath and wine.