Where my girls at??

*The first modern bra was patented by the German Christine Hardt in 1889 and developed for mass production by Sigmund Lindauer from Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt, Germany in 1912 and patented in 1913. In 1910, Mary Phelps Jacob (known later in life as Caresse Crosby), saw that this design was uncomfortable and failed miserably where evening dresses were concerned; the whalebone visibly poked out around her plunging neckline and from under the sheer fabric. She worked on a new design and in 1914 the U.S. Patent office issued the first U.S. Patent.* What’s your point Christina? My point is this: we’ve been doing this shit for a long time now and designs have evolved as tastes have changed. We have a veritable smorgasbord of boobie holsters, why the fuck don’t we have one yet where underwire malfunction is a non-issue???

*Thanks Wikipedia for letting me twist shit up a bit

I don’t have gargantuan boobs; far from it. There should be no reason that my bras buckle under the stress of holding up my girls. If I had something warranting the creation of stress fractures in my undergarments over time, I would understand, but that’s so far from the truth it’s comedic. I’m the girl in the supermarket that people are handing tissue and water balloons to. At first it was confusing; it’s winter, so the tissue made sense. Thank you, that’s so kind of you to think of me and my runny nose, but what is this water balloon for? Suddenly it clicked – I’m supposed to stuff my bra, and now I’m 15 years old again back in high school. Asshole, go eat a dick.

Ladies, I know you feel me on this one. Last time I checked, I was not a tailor by profession. ‘Seamstress’ is not on my fucking resume anywhere. Also, the older I get, the harder it is to thread a damn needle. The last time I tried focusing that hard on anything with one eye closed I was at the bar trying to determine if the guy I was chatting up was “real-life” attractive or just “Gin and Tonic” attractive. Am I capable of sewing? You bet your sweet ass I am! Should I have to if I’m paying $25 to hold up some ‘barely there’ flaps of flesh just so that I don’t embarrass myself in public or make it uncomfortable for you by going braless? Fuck no! By the way, it is embarrassing when you go out in public braless, ladies. I don’t give a fuck how pristine you think your tits are. Unless you’re in the movies [being generous here] you should always keep those bitches on lockdown. No one has ever said anything to you before because we don’t know how. What the hell are we supposed to say? “Miss, I’m sorry, but can you please put those sandbags away? I want to eat this week, and I can’t unsee you.” Alternately, if you have an amazing rack, still keep those bitches on lockdown. Thank you – from the rest of us that don’t.

Now that I’ve beaten this piñata to death, I think it’s clear what I need to do to remedy this situation. It’s clear that I need to write both NASA and Tony Stark and plead my case. We ladies need a new tata tarp design. NASA will be sure to create something lightweight, durable, and aerodynamic - you know, for when you need to fly; as we all do. Tony Stark will deliver a prototype with all the bells, whistles, and missile launchers. They’ll cost slightly more, but worth it in my opinion. Pepper Potts is my in with Stark. If I can appeal to her, I know I’ll have his attention, but I haven’t thought this out at all. Not. At. All.

Oh the twisted places my brain takes me…

On that note… I’m thinking I’d be really great at giving advice. If you have a question you’d like me to address please submit your inquiry to rantsandswears@gmail.com 

This will be like a fucked up version of Dear Abby. Dear Tina will offer video blog answers to your real questions. I already regret this. Who am I kidding? This could be epic! This could also be a complete train-wreck. It’s so exciting. Fuck all, let’s just see what happens.

Gifting that'll get you laid - A Valentine's Day guide

So you say you’re stuck on what to get her for Valentine’s Day? I’ve come to bail your hopeless asses out.

My male counter-parts probably feel like you’ve just narrowly wriggled free of Christmas’s nasty little grip only to find that you’re standing before Valentine’s Day, looking it squarely in the face and fresh out of ideas; having blown your wad prematurely. I get it, the tinsel and eggnog were too much. It’s tough keeping up that level of endurance. This is the long game though gentlemen; not for pansies.

Now I don’t really give a rat’s ass about V-Day and that’s why I feel I am in the best possible position to offer advice. Personally, I don’t care what you get her, but I’d prefer not hear all my girlfriends bitch about how they got shitty gifts and how that equates to their men not truly loving them and being invested in the relationship - so all you men need to pay attention right now!

Forget about the fucking flowers. Flowers are pretty for two days then they die, end of story. Don’t even think about buying your lady chocolate. Why? Oh, here…let me run this down for you.

Her: Wanna piece?

You: No thanks

Her: Have a piece, please – I’m getting fat over here.

You: Ok, I’ll have one. Thanks.

Her: …

She’s pissed. Wanna know why? You didn’t tell her she’s beautiful and doesn’t have anything to worry about. You didn’t tell her that she isn’t fat and that she’s being silly. Silly, not stupid – very important distinction. Don’t EVER tell her she’s being stupid. You might as well call her a cunt. This is a no-win situation for you. You might as well go into the bathroom, scrawl out a suicide note on the mirror in her lipstick, and slit your wrists in the tub. No chocolate. Are we clear? I’m not saying this to hurt you, I’m saying this to save your miserable ass.

