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.

Drunken Bathtub Is Back!

Insanity doesn't run in my family...it wanders in slowly, greeting each person with a smile and a goddamn cookie. That said, my train of thought is seriously fucking twisted, and my brain is always on the run. Also?  I have a husband, 4 fucking dogs, 3 grown kids and a couple grandchildren.

Once a week, in order to keep my head from popping smooth off, and spinning around screaming, "I WILL CUT THE NEXT FUCKING PERSON THAT BREATHES! ", every Sunday evening (okay, it's Tuesday, I've been busy, fuck you) I head up to the bathroom with my box of wine, fill up the tub with bubbles and my glass with wine. I then just get tanked and let my mind go, wander, get juiced up, and I write what it has to say, unedited. (you lucky shits! ALSO, you've been warned)

Yep! It IS fucking true! Justin Timberlake may be bringing back sexy, but today, I am bringing back...

"Proof that a box of wine contains more philosophy than all the books in the fucking world."

 

Napkins used after eating hot wings and then shoved in your damn pocket should NEVER be used as toilet paper no matter how much you've had to drink, or how distracted you may be.

 

Wouldn't it be cool if breast implants came with squeaky toys inside!

 

I don't get fun size candy bars.  It's way more fun to eat the big bars.

 

Ordering a salad from McDonalds is like going into a whore house and just asking for a hug.  Order a fucking cheeseburger, asshole!

 

Milk has to be refrigerated or it goes bad, right?  Why the fuck doesn't it go bad in the cow?

 

I finally watched the vampire movies, and there is something that bugs the hell out of me.  If they can't see their own reflection, why the fuck is their fucking hair always perfect?

 

If you are bald, what do they put on your drivers license under hair color?

 

I bought some Himalayan organic salt from Whole Foods the other day.  On the package, it says, "holistic, wholesome, unaltered, natural salt, that has crystallized in the Earth over millions of years".  Well, when I opened it up, the bottom of the container said use by November, 2017.....WHEW!  They dug that shit up just in the nick of time!  WTF people, WTF! 

 

I hate watching the news, anymore.  Every damn story seems to be about Donald Trump, Hilary Clinton, Scott Walker and the other eleventy candidates and issues of the impending election.  I also noticed something else.  It seems 90% of the damn commercials are about Viagra, Levitra, Horny Goat Weed and Cialis. Hmmmm....Election, erection, election, erection. I've decided either way, we're still fucking screwed!

 

Speaking of being screwed, I seriously need to do some maintenance down there.  Maintenance?!  Who the fuck am I kidding, my snatch looks like a fucking Velcro factory set up shop down there. Well, I'm too tanked to do that tonight, Drunk, Scissors and the pleasure taco do not make a good threesome.  Just sayin'

 

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.