I love wave runners. My lovah loves wave runners. So much so that we have been tempted to buy them several times, and only haven’t because A. we lack a place to store them properly and B. we don’t live on the water… yet. So when visiting the Keys (one of our favorite places to Seadoo, by the way) and some dude with an Irish accent says he offers “relaxing tours of the Island on wave runners…at your own pace… for 20% off” we were WAY on board!
We arrived at the shack and Irish guy was nowhere to be found. They
wouldn’t couldn’t take our 20% coupon we just got that morning even though they said they would when we reserved the tour. The weather seemed a bit foreboding, but we were assured, “Nah, that’s nothing – the tour is still on, man!” After being issued a life preserver that smelled like a giant foot, we all (about 10 of us) followed Cheech and Chong on our cracked up wave runners. Cheech gathered us about 50 feet out from the shore and told us that we would all follow each other in a line, and to read his hand signals, ya know “for safety.” Then the bitch proceeded to tear outta the lagoon at what looked like 1700MPH leaving everyone in his ocean mist dust.
At that point, I was thinking… “Man, it sure feels like someone’s going to die today, but maybe I’m just getting use to the waves or something.” Smith was booking it on our wave runner to catch up with the asshat tour guides and I am certain in my fight to stay on the back of that thing that I pulled out several of his nut hairs.
The ocean was so volatile that we were hitting waves at about 60MPH then shooting up into the air and dropping at least 5 feet… every five seconds. Some swells going by made our view of the now grain-of-sand-sized tour dudes obsolete. Cheech eventually stopped about 25 minutes into the “tour with breathtaking views and vistas.” He addresses the group:
“Yeah so you guys need to go faster and keep up with me. It gets smoother if you go really fast. (Note: It does not.) Also it looks like we got some pretty severe weather happening right now that we didn’t know about when we left (even though EVERYONE was ASKING before we left) so make sure you avoid the lightning, and it’s probably gonna get pretty bad and… so let’s go!” That’s right, “avoid the lightning.” Because lighting is predictable as shit, said no one ever.
Just then a wave turns our wave runner over and we go flying unexpectedly through the deep silent abyss. When I make it to the surface all I hear is commotion and Cheech yelling “OMG ITS IN THE WATER!!! ITS IN THE WATER!!!” At which point I assume “it’s” a shark because the tour guide is screaming like a crazy person. “It” ended up being some sunglasses and if I hadn’t just been rocked to the core at the thought of being eaten alive I would have slapped this bitch like they used to slap women in the olden days to calm them down.
Smith talked me into getting back on the shit taco to finish the tour (I had already begun to swim the mile or so to shore after this fiasco). We rode for about ten minutes before we got trapped in a thick pocket of fog rolling in and had to drift in the stormy sea for about 30 minutes. You couldn’t see the shore or other boats or… anything but whoever was right next to you. For me that was a couple of Seadoos and a hand full of Smith’s nut hairs. It was during this time that I saw psycho tour guide’s assistant, Chong, floating around eating a muthafugging homemade sandwich. How the heck did he get that out there? AND WHY DIDN’T HE BRING ENOUGH FOR EVERYONE?!?!
End result is, we didn’t see anything scenic, and we feared for our lives for *three and a half* hours on our *two* hour tour. If you’re in the Keys, unless you KNOW it’s a beautiful calm day, SKIP THIS SHIT! Don’t listen to sweet-talking Irish guy. His pot-o-gold is full of lies!
An awesome friend of mine has a daughter who has “become a woman.” Talking about it with her has made me think back to when I was that age and all of my friends were dropping like flies into the monsoons of their lady gardens – so I have decided to make a quick post to let you young ladies know, “it gets better.”
How to manage:
A. I like to refer to the area in a comical manner. “Lady Garden” seems to suit it well. No one wants to be clinical when it comes to discussing things with anyone that isn’t a doctor. Even with a doctor I struggle to be clinical without throwing up in my mouth a little. Referring to it as your Lady Garden, or some other quirky name, makes it way easier to joke and discuss the happenings therein with your friends. Note: Well before the term “Lady Garden” was officially adopted, my Grandma referred to it as a “Muffin” and your “Muffin Basket.” Which I always found hilarious. To this very day I use the terms interchangeably.
B. Therefore that “time of the month” can easily be stated as “It’s raining in my lady garden” or “I have soggy muffins.”