What else is on the banned list? Teddy bears. Swear to God, we all react the same when we receive a teddy bear. It goes like this: “Oh, look how cute!” we’ll exclaim, as we put on the adorable face that mimics the ‘I just saw a puppy’ look. What really happens: our vaginas have dried up, we can’t believe you’re so inept that this is the best thing you came up with, and we’ve already committed ourselves to giving you the cold shoulder in bed for at least 4 days. Truth.

I’ve killed all of your go-to Valentine’s Day gifts, haven’t I? Good. They were terrible and you should be ashamed of yourself. “Well…but…um…what do I do instead?” Pay some fucking attention to your woman, that’s what you do. Listen to what she says every once in a while. Do you remember that one time she mentioned that she needed a new coat or that she really wanted to get her hair done? That’s your cue. If you really want bonus points you can take her to the hair appointment and sit there while she gets her hair done. You are guaranteed to “get some” later. I promise.  Is there a musical group that she really enjoys? Take her to see them. You’ll be bumping uglies later. If it’s a singer/songwriter I can almost guarantee that you’re getting a blowie too.

This strategy has potential to backfire if you’re an idiot, so please use caution. For instance: when she mentioned needing a vacuum - I am, under NO circumstances suggesting you get her a vacuum. Don’t be stupid. The penalty for that kind of incompetence is unprecedented, but should you find yourself there, please document your experience and report back. I’ll begin keeping records for other poor bastards so they don’t make the same mistakes.

I had planned on offering some gifting advice for my lady friends, but let’s face it – we own this shit. Gift giving is our jam. We’ve probably been thinking about this for a few months now. If you’re truly stuck on what to get your man, just get him that thing that he keeps paying more attention to than you when the commercial for it comes on the tv. One and done. That thing about lingerie being the gift to get him always cracks me up. I could be wearing a shower curtain and it wouldn’t matter. I’ve been sick with tissue jammed up each nostril, wearing three day old sweatpants with stains on them, and it was never a deterrent. You’ll forgive me if I’m hesitant to spend to $80 on an 8-inch piece of fabric that’s going to end up on the floor anyhow and say “here, I got this for you!”

Solid Valentine’s Day gifts come from paying attention to your partner. Good gifting is about getting them what they would appreciate, not necessarily what you want. Look, I don’t do gifts and couldn’t possibly care any less about this Hallmark holiday, but I’m sick of hearing people squawk about hurt feelings and being directionless. For heaven’s sake, use common sense. If that doesn’t work, remember my advice: no chocolate, no bears, no flowers - and then think with your dick. Use protection – that’s my PSA for the year. 

2018: Go Pound Sand

Christmas is over and people are already gearing up for New Years and all the failed resolutions that go along with it. I have Christmas pajamas I have yet to don and people on social media are asking about New Year’s toasts and what kind of resolutions I intend to make. You’re kidding right? I don’t commit to shit. I can’t even commit to a shopping list without amending it halfway through; either intentionally or accidentally because I’m forgetful as fuck and left the list at home. I’ve been going prematurely senile for the last 8 years now. I’m excited to see what the next couple of years has in store for me – or not as the case may be. You should be excited though. If my current lifestyle and habits are any indicator; I will be a delight to observe in my deterioration.

I try not to set resolutions for myself. I do this mostly because I hate letting myself down. I don’t mind letting you down so much, but when I fail at shit that I set to do for myself, it really pisses me off. It’s like a game of dueling banjos in my head; the dominant parts of my personality attack and chastise the softer and more nurturing parts. The forgiving character traits that I have are then rounded up and forced into a corner where they’re force-fed dog food, hosed down, then made to wear polyester floral print in neon shades.  

I will not be working out more for 2018. I will not be giving up red meat; you can kiss my ass. If you think I’m cutting candy out of my diet, you’d be sorely fucking mistaken there too. In fact, there is nothing at all that I plan to do differently with what I put into my body or how I treat this sad bag of skin. I just turned 38 and my “give-a-fuck” ran out a long ass time ago. The way I see it, the warranty is finally up on this carcass and I’m in a relationship – so effectively, it’s cool to give up. Sweatpants forever, ya’ll!

 As stated earlier, I don’t do resolutions. I don’t do shit that I think I have potential to fail at, with the exception of arranging words here and there. All of this being said, I’m breaking with tradition and my resolution this year will be to free myself of toxic people and relationships without fear.  

The question was posed to me the other day as to why we stay in relationships long after they serve us or stop being healthy. How the fuck am I supposed to know? Am I a pillar of mental strength? No. Last time I checked I was not a PhD. I have to spellcheck psychiatry (except just then) when I write it. I have some theories of course on why we stay in relational situations that do us damage, but I can’t say for certain they’re worth a crap. Hell, on most days I wouldn’t even trust my responses to a game of Trivial Pursuit. I can’t even remember the last time I played that game; that would involve human interaction and I really try to keep that shit to a minimal. Family and people I’m screwing is the circle I keep; any larger than that and it opens things up for large holiday gatherings, uncomfortable exchanges, and the potential they’ll ask you to house sit for them. Or worse yet: the dinner party.

