Well, it’s finally happened. I lost my virginity last night. I have to say — it was pretty magical. We were outside, clutching each other close underneath the Christmas lights. It was…. perfect.
I finally got to pick out my first-ever live Christmas tree. Woooo. (Come on, guys. I’m married. How sad would it be if I actually was a virgin?) When I was growing up, we always had a fake one. My parents are practical, stuffy neat-freaks. Why the hell would you cut a tree down and bring it inside when it will cause a mess of pine needles all over the floor? Blasphemous! Since our cat is allergic to everything and your mother. (Yes, even YOUR mother. I mean — have you ever heard of a cat allergic to dogs? She’s quite special) We have never had a real tree because we were afraid it would bother her.
Sadly, the tree won’t be living in our house due to the cat, but my in-laws still invited us to dinner and to help them pick their two out. For a Christmas fanatic — it tickled my fancy quite a bit.
But, we had a debate last night that needs to be settled. I’m really curious about y’all’s opinions: At the restaurant where we had dinner there was a man with a service dog next to us. He was an emotional support dog. The man was eating alone and sharing all of his food with the begging pup. When the man ran out of fries to supply to him, the dog started begging at nearby tables for random people’s food. Our opinions were all different at the table. If you were sitting at the table with us, what would you be thinking? (I don’t think the poll can be seen on the Reader)
Last night I received an anonymous email telling me the reasons I’m going to hell. Swearing. Sexual references. Talking about crude bodily functions. I’m on the fast track, people. You better stand clear. In my mind, ‘shit’ is a simply a word. Sex is a normal, healthy, adult behavior. Pooping? Well, everybody poops. Even 2-year-olds know this. Relax. If you think I’m going to hell solely for these things, well… you’re implying God is an asshole.
You can tell me why I’m going to hell. How much my grammar sucks. That you hope my cat pees on my pillow while I’m sleeping on it. List the reasons why you hate me. It’s all fine… as long as you tell me who you are so I can email you back. We are adults. We should be able to have a conversation and act like it. Right? Usually, I do appreciate the honesty.
On a different note: I wrote most of this post last night. This morning when I was running, I tripped and fell into a bush covered in thorns. I was far from home, so I had to keep going for awhile with blood all over my legs. A few people asked if I was okay, but most stared at me like I was bat-shit-crazy. Am I being punished? Is this karma? WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?
Fun Fact: When you randomly wake up around 2-3 am there is an 80% chance someone is staring at you.
How many people will be shitting their pants tonight while trying to fall asleep? I wake up in the middle of the night almost every night, so whether this is true or not, I’m scarred. From now on, we’ll all be stuck waking up in a panic at 2 am. Peering around like lunatics with our blankets clutched to our faces and fumbling to use our phones as flashlights. There are some good times ahead, guys.
Well, it’s December. My favorite month of the year. My husband has finally agreed to shave his beard, and later in the month we all get to come together and celebrate the birth of one kickass individual. We can sing songs. Eat cookies. Drink a lot of wine. Give some gifts. It’s a day for everyone to be joyful.
Obviously… I’m talking about myself. My birthday is next week. Go get your party hats ready. (I guess Jesus’s birthday and Christmas are pretty important parts of December, too.)
For the love of God! I mean… Cats! For the love of cats!
I’ve been trying to stay on top of my Christmas shopping this year, and I’m happy to announce: I’ve been kicking some serious ass. I’m almost done. So, I’m pretty sure that warrants a pat on the back or something as it’s not even December yet. And a cookie. Maybe a brownie. Okay…both. I want both, damn it.
Who’s getting the most gifts from us this year? The cat. Yep, you read that right. Our pet cat. I’m not sure how or when this happened, but I’ve become one of those strange cat ladies. The kind that has conversations with a non-verbal cat more often than with other human beings. Sometimes we share pieces of cheese together and take turns licking the same ice cream cone. (Okay, I don’t actually do that. Have you ever smelled cat breath? Blech.) Sadly, I’m not even 30 yet. I didn’t think crazy-cat-lady syndrome could happen so early.
So far, she will have a new cat tree, water fountain, automatic feeder, litter box, bed, blanket, and a slew of toys under the tree. I can’t wait to see the look on her face on Christmas morning when she gets to open them all.
……. We really need to have kids or something. This is getting scary. Help
What’s your biggest phobia? Everyone’s got a few. One of mine? Getting caught in a crowd-gone-crazy and being trampled to death. I know, completely random and irrational. To me, laying naked in a coffin full of spiders crawling all over my skin sounds more enjoyable than going anywhere jam-packed and crowded. Tight spaces? Fine. Spiders on my face? Okay, I can deal. Going to the State Fair? No way in hell. Concert?I might start crying. Parents: be careful you aren’t forever traumatizing your children with Where’s Waldo books. That’s the shit nightmares are made of.
So, yesterday when I decided to go shopping on Black Friday for the first time, it was a big deal. I’ve always been one of those people who thought holiday shoppers were just a bunch of rabid crazies, but…I have to admit — it was kind of fun. I got to shove, elbow, and trip a few people. Throw up the bird here and there. All while saving a few dollars. (My mother, and Joe Rogan, would be so proud.) Plus, it gave me the chance to escape family and be alone for a little bit. It was a holiday win for me. Not so much for the people I took out, though. Those poor shmucks.