C. Pads, tampons, various accoutrements associated with your Lady Garden/ Muffin Basket are to be known as “party favors.” Then no one ever has to overhear you asking anyone for anything. “I forgot my party favors, do you have one?!”
D. Speaking of tampons – wait ’til you go to college for those things. Or be like me and kinda wait ’til you graduate college and you panic because a group of friends with a boy your interested in book a vacation in a tropical beach oasis where you’ll have to wear a swimsuit nearly every day. Either way, you’ll need to buy some extras and practice… by “practice” I mean lock yourself in the bathroom yelling out “AAAAAKKK WHAT IS HAPPENINNNGGG????” for 30 to 75 minutes of uncomfortable joy. Tip: If at any point after you put it in, you can still feel it, you’re doing it wrong. You gotta be sure to push that party favor to the top of the mountain or you’re sure to fail the expedition.
E. Everyone is freaking out about it. If “they” ever make fun of you for anything it’s because they’re terrified of whatever it is happening to them. So in that sense if anything embarrassing ever does happen, you’re kinda like a super hero who lived to tell the tale! Also, if they’re making fun of you in general it’s probably because the weren’t hugged enough as a child – or they have a secret hairy mole that their parents lovingly named Petunia. Anyhoo, be strong young padawan.
F. Find a partner in crime that can “spot check” for you. Come up with a code phrase like “Do you *know* when football season starts?” *wink wink* Then you can scoot out and let her check to see if your Lady Garden fountain has sprung a leak. (Know that 97 out of 100 times it has NOT. We’re just paranoid.)
G. You know that tiny useless pocket in your backpack or purse that’s good for nothing? Well it’s good for hiding the holy grail of emergency party favors. I had a friend that would wrap them up in a piece of aluminum foil incase it ever accidentally fell out of her bag while onlookers were present.
I think a cheapo eye glasses case works wonders. One day you’ll grow to be unashamed and stash them in your boyfriend’s car door, or in your tiny azz purse for all the world to gaze upon, like me!
There may come a time….
1. There may come a time that you spring a leak while you are waiting in a lobby for your best friend and designated spot checker to get out of advisor counseling. Even though you are wearing jean shorts and drinking a Blue Coconut Route 44 slush that you guys got on happy hour at Sonics that matches the color of your jeans perfectly, do not try to dye your pants in the handicapped stall of the school bathroom. This plan ends in disaster because you have to wet your entire shorts in order to make it look like you didn’t just pee yourself by only trying to dye the “affected areas.” Also, it’s cold in there and you miss out on the rest of your delicious half-priced slush.
2. There may come another time when a friend is hip hopping through the school giving Friday end-of-day shout outs to everyone she knows with (unknowingly) her pad sticking out of her short’s leg. Do not panic. Run over to her, back her into the lockers, give her your gym shirt and tell her “Do not ask any questions, tie this around your waist and go to the bathroom… NOW!” You guys will still have time to call your mom to pick you both up because you missed the bus home.
3. There may yet still come another time that your friends all plan a trip to a water park while it is about to rain in your Lady Garden. This is a time you may want to investigate using the torpedo of party favors, or avoid going in the water past your knees. Whatever you do, do not ride “The Black Hole” high speed water slide with a pad on. You go in looking like the Queen and come out looking like a brick layer… or a brick smuggler to be more accurate. Luckily, you found someone to walk behind you while you hurry to the bathroom to panic and marvel at the amount of water one of those things can soak up.
Keep in mind, the best way to get through anything difficult is to know that someone else got through it too. Share your embarrassing stories with your friends that embarrassing things happened to. It will make them feel better and both of you will always know that with a little laughter, “it <always> gets better!”
So I had a fantastical birthday celebration that started out with Smith giving me this lil beauty right here:
THEN as if that wasn’t enough, Smith whisked me away to Savannah, GA for a long weekend retreat with friends.
Savannah is awesome – it’s old and historically eerie, and we like to do super nerd things there like go on trolley tours, or run an app in your car tours. Here’s some of my limited retention recall of historical facts I learned about Savannah:
1. This is the home of the Girl Scouts! I was a Girl Scout! Juliette Gordon Low got it done!
2. Jingle Bells was written in a church there in the 1800’s. Can you believe that shit? WE STILL KNOW THAT DAMN SONG, SON! That dude was a genius.