Why do we stay in relationships that no longer serve us? I can’t speak for anyone but myself [you wouldn’t want me to anyhow, trust me] when I say that it boils down to fear. Fear of hurting the other person’s feelings. Fear of what they may think of me. Fear of the actual confrontation. Fear of not having that relationship anymore, as dysfunctional as it may have been, it became pattern and routine and comfortable – like worn in pajamas [I’m going to beat this pajama thing to death.] Fear of having to start over with someone else. The thousand forms of fear that would always keep me in shitty ass places with fucked up people. The truth is that ultimately I just didn’t have enough faith in myself or love for myself to accept that I could do better and that this twat was an abusive motherfucker; whether they knew it or not. News flash: if you have to tell someone more than once [twice if you’re generous] that they are being abusive, that shit is on them – grab your shit and don’t feel guilty if you never look back. Don’t learn the hard way.

I’m not a “balanced” woman; far from it. I don’t have the answers. What I do know today is that I would rather spend eternity with just my cats and Netflix than a host of false friends. I would rather spend all of my social security money on D batteries for my vibrator than spend time with a warm body that doesn’t appreciate me or treat me right. Eating cereal for dinner by myself sounds delightful when you hold it up next to potentially cooking for an ungrateful son-of-a-bitch, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. That is not the business. Toxicity breeds contempt; that’s the adage, right? Let’s be real. My ass is contemptuous enough as it is; I don’t need a toxic relationship to help me along. 2018 is my year to start giving even fewer fucks.

I will focus on making my relationships authentic and squash the ones that aren’t. I can’t waste energy worrying about how I will be received. “Create authentic relationships,” I can’t figure out if I want to throw up on myself for even uttering the phrase or if I want to sign up for a book club. It’s vomit, definitely vomit…

I don’t know why people stay in dead-end, harmful or one-sided relationships any more than I know why food always tastes better when someone else cooks it for you. That’s fact and you know it. I know if you don’t reclaim your self-worth, people will continue to take it and you for granted. That doesn’t mean you get to be a jackass, it means you get to be strong and independent. It means you get to love yourself. Don’t confuse loving and standing up for yourself with being an arrogant asshat, I’ve seen it happen and it’s terribly unflattering.

So that’s what I got; my first resolution in at least a decade. 2018: the year I said “Go pound sand!” If I stop talking to you and you can’t understand why…now you know, and knowing is half the battle. Yo, Joe!

The ungrinchiest Grinch

It’s Christmas Eve and I’m so incredibly contrary that I’m battling against writing anything festive. It’s so obvious a topic. I asked a friend to help brainstorm and he said “you could write something upbeat for the holidays.”  It’s seriously like dude doesn’t know me at all. Some others had helped to steer me in a direction more in line with what I’m comfortable writing about, but here I sit staring at my damn Christmas tree and planning my stupid Christmas dinner in my new Christmas condo. I’m disgusted with my lack of grinchiness. Let’s not get carried away and start promoting the idea that I’ll sign up for the next caroling squad that forms, because fuck that. I don’t drink anymore and there’s nothing in my past (anymore) so tawdry that you can use it as blackmail to get me to do so. Go fish. 

I’m not a super emotional person. Let me clarify: I will cry on 4 separate occasions during a movie about dogs but couldn’t really give a shit about Valentine’s Day or any other Hallmark holiday for that matter. I don’t care about my anniversary and hardly make mention of it really except when I acknowledge the miracle it is that he made it past my two year mark. Relationships typically have a 2 year shelf-life with me. Somehow, he’s managed to avert the guillotine. I think he’s inhuman. There’s no way any normal functioning adult male would survive me. I’d dump me if I could. The best I’ve ever managed is to give myself the silent treatment for a day, but then I hurt my own feelings. The struggle is real. Pillar of mental stability, said no one ever, when speaking of me.

I say I’m not super emotional, but here I sit in awe of all of my accomplishments and achievements - chief among them being the 10 yr. old sitting in the other room. When I sit down to tea with my ghosts of Christmas past, those bitches are tore-back and angry as fuck. At least 3 are drunk and incoherent and 1 of them is looking for her shoe underneath my couch. The adolescent ghosts are ignoring me or have locked themselves in one of the other rooms in the house and have begun blaring Rage Against The Machine. Fucking teenagers! I think one just set something on fire. I smell fire. I’ve come so far from the wreckage and sadness that those young ladies carried for me. I suppose a thank you is in order. Some Halldark cards may be over due. 

                                                                                                                    

As I’ve grown, I’ve evolved. I’ve shed old skin and behaviors for new ones that were less likely to find me in jail cells and police line-ups. I’ve adopted traditions conducive to personal growth and recovery of spirit – because let’s face it, my mind is shot. I wanted to be an asshole and sit back like I didn’t give a shit about this crappy holiday, but I can’t sit here and look at all that I have and not be humbled and grateful. If you knew the places I had been, the things I’d done, and the obstacles I’d overcome; you’d see that I’m nothing special. I’m no better or worse than the person next door to me necessarily. My eyes are open though; therein lies the difference, I suppose. I don’t take this shit for granted. That’s the thing about growing and evolving – once you stretch your limits spiritually, it’s virtually impossible to go back to what you used to know or how you used to behave. That’s been my experience.

 

On that note, I’m going to go enjoy all the stuff I’m so fortunate to have: my health, my home, and my family. Merry Christmas to you and yours! Yo, which one of you bitches has my other shoe?!

Christmas Day is for Chumps

Mother of the Year

When I accept [graciously] my award for Mother of the Year, I want to make sure some special people are recognized for their supporting roles. It’s not easy working full-time under the harsh conditions I am subjected to: flexible schedules, permitted casual attire, tolerated internet browsing, and my flagrant usage of curse words overlooked; then to have to come home and do this whole “parent” thing? Bollocks! I can’t be expected to this alone – and I don’t. I must give credit where it is due.

