I mean, I get that any instance in which their junk is manhandled in a non sexual context is unpleasant, but, I get my junk handled all the time, sometimes by doctors, sometimes by clumsy medical students, sometimes by nosey dogs on the street.

Am I any less of a woman for it?

No.  I take it in stride.

Because, sometimes, you junk needs medical (or canine) attention.

In fact, I have thrice left pieces of my inside girly junk on a birthing table somewhere in Toledo, but do I hide my head in shame?

No.

I man up and try not to itch the stitches.

And now?  It’s July.  We all know what happens in July, and it almost always ends with my feet in stirrups and sore nipples.

So, Andy and I had the talk, the one where he tells me we are done giving birth to things.  And, because of my distaste for modern medicine, and his distaste for latex, it was decided we need to take a surgical approach to this whole, ceasing to procreate, thing.

Thus, began a rampant game of not it.

And, the fact is, the destruction of my girl bits is…intense.  And invasive.  And would require him to be the sole caregiver to three very small, very demanding children while I healed from the comfort of my bed, chasing my percocet with Bloody Marys and Twilight books ( I know! Someone come punch me in the face.).  So, the responsibility fell to him.

After a few awkward minutes of squeamish grimaces and girlish whimpers…he was in.

Reluctantly.

And, I know you don’t believe me, babe, when I tell you what you are doing is sexy, but trust me, taking a bullet for me is sexy.  Sacrificing your super mega sperm is sexy.  And, knowing I can jump you three ways to Tuesday without worrying about my ass getting bigger from birth control pills, or having to fumble with a condom like we did in the back of your 1988 civic hatch back is even sexier.

So now, we celebrate the vas deferens.

Steak, shrimp, blow jobs, all night raids on WoW.  This week is his week.

Come week’s end, however, we celebrate with frozen peas and jock support.

It was sooo hot.

But, this post isn’t about that.

It’s about Transformers 2.  And why it can suck my dick.

Here’s the thing.  I don’t like Megan Fox.  I don’t think she is the hottest girl on the planet, and honestly, to me, she is still the bitch face who replaced the original Sydney on Hope & Faith.  Like we wouldn’t notice, ABC?!  Plus, she totally looks like the kind of girl I hate, the kind that only has guy friends because girls are just “too catty and jealous” for her. 

Read: Huge bitch.

So, anyways, my husband, of course, adores her and all the ass crack revealing jeans she wears, and he all but had a hard on the entire movie.

After the tenth “she’s so hot” groan, I could have killed him, but I still had half a bag of popcorn left, and that shit is expensive.  Not to mention, I am currently fist deep into my post partum shedding period, which basically means, forensically speaking, I can’t kill anyone without leaving gobs of hair behind implicating myself. 

My hands were tied.

So, I focused on my popcorn…and my Sour Watermelons…and playing Block Buster on my new Blackberry, because that is the longest movie evah!

And, on the long and silent car ride home, I realized my husband and I have very different taste in women.  I would never, in a million years, have lesbian sex with Megan Fox, Angelina Jolie, Lindsay Lohan or Jessica Biel…btw, is it just me, or does Jessica Biel look like somebody walked up to her and pinched her face too hard?  She is what I would imagine a pug would look like with a face lift.

On the other hand, I would absolutely make out with…

Chloe Sevigny

OK, she is gorgeous, I mean, come on.  Even when she is dressed up like super weird Nikki on Big Love, how could you not want to go all Mormon polygamist on her, french braid and all.

Mia Michaels from So You Think You Can Dance

Um yeah, so girl can rock a platinum faux hawk and off the shoulder shirt like no other.  I mean, I am pretty sure she either has, in her possession, the best strapless bra ever invented, or she never wears one.  Either way, totally hot.  

Blair Waldorf

She is a giant bitch and she always crosses her legs, but she wears the hottest forties inspired girly underwear, and her hair is to die for.   Plus, I could totally channel that whole locked away at an all girls boarding school thing.  Love her.

Shane from The L Word

Oooooh Shane, you dirty dirty whore.  Even though I know you will never change, there is just something about your coke head physique and helmet hair that draws me in every time.   Plus, you are totally boyish, and I could be your lipstick! 

Reese Witherspoon

Ok, this one was a toughy.  I want to say I would make out with Reese, but truth is, I would totally be in a long term relationship with her.  One where we would spend our days looking at our perfect teeth in the mirror and telling each other how pretty we were.  Because she’s nice like that.

