The Other 98¢

'Twas the Night Before a Lesbian Christmas...

2011-12-21T15:24:00.005-05:00

‘Twas the night before their lesbian Christmas, when all through the house

Not a body part was stirring, not even under her blouse.

The Birkenstocks were hung by the lawnmower with care,

And they hoped that St. Nicholas was actually a sexy woman named Claire.

The lesbians were nestled all snug in their bed,

While visions of granola and Subarus danced in her head.

And Emily in her nightie and I in my corduroy pajama pants from the Gap,

Had just tucked in our papayas for an unusual Florida cold snap.

When out on the lawn there arose such loud obnoxious chatter,

I sprang from my bed and swear I heard my fat cat scatter.

Away to the window I ran in a flash,

Opened the curtain and landed against the wall with a loud crash.

Surprisingly I did not awaken my sleeping lesbian ho,

For she would have been as surprised as I when I saw what was below.

When, what to my curious eyes should appear,

But a brand new Jeep Wrangler and a pack of lesbians with eight cases of beer.

With a hefty and loud driver, a hick with a kick,

I knew in a moment this lesbian was that kind of chick.

Faster than she could say the L-word, her Reindykes they came,

And she whistled and waved and called them by name.

“Now Cynthia! Now, Amy Ray! Now, Ellen and Portia,

On KD Lang! On Melissa! On Tegan and Sara!

To the garage! To the shed! To the porch!

Time to install the decks and the Tiki torch!

As fast as these women can throw and dodge a ball,

They erected a backyard lesbian oasis without a brawl.

To the house and garage these women flew,

With a Jeep full of sex toys, softballs, and fanny packs too!

And then in the moment, I heard from one of the back decks,

The stomping of boots like a pack of gay rednecks.

As I closed the curtain and heard a loud click,

In through the door was Rosie O’Donnell, dressed like St. Nicholas as a chick.

She was all dressed in LL Bean flannel from head to toe,

And her chin was stained with a white powder that looked like blow.

A bundle of feminist literature and sports gear she had in her sack,

And as she bent over, I got a good look at her crack.

Her hands—how they were calloused! Her arms so thick!

Her cheeks were as red as apples and her hair was so slick!

Her big mouth was wide open like a cave,

And the beard on her chin needed a good shave.

The end of a joint she held tightly ‘tween her lips,

And the smoke billowed around her body, even around her hips.

She had a broad face and a big beer gut,

That wobbled when she coughed and even shook her butt.

She was chubby and plump, a typical older lesbian,

And I laughed when I saw her until she gave me the look of a demon.

A sly smirk and a wave of her arm,

Soon gave me to know she meant me no harm.

She spoke not a word, but went straight to work,

Filled all our Birkenstocks, but ignored our Doc Martens (what a jerk).

With her sack empty she walked towards the door,

She gave me a quick nod and ambled out like a wild boar.

She lumbered towards her Jeep, and to the Reindykes she gave a yell,

And away they drove into traffic of South Florida, also known as hell.

But I heard them exclaim, as they drove out of sight,

“Merry Christmas to you lesbians, and to you a gay night!”

Twats and Tiaras

2011-11-07T15:50:00.003-05:00

I need to ask a serious question that only a small percentage of America's population is asking...

WHO THE FUCK CARES ABOUT KIM KARDASHIAN???????????

I just don't understand it. Why do people care so much about these idiots? Why are there so many shows that feature this family? And why is this family famous? The Kardashian family's fame is more more mysterious than whether or not there's actual life on Mars.

For those of you who don't know (so, anyone who lives under a rock and has no contact with any human being, a telephone, or a TV) the latest celeb scandal is Twatdashian # 1 and a b-ball player are getting divorced after 72 days of marriage.

Um, so what? Right? That's what I thought at first too.

After reading a few headlines in the grocery store, and while reading the headlines on the screen while I watched Georgia Rule on E! the other night, I felt like I had morning sickness, food poisoning, syphilis, and the flu; that's how nauseous I was. Sickened at the fact that Americans are acting as if they are being torn apart by this divorce; acting as if it is ruining their personal lives. I mean, it's not as awful as childhood obesity, rising airplane tickets, the state of our economy, and our relationship with Mexico at the border. THESE are things to be upset about!

Or so I told myself.

The news of KK and her husband divorcing is the most annoying thing that's been on the news since Sarah Palin was the VP candidate, OJ was acquitted, and the Balloon Boy conspiracy. People are reacting to this news in the same way they reacted when Pope John Paul II died in Italy and MJ died in LA. People are sobbing in the streets, tweeting words of condolences, and acting as crazy as the zombies in Zombieland. WTF?

Then I realized the news of this divorce didn't go in one ear and out the other like other celeb gossip. This divorce had actually pissed me off!!!

This entire multi million dollar celebrity marriage is a sham and the news of their divorce has gotten more airtime than the Olympics. I am pissed because everyone thinks it's us queers who will ruin the sanctity of marriage, but they're wrong. It's celebrities and straight couples who ruin the sanctity of marriage. Britney's 55 hour marriage. Liz Taylor's 108 marriages and 107 divorces. The cheating couple LeAnn Rimes and Eddie Cibrian. I mean, what's next? Are celebs and straights going to wreck the sanctity of funerals and taking craps too?

This divorce means that yet another famous couple is abusing the privilege of marriage while people like Emily and I cannot even TRY marriage for one day in our state. One day! Kim and Kris got 72 days, so why can't I get just one? I'll tell you why. Because they're twats who do whatever they want while Emily and I are real, hardworking, honest people who cannot get married simply because we're both women. Real neat America. Real fucking neat.

Because I'm giving myself the authority to do so, I'm going to crown Kim Kardashian as 2011's Queen Twatwaffle. It's like the female version of King Douche, which has been reserved for Kris Humphries. If Kim were sitting next to me and I had a bedazzled tiara, I would totally cram it up her bleached anus. Which is probably not the first or last thing that's ever been crammed in her cramhole. My guess is there has probably been a microphone, a foot (or a fist), and one of Bruce Jenner's gold medals up in that Armenian Anus once or twice.

Side note, but still related: This is the Queen Twatwaffle runner up contestant. Not only did she make a collage of magazine pictures of America's Sweetfarts, but she is obviously brain dead. You NEVER use scotch tape on a collage; always RUBBER CEMENT.

Book Blurb

2011-11-01T15:44:00.002-04:00

This is a description of my debut book. If you were to read this description on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or on the back of the actual book, would you be inclined to pick it up and read it and/or purchase it on your Kindle/Nook?

KC Kelly is not your average female. She was often mistaken for a boy for the better part of the 90’s. She considered becoming a stripper named KoCo Puff to supplement her income in college. She has slept with a superhero and dumped her fiancé (for another woman, no less) four days before the wedding. KC is a woman who is rapidly and clumsily approaching thirty and the only things she has to show for it are an abused liver, a muffin top, and this collection of hilarious, and often self-deprecating essays, You Look Like a Boy (And Other Shamefully True Tales of a Midwestern Girl). These essays capture some of the most humiliating mishaps and hilarious exploits only the most idiotic female this side of the Mason-Dixon line could experience.

Essay topics include delightful gems such as:

Being a tomboy—“I had the Justin Bieber cut way before that girl was even born.”

Becoming a woman—“The word "puberty" for me was synonymous with "atomic bomb", "end of days", and "FML".”

Losing her virginity—“Me stripping is about as hot and sexy as watching a toothless lunch lady and a bald janitor have sex in a dumpster behind the high school.”

Playing sports—“I am as coordinated as a legless gymnast who suffers from vertigo and as graceful as a ribbon dancer in a straight jacket.”

The male EX fiancé—“ I felt like I was the parent of a special needs child. Everyone looked at him as if he had ridden the short bus to the house party.”

The current female fiancée—“Without her teaching me to have more patience with ~~stupid~~ people, I probably would have killed someone by now. It's no secret I have a "hit list" in a framed magnet on my fridge.”

Supplemental income—“My parents made it sound like I was a prostitute who makes money by lying on my back like a starfish for some creep in a dirty hotel room near the city dump.”

Germs—“I swear serial killers have better manners and hygiene than 99% of people who travel on airplanes.”

Having children—“I’m far too selfish; I drink alcohol in massive quantities, swear like a pirate, and am completely irresponsible. Plus I barely know how to wipe my own ass. Trust me, my future baby thanks me for waiting.”

Since she is often the butt of her own jokes and has absolutely no humility, there is no topic that is off limits in KC Kelly’s debut book. Her collection of entertaining essays is sure to appeal to anyone who has ever suffered from shame, embarrassment, Open Mouth Insert Foot Disease, or bad indigestion.

Special Thanks

2011-10-28T14:49:00.003-04:00

When I publish my book, “You Look Like A Boy (And Other Shamefully True Tales of a Midwestern Girl)”, this will be my special thanks. I just couldn’t wait to thank all of you...

Special Thanks

I feel it’s absolutely necessary to issue an extra special thanks to my remarkable parents— J Thomas Kelly III and Kathleen Kelly—two people in this world for whom I have the utmost respect. A short note will never be enough to show my appreciation for bringing me into this world (without you there would be no KC Kelly and the world would not be as great of a place). Dad, thanks for your sense of humor and for teaching me all those swear words. Mom, thanks for your advice and unconditional love and support. Although I’m sure this book is the ultimate form of shame and embarrassment I’ve brought upon you, it’s really just another day in the Kelly family. Words will simply never be enough to show you my love and gratitude.

Thanks to my siblings (Jen Wolf and Erik Kelly) for putting up with me all these years. I'm truly lucky and blessed to have such an awesome brother and sister. Thanks to my other family members (especially Vicki & Tom Schultz, Nicci Londo, and Jackie Mosetter) for reading my stories and being an active part of my life.

Special thanks to my sister Kate Kelly—without you, my childhood and college experience would have been boring. Thanks for letting me share some of our more embarrassing stories and letting me make jokes at your expense. I will always treasure and value the unique experiences we shared. The Kelly Sisters are certainly a force to be reckoned with and I pity the fools who try.

I would like to issue an extra special thanks to my amazing woman, partner, and best friend—Emily Davis. You are definitely my better half. Without your constant unwavering love and support, this book would not exist. Thank you for encouraging me every step of my writing journey. Although I can be difficult at times, I’m glad I can make you laugh at least once every single day. Your laughter and love gives me the ambition to keep writing.

I would also like to thank Emily’s family members and friends (especially Mary & Bill Davis, Andrew & Lindsay Davis, Kim Davis, Erin Burgess, Megan Hegemann, Liz Foster, Erin Brzoskowski, and Karlee Hanneman) for showing their love and support for us over the years, sometimes in unexpected ways.

Without my best friends, Jes Winter (J-Dubz) and Rachel Schwanz by my side, I would be the only one making an ass of myself. Thankfully, you girls are equally as embarrassing and idiotic as I am. The two of you are the best and most remarkable friends any girl could ask for. Despite the fact we tease each other relentlessly, the two of you are the only people in this world who can rival and keep up with my sense of humor and cleverness (even though we all know and can agree that I am the funniest one of the bunch).

A special shout out to my other funny and awesome friends—Tara Mitchell, Stacy Tesch, Amanda Mangerson, and of course J-Dubz and Rachel—the five of you have all made me laugh so loud and hard to the point where tears sometimes run down my legs.

To my other equally amazing friends (Lindsey Schneider, Shelby Sellers, June Salzer, Toni Marie Larsen, Katie & Scott Herrem, Julie & Karl Schwartz, Listron “Blue” Mannix, Scott Belding, Jason Masloski, TJ Centinaro, Lora Hale Stryker, Sarah Hoadley Boecker, and many others—your friendship and loyalty means the world to me. Some of you I’ve known all my life; some for only a few years; and some just recently—no matter how long we’ve been friends, just know I’ve enjoyed every single minute! Thanks to all my other friends (I appreciate you even if I haven't named you individually)!

A special thanks to my best Florida friend, Rachel Drath. You are amazing and I thank you for being so loyal and encouraging. You make me laugh, smile, and feel good about my height and I consider myself one lucky nugget to have you in my life. And thanks for introducing me to the one and only Mike “Vegas” Simmonds, a handsome guy with the funniest one-liners, craziest stories, and the most glorious, life changing mustache I’ve ever seen!!!

A special thanks to Stacy Tesch, Jes Winter, EvaMarie Coe, Tara Mitchell, Sue Schrage, and Bridget Fillo for reading my manuscript and helping edit it in ways you saw fit. Your advice and time spent reading is much appreciated.

A huge round of applause for those of you who let me tell a story that features you (whether you’re portrayed in a good or bad light) and allowing me to keep your real name. If you try to sue me, just remember A) I can prove it all B) you gave me permission and C) it’s not my fault you embarrassed yourself and I happened to be there. For those of you who make an appearance in this book but under a different name and are unsure if it’s actually you—it probably is (and no, you can’t sue me either).

Lastly, thanks to my readers—without you there’s no one with whom to share my stories.

Words can never express my gratitude for every single one of you, as you have all humbled and affected me in different but equally as special ways. I love you all.

Book Dedication

2011-10-28T14:46:00.000-04:00

This is the dedication I plan to feature in my book, You Look Like A Boy (And Other Shamefully True Tales of a Midwestern Girl).

For J Thomas Kelly III & Kathleen Kelly

My incredible parents

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back

May the sun shine warm upon your face;

The rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

—Traditional Gaelic blessing

For Emily Davis

My wonderful woman

I can't wait for you to be my wife
To live this life together
And I won't let you go
I need you to know
That you are my heart, forever

—“I Can’t Wait” –Runner Runner

The F-Word #BAD11

2011-10-16T10:11:00.001-04:00

To most people, the F-word is one of the crudest and most despicable words you can say. I say it all the time; I'm no stranger to dropping the F-bomb.

But this F-word, although as horrific, is not the F-word you may be thinking of. This F-word is Famine. Famine is a widespread scarcity of food usually accompanied or followed by regional malnutrition and starvation. It is a scary epidemic most people don't think about on a daily basis.

During mealtime in the Kelly household, if we didn't finish the food on our plates we were lectured. Mom would tell us to clean our plates because there are starving children in Africa. At a young age, I wasn't sure exactly what that had to do with me finishing the disgusting brussel sprouts on my plate. It's not like I could have packed up all my leftover food into a box and sent it to Africa. Trust me; I had asked, but Mom told me that although the gesture was thoughtful, the food would spoil before it even got there.