3. They had mullafuggin pirates that would get townspeople drunk and then smuggle them down to the river through underground caves – THAT STILL EXIST! Why wouldn’t Johnny Depp have taught me about this yet?!
4. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was filmed there. Here’s his house!
5. It’s sweltering as balls in Savannah. Literally. I pulled down my weather map while I was there and it said Humidity – 87%. EIGHTY SEVEN PERCENT! I didn’t even know that shit could go that high! Go home Savannah, you’re drunk!
6. Speaking of drunk, Savannah is one of the few towns where it’s legal to walk around with open containers of alcohol. Like, you can get to-go cups at restaurants. It’s bizarre! They even have a store that sells travel growlers. If you don’t know what a growler is – it’s basically a supped up forty.
We enjoyed plenty of those – so much so that the dude at the growler store thought we were locals and gave us our fifteenth growler free card. That’s right, fifteenth. In my defense, my growler contributions were root beer. Delicous on-tap root beer.
And speaking of root beer – I had hard root beer for the first time in Savannah and it is magically delicious.
It was a great few days – we walked, and drank things, and ate things, and walked some more, and sweat my non-existent balls off, and it was all fun and games until I got food poisoning and threw up out of my butt, and my mouth… which made for an interesting four-hour ride home.
It’s quite funny now but at the time I thought I was dying. I left little pieces of me all over Georgia that day. In the Burger King, in the Dairy Queen, on the freeway… everywhere. When I woke up a day later from the ordeal I realized I was wearing the same shirt and socks I rode home in but I was sans pants. Which is not like me, I mean I have pajamas – I’m not an animal! I still have no idea where my pants went, but I do remember some strange looks when Smith and I were packing the car. Anyhoo, here are some other pics of Savannah! 😀
What year is this? Who’s the president? I feel like I have been gone for decades! *Emerges from hole in ground squinting eyes from the glare of the sun.* What should we talk about? I know, how about my freaking out every year when my doctor wants to get up in my lady garden? How ’bout that?
Have you ever seen any old, black and white movies? Preferably one that takes place in the dust bowl or depression. There’s always a point during any of them that a storm breaks out, and someone has to go check on the horse in their tiny ass barn. (Now that I think about it, in those movies there’s always a kid holding a can of beans and wearing a hat that’s too big for him… I’m sure that’s a metaphor for something to do with my vagina too. I’ll work on it.) Anyhow, the horse was always going bat shit crazy when the storm blows through and they have to send in some dusty horse whispering dude to calm her.
Whoa girl, whoa… *holds out an apple or a carrot* there, there…
In this scenario, I am the horse… and the gynecologist is the horse whisperer. I suppose also in this scenario, the dust bowl could be my vagina, but that part isn’t really important.
I hate going to the doctor. I’m always afraid they’re going to tell me I have some disease, pull out a lego or a quarter that’s been logged in my vagina for 30 years, or a multitude of other embarrassing things like onset nervous or frightful farting- by me or anyone in the room really. Trust me, it’s a thing, I Google. Honestly, I’m only going to the doc regularly for birth control so that I can have the complexion of a 14 year old girl – so I don’t so much care about their “details.” I definitely don’t care for them launching things into my “dust bowl.” I definitely have to restrain from laughing at the sight of two people’s faces huddled over my junk with a test tube. I guess the good thing is, based on their facial expressions my “muffin” is pretty run of the mill. In fact it may be so commonplace that it blends into it’s environment like a chameleon.
Which I’m fine with because I long worried I had one of those rogue shelter vaginas that looks sweet and cuddly when it’s caged but let that bitch out and she’ll eat your face off.