Honorable mention goes out to Salma Hayek and Daryl Hannah from Splash, not to be confused with Daryl Hannah from Grumpy Old Men.  The difference?  A crimping iron.

The fireworks are kind of a yawn.

But the wine, music and fried chicken?

Divine.

And, as an added bonus, it’s the one time of year us country folk can drive down the street on our lawn mowers with little flags duct taped to the sides, and a 6 pack of Busch beer bungee corded to the seat with out ridicule.  Because there’s nothing redneck about that, y’all.  That’s being straight patriotic.   However, sleeping with your cousin, even though he totally doesn’t look like you and is super hot?  Never patriotic.  Apparently.

I love the country.

This salad is super easy.  It’s looks amazing.  You can make it the night before (which I recommend, as it tastes even better!).  And I can pretty much make it with one hand, which is good for when I am holding a baby…or…like…a bottle of wine…with a straw in it.

Lemon Thyme Potato Salad

3 Teaspoons chopped fresh Thyme

2 tablespoons minced Garlic

2 tablespoons Apple Cider Vinegar

2 tablespoons White wine (cooking wine ok)

1/3 cup Extra Virgin Olive Oil

2-3 lbs. Small Red Potatoes

2 Lemons

1 Large Candy Sweet Onion

1.  Clean and quarter the red potatoes.

2.  Add potatoes to a large pot of salted water, and bring to a boil, cover and continue to boil 12 minutes, or until potatoes are cooked through.  Drain and set aside to cool.

3.  Roughly cube the onion, and toss into a large serving bowl with the cooled potatoes.

4.  In a small bowl, combine thyme, garlic, vinegar, wine, and the juice of 1 lemon.  then, slowly whisk in the olive oil, pour over the onions and potatoes, and gently stir to coat. 

5.  Refrigerate at lest 3 hours.  Before serving, garnish with more chopped thyme, and a halved lemon. 

The season of self tanner and cellulite cream.  Spanx and double chin distracting highlights.  Cold beer and bonfires.

Everything I love and hate…all wrapped into one hot, sticky, pain in the ass season.

My biggest summer issues…besides being freakishly concerned that every picture taken of me in the summer is of me standing up, not sitting down, because even God knows you are way skinner standing up than you are sitting down…like a chubby, sweaty toad…with back fat…and smooshy thighs…

I could go on and on.

I digress.

Anyhuge.

Shorts.  Shorts was, um, the point I was trying to get to up there.

I’m the girl you don’t want to see in shorts.

Unless you are comfortable watching me picking denim out of my vagina and ass crack every 30 seconds.

Plus, things get all chaffey up in there.

It’s unpleasant.

For everyone.

I’m a sweater.

So, it’s just jeans and dresses for me.

And the only way I can even do dresses is if I wear a pair of my husband’s boxer briefs underneath (summer survival tip #9485).

Keeps things dry and un-chaffey.

Plus, I kinda feel like a dude, which is ironically hot while wearing a dress.  So, I just spend the day walking around, turning myself on in my man underwear.

But, I mostly opt for jeans and a tank top.

Except it is super annoying when skinny girls in shorts get all, aren’t you hot in jeans, it’s super hot, I love shorts, look how sexy my legs are in these shorts, I’m a giant whore bag, I blow homeless people, Jesus loves shorts, did I mention it’s hot, you could park a van in the gap between my thighs.  And I am all, hot?  No way, the breeze is totally great, I’m not hot at all, if anything, I am a touch chilly.

Whore.

I get it, you can wear shorts, with heels, and those cute little camis with the built in bras so your don’t need to have a bra strap showing, which, btw, can also kiss my ass.  Shelf bras are a joke.  All they do is give me one giant uni-boob that sags so low my uni-nipple touches my belly button.

Annnndddd……this is why I drink in the summer.

So I don’t attack skinny girls in shorts who don’t require under wires or baby powder between their legs.

Losers.

Christ, I’m chilly, do you think it’s chilly in here?

Thank God I’m wearing jeans.

Plus, I haven’t shaved above my knee caps in three weeks.

Happy summer.

Where’s the keg?

Lucy and Ethel.  Red Bull and Cheetos.  Ying and Yang.   Tango and Cash.

Everybody knows this stuff.

And, in life, you are lucky if you find the ying to your yang.  The Ethel to your Lucy.

One thing that so compliments you, it’s like the universe just opened up, and shat perfection right up on you.

Be jealous.

Because this happened to me.

Two words.

Barefoot Wine.

I know, right, could the world be more fucking perfect?

I like to drink wine.  I like to not wear shoes.  I would like to combine these two things.  Guess what.  Now I can.