As a young kid, I knew there were starving children all over the world, but I didn't know there were also starving children in America. Probably in my own hometown! We could have easily been those children. My family wasn't rich and there were many times we struggled with money and my parents worried about putting food on the table for us four kids. They never wanted their kids to go hungry, so it didn't matter if bills were paid or there was gas in the car; we ALWAYS had food and we never went to bed hungry. Which is why my parents stressed that we clean our plates. Instead of arguing or refusing to clean my plate, I went along with it because I couldn't imagine what it felt like to go hungry.

But it always seemed to me that the starving children in Africa were more important. Probably because they were far away; out of sight, out of mind. And I had seen more "sponsor a child in Africa" commercials than I had seen the affects of hunger in our own country on our own children. Was it possible there were starving children in America too, the richest country in the world? And if there were, how horrible was the famine in other countries? There was no way I could comprehend the damaging affects of famine, but it was time I tried.

Now as an adult, I fully realize famine is a horrible epidemic affecting thousands upon thousands of people all over the world. Because of this knowledge, I have a sense of guilt if I throw away food. Who am I to throw away food when someone somewhere else needs that food? I feel guilt in other ways as well, like going to restaurants and seeing how wasteful patrons can be, throwing out perfectly good food. Although I do not enjoy leftovers, I do try to eat them. But I'll admit that although I feel guilt about wasting food, I am just as guilty of wasting food as everyone else. It's something I'm conscious of and although I try not to waste any food, it's not always possible.

What I didn't know was that with a little bit of effort on each person's part, we can put an end to this cycle of hunger. Yes, Mom was correct; there are starving children in Africa. There are also starving children in America too. It may seem overwhelming, but you can take action. Find your local food pantry to help hungry people in America; donate money to Feed the Future to help hungry people all over the world. Sign a petition to end hunger at ONE. If you don't do anything else, follow my mom's advice and clean your plates so you don't waste food.

There are many ways you can help end this cycle; you just have to care enough to find a way. Spread the F-word among your friends, family, coworkers. Knowledge is power; the more people who know, the better.

Love, Your Secret Admirer

2011-10-14T09:07:00.003-04:00

My amazing friend Amanda has decided to tackle the writing world and shared a story with me this morning. I am posting it on my blog as a guest blog; the reason being this is one of my favorite memories I have of our amazing adventures together. There are many, but only a couple of them can really be shared with the outside world.

Amanda and I have done things that we cannot speak of to other people and to most of you, this may seem like one of those things, but we're not embarrassed or ashamed. In fact, we are damn proud of this one!

So, please enjoy. And Man-Duh, thanks again for sharing. Without you, I would be the only one making an ass of myself, but when we're together, it's a combined effort and I love you for that.

LOVE, YOUR SECRET ADMIRER

Back in the day in my hometown, the place to work was Trig’s Food and Drug. I am not sure if this grocery store was a merciful employer, offering jobs to all who applied, or if it had a high turnover, but fresh meat was always in season. Whatever the case, a fair amount of my friends have at one time, worked at this particular grocery store.

Kara was my best friend for most of my high school life and we still remain close to this day. She too, worked at Trig’s. I think part of the reason we were so close is our disgusting senses of humor combined with the inescapable desire to top the other in grossness. If there was a line, we generally pole vaulted over it. Some of the things we've done are just too terrible to tell, but I will let you in on one particular evening that may or may not still haunt some of the people involved.

As a back story, Justin was one of our friends who happened to work the 3pm to 11pm shift at Trig’s. He drove an old red flatbed truck, which was an awesome opportunity for us to leave random things on the flatbed for him. Kara and I had taken advantage of this and started placing shopping carts, tree branches, potted plants, garbage cans, and whatever else we could find on the back of it for him to find when he left work each night. Occasionally he and his coworker Joel would retaliate and place items onto the hoods of our cars. Unfortunately for them, they were not as creative as we were.

One Saturday evening during the summer of 1999, I was over at Kara’s parents’ house (as usual). Justin and Joel were both working at Trig’s that evening, so we conspired to make an extra special offering to Justin’s flatbed truck. Kara and I devised a plan that we would make up a box marked “from your secret admirer” and when Justin opened it, something horrible would be waiting in it, just for him.

At first, we started with moldy hot dog buns we found in the breadbox in the kitchen. Then Kara's mom suggested she clean out the catbox before we left the house again when the idea suddenly came to us. Why throw away perfectly good cat shit when we had the perfect use for it? Cat shit hot dogs in moldy buns, complete with ketchup, mustard, and relish. After many fits of complete hysteria, we managed to perfect our hot dogs, packing the turds in the buns just right and stuffed them into a shoebox.

But we were still missing something. There was still a large amount of space to occupy the box, but how do you complement cat-shit hot dogs? The wheels in our heads turned for about 30 seconds when a light bulb went off – ROADKILL! We thought that a nice flattened squirrel or chipmunk would accompany the hot dogs perfectly. We thought for a few moments as to the last time we actually saw road kill. That’s the funny thing, when you are looking for it, it’s nowhere to be found. The idea seemed impossible but then Kara’s younger sister Katie chimed in.

“I think I saw a dead squirrel behind pizza hut today on my way home from school.”

In unison, Kara and I screamed, “YES!” and to the DY-Nasty (Kara's awesome car) we flew to retrieve our prize. Time seemed to stand still as we drove down Lincoln Street. After about eight minutes, we finally made it to Pizza Hut. As we rounded the corner, there it was in all of its glory – a week-old flattened squirrel.

We parked the car and fumbled to get out when it dawned on us. We have a box with cat-shit hot dogs in it, but we didn’t bring anything to pick up the road kill. SHIT! I am thoroughly disgusting, but I was not about to pick up a dead-ass squirrel with my bare hands. Neither was Kara.

We ran to the nearby bushes in search of some twigs to use as makeshift chopsticks. The closest thing we were able to find were some dried up flower stems that felt more like straw than sticks, but they would have to do. After some stem breakage and fumbling, we finally got the squirrel in a satisfactory position in the box. We put the cover back on and carefully placed the box into the trunk of the DY-Nasty and headed back for Casa de Kara.

By this time it was around 9:45pm, which gave us a little over an hour before Justin would get done with work. This would be just enough time to put the finishing touches on the box. We wrote a beautiful note and attached it to the box with a gorgeous bow made of toilet paper. Between Kara and me, my handwriting was more “adult-like” so I was the scribe.

After careful consideration, we realized the note needed to be simple, but meaningful so as to not draw suspicion. The note read:

To Justin

Love,

Your Secret Admirer

Hey, I didn't say we were smart or overly creative; I just said the note needed to be simple.

It was now 10:35pm and our gift box was complete. To avoid any suspicion, we decided to take my ride verses Kara's car. My sweet 1989 Brown Toyota Station Wagon. Nothing was classier than the Brown Beastly Bastard. We had to ride in style you know.

We nonchalantly pulled into Trig’s parking lot and headed toward Justin’s flatbed truck. We parked and exited the car in a calm manor, as to not attract any attention. Justin was working express that night, and if he was really looking, I think that he could have seen us mid-delivery. We carefully placed the expertly prepared box onto the truck’s hood, (driver’s side of course). We then quietly got back into the BBB and drove to the top of a small hill into the Rhinelander Post Office’s parking lot.

At approximately twenty yards away, we had a perfect view and were inconspicuous. It was the perfect spot to watch all of our handy work come to fruition. Minutes passed like hours as Kara and I sat and waited. It was silent, except for the occasional breathy laughter that was difficult to contain.

It was now 11 p.m. and the suspense was excruciating. We watched as people walked out of Trig’s express doors, hoping each time that it was Justin. At approximately 11:08, Justin and Joel both emerged together. We were laughing so hard we were both out of breath and on the verge of passing out. Kara and I both covered our mouths to stifle our laughter as best we could.

Justin and Joel casually strolled over to Justin’s truck, talking and laughing, but none the wiser of the gift or of our presence. As Justin made his way to the driver’s side of his truck, he noticed the box. He gave it a look which said, “Seriously?!” but he also appeared quite curious. He slowly untied the TP bow and removed the box top. A look of horror came across his face as he looked in the box, leaned back, and then leaned in close, disbelieving what he saw. Joel had a similar reaction as Justin backed away.

Suddenly, to our disbelief, Joel picked up the box and dropkicked it like a soccer ball, flinging our cat shit hot dog masterpieces and dead squirrel into the air. Turds and chunks of hot dog bun scattered across the pavement and the squirrel seemed to do a slow-motion cartwheel as it flew ten feet up.

In unison Kara and I both screamed, “SICK!”, and laughed so hard we almost threw up. I made the brown beastly bastard roar to life and as I peeled out of the parking lot, I saw Justin and Joel in my rearview mirror looking around, totally flabbergasted.

Although we were proud of our gift to Justin, we didn't want him to know it was us for fear of retaliation of something far more disgusting; he came from a family of hunters and it was nearing deer season, which gave him ample opportunity to do something equally as horrifying and disgusting to us.

To this day, we're not sure if Justin ever really knew it was us. He might have been suspicious because we were probably the only two females he knew who were capable of such atrocities.

I'd like to think he doesn't because if he had known, I can almost guarantee you I would have ended up with a deer head on the hood of my car and Kara would have had her DY-Nasty decorated with deer entrails.

That's the thing about secret admirers though; you never know who you're dealing with!

Written by Amanda Mangerson

KCommander In KChief

2011-10-07T13:38:00.007-04:00

Lately it seems as though there are more people announcing they are not running for president than people who are. In keeping with this trend, I too have an announcement to make.

I, KC Kelly, will not be running for US president in 2012.

There, there. Wipe your tears. It's a sad day for me too.

For those of you who were anxiously waiting for Sarah Palin, Chris Christie, and KC Kelly to square off and fight to be the next leaders of the free world--you will have to wait just a while longer. That would have been a good fight though. I would have seduced Christie by wearing some Italian meat, Lady GaGa style, and would have enticed Palin with a moose mating call and a lifetime supply of shotgun ammo. Then I would have forced them to make a decision; Italian meat and unlimited ammo, or a presidential candidacy? Let's face it; we all know what they would have chosen. But I digress.

Like Christie who is probably auditioning for a role on The Jersey Shore and Palin who is probably busy building igloos and hunting for moose, I too have good reasons for my decision. One of them being I am not a current or former governor, which seems to be a prerequisite for most presidential resumes . And I am also not yet 37 years of age. Thankfully.

There also might be a question of the legitimacy behind my birth certificate. I'm not sure either of my parents were willing to sign it when I was born, knowing what they had just created. I don't blame them; I don't take responsibility for myself either.

I also often humiliate myself in public. I've been known to strip off my clothing for no apparent reason (hey, Janet Jackson became more popular after her clothing mishap). I often drink too much and always say something I regret in the morning. Swear words fly out my mouth at the speed of sound and I'm about as attractive on camera as Courtney Love, who coincidentally also embarrasses herself in public and can swear up a storm.

If all that's not reason enough, I'm also not big on politics. Just the word "politician" can evoke a yawn from my mouth. I got kicked out of more poli sci classes for sleeping than I got kicked out of sex ed classes for laughing. I'd rather take a bubble bath with my brother than learn about our government. I just don't have the political bone in my body, so to speak.

Although I think most Americans are ready for a woman president (and no, Sarah Palin doesn't count; she's a gun slinging Republican, which basically qualifies her as a man), America is not ready for me. Our current president has done more for gay rights in this country than any other leader of the free world, but I'm not sure the free world is ready for a lesbian leader like me.

To be president, you need to be a leader and to be a leader you need to influence people. I can barely influence certain family members of mine to read my blog, let alone convince strangers to vote for me. I only have 116 followers on Twitter (so far; getting a cult following takes time and patience; people don't just drink the Kool-Aid without peer pressure) and I can't seem to charm and convince an agent to publish my book. A president needs influence!

Earlier this week I read that Obama's Klout score is 88, which is pretty impressive considering Lady GaGa has a score of 90. Then I got curious to see what my Klout score was and two days ago, my score was 25. Today, it has doubled to 54. I'm only 34 points less influential than Prez Obama!! 17 points less influential than that crazy bitch Michelle Bachmann. And I'm 25 points behind that Sarah Palin dude.

I actually have more in common with Prez Obama than I thought. We are both good with words, drink beer, and have amazing first ladies. I think more people are attracted to his wife than to his platform and politics. Michelle Obama (Shellie O as I like to call her) is our modern day Jackie O. Shellie O is one bad ass fashionista/childhood obesity crusader. And I have a hunch that she could swing over to our side in the right situation, if you know what I mean.

If I were to get elected, I think people would feel the same about Emily. For many reasons, but the most important is that she's a far better person than I am. She helps teach parenting education, helps foster kids, and walks puppies!! Like Shellie O, Emily has a killer smile and her laugh is as contagious as the swine flu. Even the Westboro Baptist Church whose members hate "fags" would find it difficult to not like Emily. It's like hating a puppy, ice cream, or flowers. It's impossible. The only things I contribute to society are paying taxes and...well, I think that's it.

This country does need change. We need a new leader. Someone who's not a homophobe (Michelle Bachmann), a massive douchebag (Newt Gingrich), or a Texan (Ron Paul). Voting for the token black guy didn't work out so well so it's obviously time we get a woman up in that joint! Even though Shellie O and Emily are badass first ladies who run the "house", I can't see them running the white house. Nor can I see me successfully running anything more than my shitty Saturn, and even my driving skills are debatable.

At this juncture in my life, I think I need to stay out of politics and I hope politicians continue to stay out of me.

Magma Money

2011-09-21T15:54:00.000-04:00

If you were a college student like me, then you were always short on cash.

At an early age, my parents told me if I wanted to go to college I would have to pay my own way, but I was going to college no matter what. That still doesn't make sense to me. They told me not going to college was not an option, yet I had to pay for it? Since I save money as quickly as this country gets out of debt, I had to apply for student loans and I get a full time job to supplement my income. Although my parents didn't pay tuition, they often paid for my books and sent me back from a home visit with a full tank of gas and a trunk full of groceries.

When the student loans, paychecks, and occasional help from my parents weren't enough to cover my bills and lifestyle, I had to look for alternate sources of income. I already had a full time job and a full class load. I barely had time to do homework, let alone party and have a social life. And let's be real; a college student's priorities aren't always homework and work.

