Monday, November 26, 2018

Death of a sex life

The saddest thing you can do is watch your sex life die. From the time we commit ourselves to a relationship, that’s exactly what starts happening. Here’s how it went down with mine.

[this is where I tell you that I still have sex, it’s just irregular and usually with clauses, conditions, or caveats – oh my!]

You probably think it’s especially morbid to talk about the death of my sex life. It’s cool; my husband and I already laughed about it. I got the green light to write to my heart’s content. That’s probably even more fucked up. The truth is, when it’s on – it’s red hot. When it’s not, well…we’ll get there.

I was in the shower, as I often am when these strokes of genius come (not cum) upon me; I knew I had to write. I couldn’t tell ya what sparked the topic of this blog. I have the shittiest memory recall ever. Maybe I was trying to think of a reason to get out having sex later that evening, maybe I was recalling one of our encounters – doesn’t really matter unless you’re a pervert and using this as yank material. The point is, I was overanalyzing…again.

I remember being 19, single, and making a concerted effort to pick out the “sexy panties” before going out for the evening. Great efforts were made in wardrobe selection and makeup application. Eat very little, drink plenty – that was how I lived. If I didn’t meet Mr. Right, I was pretty sure I’d get drunk enough to have a good time and probably meet Mr. Sure-To-End-Up-In-Jail. He was bound to provide entertainment and most likely another reason for my family to want to exclude me from holiday gatherings. Looking back, it’s a wonder I never spent time at the county jails bailing fuckers out.

Then, after some relationship hopping, most of us will settle on that one asshole we wish to call ours indefinitely. It happened to me, it’ll happen to you too. Fresh into this new relationship you’ll find that you can’t seem to keep your hands off one another. My husband and I found it exceptionally difficult to not have sex with one another. There was this magnetic pull that made it ok to have intercourse in cars outside of restaurants and engage in risqué behavior in public. We couldn’t help it. Pheromone junkies.

At some point, usually after a couple of years, stuff starts to slow down. At least for one of you. Admittedly, I am the car on the train that tapped the brakes.

In our relationship, things just found a natural rhythm. Sex was still a part of it, but by year 4 it was planned. Wednesday was sex night. Come Hell or high water, we were getting naked on Wednesday night. Even close friends knew that night was off the table on my social calendar. Pretty sexy, huh? Nothing like a little pre-planned sex to make you feel romantic, hot and bothered. Granted, it left a little to be desired in the way of spontaneity, but it served its purpose. We each got our cookies. It kept him in bed with me instead of the dispatcher at his work and it kept me from seeking attention from the toothless fuckers at the 7-11 near my work. I love a man in uniform.

Fast forward two more years and that tap on the brakes is now me double-pumping the brakes with both feet. That Wednesday night sex-session now has further stipulations too. I need a highlighter, protractor, pencil compass, and to consult the phases of the moon all before I can concede to coitus. Oh, and if I’ve already eaten dinner, you can forget all about any of it. I’ll be too full to even consider any of this. Death. Of. Sex.

Like I said before, when we’re on, it’s red hot. Each time I say, “why don’t we do this more often?”  Because planetary alignment is a thing and it’s fucking rare. I just compared our sex life to planetary alignment. That shit is way fucked up. Frequency is important and your odds at witnessing cosmic shit decrease if you’re asleep at 9 pm every night in flannel pajamas.

19 yr. old me is disgusted with 38 yr. old me.
38 yr. old me is far more confident than 19 yr. old me, she’s just tired and full.

I think there is a switch that gets thrown at 45 when I’m all pheromones again. Unfortunately, I think that’s when my husband slows down. Hopefully, we’ll be living in Australia by then and all the controls on the vehicle will be on my side. No brake tapping for him.

Monday, November 12, 2018

Coulda, shoulda, woulda

This photo was taken outside my local grocery store yesterday morning. I walk the 500 ft. in the mornings on the weekends to get my coffee because it makes me feel superior. Then I pay some super shitty chain to make my coffee while I stand there with plaque on my teeth, messed up hair, and no bra – so it completely negates my gained advantage. I’m barely above growling at people.

What I want to know is, how fucked up must one be to do this degree of damage? It seems clear, as it only really can to another person who’s driven completely shitfaced, that this poor fucker forgot where their brakes were located. I hate it when that happens. Sadly, trying to “Fred Flinstone” your car to a complete stop doesn’t work either.

I need more information to discern the level of drunken fuckery that happened here, too many variables. I’d need to understand tolerance, size of the individual, type of alcohol consumed…that kind of stuff. All before I could even compare it to my own drinking and decide how sauced they were. For all I know, this was a housewife on her third bottle of wine.  For her – treacherous. For me – Patsy Cline songs and too many cigarettes. And that would just be a warm-up.  