I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. I have an idea for the dress that I’ll wear and the preliminary draft of my acceptance speech is done, but I’m not sharing. No spoilers - assholes! There is an art to keeping people in the dark about certain things; surprises and your true intentions or hidden agendas are among them. I excel at this. Ask my parents or therapist.

You may ask yourself why I’m being bestowed this distinguished award. Don’t be a dickhead! It’s clear I’m rearing the most awesome 10 yr. old man-child to walk the face of the planet. Disagree with me and I will punch you squarely in the nose then proceed to kick you in the shins; and assuming you are of the male persuasion – I’ll tweak your nipples really hard before poking you in the eyes. If you’re a woman, I figure you’ve already suffered enough; we can agree to disagree.

So, in wrapping this bitch up in a nice Christmas package, I’d like to thank the following:

-         Kraft Mac n’ Cheese: Lunch and dinner from toddler to adult. So versatile. “Look honey, I added ketchup and ground beef, now it’s fancy.”  [alright, it’s the store brand, but I think Kraft may be more generous down the line for their honorable mention]

-         Children’s Benadryl: Judge me like you haven’t done it. Jerk

-         Harry Potter: I really don’t think I need to say much else here.

-         The Beastie Boys: I’ve had a great time educating him in the ways of Paul Revere and putting his “root down” but also know that the time will come when he’ll want to “fight for his right to party” and be all about “girls.” He’ll think he’s rebelling when he slams the door and blares the music. He won’t see me dancing in the kitchen. It was my diabolical plan all along.

-         Walmart: Thanks for providing ample examples of why it’s important to stay focused in school.

-         Kevin: Thank you for helping me raise a boy. Thanks for showing him how to do “guy” things without electrocuting himself, cutting off his fingers, or throwing like a girl. Battery acid is not an exfoliant and cable ties are not just for bondage; thank you for being a part of his learning process.

-         The public school system: From the bottom of my dark and cold heart, thank you for taking this little beast off my hands for at least 6 hours a day. Thank you. Bless you. You are all in my prayers each day. Each and every one of you.

-         Sriracha: For that one time that Curran thought that you were ketchup and dipped his McNugget in you as a child. Sounds horrifying, and I’m sure it was, but that shit was fucking priceless too. That alone was worth all the tantrums in public that I have ever had to deal with. [admittedly my child is rad and I’ve really only ever had like 3 public meltdowns – but still]

I know that some you will be upset that you didn’t make the cut. I don’t care. This is my award ceremony and I will acknowledge collaborators to my success as I see fit. So there! *makes ridiculous “so there” face* Yep…mother of the stinking year.  

I have an amazing child. I know this without a shadow of a doubt. I have a small part to play in this. He is, all on his own, a good-natured boy with a good heart and a gigantic brain. He can do anything that he firmly sets his sights on. That kinda shit scares the holy bejesus out of me. I’m a stubborn woman but not terribly bright. I’m raising an intellectual with ferocity and drive that exceeds my own. Lord, let this child continue to walk in the light. If he turns to the dark side, I’m gonna have a hell of a time tracking down a Wookie and Jedi to handle my business. I’m inherently lazy by nature. I prefer the comfort of my couch and chosen blanket adornments; if I have traverse the universe looking for a savior, I’m going to be pissed!

Yeah, so Mother of the Year award goes to me. I’ll be looking for a personal trainer to help me get this bat-wing under-arm fat under control and maybe help get my ass looking a little sweeter; it’s already pretty choice. I’m not looking for any elective surgery, but maybe a weave??? Is fake hair still a “look?” Do celebrities still do that? Do they steal hair from people that really need it, or is it just animal hair? On second thought – neither of those options sounds particularly appealing. Fuck it, I’ll just go as-is on the hair front. Believe the rest of me is going to be flawless for my ceremony though – but I haven’t over-thought this at all. Nope…not at all. 

PTA moms ruin everything (rant)

This morning is perfect. I’m sitting next to the fire with an empty cup of coffee beckoning me to get off my ass and refill it. I’m writing while listening to music and I’m completely alone - this is when I’m at my best.

It’s an understatement to say that I lack finesse in dealing with delicate situations; a gross understatement. I have yet another example for you. Welcome to the torment of parenting imparted with a brain functioning as mine does. You’re welcome.

A few days ago I received a text message from one of the other mothers in my son’s class. I need first to disclose that she is the stereotypical PTA junkie. She has attended one too many pep rallies, had one too many glasses of the mother fucking Kool-Aid, and never left 1987, as she still wears spandex bike shorts and I’m certain she owns a fanny pack somewhere. Text message…right…not dismantling her persona.  This text message I get goes on and on about the shitty substitute teacher the kids had that day [insert overly expressive yawn.]

It’s not that I don’t give two shits about my child’s educational experience, but I don’t give two shits about my child’s educational experience. Obviously [or maybe not] I’m full of shit; of course I care. What apparently happened though has me with my chonies in a twist and taking a stance I feel a little uncomfortable with.