Honestly, I needed the money to support my drinking habit and my parents, measly paychecks, or the leftover loan money could cover.

After I looked in the phone book (yes, this was before the days of smart phones) for local strip clubs to inquire about employment, I realized although I like to take off my clothes in front of some strangers, I couldn't see myself as a stripper. My boobs aren't that big, I am too short, and I knew I'd only look like a drag queen. Plus the first time some fat man put a dollar bill in my underwear with his grubby hands, I knew I would instantly become homicidal and end up in prison for shanking that pervert.

So stripping was not an option, although I do sometimes regret that KoCo Puff (my chosen stripper name) never got a chance to debut on stage.

I considered becoming an underground campus call girl, but then I realized there were many girls like me who were more than willing to sex up some horny college boys for nothing more than a few rum and cokes and sometimes for free, I knew I wouldn't get paid squat for squatting naked on someone's lap. If I couldn't even manage stripping, then certainly prostitution was out.

Then I thought about taking a road trip to Mexico and hooking up with some gangsters and offering them my spleen or appendix to sell on the black market. When one of my friends in the nursing program informed me that neither of those organs were vital organs, I realized that was a crapshoot. No one would pay for a spleen, but a chunk of liver or a kidney would make serious bank. So would a basket of my eggs. I was broke, not desperate. I needed my kidneys and all of my liver if I were to survive college. And I wasn't ready for a mini me to be roaming this planet without my knowledge. So the liver steak and eggs was officially off the table.

The only option I had left was to find a wealthy old man, seduce him, convince him to add me to his will, then fuck him so hard his heart exploded in his chest and I was left with all his riches. Then I remembered a) I lived in Wisconsin and the nearest extremely wealthy man was probably located in Chicago and b) the thought of old man balls gross me out and c) I was barely eighteen and I'm pretty sure in several states and possibly Puerto Rico, that was still considered statutory rape. So having a sugar daddy was out.

Short of selling my left kidney and my eggs, stripping, giving $10 hand jobs in the campus library, or finding a man as ugly and wealthy as Donald Trump, I was destined to be poor throughout my entire college career.

That is until my friend from the nursing program told me about plasma donation. We were at a house party one weekend and I had been complaining about spending $5 on a cup for beer at the door (years later, I realize how good of a deal that really was, considering I could drink a quarter barrel all on my own).

"You get paid how much?"

"$200 a month!"

I know it might not seem like much money to most of you, but you have to remember I was in college in a small town in Wisconsin, where beers, pizza, and girls were cheap.

$200 a month for me was striking it rich!

"But what do I have to do?" I asked her, slightly worried about the words "plasma" and "donation". First of all, I had no idea what plasma was. Was it similar to magma and did I even have magma in my body?

"You go to the Biolife center, they give you a physical, have you answer some questions, and then you sit with a needle in your arm for about an hour and get paid!"

"How much do you get paid?"

"Well, if you go twice a week, you get paid $50. If you only go once a week, it's $20. You can go twice a week, but not two days in a row," she explained.

"What's the catch?" I asked. "Getting $200 a month for donating magma seems a bit suspicious and there has to be some fine print."

"It's plasma, not magma, first of all. Second of all, there is no catch. Easy peasy!"

"Whatever. Where do I sign up? I'm not crazy about someone taking magma from my body, but I'm desperate."

"It's NOT magma! It's plasma!"

How was I to know that magma is a mixture of molten rock from a volcano and not something that could be found in a human body, or that plasma is the pale yellow liquid portion of your blood that can be easily replaced by the body, which is why you can sell it?

I said I was in college, not that I was smart.

The following week I made an appointment for a physical and was told I would be giving my first donation that day if I qualified. Apparently, to qualify you have to weigh at least 110 pounds (check), be in relatively good health (questionable), and not have HIV (check). Obviously, there are other qualifications but those are the ones that I have stuck in my mind.

When I walked into the Biolife Plasma Services building, I didn't know what to expect. I thought there would be private rooms and each room would come with a private nurse, but I was wrong. There was a waiting room, private booths for answering the questionnaire that was required at every visit, and a large room with at least 30 donation stations. I felt almost like they were aliens in a spaceship, giving our bodily fluids to the extra terrestrials, and I had willingly just jumped on-board their ship.

Every person was seated in a medical chair that looked more like a La-Z-Boy recliner and had needles in the fold in one of their arms. At the bottom of each person's machine there was a large, bulging bag of a yellowish liquid that was as dark and ominous as my urine after a night of drinking (I quickly learned if you drank enough water before donating, the entire process went more quickly and the plasma would come out clearer).

I passed the physical and the questionnaire and then I was called out to the floor. When I was first introduced to the term "phlebotomists", I was convinced my friend set me up and I was about to have my brain removed. Not that it would make much of a difference; hell, it might even be an improvement.

I asked for clarification.

"No, we don't remove brains. You're not getting a lobotomy; you're donating plasma. We only remove blood," my phlebotomist Sarah told me, putting on a blood pressure cuff and squeezing until my fingers turned blue.

"Like a vampire?"

"Sure," she said in the same tone of voice she would use on a small child or a special needs adult.

Sarah handed me a stress ball and told me squeeze it, as it keep blood pumping through my arm. I looked down at my arm and saw my vein was bulging and was threatening to poke through my arm.

"Wow. You have a fantastic vein in your right arm!" Sarah exclaimed with as much excitement as Dr. Frankenstein when he first created his monster.

I swear Sarah was on the verge of orgasm while she touched my vein. She motioned for her coworkers to come over and have a look.

"Wow!"

"Awesome!"

"Cool!"

Once she had an audience that stood two deep around my chair, she put the needle in the crook of my elbow and we all gasped in amazement at how fast the blood was flowing. I was more impressed that a machine could separate the plasma from my blood and return the blood back to my body! Even a vampire wasn't that talented, and if you've ever watched True Blood, you know how badass they really are!

At every visit, I was the test subject for interning phlebotomists. I was treated like a cadaver, being poked, prodded and used as a learning tool. Apparently, not everyone was as lucky in vein size as I was. The majority of people who donated plasma actually had small, jumpy veins in the arms. For those people, it was difficult to find the vein, hold it in place, and stick a needle inside and more often than not, resulted in large, yellow and purple bruises. My sister Kate also donated plasma with me and she often had difficulty and sometimes couldn't donate and wouldn't get paid, so I often shared my magma money with her.

Not for me though. I had a drug user vein in my right arm, and a needle hole to match it. At first I was proud of the small, crater like scar I had in my arm until the first time I went home after donating plasma around Thanksgiving and my parents suspected me of doing drugs.

"I swear I don't do drugs!" I said. "Well, except for smoking weed occasionally, but last time I checked you don't take that intravenously."

"Well then explain the hole in your arm then! And your bloodshot eyes! And your sudden weight loss! Last time you were here you were chunkier!"

"Thanks for the compliments. I'm hungover and my allergies are bad today, so that explains why I look like I have pink eye. I can't afford food, so that explains my shrinking waist. And since I can't afford alcohol I donate plasma so I can," I explained to them in a calm voice.

"What is plasma?" my dad asked, not bothering to look up from his crossword puzzle while his wife accused their daughter of being a druggie.

"I have no idea. All I know is that I have it, I give it away, and I get paid to do so."

"I'm glad you have your priorities, selling parts of your body for money to support your drinking habit. If you spent as much time studying as you do drinking, you could have gone to Northwestern! Or Harvard!" my mom lectured me, her voice dripping with disappointment.

"Harvard? Let's be real. And I'm a C and sometimes a B+ student! What more could you ask for? It's not like I sell my body for money; I just sell my bodily fluids for money," I defended myself.

After that holiday weekend back home, I started to feel guilty. Should I be selling plasma for selfish reasons like money? What about all those people who need blood too? Perhaps I should do something out of the kindness of my heart, not for the thickness of my wallet.

I don't know if it was the holiday season that inspired me, or my mother's disdain, but I decided to try this "being a good person" on and see how it made me look.

During a blood drive on campus two weeks before Christmas, I marched my jolly self into the giant RV and filled out the necessary paperwork to donate blood. I felt like I was taking a Scantron test for one of my classes with as many questions as they ask.

"What brought you in here today?" a person in a white coat asked me. I could only assume he was a phlebotomist, but what do I know?

"I wanted the free cookies and orange juice."

He laughed, but I was serious.

"Well, for whatever reason you came in, we certainly do appreciate it. You could save a life today, and just in time for Christmas!" he said excitedly.

"That's another reason I came in. Guilt, or as you may call it, holiday spirit."

He laughed again, but I was still serious.

Only twice before in my life had I donated blood, and that was back in high school just so I could get out of classes for the rest of the day. I didn't care about humanity or saving lives back then, just getting out of sociology was satisfying enough.

But as a college student and relatively shitty person who had just banked a grand from donating plasma, I was there donating blood strictly out of guilt.

About twenty minutes later after I had stepped foot on the blood mobile, I had made my pint sized donation, assured everyone I was fine, and stood up. The next thing I know I'm face down on the floor of the RV. Picture Cousin Eddie (Randy Quaid) from National Lampoon's Vegas Vacation, only a smidgeon more graceful.

The people in white coats had to pick me up off the ground, put me back in the chair, and hook me up to saline again. Instead of using smelling salt, they used a Snickerdoodle cookie to bring me back to consciousness. Which actually works by the way. Smelling almost any type of food will definitely arouse consciousness, or just simply arouse me.

After donating blood, I really did feel like I had made the right decision. My blood could soon be pumping through someone's heart and keeping them alive, and I felt like fucking Santa Claus! I was smitten with myself!

The feeling of selfless euphoria didn't last long. I went back to the Plasma center the next week to earn a few more bucks. Not for alcohol but for Christmas gifts. I'm not that selfish.

"Have you donated blood in the last 8 weeks?" they asked me during the mandatory questionnaire. This was a test; I could lie and get paid today. Or I could maintain my "good person" streak, be honest, and tell them the truth.

"No."

Sorry, I needed the money.

Besides the fact that I was dehydrated, I was also a pint of blood short. I passed out halfway through the process and the alarms on my machine blared louder than fire alarms in a public building. I could feel the color drain from my face, my blood sugar bottomed out, and I felt like death! I needed my blood back!

That plasma donation was the worst and last donation I would ever make. I was out of commission for two days, skipping classes and calling in sick to work. I probably needed dialysis or some sort of surgery to compensate for the fluid I had just drained from my body, but I figured orange juice and Ramen noodles would be enough for survival.

Both my arm and ego were bruised. I thought I could help save a life and make bank by donating my bodily fluids. I concluded that since trying to be a good person had made me physically ill, I should just stick to what I know, and what I know is that being a good person doesn't pay. Ever.

"I hate to say it, but I told you so. I knew donating your plasma was a bad idea, KC. It sounded dangerous from the beginning and I'm glad you're done with the whole thing. Now you can be done sticking needles in your arm like some drug addict," my mom said when I went home for Christmas that year.

"Well, those needles helped pay for that new digital camera you just opened," I said matter-of-factly. Mom's jaw dropped and she was speechless.

"That was bought with drug money?" my dad asked, not looking up from the crossword puzzle book I had bought for him.

"Sure," I answered him with the same tone of voice Sarah had used on me when I asked her if she was like a vampire. My father has never been a good listener and I know for a fact that he passed that valuable trait onto me. It wasn't worth explaining the difference between donating plasma and shooting heroin into my arm.

"You didn't have to sell your body to buy us a camera," Mom said. I love my parents dearly, but choosing the right words has never been their strong suit. They always mean well but sometimes the words that come out of their mouth have a completely different meaning than intended. This was one of those times. I also inherited this trait from them and am often misunderstood.

I was running out of ways to tell them that I was not selling my body nor was I doing drugs, simply because I had a needle scar in my arm. They were making it sound like I was a prostitute who makes money by lying on my back like a starfish for some guy in a dirty hotel room near the city dump.

"You're right Mom. I didn't have to but I wanted to sell my body to get you that camera."

My parents still use that Olympus digital camera I bought for them in 2002 by selling my body, according to my mom. According to my dad, I bought them a camera AND a DVD player with my "drug money". To me, it's "magma money".

Because my parents didn't (rather, couldn't afford to) pay my college tuition, I actually learned many valuable lessons from them. I learned the importance of money because I never had any and learned my limit as to how far I was willing to go to get it. I also appreciate my education and degree more because I paid for it (still am paying for it actually). It may not be a degree from Northwestern or Harvard, but it's a degree I paid for by working a legitimate job, using student loans, and selling my plasma.

After my last plasma donation, I went back to being broke and considered starting back at square one, but then I realized if my parents had so profoundly misunderstood my donating plasma, how would they react if they ever had to meet KoCo?

KC and Kate Plus 8

2011-09-16T15:46:00.004-04:00

Nothing makes two sisters in college happier than free beer on Ladies' Night at the bar or living next door to eight cute college boys.

Which is exactly where Kate and I found ourselves the summer before my senior year of college. She had just turned twenty-one and we had moved into a house with our friends Jes and Jen.

The day after we moved in, Kate and I noticed two U-Haul vans outside the house next door. Then we saw the reason for the moving vans. Standing there in the early light of a fall morning were eight boys wearing Lame-bercombie & Fitch shirts, cargo shorts, and aviator sunglasses. My heart went pitter-patter and my naughties started tingling.

Immediately, I called my boyfriend Mickey and broke up with him.

Joking. That would come a few weeks later.

Kate and I camped out in our driveway all day, chain smoking, drinking beer, and drooling while we watched the eight boys unload their cars, trucks, and the moving vans. Their muscles flexed and sweat rolled off their backs.

Apparently our roommates were too busy being pacifying and servicing their lame ass boyfriends to pay any attention to the hot pieces of ass that had moved in. I mean, I had a boyfriend too, but that didn't stop me from fantasizing. Kate and I were like two bitches in heat, worked up and crazy for some new meat.

This new meat was also the source of one of my more embarrassing sexual exploits to date.

Although I can't recall all of their names now, I do remember Mike, Erik, Russ, Dan, and Rex. Rex lived upstairs with three other boys, and the other four lived downstairs. Their house was set up like a duplex, so each apartment had separate entrances. There was a large deck on the front, decorated with a beer pong table and an extremely comfortable couch.