Thank you universe!

And, because Barefoot Wine and yours truly have collided, in a hungover, perfectly pedicured love fest, I want to share the love, and include you in this tipsy orgy of  sand and bubbly.

Not one, but TWO lucky people will win this super amazing Barefoot Summer Essentials Pack, full of everything you need to drink and be merry (ahem…wine not included).

Check it out, y’all.

Fucking awesomeness.

OK, here are the details.  This contest will run for one week, ending July 1st at 9am, at which time I will use the random number generator to select two lucky winners.

There are a few ways to enter.

1. You must go here and join the Barefoot Republic, then come back here and leave me one comment with your Barefooter name.

Then, you can earn additional entries by:

2.  You can check out all of Barefoot Wine’s delicious flavors, and come  back here and leave me one comment with your favorite.

3.  You can earn unlimited entries by leaving me a separate comment(s) with something you want to kick off your shoes and get barefoot and do this summer.

So that’s…um…I don’t know, this Riesling is yummy as hell…ummm…let’s just say, lots of ways to win.

Bottoms up, y’all!

]]> http://barefootfoodie.com/2009/06/24/cheers/feed/ http://barefootfoodie.com/2009/06/22/daddy/ http://barefootfoodie.com/2009/06/22/daddy/#comments Mon, 22 Jun 2009 15:05:23 +0000 barefootfoodie http://barefootfoodie.com/?p=799 I didn’t forget to put this up officially on Father’s Day.  I was just too caught up in celebrating my husband yesterday…with BBQ ribs and hand jobs.  But, I did write this post for him in a totally timely fashion, so that the world can know that he is completely awesome, and his kids adore him.

Once.

Twice.

Three times a father.

And you just keep getting sexier each time.

P.S. This is post was completely my doing, obviously the kids had nothing to do with the ribs or the hand jobs, as that would be both distasteful and dangerous.   They got him a Cookie Monster card and some pictures.  I think it’s obvious who gives the better gifts in this household.

P.P.S. I was going to call this post, I Love it When You Call Me Big Papa…but Andy totally didn’t find the humor in that and I wanted it to be a totally appropriate, classy and lovely tribute to his fatherly awesomeness.

P.P.P.S. But, I did, however, feel the need to include the phrase hand job.  Twice.

P.P.P.P.S. This post is ruined.

Ok, not so much popped, as exploded out, leaving in her wake, total and utter vaginal destruction. But I’d hate for the horrific reality to overshadow her cuteness.

Regardless of the gory details, she’s here.

And for six weeks, we have been adjusting to our new life.

My husband and I, we’ve done this twice before, taking the time to get  into the groove of our new normal, dealing with, now, three screamy, messy, full diapered midgets, with needs and wants and holy crap, they will fucking cut you.

And, as any new parent will attest, the no sleep, the crying, the filth…it’s stressful as hell.

We’ve seen it take it’s toll on our friends as they welcome babies into their lives.  We hear their desperation and depression, their fights, their unhappiness.

And, we are so thankful we don’t go through that.

Because for six weeks, we live like dudes.

Fucking dudes.

Ok wait, not like fucking dudes, because, well, this is part of the point, we don’t fuck, because, like, I’m not allowed.

Just, you know, stop picturing me with a soul patch and stay with me here.

I just pushed a baby out of my vagina.  A baby.  Followed by a entourage of umbilical cord, cottage cheese stuff, blood and a placenta the size of a roast.

So, aside from my inability to sit without crying, pee with out screaming, or poop with out biting down on a leather strap, Andy is also dealing with his own set of post traumatic issues.

These six postpartum weeks of doctor ordered no nookie, are a welcome break for both of us to, well, recover, both physically and mentally.

So, for six weeks, we focus on the kids, on adjusting, on keeping everyone alive, and fed, and clean-ish.

We don’t worry about squeezing in sex or looking hot for each other.

Fuck, aside from the occasional fist bump after another successful day of no one dying and/or setting something on fire, we barely touch.

Which is great, because then I don’t feel bad about dressing like an asexual high school softball coach, and he is kept at enough of a distance to not rub up against the embarrassingly high elastic waistband of my granny panties.

I don’t shave anything, I don’t brush my hair, all my shirts have two big, hard circles over the nipples that smell like breast milk, and the garbage in our bathroom is overflowing with bloody phone book sized maxi pads.

Sounds hot, right?

Well, it’s not.