I got the impression from this mother that the substitute said some derogatory shit to the kids – called them stupid and made them feel bad about themselves. Normally I’d laugh and pull out my pom-poms, but getting the news from this woman ruined the whole experience. It’s like being handed the best fitting pair of jeans you’ve ever had in your entire life – life changing jeans, by the little ethnic child that hand stitched them. You just can’t celebrate that shit, so I had to do some investigative work; and now I’m really pissed because I’m doing work too.

I talked to my 10 year cry-factory about what went down in that classroom and I was surprised at his response. I’ll be the first to admit that my child is quick to look for an excuse to get out of doing something…anything. Instead, he told me that the substitute said that the students needed to be doing “better” in the subject they were working on. No mention of being “stupid” or “dumb” was made which tells me that some child/ren interpreted it in this manner, ran back to their parents, and made the substitute sound like a Nazi. I won’t use the word “snowflake” here, but some parents have sweet, sweet snowflake children that need protecting from the harsh and real world and will throw anyone under the bus in the process.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that I was getting text messages up until 9:30 pm the night of the event from this woman. She better be a wine-mom, at least this way I know that there are brief periods of time she may be remotely tolerable. All of this bullshit carried over into the morning hours when I received an email from the teacher stating that there would now be involvement from the Principal. Ah shit ya’ll – it’s gotten real. I can’t sit on my fucking thumb knowing what I know. I hate what I’m about to have to do, but I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna have to stick up for the sub. Below is a short excerpt from my correspondence to my son’s teacher. You can see why I lack finesse and am NOT a PTA member, fuck all that noise.

~ * Just a gentle note: In talking to Curran, he made it sound like the substitute may have told the guys that they needed to be doing "better" in their math and maybe not so much that they were "stupid" or "dumb" I try to remember that what children hear is often very "interpreted." We all want to protect our kids, but there are also several different stories and the truth is probably somewhere in the middle. Curran said "she sucked and didn't explain anything and didn't do anything like Mrs. (Teacher)." 

I tried to remind him that it's hard for a substitute to step into that role (even with instructions) and just take over; especially with cultural differences at work. I'm not AT ALL discrediting what stories are out there, but I think we may also be dealing with alarmist parents who are taking what their children say as the Holy Scripture. I hope that this substitute is given fair assessment, that my thoughts are kept private from other parents that clearly don't feel the same and that perhaps my words are given some thought as well. 

Curran is usually the first to complain about how he was mistreated and in this case, he said that the substitute said verbatim: "you boys need to be doing better." Admittedly, he faked an accent when he did it though... I’m picking my battles.

I really hate being on the establishment side; it goes against what feels normal to me, but I’ll be damned if what some 10 yr. old kid tells their hyper-sensitive parent gets one of our educators in hot water without balancing the scales as best I can. Fuck you, PTA princess, and the gluten-free wafer you rode in on! Kids are lie factories. That’s fact. If you take everything you’re pre-teen says at face value, you are going to be a miserable parent and you’re going to make the rest of us miserable too. I will personally make it my mission in life to embarrass and discredit you. You should be very afraid to find yourself on that list. I don’t take no for an answer, I am extremely competitive, I have come back in life from shit that most folks would slit their own wrists over, and I generally get-off on making you look like a fool. Oh, and I have pom-poms and will celebrate my victory while drinking your glass of Kool-Aid that I rip from your hand. Take that, Bitch! Finesse!

Trampoline Vag

So it turns out I know all about my vagina. I’m really proud of myself. I got super bored at work and decided to fuck around on the internet. Below is an actual test from an actual article. These are real answer options here, people. For the purposes of this blog however, my answers and/or input are typed in parenthesis and in blue.

Quiz: How Much Do You Really Know About Vaginas?

What's the best way to clean your vag?

Using the finest Bath & Body works body wash money can buy.

Using a thorough douche.

A mild soap.

(steel wool and Lava soap)

Can you lose a tampon up in there?

Yes, and god knows where it goes. (I wrote a letter to Bill Nye, he never responded. I’m still looking for the one I put up there in 1993. Some science guy he is! Thanks for nothing, Bill)

Hell no. Your vagina is a limited space.

Your vagina doesn't smell that great unless you use a lot of products to make it smell good.

Yes, using douches and fragrances is the best way to keep your vagina smelling great all the time.

No, unless you're having an actual medical issue, your vagina always smells badass because vaginas smell great on their own. (I feel like saying it smells “badass” is a stretch. "Like a bad ass" is more likely.)

(I find the perfect combination of product to be: douche for your “delicates” then shampoo and conditioner followed by mousse and sometimes gel to help give that “wet” look) ß correct answer

The vagina is way stronger than any penis.

No way. The penis is actually super strong.

Uh, duh. Apart from being able to lift weights and have multiple orgasms, your vagina can bring a freaking child into the world. Calling someone a "pussy" should be a compliment, thanks, bye.

(My vagina doesn’t lift weights – at least not that I’m aware of. Now I can’t stop picturing it though and this whole line of questioning is upsetting me. Moving on.)

It's possible for your labia to be way too long.

Yes, it's a very serious issue. ß obviously this is the correct answer see below

No labia can be "too long." Vaginas come in all different shapes and sizes, there's no right or wrong.

(*sings “do your ears hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow?* I’m sure medically there’s nothing saying your labia have to be a certain size and no one is gonna bust out the ruler before you start bumping uglies, but if it’s by your knees I imagine you’d seek medical attention. Fruit roll up labia? Just saying)

It's possible to stretch your vulva via too much sex or a gigantic penis, and you'll be way too loose.