We preferred the company of the downstairs boys. Russ was a cool guy, but he had a weird haircut that resembled a mullet. His rich parents lived just outside of town in a huge house on Lake Winnebago, so it was nice to have that connection. And Dan was a weirdo. He preferred to play computer games rather than socialize and I'm fairly certain he's probably a serial killer by now. And Rex was a charming ladies man who had a big dong, snorted cocaine, and could probably even convince a nun to sleep with him.

Out of all eight boys, Mike and Erik were our favorite, even though they both wanted to have sex with us (preferably together; most guys we met in college had a Kelly sister fantasy). But to us they always just seemed like boys who had our backs. They looked out for us at the bars if some douche was hitting on us, and when some asshole stole all my CDs out of my car while I was at class, they went around the neighborhood knocking on doors and ruffling some feathers.

Despite how awesome they were, both Mike and Erik had the maturity of an eight-year old boy. Put them together and they were sixteen. An extremely horny sixteen. I told them time and again I was spoken for (unfortunately), but they still tried relentlessly to get me to sleep with them, or at the very least, give them head. They refused to believe I had a boyfriend though; they thought I was making it up because they couldn't believe I didn't want to blow them.

We wasted no time in welcoming these boys to the neighborhood, Kate especially. I'm fairly certain the first night we met them, she dry humped one of the boys until they were both chafed from rubbing their blue jeans together. I, on the other hand, simply flirted and kissed a couple of the boys on the cheek before I felt a small pang of guilt and then called Mickey after I stumbled all of fifty feet home. Not guilty enough to stop me from returning to their house after I made my obligatory call to the BF though.

"If you have a boyfriend, how come we never see him?" Mike asked one day.

"Trust me, I've invited him over here several times and he's never agreed to it," I said. Mickey was extremely jealous that I lived next door to eight boys, and he lived with three computer nerds. As much as I tried to convince Mickey they were just my friends and I had no interest in any of them sexually (not completely true), he wouldn't believe me. I'm not even sure I believed me.

"If you don't believe me, maybe you should accept one of their house party invites," I told Mickey after he argued that I spend too much time there and he was worried I'd break up with him. I told him he had nothing to worry about and if he would just come over and meet the guys, he would see that too.

The night he finally met the boys, he made a complete fool of himself. He drank far too much Smirnoff Ice, almost fell into the fire pit, and puked on himself in the backyard.

That in itself seems embarrassing, but this all happened after he proclaimed loudly during a conversation over a game of cards that he knew everything there was to know about Lord of the Rings and admitted he had only had sex with two girls in his whole life (me being the second) and I was the only one who had ever given him head.

FML.

No one was impressed, especially not me. I felt like I was the parent of a special needs child. The boys looked at Mickey as if he had ridden the short bus to the house party. And Mickey looked at us like he was the coolest cat on the block.

"Your boyfriend is a douche," Mike said as he stood next to me on the porch a few minutes later. I chain smoked while we watched Mickey fumble for the zipper on his jeans to take a piss in the bushes. Instead, he fell face first into the hedge that separated our yards. To this day, I have no idea how he got home.

"Tell me about it. I mean, he's usually like this, but I thought alcohol would make him more fun. Guess I was wrong," I replied. I was irate that Mickey had embarrassed me in front of my boy friends. He was so much fun when he was with his friends, probably because his friends were huge dorks like he was, but when he was with my friends (who have always been way cooler than his), he was jealous, territorial, and downright moronic, magnified a thousand times with just a few drops of alcohol.

Mickey was right about one thing though; I did break up with him but only because when he wasn't acting like a complete asshat, he was acting like a jealous girlfriend and I was fed up. So, I dumped Mickey the next morning after the party. He begged me not to, but I told him I didn't want to be a babysitter anymore. He acted more foolish at a party than Anna Nicole Smith, and we all know how that ended.

Once I was single again, I'll admit I started to look at a few of the boys differently. I contemplated taking Mike up on his many offers for him to show me his Polish sausage, but something always held me back. Every time I had a great opportunity to kiss him, he would get a tiny bit of white foam in the corners of his mouth. Unfortunate too because despite his being about fifty pounds overweight, he was a really cute and fun boy. I was attracted to him; I just couldn't get past the corners of his mouth. I could never figure out the source either; perhaps he had cotton chops from smoking too much weed, or on the other end of the spectrum, perhaps he just salivated excessively. Either way, nothing made my sheboner shrink more than seeing the frothy corners of his lips. Well, that and his pancake sized nipples. We would just have to remain friends.

About a month after classes had started, Mike and Erik informed me they were having another yard party before the weather got too cold. The party wasn't until later in the evening, but we were welcome to come over early Saturday if we wanted.

And that's exactly what we did. We had driven with the boys to Jordy's Liquor to stock up on kegs (which we never pitched in for), and headed to the grocery store to stock up on food, (which we also never paid for). Gracing the eight boys with our presence was present enough.

By four o'clock, I was a bit drunk. We had played a nice afternoon session of beer pong (the Kelly sisters won), and I had even done a keg stand as practice for later that night. And the party hadn't even started yet. Luckily I was on a thirty day drinking binge at that point, and I made a promise I would never get completely sober because if I did, I would have an epic hangover and would most likely fail all my classes and life itself. As long as I had some trace of alcohol in my system, I was good to go.

By seven o'clock, most of our friends had shown up and the house was packed with people. I had consumed my fair share of alcohol, so some things between the hours of seven and midnight are a little fuzzy. I do remember being in a kiddie pool filled with chocolate pudding, cutting lemons, dousing them with sugar and alcohol and then lighting the lemons and shot glasses on fire before downing them, and taking off my top several times throughout the night. But that seemed to happen at every party, so I can't really be sure.

By 4 o'clock the following morning, the party had ended. Everyone had either walked back to their respective college residences or had passed out in the house. I was looking around the house for Kate so we could walk across the yard back to our house for the night when I caught her coming out of the bathroom.

"Are you ready to go home?" I asked her, yawning. My buzz had definitely worn off and I needed a few hours of sleep before I woke up to the smell of my morning mimosa.

"Um, I'm actually going to spend the night with Rex upstairs," she informed me. I was both happy and nervous for her at the same time. Rex was a nice guy, but he changed vaginas more often than he changed boxers.

"Make sure he wears a condom and you soak in bleach afterwards. Who knows how many human holes he's pocked," I half-joked. Kate laughed and assured me she would make him wrap it up.

"Also, if you see white powder anywhere, it is not powdered sugar. And don't get roofied," I said to her. Rex used drugs recreationally and was usually polite enough to hide his stash, but anything can happen at a party.

"Noted."

I said goodnight to her and walked outside onto the porch. I was so exhausted I could almost hear my bed (read: futon) calling my name.

"Hey! Where you goin'?" I heard someone ask me, and I almost pissed myself.

"Holy shit Erik! I didn't know you were sitting out here," I said, taking a seat next to him on the couch. I was exhausted so I put my legs in his lap and stretched out on the couch.

Erik handed me his pipe and I accepted. It had been a while since I had gotten high, and since one buzz was wearing off, why not start another?

"I was going to go home, but I guess not," I giggled, exhaling.

"You can sleep in my room if you want," he offered. I handed him the pipe, and contemplated his offer. I had never considered Erik as a sexual acquisition before. He was tall, had just buzzed his hair short, and had a smile that could rival Brad Pitt. I guess he was pretty cute. I could see myself messing around with him, but I wasn't sure I wanted him to audition for a recurring roll in my vagina just yet.

"And sleep where? On the couch next to your serial killer roommate who passed out there not ten feet from his room? Or how about upstairs where I could hear my sister getting Rexed," I joked.

"She's upstairs with Rex?" he asked, laughing.

"Yup."

"Right on."

Spoken like true potheads.

We sat in silence for a few more minutes before I lit another cigarette. No matter how tired I was I was actually pretty content.

"We could sleep out here Erik. It's gorgeous out here," I said, sitting up and cuddling him for warmth. The temperature was cool enough to be fall, but warm enough to still be summer.

"We could...or, we could go into my room, stay high, and watch Salute Your Shorts," Erik suggested.

My world came to a screeching halt. He wanted to take me into his bedroom, smoke weed, and watch Salute Your mother freakin' Shorts?

Hellz to the yes!

Rewind about ten years and picture me as an awkward tomboy again, watching Snick on Nickelodeon on Saturday nights. One of my favorite shows, besides The Adventures of Pete & Pete was Salute Your Shorts. For those of you not familiar with the show, it's a comedy that takes place at a summer camp called Camp Anawanna. A common prank the campers play on each other is stealing a boy's boxer shorts and raising them up a flagpole. The show also had an eclectic variety of characters, including a morbidly obese kid called Donkeylips.

I loved the show because I never went to summer camp, and knew there was no chance I would, so I lived vicariously through the campers on screen. Although the show was only on for two seasons, I feel that it's one of the greatest shows ever produced.

"You had me at salute."

What made this one of my more embarrassing sexcapades wasn't that Erik and I got frisky with each other on the porch before we went inside and the scene we made could have been considered soft porn. It wasn't even that I had crawled into Erik's bed when his bedroom smelled like a prison and looked as if a tornado had struck a locker room, tossing clothes, underwear, and paper everywhere. It wasn't even that the sun had already come up and I had been awake for twenty-four hours and sober from alcohol for about two hours.

It was that I gave him a hand job while he finger banged me at the same time we both watched Donkeylips try to win a wrestling tournament so he could get a free lobster dinner in the eighth episode of the first season.

During the walk of shame back home with Kate the next morning, we exchanged words about our sexcapades with the boys next door.

"I got finger banged last night," I said to Kate.

"Me too," she replied.

"I gave a Erik a hand job while watching Salute Your Shorts."

"I gave Rex a blow job while he watched Sportscenter."

"We're fucking idiots."

"Wait, Erik has Salute Your Shorts on DVD?"

"Yup."

"Awesome."

I broke three personal rules that night.

#1: No hand jobs after the age of 18. I was an adult now, and adults give head, have sex, or take it in the arse.

#2: No finger banging after the age of 18. See above.

#3: Never sober up. Not completely anyway.

Because I had done all three in one night, I was officially mortified and ashamed of myself. The only consolation was that Erik had splooged his shorts while watching Salute Your Shorts, and nothing is more embarrassing than that.

Morning Thunder

2011-08-23T14:45:00.000-04:00

I've come to the conclusion that while I sleep at night, my body fills up slowly with air, my sides expanding and threatening to split, similar to pumping up an air mattress and when I slowly come out of dreamy sleep in the morning I'm ready to burst! And then I hear a noise in the distance. Morning thunder. A loud cacophony of pops, bangs, cracks, squeals, and followed up by a hot breeze under the covers.

Morning thunder is ~~not~~ a laughing matter. Some people find it embarrassing, but I'm quite proud of the noises my body is capable of making. It's exciting, exhilarating, and most of all, it feels fantastic. It can be unpredictable, like a tornado; other times, it can be as common as morning breath. Sometimes the two even smell the same.

Usually my body will give me subtle hints that it's ready to explode. First there's gurgling in the depths of my belly, followed up by extreme pressure near the back door. Then I feel the air being forced out of my lungs as I hold my breath, and I let go. No regrets. It's out of my control once the air leaves my body and I cannot be held responsible for any negative consequences.

The only person who doesn't enjoy my morning thunder as much as I do is Emily. Most mornings she can sleep right through it, but there have been times when my fart storms have been more reliable than her alarm clock in ensuring she get out of bed on time for work. There have been times when my farts are as loud as air horns; her sleep is startled and I feel her practically jump out of her skin. Like I said, I'm not responsible for the hot air that goes in my body or the manner in which it comes out.

One particular morning, after a night of heavy drinking, I awoke to my cat meowing in my face. Once my eyes open, my body takes that as a sign to begin releasing the gas and hot air reserves it's been holding hostage overnight. I don't even have time to glance at a clock or rub my eyes before the three phases of morning thunder start:

Phase one: hot air release. Phhfft. Pfffttt. Phllllllllbbbbbbbbbb.

Phase two: symphony of loud noises: Blaaattt! Brraaapp! Phlooot!

Phase three: me stifling my laughter: Huhhhuhhuhhuh. Hehehehe.

That morning was no different. But once I had completed all three phases, I realized it wasn't over. Apparently there were multiple storms on the horizon and my internal meteorologist had not warned me. The night before, I had poured beer, tequila, and shoved authentic Mexican food down the hatch. The perfect recipe for a thunderous fart storm. Usually I can control the decibels of certain farts simply by lying on my back and making sure my butt is pressed firmly into the mattress so there is no noise, similar to a silencer on a gun.

But not that morning. Nothing could muffle these earsplitting claps of fart thunder. Some were loud, some were quieter, almost like a massive earthquake and then a few aftershocks. After a break in the clouds, I peeked over at Emily, who appeared to be sound asleep. Then another bout of farts loudly escaped my body and I again stole a glance in Emily's direction. No movement, which was surprising because even my cat had hissed in anger and jumped off the bed from being startled too many times by unexpected loud ass noises.

The logical thing to do would have been to go into the bathroom or in the living room and release my gas so I wouldn't wake Emily up, but it was early in the morning and the sun wasn't even up. I was far too lazy to get up and take my fart storm elsewhere.

And then the fart finale came. It was louder than any Fourth of July fireworks celebration, motorcycle clan, and thunderstorm I had ever heard in my entire life. In hindsight, I probably should have worn earplugs to protect my eardrums from any damage. The finale lasted no longer than fifteen seconds, and when it was over, I looked around to make certain a Molotov cocktail or a Chinese firecracker had not been lit in my bedroom.

As scared as I was to look over at Emily for fear that she would be dead from the loud noises and deadly poison hovering over our bed like smog, I needed to make sure she was still alive. I could not see any signs of breathing and since she was facing the other way, I couldn't tell if her eyes were open or not. Now what do I do? Peer over her shoulder like a creeper and risk her rolling over and seeing me hovering over her? Get out of bed and walk around to the other side? Or just wait for a sign of life?

I didn't have to wait long for proof that she was still alive.

"Goddamnit! Go take a fucking crap or something!" Emily yelled loudly, her breath leaving trails through the fart clouds, her voice reverberating off the walls. I lay there, shell-shocked. Her sudden yelling had startled me almost as badly as I had startled the cat with my tooting. I feared for my life. I was quiet for a minute or two and thought if I pretended to be asleep, she wouldn't be as mad. I mean, you can't blame the sleeping, can you?

"Morning honey," I said, feigning innocence and trying to adjust the pitch in my voice to the sleepiest tone I could muster. Emily was no fool; she knew I was wide awake when I unleashed the fury of fart thunder just moments before.