I went into Thanksgiving a bit cautious after the whole stuffing fiasco with my mother-in-law. It went pretty well. I was pumped full of so much wine I could barely move and pretty oblivious to anything going on. Until dessert rolled around, and she neatly laid all of the choices out on the table. All of them except the one I brought. Which was left alone and covered on an empty table in another room. I think it was on purpose. Alex thinks I’m being paranoid. Which one of us is right? Only time will tell.
How many times have you plugged your medical symptoms into Google in an attempt to figure out what the hell was going on with your body? If you haven’t ever done this, for the love of god, don’t start. Unless you think it’s fun to read the numerous ways you might die by the time dinner rolls around. You sick fuck. Just leave it to the professionals, guys. Google is a rude bitch who will try to convince naive teenage girls they can pregnant from gobbling the turkey. (I’ve actually seen girls think this — what the hell, parents? Talk to your kids.) It’s shady and you don’t want to trust it with easing your paranoia.
Speaking of turkey — today is Thanksgiving prep day. For the past few years, I’ve been in charge of the same foods: stuffing, mashed potatoes, and apple crisp. This time around, my mother-in-law basically begged me to not make the stuffing. She told me, with a forced smile, that she bought the ingredients to make stuffing weeks ago. Apparently mine has been so bad in the past she had to plan a month in advance. What the hell? Thanks, Karen. That didn’t sting like a bitch or anything.
Have fun cooking today, y’all. Hope everyone who is traveling is doing so safely. To all non-Americans who are going about their day like every other Wednesday: happy humping. (It is hump day, after all. Get to it.)
Fun Fact: The average American consumes 4500 calories on Thanksgiving.
There’s nothing quite like stuffing three days worth of food in your face in one sitting, right? Sure, you might be stuck wearing sweatpants for a few days since your pants won’t button over your bloat. Or your digestive system will go into shock and revolt against you. Exciting side effect to look forward to? Explosive diarrhea.
Which leads to a Bonus Fun Fact: Thanksgiving is the busiest day for plumbers.
…. I think it’s a good time to come together and say a prayer for all of the plumbers out there who have to deal with a lot more gravy than what’s served on their plates this week.
Social gatherings are a butt-clenching experience for me. I’m not too bad holding a conversation one-on-one, but with a lot of people? Terrible. Just terrible. You know when you’re somewhere noisy and trying to have a conversation so you speak louder? And all of a sudden, there’s this wave of silence and you find yourself shouting something ultra embarrassing like “THEN HE TOLD ME I HAD A BROWN STAIN ON THE BACK OF MY PANTS.” Everyone stares at you awkwardly like they did when you passed out in college and didn’t know your friends drew dicks all over your face. Well… I feel like I have dicks on my face every day.
I thought my social anxiety would get better as I aged — but it seems to be doing the opposite. I guess I will forever be the awkward adult drawing cat pictures at the kids table, talking about My Little Pony, and throwing dance parties while everyone else is drinking beer and watching football in the other room. At least I’m the favorite aunt, I guess. You win some, you lose some, you know?
Socially savvy people — I will forever be envious of you. I don’t know how you do it.
Off topic: I read somewhere that the weekend before Thanksgiving has the highest rate of relationship break-ups in the US. What a way to start the holidays, right? Good luck out there today, guys.
Marriage is awesome. Not only do you get to share everything in your life with someone, cook for them, and clean up after them. It also gives you the chance to come to terms with things that embarrass the hell out of you. Like the smell you leave behind in the bathroom after your morning cup of coffee, or the daunting idea that someone besides your mother will know you have hair that grows above your lip that you have to wax. Or, in my case — having the sleep farts.
I don’t know if having relaxed muscles and letting wind escape in the middle of the night is common or not, but imagine the horror I felt when I came to the realization it was uncontrollable. There was no more running to the bathroom and pulling my butt cheeks apart to let them silently escape and I could only blame the random noises in the middle of the night on our cat so many times. I was all in. I was married. I had to own up to it, and get over it. Man, the first year of marriage was interesting. I’ve become a lot more comfortable about the weird things I do in private since then. Obviously.
Another perk of being married: I’ve been able to try different careers out without any training. I’ve been a masseuse. A chef. And,most commonly — a barber. Would you trust me with scissors around your hair? You probably shouldn’t. One time, I cut a huge chunk off the top of Alex’s hair, which forced him to wear a hat for a month. But, he forgave me, and here I am… still holding the title of the resident barber. Bless his heart.
On a serious note: Find the person that treats you right and makes you happy. Don’t let go. Whether you want to get married or not… there’s no greater feeling than being blindly in love.
I hate that I’m one of those people that gets annoyed by so many things… The sound of people clipping their nails. The fact that it’s socially unacceptable for me to let my leg hair grow out. When I’m singing along with a song in the car and the artist gets it all wrong. That I can’t live a healthy life just on cupcakes. I could go on all day. One of the things that annoys me the most: when someone invents something that’s stupid as hell and becomes a millionaire.
How many people face-palmed when ‘silly bandz’ became popular a few years ago? Hell, I did. Rubber bands in different shapes. That’s all they were. Yet, kids walked around for a solid year with them stacked all the way up to their armpits. There were hoards of them. Foaming at the mouth, begging and pleading their parents for them in every store I went into. For rubber bands. Rubber bands, people. The things that come free wrapped around your celery.
Don’t even get me started on pet rocks. What the hell is with that?
I can’t tell you how many times stupid inventions have come around and it makes me question my intelligence. WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT? BLAIR, YOU DUMBASS. Just think — we are all one stupid idea away of becoming millionaires and living the rest of our lives doing nothing but eat cake and be lazy. The true American dream.