Absolutely. Too much sex or a too-big penis can wreck it. (Can’t. Stop. Laughing)

No way, your vagina is incredibly elastic and can fit even the biggest wang and will always return to its usual tightness after sex. Once you've had a baby, it might be a different story though. (How is this answer choice any better? The biggest “wang?” I visualize an “elastic” vagina with a gigantic penis crashing into it – rebounding off the surface; like a trampoline. Then you want to tell me that kids might screw that up? Kill joy!)

Those of you that typically read this blog are confused. She’s supposed to be funny…

Here’s the thing: I’m not really feeling it. Normally I’m angry about something or at least jealous and bitter. I got nothing. Humanity sucks balls lately. California is on fire, some crappy mom did some shady shit to get a bunch of money out of folks and made her son a participant. Americans felt sorry and came out to support her case in droves. Turns out she sucks ass. I could go on ad nauseam about what a deplorable act it was, but what for? Honestly all it does is continue to piss me off and draw attention to this Bitch’s heinous (yes, heinous) act of deceit and manipulation.

Instead, I’ve chosen to do good. It’s the only way I know to feel better about the world I’m leaving for my son. We pat each other on the back for narrowly won victories against men and women that would do us harm and call it a day. It’s not enough. I may not be the best mother, the best employee, girlfriend or even the best daughter (I’m kidding – I’m the best daughter) but I know I’m a good human. I’m not feeling terribly funny at the moment, this is true. I am feeling like it’s time for me to get back into action. I don’t know how just yet. It will come to me, it always does. I just know that my heart is big enough, even if it hurts right now.

But…I aced my vagina quiz, so there’s that.

Get your own corner!

[Voice of Samuel L. Jackson] Well hello mother fuckers!

It’s been a while and if I had a heart I’d apologize, but we’re both laughing now aren’t we? For the past week I’ve been moving all of the shit I’ve accumulated [been hoarding] over the course of my unnatural life from one paycheck sinkhole to another - I’m reapportioning my misery. This was a good move and in actuality, I could not be happier. This is me being happy. Do you feel the “happy?”

I discovered during this transition that I had some amazing people in my life and some real douche bags too. This wasn’t an epiphany; I wasn’t sitting on the toilet, was struck with this thought, jotted out to Hallmark to by ‘Thank you’ cards and spent the evening giving myself hand cramps writing to all four friends. It didn’t happen like that.

First I had to be grateful for the friendships I had managed to form in spite of my sour nature, and then I had to come back to planet Earth by being forced to interact with some real jackasses. It really helps put things into perspective. Those friendships which I thought were awesome to begin with are now amplified. They’re like someone giving you the last piece of pizza AND some of the toppings of their slice too. Some day when I’m Scrooge McDuck rich, I’m going to throw a huge party in your honor – all four of you. *numbers subject to change based on mood* To those of you in the “other” category: Fuck off for trying to ruin my happiness.  Eat a dick sandwich with extra mayonnaise – you know who you are.

One of my other recent joys is having run out of my regular prescription sleep aid, I have gone back to using a standby. There’s a reason I stopped using these little crack tablets. There are actually a few reasons, but the one I like the best is that the dreams they create are way fucked up. I’m considering keeping a journal next to my bed and continuing to take these pills [even if unneeded] to probe the most twisted parts of my brain. I’m certain we’d have a screenplay that even Hunter S. Thompson would have been proud of.

Last night Bradley Cooper was a deep sea diver that was good friends with a friend of mine. They were doing a fuck-ton of cocaine while some other-worldly beings chased them around a hotel building. It’s pretty funny to watch grown men try to run in flippers while completely loaded. I highly recommend it. Meanwhile I was in a hotel room that had been converted into a hospital room with some kid I didn’t know that was apparently dying; most likely leukemia by the looks of it.

While I understand that’s not funny at all, I’m just curious how that ties into deep sea diving and cocaine. This boy and I were watching a nature show [probably penguins and maybe that’s where the flippers come in] and snuggling with our matching stuffed animals. At least in my dreams I’m a decent soul. All I remember is Bradley Cooper saved his own ass and ran off with a bunch of drugs and cash and my buddy got his head shaved by the aliens as punishment. They made him look like Julius Caesar. He was pissed. I might end up trying some midafternoon naps just for the hell of it.

Right now I’m sitting at my dining room table, light pouring in from the window, and my coffee cup is steaming to my left; which doesn’t make any fucking sense because I’m right-handed. Life is pretty fucking good right now. I just wanted to take a few moments to check in. A few moments to thank all the special people in my life and few to tell the others to shove a Pringles can up their ass. I am already a negative bitch; I don’t need any help in this department. In fact, this in kinda “my thing” and I take offense if you try to start helping. Think of it like this: We’re both hookers - this is my corner bitch…find your own! If you still don’t understand what I’m saying – well then, you’re more obtuse than I thought. I’m sorry. We can practice our alphabet next week.

Thank you to all of the wonderful people to who continue to love, support, listen and guide me. I talk a gang of shit, but when it comes to you guys – it is fair to say that there isn’t much that I wouldn’t do for you. So much love!!

Fuck yo couch!

The holiday season is so festive and joyful; I’d like to drag my muddy shoes thru its living room and put my feet up on its couch. 