"You are unFUCKINGbelievable," she yelled angrily, pulling the covers over her head. Wow. It was a rare occasion that she dropped the F-bomb, and by F-bomb I don't mean anything remotely related to the Hiroshima style fart bombs I just dropped. She must be really pissed! I was about to tell her that giving herself a Dutch oven with my flammable gas under our covers wasn't such a good idea, but changed my mind. If she wanted to breathe in recycled fart air and suffocate, go right ahead. But Emily is no fool. She didn't last longer than a few seconds before she surfaced for fresh air and rolled over to face me.

I tried to be as cute and cuddly as possible after conducting a fart symphony so she wouldn't stay mad at me for waking/scaring/poisoning her. But there's nothing cute about a twenty-something year old woman who farts louder, longer, and more often than your average fraternity boy or grumpy old man.

"You sleep okay?" I whispered, daring to gently touch her arm.

"Yes, I slept fine until you decided to shit your pants and wake me up with your goddamn farting! Seriously, I thought someone had broken in the house and had shot off a million firecrackers in our bedroom so we would be deaf and scared before they raped and killed us! But no, it wasn't a home invasion! It was just you and your goddamn loud farting!" she screamed at me.

OH boy. I had done it now. Tropical Fart Storm KC had ravaged our bedroom and the damage had been great. Paint had peeled, sheets had been polluted with poisonous gas, and Emily had nearly suffered a massive coronary. Since that morning, I have made an effort to be extremely careful about my morning thunder, and the mattress certainly takes a brutal beating every single morning. But I'd rather the mattress take the beating because I'm confident the next time I wake up Emily with another fart storm, I will get punched in the face and probably the ovaries as well to guarantee I will never spawn a loud tooting mini-me.

Emily has suggested I take Beano, go see a gastroenterologist, or go to etiquette school to learn some manners, but I'm only doing what nature intended! I'm releasing gas! It's not very often she finds farting amusing, probably because she is a mature adult. If she passes gas, she is so polite that she will say excuse me every single time! Where's the fun and humor in that?

I know I'm not the only adult out there who has earsplitting and deafening morning thunder, nor am I the only grown adult who finds farting to be comical and entertaining. I agree it can be gross and mildly inappropriate at times, especially when you end up walking behind a middle-aged obese woman at Walgreen's who can't stop farting, but for the most part it's often laugh worthy. I can't help it but laugh; no matter what you say or how old I am, nothing will convince me that farting is not funny.

There's no one in this world who finds farting funnier than I do than my amazing (and often gassy) friend Amanda. It is she who sent me a book called "Farts: A Spotter's Guide", just a few months ago, a book that identifies the habitat, range, voice, and "field marks" of ten common farts, along with hilarious illustrations. There is also an attached battery powered fart machine that reproduces each emanation in accurate sound, so while you read, you have a hands on learning tool. Not only is this book extremely educational, but it's also a great conversation piece. When I have friends over, that fart book gets a workout!

Amanda is a girl who not only cackles every time she toots, but she also has been known to light her farts on fire (please do ~~not~~ try this at home). Sometimes she feels the need to call me and leave me a fartmail if I don't answer, but if I do answer, it's rare that she (and not her ass) says hello. Thankfully I have a friend like Amanda, someone who can appreciate my nose wrinkling, breath-holding, ass-exploding fart humor. Without her, I'd look like the only idiot who laughs at farts, so I'm glad there are two of us.

I'm not at all ashamed of farting. Everyone in my life has gotten used to it. They have all accepted the fact that I laugh every single time I fart, without fail. In fact, when my friends and even some family members see books about bodily functions, my name instantly comes to mind. I guess you could say I have left my skidmark on many people's lives. For my last birthday, my own father got me a "Poo Log" to keep by the toilet. I've used it twice; then Emily removed it from the toilet handle and hid it somewhere I'm probably too short to reach. She has no funny bone for toilet humor.

For my your entertainment and education, I have compiled a list of my top ten favorite farts, or TTFF. The list is in no particular order and is not all-inclusive. Before you get grossed out or embarrassed, let me remind you that we all fart. Every single one of us. So stop denying it already! After all, a fart is just a turd honking for the right of way, so be polite and let him out!

Top Ten Favorite Farts (TTFF)

1. Bubbler: The only fart you can see!

Sound: silent but bubbly

Culprits: Olympic swimmers, children, senior citizens

Habitat: pools, lakes, hot tubs

2. Front Traveler (alias: Queef) The fart that sneaks out the front door!

Sound: sputtering, similar to car running out of gas

Culprits: fat girls, mothers, models, bankers

Habitat: church pews, PTA meetings, doctor offices, Lane Bryant

3. Chinese Firecracker: The fart that will give you a start!

Sound: a series of loud pops, bangs, crackles, and pops

Culprits: Prisoners, grandfathers, the Irish

Habitat: fraternity houses, jails, holiday cookouts

4. Quacking Duck: The fart that quacks back!

Sound: clucking chicken; fowl mating call

Culprits: politicians, housemates, lesbians

Habitat: showers, bathtubs, dormitory hallways

5. Popcorn Fart: The fart that is hot enough to pop corn!

Sound: rapid firing of hot, small farts, like the putter of a moped engine

Culprits: priests, the deaf, athletes, valedictorians

Habitat: churches, theme parks, graduation ceremonies

6. Flutterblast: The fart you can almost ride on!

Sound: like a boat motor, partially submerged in water

Culprits: teenagers, creepy uncles, gym teachers

Habitat: hot showers, stairwells, locker rooms, sports arenas

7. Smog: The fart that leaves a hole in the ozone layer!

Sound: silent (but deadly); often leaves a thick blanket of poisonous gas

Culprits: lawyers, dogs, TV show hosts, coroners

Habitats: first dates, courthouses, funeral homes, elevators, live TV

8. Shart: The "gamble and lose" fart!

Sound: similar to air pockets popping in a mudslide

Culprits: Boy Scouts, military personnel, AARP members

Habitats: the desert, fast food restaurants, nursing homes, crime scenes

9. One Cheek Squeak Sneak: The sneakiest and squeakiest of all farts!

Sound: like a warm delicate breeze; often with a high-pitched squeak

Culprits: exam proctors, students, the President, preachers

Habitats: high schools, NYSE, the Oval Office, boardrooms, in-law's house

10. Jail Break: Even farts make a break for it after hours of being locked up!

Sound: variety of noises; often unpredictable

Culprits: retail clerks, garbage men, golfers, motivational speakers

Habitats: break rooms, hotel lobbies, bachelor pads

An Airborne Toxic Event

2011-08-17T15:43:00.006-04:00

There's nothing in this world I hate more than flying. I'm not scared of being over 30,000 feet in the air, losing an engine and crashing into the ground at 800 MPH. I'm not scared of an air traffic controller falling asleep or a pilot dying mid-flight. I hate flying because airplanes are cesspools for germs, illness, and diseases.

Recycled air ÷ limited space x 15 infected passengers + multiple hours=an Airborne Toxic Event. A toxic event to the third power: a microbiologist's wet dream, a fat paycheck for the medical industry, and days/weeks of misery for innocent victims.

It never fails, every time Emily and I get on an airplane, within a few days we have contracted some sort of illness. An upper respiratory infection, a sore throat/flu combo, or my personal favorite, the violent stomach flu. We usually try to choose seats in the two-seat row so we have minimal contact with other people, but sometimes we have to sit in the three-seat row. When that happens, we end up sitting next to a person who coughs without covering his mouth, sneezes in our direction, or uses the Sky Mall magazine as a tissue. Or all of the above.

What the hell is wrong with these people? Have they never watched Discovery Health? Some of the programs featured on that channel have traumatized me for life. And I wonder, have they never been sick themselves? Where were their mothers when they were young, telling them to always cover their mouth? I swear serial killers have better manners and hygiene than 99% of people who travel on airplanes.

Just last Christmas, we flew home to Wisconsin and within a few short days, Emily ended up being violently ill with the flu. New Years Day when the Wisconsin Badgers were playing in the Rose Bowl, halfway through the game I had the chills, a fever, and ended up violently ill with the stomach flu. It was so bad I could have been the poster girl for Pepto Bismol: Nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, and diarrhea! To hell with raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, these flu symptoms are a just few of my favorite things!

What upset me even more was that those invasive asshole germs waited to attack me the night before we had to get back on a plane and fly home to Florida!!! So, not only did I contract germs from someone on the airplane, but now I had to drag my deathly ill self aboard a plane and hope I didn't infect anyone else with my recycled germs! Why couldn't anyone else be as considerate as me when sick? I always cover my mouth when I cough, sneez into my armpit to avoid backsplash, and wash my hands regularly, ESPECIALLY when I am a walking petri dish!

This might surprise you, but I haven't always been germaphobic. Touching door handles then eating finger foods never bothered me. Shaking people's hands then rubbing my eyes wouldn't make me bat an eyelash. There were even times I would pee at home and not wash my hands before I resumed normal activity. They're only my germs, how harmful could they really be?

My knowledge of germs and airborne diseases expanded about ten years ago when I got a job working for a company called Clickity Clack, a non-profit company that provided services to the developmentally disabled population by opening group homes in my college town, as well as several nearby cities. The house I worked in was occupied by six older gentlemen who were relatively independent. There was no adult diaper changing or colostomy bags, just mild temper tantrums, bickering, and countless hours of watching LHOTP (Little House on the Prairie).

As part of the job description, all direct care providers were required to take twelve hours of continuing education a year; we were legally required to take the OSHA class every single year, while some of the other classes were subject to change. This OSHA class focused heavily on sanitation and hygiene. Specifically hygiene, since we worked with a population with compromised immune systems. In this training, we would learn how to wash our hands, safely handle and cook foods, and general overall safety in the workplace. When the instructor informed us we would be learning how to properly wash our hands, I was the only person in class who laughed out loud. Who doesn't know how to wash their hands? But when I realized that most people actually don't, I started to wonder. How many germs are really out there, waiting to be transferred to every orifice of my body and attack my immune system like the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor?

Turns out, about fifty million bastard bacteria per square inch of my body, that's how many. The instructor shared this fun fact with us as she began the hand washing demonstration. We were instructed to wash our hands as thoroughly as we normally would, then rub this gel like substance on our hands and put it under a black light. Afterwards, she would teach us how to correctly wash our hands, since most of us clearly didn't know the proper way. I always thought I was a decent hand washer, but once I put my hands under the black light, my cuticles lit up brighter than the Griswold's house in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Was I really covered in germs from head to toe? The thought made me feel dirtier than a twenty-dollar hooker.

Ever since the discovery that every human body is literally crawling and infested with multiple species of bacteria combined with the fact that I got more illnesses in one month working in the group home than I had my entire life, I took a stand against germs. I became the hand washing Nazi for both the residents and staff at the group home. I was tired of the residents sharing illness and I myself would get a sinus/ear/upper respiratory infection every other week! My nose was so red, chapped, and dry with white flaky skin that a fellow staff member had asked me if I was snorting drugs. I wish!

But it wasn't until I met someone who had absolutely no sense of personal hygiene whatsoever that I became a diehard germaphobe. A former supervisor of mine, a 400 pound (NOT an exaggeration; if anything, I spared her a few pounds) woman named Terry, who bathed as often as warthogs in the wild and whose breathe smelled of sour milk. She was easily the dirtiest person I have ever had the displeasure of meeting (and that says a lot because I see a lot of filthy bums in Florida). Not only were here fingers stained yellow from cigarettes and yesterday's food, she smelled of a gangrenous foot that had been dipped in bacon grease and put out in the sun for three days.

Working with her was always a challenge. Despite her loud demeanor and complete lack of common sense, she had no regard for the health and safety of the people around her. Often times she would use the bathroom then head into the kitchen to start dinner for the residents or distribute medication with visible feces on her hands. Her hair was oilier than the track at Talladega Superspeedway and there was visible dirt in the many Shar Pei style folds of her arms. Her teeth probably hadn't been brushed since the Vietnam War ended, and I swear I once saw an outline of a pork chop stuffed in her back fat.

One time she even left a crumpled pile of skid marked underwear (underwear I actually mistook for a circus tent) and stretch pants in a corner in our office. When I approached her and asked why she would leave excrement stained clothing at work, she said she had Taco Bell the day before, which led to an unexpected burrito supreme blowout. Everyone has accidents; I get it. I'm no stranger to sharting but seriously? What forty-year-old woman shits her pants and leaves the evidence crumpled in a corner like a toddler fresh out of Pull-ups?

Even I wouldn't have done that as a kid, and certainly not as an adult. In fact, one time when I was about eight years old, my parents had grounded me to my room for the entire day. It was on an extremely beautiful summer day, so that punishment was harsh. I was not to come out under any circumstances unless they beckoned me. So, I obliged and kept myself occupied by reading books in my bedroom.

But a few hours later I could feel my daily afternoon poop forming. I couldn't leave my room and I was afraid to ask to use the bathroom, for fear my parents would deny my parole hearing later that day. So I used my common sense. I reached under the bed, pulled out an ice cream bucket I used for LEGOS, emptied it on the floor, and pooped in that bucket. I put the lid back on the bucket, tucked it safely under my bed so no one would see it, and resumed reading.

But even I wouldn't just leave that bucket in a corner for someone else to discover, like she had left her stained clothing for someone else to pick up! When I was ungrounded that evening, I took that bucket to the bathroom when everyone was asleep and I flushed its contents down the toilet. It's common sense to dispose of evidence! I couldn't believe I, an eight year old, had more common sense and respect for those around me to clean up my own mess than Terry, a forty-year-old woman/supervisor/mother (yes, she is a mother; some poor unfortunate soul impregnated her). Even when the mentally disabled residents who lived at that group home had bodily fluid accidents, they had enough common sense to throw their soiled clothes in the wash, hamper, or even in the garbage. What was wrong with this woman?

Not only was this woman revolting, she was completely unprofessional as well. Shocking, I know. As a supervisor, she believed it was perfectly acceptable to wear sweatshirts with half of yesterday's lunch stained and dribbled down the front for a meeting with the residents' social worker. When I would catch her wearing the same, dirty and unwashed outfit multiple days in a row, I would ask her what she made for dinner the night before and according to the stains on her shirt, she was correct. The last time I saw someone wear an inside out sweatshirt was 1996 back when that fuzzy sweatshirt look was popular. And even then it was barely popular. So for a fully-grown woman to turn her clothes inside out to hid the dirt and food stains was far beyond my grasp of understanding.