That is, until our six weeks is up, and I have to start waxing and smelling like something other than old yogurt, and my husband has to remember my vagina is not the lower ninth ward, but rather a place where puppies and unicorns hang out, and like, sing and eat cotton candy…but in a totally hot, fuckable way.

And, today is that day.

The day I get declared healed and open for shop.

The day I put away my big scary underwear and my perineum bottle, and pluck that one weird black hair off my boob.

But, I have a feeling I still might need the leather strap.

I’m kinda skanky like that.

It’ s just hard for me to get out these days.

Unless it’s for burritos riddled with guacamole.

Or milkshakes.

Or any food, really.

But, mundane tasks that don’t involve a drive through are just a bit too much for me to handle.  They require interaction with, like, people.  People who judge if you have a kool aid mustache or if you’re wearing a skirted maternity bathing suit and knock off Ugg boots.  People that, frankly, I just don’t have the time or hygiene skills to deal with at this time.

So, you would think knowing all this, and seeing that I barely shower or brush my hair, and that I walked around for 3 whole hours with a dum dum sucker (cream soda, best flavor ever!) stuck to the back of my sweatpants, that my husband would do me a solid and mail my package for me.

Um, no.  

Which seemed selfish to me, so I was all, what the hell, Andy,  I stood in line at the post office for an hour once to mail a gigantic model airplane for you.  And he was all, I’m busy and important, and you don’t even have a box to mail it in, so I was all, so what, they sell boxes at the post office.  Dumb ass.  But, he was like, it’s candy and a purple vibrator, and I was like, duh, and he was all, I’m not waiting in line at the post office to mail candy and a purple dildo, which made no sense and, clearly, he needed a quick lesson on the obvious differences between a vibrator and a dildo.

At which point, he stopped me, because we were in church, but whatever, we were sitting in the back, so the priest totally couldn’t see me mouthing the words dildo or giant veiny penis, and as for the old lady in front of us, she had one leg that was, like, super swollen and way bigger than the other normal old lady leg, so the cock talk was probably the highlight of her day. I mean, she didn’t have a wedding ring on, and anyone who has one gigantic leg, and one normal size leg on top of an unfortunate lady mustache, probably totally already owns a vibrator, anyways. 

Regardless, the package was time sensitive, and needed to be shipped, because it was a wedding gift, and he was all, what kind of person gets someone a vibrator and strawberry pop rocks as a wedding gift? And I was like, um, we do.

I mean, it was that or hand towels.

Who the fuck wants to open hand towels?

……….

Um.

Sorry, I just blacked out.

30 Day Shred is kicking my ass.

I am starting with level 2, hoping to bump this whole charade to something more along the lines of a 15ish Day Shred.

But, it’s totally hard, and by the time I am done with the 20 minute workout, I can’t feel my arms and I smell like a rave.

But, I’m sorta in a hurry.

I just saw a super bad (fat) picture of me.

Super bad (fat).

Like Dom Delouise bad (fat).

I literally sobbed on the couch until my husband went up to the gas station and bought me a frozen cherry slushie.

Counterproductive?  Probably.

But, it’s hard to see yourself look so…swollen (it’s a nice word for fat).

In all fairness, it was at a super bad angle, and my boobs were engorged as hell, but that doesn’t excuse my thighs, my arms or my chin(s).

Pfft.

Anyways, back to what I was saying before, you know when you hold up a pair of jeans, and you are all like, oh, these look huge, and then you try them on, and you can’t even get them up your thighs?

This?  Happened to me yesterday.

Which led to more crying.

And more cherry slushie.

And, I know I just had a baby 5 weeks ago, and it’s not out of the ordinary for me to be the size of a small country at this point, but, sob, I still hate it all the same.

My body is older this time around, and this third pregnancy may just do me in, things just don’t have that feeling of…bouncing back.

It’s like a sleeping bag.  The first pregnancy, my body was like a brand new sleeping bag, one of those bad ass ones that cost a bunch because you could totally take it with you to climb Everest, even though you only use it for drunken tent camping at the local KOA.  Anyways, so you have a kid, and even though the sleeping bag is got kinda dirty, and you spilled beer on it, it still totally rolls up all neat and fits in the bag.  But by the third kid?  The thing smells like cat piss and campfire, and it’s so lumpy and misshapen, it doesn’t even roll up anymore, so you just stuff the thing in a ratty ass garbage bag. 

My boobies are way cute though.

This is my body.

Good for beer drinking and pie eating contests.

Bad for bikinis.

But, for totally good reason.

P.S.  I love shiny awards and irony, so if this post wasn’t depressing enough, go here and vote for me for funniest blog!