Everywhere I look assholes have antlers and wreaths attached to their vehicles like warnings to other motorists: “You should probably get out of our way, we’re on our way to JC Penny for our annual Christmas photo and then lunch at Red Robin. But first, we’re going to circle the parking lot 15 times in hopes of getting the closest possible spot and wait for the family of 7 that is packing up the global warmer they’re driving – so it’ll be about 13 minutes. You’re good, right?” Maybe I’m the only one that feels that way.

There just aren’t enough hours in the day to catalog the ways in which I’d like to sabotage people who do stupid shit like this, so instead I’ve compiled a few of my pet peeves onto this scented list. I can smell it. You can’t, but I can. It smells like crisp linens, mulberry and vodka. I just miss the smell of alcohol and thought ‘fuck it’ I’m running with it. 

1.     People who can’t be punctual – Fuck you, you inconsiderate twat waffles. If we’ve set plans, there is a good chance that I’ve re-arranged something else in my life. Show up on time – you are not the center of the universe. I am.

2.     People who clip their nails in public – You want to pretend like you don’t know anyone like this. It’s ok, I do too. There’s always one person with absolutely no shame. It’s fucking gross, do that shit at home. 

3.     People who chew with their mouths open – You know who you are. I’ve gotten up from tables and left restaurants for this reason; this reason and this reason alone. We hadn’t even spoken to a server yet, so I had no one to be angry with. The family at the table next to us was obnoxious and we left. Screw not being able to eat your own food because the rhythm of someone else chewing theirs is fucking you up.

4.     Mouth breathers – So basically anything obnoxious with your face will piss me off. Don’t do it.

5.     People who say “irregardless” OMG!! Mother fuckers, it IS NOT a word and I will slap you. Equally offensive to me: “I could care less” and “For all intensive purposes” [even the grammar corrector attempted to fix that shit] My skin crawls. Look, I don’t want to hit you, but that’s where this will go. I have very little control over my impulses – my bank account is evidence of that. 

Five feels like a good place to leave this for now. I’m always complaining about something anyway, so check back with me in a couple of days. 

Bitch, be cool!

Send all hate mail to rantsandswears@gmail.com

Let me clue you in

Alright, I want to clue you guys in on a couple of things. I’ve had to question some shit lately. I’ve run into some stuff that’s really given me some legit concern for you people. I don’t qualify because I would never in a million fucking years partake.

I’m out shopping earlier this week and I run across these potato chips called ‘Turkey and Stuffing’ and their counterpart ‘Pumpkin Pie’. It’s not the first time that I have heard of this nastiness. The first time I remember hearing about it was a commercial for Trader Joe’s advertising their brand, called ‘Thanksgiving Leftovers’.  I’ll admit that there was a smidge of curiosity about what these little MSG bombs might taste like, but it ended there. A fleeting moment of weakness where I succumbed to the white trash side of myself that comes out every once in a while; the one that tells me that a flocked Christmas tree is fancy and canned ham for the holidays is the same as spiral cut as long as you put the pineapple rings on top with cherries and cloves in it.

I began to think about where to draw the line with these chips. How many times can you eat these before actually shaming yourself into hiding? The answer is once. I’m a scientific gal - I’m a fan of research and development, and I often say that I’ll try anything once [applies to food and most sports only, don’t get disgusting ya freaks] so, with that in mind, it seems fair to be open minded about these diabetes inducing trailer park ninja stars. I’m not going anywhere near them, that’s not where I’m going with this. I’m certain that eating one serving will knock 12 years off my life expectancy and I want to be around to see acid washed jeans make a comeback. Once they do, you can be sure to find me on my front porch in those jeans eating a bag of Turkey Stuffing chips and sipping a Pabst Blue Ribbon through a straw that will be resting comfortably in the space where my bottom four teeth should be. I might even be sporting a side pony tail, you just never know.

Walking around the grounds at my new condo complex I was tickled to find a sign affixed to the pool gate that basically stated that if you had the runs in the last two weeks, your filthy ass couldn’t be in the pool. Where do I even begin? Clearly it happened at some point or it wouldn’t be a rule, right? Wonder how that went down. I would have loved to have been there for that one. Sure, it’s fucking nasty, but it’s also a pool and it’s got a lot of room to disperse. People freak the hell out and go ape shit. Pun was unintentional there and I almost went back and deleted it, but decided against it. We are, in fact, talking about shit. Can you picture the faces of horrified parents grabbing their children and screeching [maybe even puking] indignant, like their child has never shit their diapers in public and stunk up a restaurant?  As if somehow we don’t know that they too pee in the pool all the goddamn time?? The next thought I had though was: is there a booty police? Who monitors the rawness of your anus before entering the pool? Do we have to swear on the Bible that we haven’t had diarrhea within the last two weeks or on the souls of loved ones? I’m for real curious. Is it just an honor system?

I have never claimed to be a balanced individual – these are just the things that swim around in my head. If you eat the above mentioned chips more than once, which should be purely out of curiosity, you are part of the problem. If you shit in pools, you are the problem! I’ll leave you with one last thought. I was talking with a friend about what would happen in the event a pool should “accidentally” fill with shit. I’m grabbing the snorkel gear and going for everyone’s ankles. That’s my shade of crazy. Have a nice night folks. Thanks for reading.