After I was done being probed and the doctor played on my boobies like she was scratchin’ a Daft Punk record at a dance club, they sent me down a long narrow ultra violet rayed hallway to pee in a cup. “Label it, urinate and then lock the cup in the tiny pass-through door.” This time, the person on the other side opened their side of the “confessional” before I had time to set my pee cup down and close my side. It startled me so much that I dropped my cup of magic juice and it magic rained a 3-7 pee drops. I started talking in a robot voice as I closed the door to my wrist and entertained them with my Thing -like hand blindly blotting urine like a crack head. I swear they planned that shit. *Hears patient opening tiny door, wait for it… PULL!*
What is the point of all of this? = I HATE GOING TO THE DOCTOR! Why are there all those codes and swabs and surprise shot disposal units?! Why are there so many art posters about veins and awol ovaries?! Why don’t they just get some of those 3d posters and a ficus?! Why won’t they just tell me I’m not dying on my answering machine instead of being like “This is about your vagina…ah…. you better call us back.” Then they’re like “Oh you’re fine, I was just trying to tie my shoes at the time I left you the voicemail.” SUCK IT! Ugh! Make a scan robot already so I can just walk through it like at the airport and it gives a little green light or the ick face. This shit is stressing me out! Also, I want you doctors to bring back the toy chest and lollipops for the end. FOR ALL PEOPLE! Not just the kids, ya bastids! THIS IS AMERICA! Just like our forefathers said: “GIVE ME LIBERTY, OR GIVE ME SCRATCH N SNIFF STICKERS WHEN YOU PROBE MY VAGINA!”
The doorbell rang at about noon today. Smith, wearing only one sock answered the door. I should offer that he was fully clothed besides the one sock, but please know that I debated informing you of that for at least 3 minutes. It is unclear to me why he was only wearing one sock, but he had been wearing just the one sock for at least 3.25 hours by my guestimation. I was cleaning so I did not proceed to the door. Come to think of it, I usually never go to the door because I am almost always in my underwear. Don’t you judge me, I like to stay nimble incase of a fire or natural disaster. Anyhow, from where I was I heard the following:
Smith: “Mumble mumble”
Man Voice: “Good! Mumble Mumble?”
Smith and Man Voice: “Grumble grumble mansounds.org”
I then heard them both giggle as they went outside and closed the front door behind them. I thought: “I wonder if they were talking about I can has a cheesyburger.” (cause that’s what I giggle about 8-15 hours of my normal day to day.)
10 minutes later Smith came storming into the house from the garage exclaiming “QUICK! I need a squirt bottle! Where are the squirt bottles?!” (As if we have so many of them that there is some sort of room or storage space in our house just for storage of said bottles.) After pulling the contents of the under sink cabinet out, he retrieved a bottle and literally ran out of the back door with the squirt bottle in the air, “I’ll be back in a minute… I gotta… mildew! This is AMAZING!!!”
Hmm… was the visitor a scientist? At this point I was curious, but not curious enough to put on pants. Fifteen minutes after that Smith came back in to retrieve money. Five minutes after that he brought in a hot pink bottle of solution that he just bought off of, for all I know was, a vagabond.
Smith talked me into putting on pants to show me all of the things he and this strange man cleaned around our house to “put his solution to the test.” I was pleasantly surprised because when I say this stuff cleaned, it cleaned the shit outta some shit. Mold on bricks, gutters, break dust, the ground, a wall of something or other. It was pretty cool. I think Smith thought so too because he acted as if the solution was an Easter Miracle. He currently has the bottle “resting” on my side of the bed. The point of this story is, if someone comes to your door selling “Grandma’s Cleaner” put on some pants and buy that shiz. Then clean some shiz. You’ll be happy you did. Unless it turns out that this shiz is poison, but he literally squirted it in his mouth as part of his demonstration. Now I want to spray it in my mouth just to see if it tastes like strawberries. Which is likely how they used to knock off kings and shit back in the day. Well played, vagabond. Well played.
P.S. I found this guy selling Grandma’s Cleaner on YouTube. Smith said this wasn’t our guy, but that he was just as entertaining.
Warning: Men, your heads may explode after reading this post. While I will not be using the word “vagina” I will be talking about the matters of the ol’ front butt. You have been warned. Proceed with caution.
I love Smith. He is the greatest boyfriend, that will do just about anything for me, including buy
feminine products girl’s party favors. He’s also like some sort of ninja in the lady mood matrix. All I gotta do is let out a little grumble and he’s all:
I’ve only consciously discovered this recently, when I noticed that he may be afraid
of my period when it rains in my lady garden. Mainly because I opened my medicine cabinet to put in a bottle of Midol that he picked up for me when he was “doing some grocery shopping.” It joined four other bottles that he had already picked up in the same manner:
Later I found a bottle in the vitamin drawer near a flash light, like in case all hell breaks loose and there’s no power or Midol left on the planet. Seriously, Midol around here is like jars of mayonnaise or ketchup on most other men’s shopping lists.