Ah, but there’s more…

It appears that I must give credit to the driver of the vehicle. They parked on the most convenient side of the building. I wasn’t there, so maybe “parked” is the wrong verb. Maybe they just came to a stop. The location of the alcohol in this store is, you guessed it, on the same side these folks came to grinding halt at. Just beyond the doors and slightly to the right is Mecca – the liquor department; though I doubt they ever made it there. Good thinking though. Practical.

I’m not sure if they ever set foot inside the store. The passenger lost their Taco Bell right outside the door. My theory is: the driver forgot where the brakes were, they popped the curb stopper, smacked the wall, then the passenger opened their door and let go of the last thing they ate.

Now, because I’ve been in similar “catch me if you can” scenarios, I know that if the car still runs, so do you. So that’s my theory. If they were able to get away, they did. They probably were shaken though and would need to stop somewhere for a drink. CVS is across the street and they sell hard alcohol. Bottom shelf vodka is 5 bucks. They’d want to start saving for repairs to the vehicle and the wall. Eventually that shit catches up to you.

But I wouldn’t really know anything about being a big fat drunk doing stupid drunk shit. I’m just a girl getting her coffee with an active imagination and a cast iron stomach. Now, will someone please get out there and clean up that fucking vomit.

Sunday, November 4, 2018

Smoke em if ya got em 101

I live near some pathetic drug users. I'm not supposed to partake because it fucks with this whole “sobriety” thing I'm working towards, but I can critique them; most definitely.  What truly needs to happen here, is mandatory classes, led by me, on how to do and care for your drugs properly.

I have this neighbor. He’s not a subtle drug dealer, selling to other residents from the trunk of his vehicle in the communal parking lot. He’s also not very smart. He approached me once and attempted to strike up a conversation about his neck tattoo, which was clearly some kind of glitter body paint that was flaking off. He was either convinced that it was real, or he was coming off a serious trip. He should probably stick to smoking weed, which he totally fucking sucks at, but at least he won’t end up talking to strangers about fake, girly glitter tattoos, like he’s some hard-ass who did time and his cellmate gave him this prison tat.

This guy has a nasty habit of making me want to straight knee-kick him. Every night at around dinner time, when it’s most offensive, because we’re trying to eat, this muthafucker decides to light up. In and of itself, not so big a deal. The smell of pot is fucking glorious. It’s the sound of his death rattle, cough-up-a-small-hairy-animal hacking, that makes me want to crawl over the balcony and throttle him to a bloody mess. “LEARN HOW TO INHALE YOU USELESS PIECE OF SHIT!!!” If emphysema and Slimer from Ghostbusters had a baby, and that baby had a cold, his cough is exactly what it would sound like. Fucking disgusting.

From my kitchen, through open windows and an open sliding glass door, I yell “For fuck’s sake, learn how to hold your smoke!” Seriously, my Mom can smoke weed better that that. He ought to be ashamed of himself, yet there he is, out on his balcony, pretending to die every night, getting my hopes up like a child promised a toy at Christmas only to find that their parents didn’t order ahead, and the store is sold out. Not that that has ever happened to me – nope…never.

There is performance with the drug in question, then there is upkeep or maintenance of paraphernalia. You’d better be able to do one well. I feel like, in our little community here, we have two halves of one whole.

Two buildings away from my own, and on my walk to my mailbox, I pass an apartment that reeks. It smells not of the common smells one would assume, like garlic, or curry, or dog shit, or even baby shit. It is a distinct, unmistakable, and unforgiving smell. It’s bongwater.

Do you remember accidentally spilling the bong on your mother’s living room carpet and thinking, oh shit, I am totally fucked! That is never coming out!  then scurrying around the house for all the cleaning supplies you could find? Windex, carpet cleaner, dish soap, Lysol, and Febreze all tucked under your arm for good measure. Damn right you did! You knew good and damn well that shit was a permanent blight on your mom’s carpet, and your ass.

Imagine walking past a home that smelled so much of bong water that it permeated concrete walls. Either someone is excruciatingly clumsy, or someone needs to clean the various smoking devices in that home. C’mon now people, the shit you’re smoking can’t even taste good any more if you’re using 3-year-old water. You don’t recycle your bath water, do you? That’s fucking disgusting. I’m not saying clean your bong every time you smoke, but once a week is a real goal. It’s attainable too.

For these reasons I’m thinking it’s time for simple instruction. I’m going end up killing my neighbors. You’re not supposed to shit where you sleep, so this may be my only recourse. I’d like to start using the clubhouse by the pool for classes. They’ll begin on Monday nights. Monday’s already suck dick for most people. Now they’ll have an excuse to hate it even more. When they’re done, they can go home and smoke their weed. Properly. Probably for the first time in their whole miserable lives.

Just because I’ve always wanted to, and because I was subjected to catechism classes, I want a ruler to slap assholes with when their doing shit incorrectly. “No, Margaret, that’s not how you clean the interior of your glass bong! What did we learn in last week’s lesson about cleaning tools??? Soak first, then gentle swabbing!!! No wire bristles!” **Swat**

This could work. I’m building a better community…for…well…me.