Slipping sanity and s'mores

This past week has tested every single boundary that I have and stretched the limits of my ‘sanity fabric,’ creating a fraying elastic-like effect - similar to what happens to spandex on thick thighs after one too many spin or Zumba classes. I think I have suffered some mental chafing as well.

An opportunity presented itself to move out from our current residence and upgrade to a larger place with hard wood flooring, marble counters, stainless appliances and a fireplace. First off, I’m not talking marginally larger – I’m talking about enough sq. footage for another room. I’m also going to be paying less than I currently pay for all this cool shit. Did I mention the hard wood flooring and the fireplace? S’mores mother fuckers! Mother fucking s’mores!  So, all of this sounds fantastic, I’ve put in my 30-day notice at the place I’m squatting in now, [because that’s what it feels like in comparison] and they’ve already found a new tenant for my place [same fucking day] – then the bottom falls out the bitch! As it turns out, the landlord of this particular condo doesn’t allow for pets. Gee, Mr. Acting Interim Property Manager, ya think ya could’ve gone over that BEFORE I put in my 30-day notice that I TOTALLY told you I was doing??? Now, we have 30 days to re-locate and I don’t have a prescription for Xanax.

I spent the better part of the day searching the interweb for places to live in between work phone calls, fistfuls of gummy worms, and various swear words. I came up with a few new ones that I’m pretty proud of; I look forward to dropping them in casual conversation. The more I searched, the more pissed I was at this ass-bag for not saying anything about the pet issue. Fuck you dude! The places I was looking at were either right in the heart of crackville for the right price, or completely out of my league – like not even the same fucking sport. At this point I am contemplating jamming the Xanax up my ass for rapid absorption, if in fact I was able to procure any. Things would get better though; I was getting together with my girls later to go to the Tori Amos concert at the Balboa Theater. This also created a fair amount of anxiety as our plans kept shifting with regard to carpooling vs solo driving and coordinating three women is always easy, right?? Holy fuck ya’ll…I…am…snapping…

Tori Amos is amazing. She is floppy and staccato at the piano with her body. I don’t really know how else to describe her. She lunges into her playing and is also really rigid at times. Sometimes it looks like she’s having a seizure. I just want to sit on the stage in a corner. I never want to bother her. I just want to sit and write. I don’t need to bug her for an autograph or do any weird fan-girl bullshit, I just want to listen and write. In fact, it’s probably best that we don’t converse. We’re both really weird. She’s weird and smart though. I’m weird and competitive. It’s a bad combination. Smart always has the upper hand and I hate losing. To the drunk bitch behind us yelling at Tori like you were at a little league game: ease up on the wine and we’ll all enjoy the show a bit more – even you. Anyhow, it was an amazing event and I was thrilled to be there until she ended with that shitty techno bullshit song at the end and all the little wanna-be rave brats busted out their glow sticks. Hey Tori, can we not do that ever again? Thanks.

What? My cats? You want to know what is going to happen to them? I’ll get there. First let me tell you about Cheyenne.

On Wednesday [the day after Tori and two days after the rental fiasco] a group of friends [I know, I’m always shocked when I use an ‘f’ word that isn’t fuck or fiasco] and I went to dinner and a show to celebrate our Sagittarian birthdays. We didn’t just go to any show; we went to a drag show. I think it was 10 of us that ended up at a sparkly little bar in San Diego for dinner and Divas. “Cheyenne” was our server and entertainer for the evening; she did indeed entertain. That bitch was fierce! The food was “meh” but the music was great because, well, they’re gay men. I laughed hard enough that evening to make up for all the pain and stress I was feeling throughout the rest of the week. As with most other events that I partake in, I found a way to pick up a resentment. Cheyenne has bigger tits than I do. I totally get that as entertainers and transvestites they will undoubtedly be beautiful and crazy glamorous. The skillful application of makeup is enviable. There, I said it – I envy them. Cheyenne though, has an amazing ass, thighs that could kick in doors, and boobs. Real titties. I know for a fact those fuckers are real because I shoved money in there – they’re squishy. They’re squishy and they’re bigger and better than mine. She was funny too. Shit, the more I think about it, the more jealous I get. Fuck that! I have never been more jealous of a man. She was truly something else. I mean that in the best possible way. Thanks for the fabulous show, Cheyenne!

Alright, my cats. So here’s the deal: I was honest on my application. Apparently, I was supposed to lie. Fucking principles always getting in the way of finding my real happiness. I talked to the interim ass-bag again and asked if he would possibly look the other way and he was like “yeah, that’s totally what I would have done on the application”. Go fucking figure! Here I am trying to be honest and this dude is like nope, I would have lied. So after jumping through a series of flaming hoops while naked with nipple clamps on, we finally got approved and dropped off the check yesterday. It was nothing really. I’ll only be destitute and sucking dick for the rest of my natural life in order to pay back the loan I had to take out for first and security. I’m still paying on the current place for a month too. Did I mention the fireplace? S’mores - I’ll keep telling myself about the s’mores as I’m strapping on my knee pads.

So not to end on dismal note or anything, I would never do that – the next month is gonna be pretty fucked up. I foresee a lot of Ramen dinners by the romantic light of a fire. I am also in luck; those blow-job knee pads will come in handy for my impending move. If any of my friends reading this have time over the next month to help me move a couple of things here and there, help a bitch out. No…payment will not be made in blow-jobs, but I can make you a s’more if you want, nasty!