Every time I worked with her, I was afraid to get too close for fear I would catch influenza, malaria, or typhoid fever. At times, she made me wish I had Trichotillomania just so her body lice wouldn't be tempted to abandon ship and make their home on my head. I worked with her every single day and I'm still amazed I made it out alive and relatively healthy. What was even more disgusting than her body odor and poor hygiene was the fact that she was my supervisor, yet I had to enforce OSHA hygiene standards while at work?

To keep the residents, the staff, and myself safe, I knew I had to be vigilant about germs, especially with Terry working there on a daily basis. The rest of the staff always kept the house clean, the residents were clean, and we all strictly followed OSHA rules. But not Terry. Since everyone was afraid to confront her about her body odor and hygiene, the task of keeping her toxins away from everyone else often fell on me. Being an extremely offensive and blunt person, I carried the burden of dealing with the elephant in the room (pun intended).

"Terry, what's that smeared on your hand? Please tell me that's chocolate and not poop?"

Terry does a sniff check of her fat sausage fingers, crinkles her nose, and wipes her hands on her stained sweatshirt. I proceed to hold back bile that coming up my throat.

"Terry, please tell me you washed your hands after spending forty minutes in the restroom and flushing the toilet three times!"

"Of course I did," Terry replies.

"I didn't hear any water," I say and she rolls her eyes. I proceed to kick her out of the kitchen and tell her that I will be preparing dinner for the residents.

"Terry, are you going to wash your hands after assisting that resident with his bowel movement?"

"Why? It's not like I touched his butt or anything," she says, thinking nothing of coming into contact with someone else's BM. I proceed to file a complaint with her direct supervisor.

I had had enough. It was now time for a ~~serious~~ empty threat.

"Terry, OSHA called and they demand you to wear gloves while you make food, distribute meds, do personal cares, chores, and if at all possible, to just wear a Hazmat suit every single day to work for precautionary purposes."

"HAHAHAHAHA," she laughs, thinking I'm actually joking. If OSHA knew how many violations Terry had actually committed in her three-year tenure as supervisor of a group home, she probably would have been arrested for terrorism by use of deadly germs.

I was often tempted to contact the CDC or the nearest BioChem lab and invite them to come take a sample of her skin, hair, and stool because I was that convinced they would have discovered a couple new species of deadly bacteria. Scientists around the world would have thanked me for introducing them to hundreds of new species and I probably could have won a Nobel Peace Prize.

Instead, what I gained from working with Terry was more rewarding than any prize. I had acquired germaphobia. Thanks to her, I hate airplanes because there are far too many people, too many germs, and not enough ways to protect my mucous membranes from an invasion. Thanks to her, I cringe when I see someone use the toilet and not wash his hands. I start to sweat when I see people sneeze into their hands before they touch the keys on the ATM. And when I see the UPS man hand me his pen and pad and ask for my signature, I immediately douse my hands in hand sanitizer after I sign for my package. And don't even get me started on eating fruit that hasn't been washed.

Luckily, Terry got fired (three years too late and surprisingly, not for lack of hygiene but for sharing nudie pictures of her "boyfriend" with several staff members; who in their right and sound mind would agree to be intimate with this ogre, I have no idea, but Godspeed dude). Clickity Clack ignored my pleas for action and countless complaints and grievances against that she be terminated because OSHA was practically ready to quarantine her. But because a new staff member was "offended" at seeing these pictures, they had no qualms with firing her immediately? What sense did that make?
Either way, she was gone for good but the memories are etched in my brain forever. I'm convinced most of my illnesses came from the germs on her extra large body, which to this day still haunts me. Not because she was shaped like an upside down bowling pin, but because she smelled of rancid belly button and rotten meat, and thought that hygiene was the name of a combo plate at a Chinese restaurant. Because the words soap, shampoo, and detergent were not in her vocabulary. And because she was a woman who belonged in a zoo or a research lab, not as a supervisor in a group home and certainly not as a member of society.

It's been years since I've seen Terry and quit my group home job, so my germaphobia has calmed down a bit. I still wash my hands religiously after using the restroom and before and after I eat. I still carry hand sanitizer for the times I am out in public and am forced to touch door handles, pens, shake hands with people, or touch anything in a public restroom, including the soap dispenser. Even after I wash my hands in a public restroom, I keep my paper towel handy so I can open the door without exposing myself to more germs.

It might sound psycho to you, but I simply do not want other people's germs and bacteria anywhere near me, especially when uninvited. And that's precisely what happens every time I'm on an airplane. The person behind me could sneeze and send a snot rocket straight into the back of my head, or cough so hard a phlegm wad would shoot towards me at the speed of a bullet in The Matrix. If only I could slow down time and deject the snot bullets like Neo, I would never get sick again!

Every time I step onto an airplane, I feel fine and healthy. But no sooner do I make it past the cockpit that I hear the symphony of open mouthed coughers up front, hands-free sneezers and slack jawed heavy breathing sleepers in the middle, followed up by chronic nose blowers and lepers towards the back. Mozart couldn't have written a more beautiful masterpiece himself. Short of wearing a bird flu mask, I do my best to not let any germs invade my privacy or my orifices.

Although I know I have it under control and I'm just exercising caution to avoid airborne illness, Emily still thinks my germaphobia is out of hand and that I use hand sanitizer far too often. She thinks I'm crazy that I spread it like lotion all over my hands, wrists, and halfway up to my elbows, almost like I'm sanitizing myself to go elbows deep and assist a cow giving birth. Maybe she's right, maybe I do use it too often and there's a high chance my hands might actually be addicted to it. But I can't help it. It's not my fault that money, doorknobs, community writing utensils, and humans are so filthy.

It may seem like I have minor OCD tendencies, but my germaphobia is just a simple fear of/general disgust for getting someone else's poop particles, phlegm chunks, and dirty saliva spittle in my body and then getting an illness because of it, especially an airplane illness. Sorry, I hate being sick, and I'm sure you do too. Sore throat, swollen sinuses, and sneezing for days straight is not my idea of fun. And to think, it could have all been avoided had you sickos and lepers just covered your mouth or washed your hands once in a while? Or at least had the decency to put your germs in a carry on and stow it accordingly?

Believe it or not, I'm really not one of those psycho germaphobes who obsessively cleans her house and scrubs her skin raw for hours in a scalding hot shower. I'm actually an extremely touchy feely person. I love to hug and kiss and punch and kick as much as the next person, but at least I know when I share my skin or appendages with someone else, the chance they will get infected from germs on my body is extremely low.

So what I don't want to keep the toothbrush holder on the left side of the sink, coincidentally the side of the sink that's closest to the toilet? You know when you flush, millions of bacteria fly out of the bowl and land wherever the hell they want? I'd rather not brush my teeth with a poop stick. So what I'd rather wave or hug you than shake your hand? I don't know on whom or what that hand has been, and I'm afraid if I find out, my body would spontaneously combust just to spare me from getting infected.

All this time I've been diligently working at keeping myself germ and illness free, and people have teased me relentlessly. Well, it wasn't so funny when you had a minor case of the swine flu now was it? Now airborne illness has your attention? Now you're worried about germs? Now you wash your hands and watch where you sneeze? Puh-lease.

Here's a little germ for thought: next time you get use a public restroom and don't wash your hands, just remember you might as well have used your own human waste as finger paint and decorated the entire bathroom. Next time you sneeze directly into your hand and shake hands with someone moments later, you might as well have sneezed directly into their mouth.

And next time you're on an airplane and cough without covering your mouth, you might as well have reached over and given your neighbor a sloppy, germful kiss. With tongue.

But please refrain, because that neighbor will probably be me.

Home Run

2011-08-16T13:41:00.007-04:00

The first time I got to first base, I was in fourth grade. His name was Kurt and he was obsessed with me. Kurt followed me around school and the playground, just waiting for opportunities to strike. He acted like a puppy that obnoxiously attacks its owner with slobbery kisses every chance he gets.

One day, he took four chances to kiss me and was successful in every single one. Outside before school started, he snuck up on me and planted a wet kiss on my cheek, a kiss that froze on my face because it was -25° below that day. I kicked him and told him he was stupid. He told me he loved me.

The second chance was at lunch while we were in line waiting for our food trays. Another wet kiss on the cheek almost made me lose my appetite. I told him he made me want to throw up and he said he still loved me.

The third kiss on the cheek was during a special assembly we had at the high school that day. The lights were off and we were watching a school play, so the setting was sort of romantic I guess. I told him to be quiet and he asked me to marry him.

And the fourth chance was on the bus ride back to school. He somehow charmed me into sitting next to him in the back of the bus and that was when he kissed me on the mouth. Crazy thing is, I actually kissed him back. If a boy was going to try to kiss me on the mouth that many times in one day, I had to kiss him back. I liked his persistence and it wasn't the first or last time I was chased and pursued by a boy. Even though I was a tomboy and had a boy haircut, I was a hot commodity among the boys in my grade. But I have always been pretty selective with whom I share my mouth.

The first time I got to second base was in eighth grade. His name was Austen and he had longer hair than I did. He was determined, asking me for months to go steady with him. I finally agreed to go out with him if he cut his hair; I didn't want my boyfriend to have longer hair than me (his mom was a new age hippie; therefore, so were her kids). And he happily obliged. He took me to see the movie Seven on Valentine's Day, brought me a candle that smelled like a nursing home, and copped a feel of my microscopic breast, arm over the shoulder in a dark movie theater style.

Austen and I "dated" for a few months in junior high, then occasionally in high school. He was my second and third baseman actually. We logged many hours of heavy petting and we got far enough for me to discover that he was not circumcised. It was the first and last time I ever saw a turtle in its shell. But I still didn't have sex with him. We came close but I just wasn't ready.

I might have some not so desirable personality traits, but at least I can say I was never "easy". Most of my friends were extremely sexually active towards the end of junior high and all throughout high school. A few girls in school were already pregnant! Sure, I liked dating and getting attention from boys just as much as the next girl, but I also liked being a kid and enjoying my childhood. I was in no rush to grow up and let some cocky teenager have my V-card. Or get an STD. Or get pregnant. I was barely halfway through puberty myself; I was so not ready for sex. Making out, dry humping, and an occasional hand down the pants action was plenty for me.

Besides, I didn't want to waste my first time having sex with any of the boys I went to high school with. These were boys I knew too well and in a small town, the rumor mill is rather large. One of my friends had finally had sex for the first time with her long-term boyfriend after prom our junior year. She told a friend who told someone else and so on. It turned into a game of telephone and by the time it got back to me three hours later, I heard that she had was a hermaphrodite who had an orgy with her boyfriend, one of the female math teachers, and the janitor. Clearly (hopefully) none of it was true. Once I went to college I could only hope there would be a huge selection for me to pick from (and the rumor mill would be much smaller so when I did have sex for the first time, rumors wouldn't spread around campus like wildfire or Chlamydia.)

And indeed there was. I had never seen so many attractive guys in one place. If I wanted, I had my pick of the crop. I had come into my femininity by then and had a rocking body. Add that to a killer personality and any awkward college boy could be mine. As my luck would have it, it didn't happen that way. There were guys who escorted me on a date or to a house party, guys I made out with, but it never went any further than that.

I was nineteen, a freshman in college, when I made it around all four bases. Home run. But it wasn't with a college boy. I lost my virginity to a boy I went to high school with. Something I swore I would never do but ended up doing anyway. If it were possible to kick my own ass, I would have.

I had gone to my hometown for a visit one weekend, hooked up with my friend Amanda, and headed off to a friend's house. Jason and Chance, two guys we went to high school with, shared a house together and had invited Amanda over that night. Amanda still lived in town and since I was in town visiting, I figured why not? I hadn't seen either of the boys in quite some time, so it was nice to catch up.

Jason was hopelessly in love with me all through out high school. He went to a neighboring high school, but we had mutual friends. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't reciprocate the feelings. Although Chance and I also had mutual friends in high school, we weren't really friends. But that night, you wouldn't have known any different. We started a fire in the fire pit, played catch up, and drank ice-cold beer. We talked about college, jobs, dating, gossip, etc. Before we knew it, the alcohol had kicked in and our inhibitions were thrown into the fire.

After Amanda and I started giggling and acting goofy after a few beers, they started teasing us, claiming we couldn't hold our alcohol. Well, they seriously underestimated us.

"Just because we're girls doesn't mean we can't drink, and drink a lot," Amanda said.

"Yea right. You're probably a two beer queer!" Chance exclaimed.

I personally took offense to that. I'm an Irish gal and we Irish take pride in our drinking abilities. It was time for a challenge.

"Why don't we have a case race?" I suggested.

"What's that?" Jason asked.

" We each have a case of beer and whoever finishes first wins. Boys against girls," I explained.

"What technically makes a case? Twelve or twenty-four beers?" Jason asked.

"Technically, twenty four. But from the looks of the cooler, it looks like we only have about three 12-packs in there, let's just do twelve beers each team," I said. We all agreed.

"What do we win?" Chance asked, winking at me. I sneered back at him, annoyed that he would doubt my Irish abilities.

"Bragging rights. And I should warn you, we can drink you boys under the table," I replied. It was true; Amanda and I could definitely hold our alcohol. We divided up the beers, twelve each, and started the case race. In less than twenty minutes, Amanda and I had chugged three beers each and were already ahead of the boys. They had only finished two each.

"Drink up assholes!" I said, crushing an empty beer can, belching like a fat redneck NASCAR fan and throwing it across the fire pit at them. Jason and Chance looked surprised that two girls were in the lead. Or they were just surprised a thundering belch could come out of someone my size.

"Hike up your skirts!" Amanda yelled at them, opening another beer.

"I'm not worried. You will be throwing up like a pregnant woman after that next beer. I know it," Chance said. Amanda and I exchanged glances and broke out in hysterics. Little did they know we had eaten an entire pizza before we went to their place, so we were loaded up on carbs to soak up the alcohol. Rookies we were not.

Obviously, the boys lost the case race. They had nothing on us. The guys were absolutely embarrassed. Two girls had beaten them in a sacred man sport. Drinking beer wasn't something most girls enjoyed, let alone competed in. But then again, Amanda and I aren't normal females.

We sat around the fire for a while longer throwing out insults and taking turns stoking the fire. Jason ended up excusing himself to the bathroom, which we all made fun of him for. After what seemed like an hour we all went looking for him and found him passed out under the kitchen table.