“Hmmm… do I have mayonnaise at home for my big midnight sub sandwich that I shall make with 42 varieties of meat and then eat said sandwich in my underwears? Hmmm… can’t remember, better pick one up to be sure…”
I mean if tomorrow US currency was changed to trading Midol pills for goods and services, I would be like a Sultan or some shit, so I’m crossing my fingers.
Further proof: we both went shopping together weeks ago when it was actually “raining in my lady garden.” I ran into Walgreens real quick for some makeup while he went in to “start the shopping.” This is what was happening when I found him (in the wine aisle no less).
In conclusion, I may need to do some serious monthly mood charting. As cupcakes have been recently added to his lady garden combat arsenal.
I gotta hand it to him – bish is crafty! 😀
My best friend, Lala is moving away to a magical island! We don’t live in the same state now, but for some reason thinking about her moving has made me nostalgic for our BFF experiences thus far, including college. I was an art student, she was a math major – but eventually she came to the dark side because we had cookies. I couldn’t have been happier because with us both in art classes together, they had two carbon copies of sparkly snarkdom at their immediate disposal. This post is a tribute to our college days!
WHEN SCHEDULING SAID THERE WAS ONLY ROOM FOR ONE MORE IN THE CLASS:
“SHIT! THE C- PARKING LOT IS FULL AND WE’RE LATE!” :
WHEN NEITHER OF US LOOKED AT A CAMPUS MAP WHILE ELECTING OUR FRESHMAN CLASSES:
WHEN IN ART HISTORY WONDERING WHY GHANT, A PROFESSOR BORN AND RAISED IN NORTH CAROLINA, HAS A BRITISH ACCENT:
(SKIPPING HIS CLASS TO GO TO THE OLIVE GARDEN):
WHEN THE PROFESSOR LIKES THE CLASS SUCK-UP’S ART PROJECTS MORE THAN ANYONE ELSES:
TO THE TEACHER WHEN STUDENT REVIEWS FAVORED OUR ART WORK MORE THAN THE SUCK-UP’S:
WHEN THE COLOR THEORY PROFESSOR WANTS TO KNOW “WHO’S ART IS THIS? THE COLORS ARE NOT MIXED REALISTICALLY…”:
OUR REACTION HEARING WE WILL HAVE “MALE NUDE MODELS IN LIFE DRAWING TOMORROW”:
OUR REACTION WHEN THE OLD NUDE MODELS DISROBED IN CLASS, REVEALING MUCH MORE HAIR ACCUMULATION THAN WE HAD MENTALLY PREPARED FOR:
“NICOLE, PICK A PARTNER…”
WHEN VISITING THE RALEIGH ART MUSEUM FOR AN ASSIGNMENT:
TYPICAL ART STUDENT:
“YOU HAVE FOUR HOURS, THERE WILL BE ONE, FIVE-MINUTE BREAK, TWO HOURS IN. PLEASE OPEN YOUR BLUE EXAM BOOKLETS, NOW”:
SEEING THE MEANEST, SKINNIEST CHEERLEADER FROM HIGH SCHOOL AT SUBWAY ON TATE STREET. NOTICING SHE GAINED 60 POUNDS AT COLLEGE:
MAKAELA AND THE DRINK MACHINE:
FAILING TEXTILES CLASS:
“WHAT’S A PELL GRANT?”
“I’M GONNA NEED THAT PELL GRANT BACK, IT WAS A MISTAKE”
“THE UNIVERSITY IS CLOSED DUE TO SNOW”:
PRESENT YOUR 400 REQUIRED DRAWINGS ASSIGNMENT FROM LAST NIGHT, THAT WAS ON THE SYLLABUS I GAVE YOU 4 MONTHS AGO, BUT NEVER REQUESTED OR DISCUSSED IN CLASS AT ANY POINT IN TIME:
WHEN AN INSTRUCTOR PEEKS THEIR HEAD INTO THE DIGITAL LAB, HAVING HEARD LOUD LAUGHTER AND A SPONTANEOUS TWO-PERSON RENDITION OF A SPICE GIRLS’ SONG DOWN THE HALL:
Good luck, LaLa-Bean! I’m so excited for you and T! I miss you preeeeetty much every day from here anyways, so you can assume the trend will continue. ❤