"What a pussy," we said in unison as Amanda drew a penis on the cheek that was facing up and I pulled his pants down so his ass was hanging out.

For the rest of the night, it was just Amanda, Chance, and I sitting around the fire, drinking and talking until Chance mentioned he had walkie-talkies in the house. The rest of the evening we ran around drunk in the woods with our walkie-talkies. Eventually, we lost track of Chance. Amanda and I eventually got tired and after we both tripped over the same log and knocked the wind out of ourselves, we made our way back to the house. When we walked back in the house we found Jason had actually woken up off the floor and was putting hot dogs on a plate to cook out by the fire.

"I thought you were passed out. When I said we could drink you under the table, I didn't mean it literally!" I teased him.

"I tripped and fell on my way back from the bathroom. And then I was too lazy to get back up so I must have passed out," he said. Clearly he didn't realize he had genitalia drawn on his face, nor did he question why his pants had been pulled down to his knees when he had awoken. Amanda and I were whispering and laughing to each other while Jason pulled the wieners out of the package, another thing we also found downright hilarious.

"Where's Chance?" I asked Jason after I managed to stop laughing. He shrugged and headed back outside towards the fire. Amanda said she was following Jason back out by the fire pit. She was not one to turn down a wiener (food or male organ). I was drunk, not hungry, so I organized a one-woman search party for Chance. I hoped he was in the house and not lost in the woods somewhere.

I looked in closets, the living room, and the bathroom. I even looked outside by driveway and when I couldn't find him, I went back to the fire pit.

"Where's Chance? I think we lost him in the woods Amanda!" I yelled, starting to freak out.

"Simmer down. He's probably puking in the bathroom like Jason was earlier," Amanda said, laughing.

"I was not puking! I had to take a shit!" Jason defended himself.

"If he is really drunk and got lost in the woods, he will probably die and then we'll go to prison and become someone's bitches!!!" I exclaimed, my drunken hysteria on orange alert.

"Calm down KC. Did you check the house?" Jason asked, holding multiple wieners over the fire.

"Of course! He's nowhere in there!"

"What about his bedroom?"

"Oh shit." I felt like an idiot. "By the way, you have a dick on your face and you're holding three wieners over the fire. Now who's the idiot?" I yelled at Jason before I ran back into the house, hearing Amanda's cackle and Jason's whining echoing in the yard. The most logical place to look for him would have been his bedroom, but that was the last place I looked. I opened the door slowly and peeked around it and there he was, lying on his bed naked and watching Adult Swim on TV.

"What happened to you? I though you were lost and dead in the woods! And why are you naked?" I asked him, standing in his doorway.

"What are you talking about? I was never in the woods! I've been here for at least an hour now!"

"Yes you were! We even had walkie-talkies to keep track of each other!"

"No, that was just you girls. I never left the fire pit. You guys were just so excited when I told you I had walkie-talkies in the house that you just ran inside and never came back out to the fire pit, so I got bored and came inside," he explained.

I stood there and thought for a second and it all came back to me. He was correct; once we heard the word walkie-talkies, we bolted inside and headed out the front door to test them out. We were too preoccupied saying "wiener" instead of "Roger" and farting into the walkie-talkies to realize Chance had not come with us.

"Oh. Well, why are you naked?" I asked him.

"I fell on my way inside and my clothes were dirty," he explained.

"You fell? Is that because you had too many beers you pansy?" I teased him.

"No! It was because it's all muddy right by the steps and I lost my footing!" he said defensively.

"Both you and Jason are falling down drunks tonight!" I said, shaking my head.

"Fuck off," Chance said, laughing. He sat up a bit straighter in bed and by doing so he completely exposed himself.

"You still haven't answered my question. Why are you naked? You don't even have boxers on!" I said nervously, my voice several octaves higher than normal.

"I sleep naked."

I was starting to feel a curious and tingling sensation in my naughties, which is weird because I was not attracted to Chance. Sure, he was cute but to me, he was just one of the guys. He had gotten a little chubbier from the last time I had seen him in high school and he always reminded me of a hedgehog. So I have absolutely no logical explanation or reason for what I said next.

"Can I be naked with you?"

I'm not even entirely certain I was horny either; my original plan was to just make sure Chance was accounted for and head back out to the fire with Amanda and Jason. Then I got curious and figured since I was nineteen, and the opportunity was literally standing erect in front of me, I should just do it.

Chance nodded his head eagerly at my question. He moved over and put his hands behind his head as if he was expecting a strip show. I had enough alcohol in me to be confident about anything, so I slowly stripped off my clothes. At least I thought I was "stripping". My stripping is about as sexy as watching a toothless lunch lady and a bald janitor have sex in a dumpster. It was clumsy, awkward, and it took me far too long to take off my own bra. At one point my foot got caught in my jeans and I fell face first onto his bed.

Chance and I lay on his bed face to face, smiling and flirting for an eternity before he made the first move. He attacked my face like a honey badger attacks his prey. According to the You Tube sensation Randall, a honey badger doesn't give a shit, he just takes what he wants (if you've never seen Randall's honey badger video, it's time you click this link, and watch. Come back when you're done). And that's exactly what Chance did. Chance came at me, mouth wide open, and kissed me with more teeth than lips and before I knew it, I was in full on mouth attack mode. He didn't give a shit if he bruised my lips or tore my jaw apart with his molars.

We awkwardly fondled each other's body parts for a few minutes, him more than me. His boobs may have been a wee bit bigger than mine (which means they were actually pretty small) and I had no interest in touching those. Then Chance crawled on top of me and he was as hard (and as heavy) as a rock. For a while, we did nothing but rub our naked bodies together and exchange sloppy, wet kisses (similar to the kisses I got from Kurt back in fourth grade). It was pathetic, really. We might have been the first two humans in existence to not know how to have sex. Had we recorded ourselves, I can only imagine that it would have been the worst sex tape this world has seen since Dustin Diamond released his sex tape.

While we were kissing and rubbing, I felt Lil' Chance poking at my inner thighs so I opened to let him in and suddenly felt an uncomfortable pressure and realized a minute later that Chance and I had committed a cardinal sin of one-night stands. He loved it before he gloved it and somehow I let him.

"What the fuck!?!?" I yelled loudly in his ear and slapped his cheek. What the hell were we thinking, not using a condom?

"What?"

"Hello! I'm nineteen! I don't want to be a teen mom! You have two seconds to get out of me and put on a rubber!" It would be just my luck to get pregnant the first time I had sex and I wasn't about to let that happen.

"Oh shit! I'm so sorry! I didn't even realize!" he said, scrambling to get a condom out of his nightstand. He put that thing on in record time and before I knew it, he was pounding me like a jackhammer. I was still seething about my near pregnancy when I felt Chance tense up, heard him grunt and then exhale.

It was over in less than thirty seconds. I only know that because the whole time, I watched a mini infomercial that said if I called within the next thirty seconds, I could receive not one, but two Ginsu knives! What a bargain!

When he was done, he rolled off me, sweatier than a fat girl playing beach volleyball in the summer heat (I should know; I did just that three weeks ago).

Honestly, by offering to get into bed naked with him, I only expected/wanted some dry humping and maybe a little oral sex, but I certainly did not expect to hand over my V-card so easily like it was a used baseball card to be traded. Stupid, I know. What else do two naked adults do in bed besides have sex? Talk about the weather? Exchange investment advice? Argue the benefits of added fiber in your diet? Sleep? No. They fuck. Plain and simple.

But since the opportunity had arisen, I figured why not?

I wish I could say my first time was more magical than a unicorn who pisses a rainbow, but it wasn't. I wish I could say we "made love" for hours upon hours, like most romantic comedies suggest, but that shit only happens on TV. I wish I could say I enjoyed it and had an orgasm, but I can't. I had had more orgasms while dry humping in high school and simply by masturbating so the first time I had actual sex I expected mind-blowing release. I guess Chance forgot there were two of us there and I was not just a blow up doll. He had no idea how to please a lady, or at the very least, wait for her to catch up!

My first home run was a complete and total letdown. I had heard friends talk about multiple orgasms, sex positions, and generally just how amazing sex really was. But if that was any indication of what my future sexcapades would be like, I was so not interested. Even my friend Amanda was (still is) a nymphomaniac, so I was beyond confused. Why was everyone else enjoying sex but me? Plus, was anyone else feeling as sore as I was? I didn't do anything but lie there like a rag doll and I felt like I had taken up horse riding overnight. My legs were stiff and sore and I was pretty sure I pulled a muscle in my back and in my butt cheek.

It didn't take me long to figure out why I hated sex. A couple weeks after my first time, I had met a cute boy in class and went to a house party with him. I went to his off campus apartment and had a fantastic one-night stand! Sex lasted for hours and it was insanely incredible. I soon realized that it was Chance who was terrible at sex, not me. Turns out, I was great in the sack! I knew all the right ways to move my hips, all the right places to kiss, and the best positions! It all came naturally to me. I didn't hate sex; I just hated sex with Chance.

Come to find out, someone actually enjoyed having sex with him. And that person was Tina, his girlfriend. Since I no longer lived in my hometown, I was not privy to certain information, like local gossip. But when I told my sister Kate that I had made the mistake of sleeping with Chance, she informed me that Chance and Tina were dating and she was pregnant. That explained why he didn't put on a condom before he penetrated me. He was used to having sex without protection.

When I went home a couple months later for Thanksgiving, I went to a holiday party with my sister and Tina was there. I had known Tina since she was in kindergarten; she was in my sister's grade and we had gone to school together all our lives. She was one of the sweetest people I've ever known, but as soon as our eyes locked, I knew she knew. Tina is a petite little thing, but I had never been so scared of anyone in my life. She walked towards me, slowly picking up speed and I looked around for reinforcements, but all my friends had suddenly disappeared.

"So, have sex with anyone's boyfriend lately?" she asked, her face stone serious.

"Uh...um...well, what? I don't, I mean, what? Excuse me, I have to um, I'm not sure," I stuttered and it's quite possible I let out a nervous fart. For the life of me, I could not come up with an excuse, form a complete sentence, or come up with a clever comeback, three things I normally excelled at!

"Chance told me what happened," Tina said.

I did the most logical thing I could think of. I denied the whole thing.

"There's no point in denying it KC. He told me what happened," Tina repeated.

Shit. Was I more embarrassed that I had terrible sex with her boyfriend or was I ashamed that I simply had sex with her boyfriend? My moral compass was not responding.

"I'm really sorry Tina. Had I known you and Chance were dating, there's no way I would have played blow up doll for him," I said.

"It was that bad?" Tina asked, her humor surprising me.

"I'm not sure. It all happened so fast. Literally."

She laughed. "Chance isn't at all sexy in bed when he's drunk. I actually feel sorry for you that you were exposed to that," Tina said.

"No, I'm sorry you willingly expose yourself to that regularly!" I retorted.

Turns out, Chance and Tina had been having problems and that specific weekend so they didn't consider themselves a couple. They got back together two days later. I wonder if I had sparked some sort of jealousy in their relationship.

I'm not the type of person to agree with most adages, but I really do believe you should save your V-card for that special person, not simply because you feel like you should have sex or especially because you're drunk and horny. Trust me, it's not worth it. It never is.

I've had more than a few sexual partners in my life and hundreds of home runs, but I learned a lot from my first time with Chance. I guess having sex with him was actually a blessing in disguise. I learned the difference between good and bad sex, length versus girth (Chance had neither), and to always ask if that person was dating/engaged/or married. Being a home wrecker is so last year. I got lucky that Tina was so nice to me about boning her beau; fat chance I'd ever get that lucky again.

Training Bras, Wet Dreams, & Shark Week

2011-07-15T14:02:00.007-04:00

This is the companion piece to "Sex MISeducation".

The fall after my tenth birthday I had officially started sixth grade. New school, new teachers, and new kids. As I would soon find out, brand new, awkward bodies as well.

That first day of school, my mom came into my room and handed me this thin tank top thing and told me to put it on. Now, I believe I would call such a garment a "cami", but at the time, it looked more like a t-shirt you'd put on a Cabbage Patch Doll.

"What's this for?" I asked her as I pulled on my favorite No Fear t-shirt and buttoned my cutoff jean shorts. Hey, even tomboys have some style.

"It's an undershirt," Mom replied.

"Undershirt...like what Dad wears when he mows the lawn? I ain't wearing that," I said like a stubborn hillbilly.

"Yea, but it's for girls your age," she replied rolling her eyes.

"I don't want to wear it."

"You will wear it!"

"But why?"

"Because you're getting to that age KC," she said, clearly running out of patience.

"What age? I'm just a kid! Why do I need to wear an undershirt? THERE'S NOTHING UNDER HERE!!!" I yelled, pointing at my flat chest.

"Because you are a young lady and young ladies wear these under their clothes!"

"No they don't. They wear bras." No way was I going to wear an undershirt/cami that was beige in color and wouldn't even fit my four-year old cousin.

"You will take off your brother's t-shirt, put this undershirt on, and find something more ladylike to wear on the first day of school," she said, her teeth clenched.

Wham bam thank you Mom. Three digs in one sentence!

"BUT WHY DO I HAVE TO WEAR IT????????" What didn't she understand? She still wasn't answering my question!

"Because. I. Said. So!" Mom exclaimed. To this day, there is no phrase I hate more than this one. I heard it about 1,985,338,209 times in my adolescence and I never want to hear it again. Although when I have children, Because I Said So will be the name of my first kid. My other children will be named You Break It, You Buy It and Knock It Off.

I knew there was no arguing with Mom. If I didn't agree to wear an undershirt, then she would put me in a dress and my life would officially be over. So I put it on, showed her I was wearing it when I left the house for school, but no sooner was I around the corner did I hide in the bushes like a hobo and strip down. I stuffed the undershirt in my bag and headed to school.

I was not prepared for that first day of school though. Sure, my bag was packed with pencils and notebooks (and now an undershirt), but I was not ready to see what the summer had done to everyone. Everyone was different! I honestly hadn't expected anything to change that summer, save a few haircuts and meeting new students from other schools, but what I saw that first day was more surprising than getting a dick in a box as a Christmas gift.

The boys I had just seen a few months ago had squeaky voices and were at least a foot taller than they had been. Several boys from other schools even had moustaches that could rival the facial hair on Tom Selleck and Bea Arthur! The girls had all sprouted breastlings and somehow looked much older than me.

I was the only person who hadn't changed. Or, had the "change", so to speak. I was the only tomboy left in my grade. I still sported short hair, a foul mouth, and dirty fingernails. The last thing I wanted to do was to go through puberty and turn into a mutant hormone raging pre-teen like the rest of the kids. I wasn't ready to give up being a tomboy yet! I was the last tomboy standing who would kill a spider and not scream like a rape victim, jump out of a tree on a dare and land on her feet like a cat, and throw rocks at cars parked in the teacher's lot just for fun.

Although I had always preferred hanging out with boys rather than the girls, I was good friends with two girls who incidentally were beautiful blondes. Polar opposite from me. I'll call them Jill and Amber because to this day, I have a difficult time saying their real names without baring my teeth and snarling like a rabid dog. They always had the best clothes, shoes, and stylish hair accessories. They made tight rolling jeans cool, black headbands a huge hit, and officially made making out with boys an Olympic sport. These girls could even make the act of taking a dump seem exotic and intriguing.

I couldn't have been more different than these bimbos. I also had blonde hair, just about six inches shorter than theirs. I wore jelly shoes, hand-me-down clothes, and just could not master the art of tight rolling my jeans. Although Jill and Amber were relatively decent kids, they had their evil moments. Making fun of other kids for being different, being snitches and sharing secrets that they were meant to take to the grave, and just being "those girls". Looking back, I now realize that Jill and Amber were hardcore bullies. I'm convinced the movie Mean Girls is based on them.

Years later, they are still petty, snobby, and bitchy. Last I heard, Jill is some sort of coke snorting porn star with fake tits and a bedazzled vagina, and Amber is a married and pregnant guidance counselor. And I'm not only still a tomboy, I'm a lesbian. The irony kills me every time.

It shouldn't have surprised me that Jill and Amber not only hit puberty in the last week since I had seen them both (and just in time for middle school), but they had made it a competition. Who could make their tits perkier? Who had to shave more often? Which boys were paying them attention now? Watching them stick their chests out, talk about Bic razors and boys was more nauseating than picturing my parents having sex.

“My mom took us to Wausau last weekend and we went to Victoria's Secret and got new bras and panties. I’m a size B, just in time for junior high!” Jill told me smugly during lunch. Since it was the first day of school, we all clung to the people we knew like dingle berries on a donkey's ass. None of us were brave enough to make new friends, although if this conversation about bras was going to continue much longer, that's exactly what I would be forced to do. I'd rather take a bubble bath with my brother than participate in this conversation.

"Neat," I mumbled sarcastically under my breath.

“What size bra do you wear?” she asked, clearly annoyed that I really didn't give a rat's ass about her bra. Or the cup size. All I cared about was the fact that I wasn't turning into a bimbo like she was right before my eyes.

“Um…I don’t,” I said proudly. Nor do I wear a goddamn undershirt! I was still a tomboy and I refused to grow into a woman. I would fight it with every ounce of testosterone in me!

“Oh. My. God. You still aren’t wearing a bra?” Amber said, as if she had been wearing one for years and was so experienced in the ways of the over the shoulder boulder holder.

"Yea KC, you haven't changed at all. You look like a boy!" Only the 9,387th time I'll hear that in my life.

"Bras are stupid," I said, still displaying my flat chest proudly.

“Well, our bras are from Vicki’s, so they're not stupid,” Jill reminded us.

“Yes, you said that. So what? What's so special about Victoria's Secret?”

The bimbos looked at me like I had just spoken fluent Mandarin.

“Victoria’s Secret. It’s like, the only place to buy bras,” Jill explained.

I knew that was a straight up lie. I had gone to JC Penney with my mom plenty of times to know that’s where she bought her bras. Maybe that's where she had purchased that ugly undershirt as well?

“So, tell me. What is Victoria's secret?” I asked honestly curious.

"It's a bra and panty store!" Jill reiterated.

"I know that. But what is Victoria's secret?"

Again, blank stares. Did I start speaking Passamaquoddy all of a sudden? Why did I have to keep repeating myself?

“It’s the brand name, duh!” Jill and Amber said simultaneously. Of course. These girls would need brand name under garments. They strictly wore Eastland shoes, Guess jeans, and now Victoria's Secret bras. Wearing expensive training bras as a pre-teen makes about as much sense as a baby wearing Gucci or an adult having braces!

When the lunch bell rang, I walked down the hallway back to the classroom, following behind my classmates who reeked of adrenaline, body odor, and pheromones. Everyone looked, smelled, and acted differently, so why was I still the same?

Suddenly, it dawned on me.

Mom wanted me to wear an undershirt because I was at the age of puberty. She wanted me to wear that undershirt so I would have something between my chest and my shirt like everyone else. Unfortunately, I had nothing to hold up. Just areolas and nipples that were starting to stick out like tootsie rolls under my shirt, threatening to poke some eyeballs. If Mom was so worried about something sticking out, she have just given me a box of Bandaids to tape the suckers down!

After that day, I was determined to prepare myself to fight puberty because like it or not, it was coming. I just didn't know when, so I had to prepare. I would apply packing tape across my chest like Christina Ricci did in the movie Now and Then. I would let my leg hair grow long and kept my head hair short. I would wear my father's Old Spice deodorant and eventually, I would start to resemble a New Kid on the Block.

But I never had enough time for any of that. Just a few short weeks later, I woke up one morning and noticed I had sprouted breastlings the size of walnuts. I took a shower before school and noticed my toddler crotch had been transformed and was now covered in curly black hairs. I made a mental note to invest in a machete and get rid of the Black Forest ASAP.

There's nothing more horrifying for a tomboy to experience than puberty, especially when she's trying to fight it. It's the moment that she will realize her days as a boy are officially over. When I first realized I was in the beginning stages of puberty, I felt similar to how Hiroshima must have felt during WWII. The word "puberty" for me was synonymous with "atomic bomb", "end of days", and "FML".

Puberty was something I wanted to avoid but that bitch Mother Nature had other ideas for me. I was destined to menstruate every 28 days, shave my legs, and carry two sacs of fat with milk ducts and nipples on my chest for the rest of my life. I carried a backpack to school and that extra weight was annoying enough! On the upside, I suddenly had the urge to masturbate and I was really looking forward to having my first wet dream!

The first morning I put on a training bra (purchased from JC Penney, not Victoria's Secret), I realized I had just opened the door to the land of womanhood. Beyond the door I saw pantiliners, shaved legs, plucked eyebrows, and skirts and dresses (cringe...). It was official. I was now expected to act like a lady. I was supposed to cross my legs while wearing a dress (something I have yet to master), wear mascara and feminine deodorant and start swooning over pimply faced boys who got boners simply by smelling CK One perfume.

Who the hell was I becoming? This wasn't me! I had lost myself in all the estrogen that was taking over my body! It took me a while to realize that just because I had finally gotten boobs didn't mean my life was over. After all, I hadn't gotten my first period yet so I hadn't completely lost my will to live.

Since I had gotten kicked out of sex education in fifth grade, I was seriously miseducated and was forced to piece together tidbits of information from my friends. But I wanted to know everything so there would be no surprises! I wanted to know what to expect when I got my period. How much blood would I lose? Would I become anemic? Would I need a transfusion? When could I start having sex? Was dry humping considered sex? And most importantly, was it normal to flick my bean on a daily basis?

My seventh grade health class provided me with a plethora of information. Technical information that is. I knew what a penis and vagina were, and what sex was. But vas deferens? Scrotum? Uterus? I only knew dirty slang terms for everything sexual so I was determined to become technically informed.

I’m still proud to this day that I aced the anatomy quiz in health class. I could tell the difference between a circumcised and uncircumcised penis, pinpoint exactly where the vas deferens were, and I no longer confused the fallopian tubes for labia. I also learned that “nocturnal emission” is a technical term for “wet dreams”. That explained a lot. Who cares males primarily have wet dreams? That didn't stop me from having a few of my own.

As a late bloomer, I got my period months after every other girl in my class. Even worse, I got it at the most inconvenient time—while watching The Lion King at the movie theater with my younger sister who, coincidentally had bigger tits than I did.

I was watching Simba running for his life during the stampede when suddenly I felt an uncomfortable ache in my belly. I left the theater quietly thinking I had to poop out all the popcorn and candy I had just ingested but when I sat down on the toilet, I was shocked to see my underwear looked like a damn crime scene. I thought about calling the police so they could put crime scene tape around the stall I was using. I thought briefly about looking for a murder weapon because anyone who has lost this much blood surely must be close to death. I’ve seen shark attacks on “Shark Week” with far less blood than this!

Even after learning all about menstruation in my health class, nothing had prepared me for this.

Freaking out and starting to hyperventilate, I did the most sensible thing. I flushed my underwear down the toilet. Then I unrolled the toilet paper and made a modest catcher's mitt out of it, stuffed it in my pants, and walked like a toddler with a soggy diaper back into the theater to finish the movie.

After the movie, I felt like crap. Not only did Scar kill Mufasa but I was NOW officially a woman. I had cramps that felt like someone was tenderizing my uterus as if it were a piece of raw meat, and I was so overemotional that I had to stifle tears and sobs from seeing the death of Mufasa. To this day, I have not come to terms with his death, circle of life or not.

When I got home, I did what any smart girl would do. I told absolutely no one I had just gotten my period. I don't know why I kept it a secret. Maybe because I was afraid of having to wear a huge pad like my mom and older sister because of course there were no tampons in the house. I knew from my sex education class in fifth grade (the few minutes I was allowed to be in the room) I would never want to wear pads. Or, as my friend Jes likes to call them—floating mattress pads. Not only are they uncomfortable and are actually quite unsanitary, but when you remove the pads from the panties, the sticky side makes more noise than the new recyclable Sun Chips bags! No fucking way I'm going to subject myself to that for years to come!

Or maybe I hid the fact that I had my period because my mother had never sat us kids down to have the “talk”. She must have figured we would learn about the "change" in school, so why bother? Little did she know I got kicked out of sex education because I laughed so hard I swear my testicles descended. So how did I know I could say “hey Ma, I got the rusty beaver for the first time. Got a tampon I can use to as a dam to stop this red river?”

Twenty-eight days later, my mom figured out my secret because her pad supply had dwindled seriously. Since I was forced to wear pads, any time I saw more than a speck of blood, I would rip off the gently used pad and replace it with a new one. Three pairs of underwear had suffered pad erosion and another two had suffered rust stains. All in one week!

After one week of wearing a crotch diaper I was fed up. I was glad I got caught because then I could address the serious issue of the lack of tampons in the house.

"You're too young to wear tampons," my mom said after listening to my soliloquy about the advantages to tampons over pads.

"Oh, I'm too young for a tampon but not too young for a bra? Or to shave my legs? Or to trim my pubes?" I retorted. I wanted to keep going and use words like dry humping and masturbating, but I'm not sure I wanted Mom to know I was sexually active with myself just yet.

"KC, that's enough," Mom said sternly. Even at an early age, Mom never appreciated my crude sense of humor. She barely tolerates it now.

“I’m never wearing a pad again. I either get some tampons in this house or I'm going to walk around like a dog in heat and drip everywhere!" I yelled. I was angry! My labia were chafed, I had a minor case of diaper rash, and I just wanted a damn plug! How could my mom deny me a simple civil liberty of wearing tampons? What was this, 1958? Rosa Parks herself not only refused to go to the back of the bus, but she probably refused the menstrual pad belt and chose tampons; that's how badass she was!

“Well, your sister wears pads,” she told me. Instantly, I clench my fists in anger and start to sweat. My mom is famous for saying, “I didn’t let your sister do it, so I won’t let you” and “If you were more like your sister, maybe you would (insert anything here)”. Two more phrases I will come to absolutely loathe in my adolescence.

“Please stop comparing me to Jen! I’m not her. She wears pads because she's literally scared of tampons. I’m not scared of cotton plugs. They're just like extra large Q-tips! I’m not wearing pads. Ever. Again.,” I said matter-of-factly.

She pursed her lips and glared at me, but I was stubborn. I wasn’t going to give in. I was ready for a bloody showdown. If I were going to have my period once a month for the next 50 years (600 more times; I just counted), I would certainly not do it by wearing a pad. Assuming of course I'd live that long. Being a daredevil while riding an orange banana seat bike, having a habit of eating mysterious berries on a dare, and not looking both ways before crossing a street were surefire ways to get myself killed. But on the off chance that I did make it that long, I would not be wearing a crotch diaper!

Mom finally gave in. That day, my father drove me to the newly opened Wal-Mart, parked his car, handed me a $5 bill, and told me to bring him change. That was code for “I may buy your mother’s pads, but there’s no way in fucking hell I’m buying my daughter’s tampons”.

I understood completely.

As a child tomboy, puberty was scary and if I could have avoided it, I would have. It took me years to realize puberty wasn't the worst thing that could happen to a tomboy. As an adult tomboy now, I have to admit I like my boobs (A. because they're cute and perky and B. because my nipples are pierced, so they can be quite entertaining), I like the idea that I can bear children, and I definitely revel in the fact that I know my way around the land of cocks and clams.

Going through puberty has allowed me to have wet dreams for nights after sex, to wear a modest 36 C bra, and let me be proud to use terms such as "Rusty Beaver" or "Shark Week" to describe menstruation. It's allowed me to experiment with both sexes, discover the joys of dry humping in jeans, and to be proud when I get a sheboner.

But most of all, puberty has allowed me to become a woman, and nothing is more beautiful or sublime than that.

I Love You Like...

2011-07-13T14:50:00.019-04:00

This is the second installment of "I Love You Like". To read the original, go here:
http://theother98.blogspot.com/2011/04/love-is-like.html

But this time, I played with Stacy Tesch!!! She had read my original blog post (listed above) and wanted in on the action immediately! We spent countless hours one day coming up with "I Love You Like"similes (I was bored at work; she at home with two kids napping).

Once you start reading them, you will want to start playing this game yourself. But be careful; it's more addicting than cigarettes, cocaine, and Facebook games.

So, by request of Tesch herself, I have posted our best ones. Surprisingly, I only omitted about 20 similes (all of which were omitted due to a very personal nature/names of people we know and for fear of retaliation. Unlike the game between Rae and me, these particular similes were too personal and I could not get away with a simple XX in place of their names).

And yes, I was more bored than Stacy (what with raising two kids) so I have a few more on here than she does, but that does not take away from the quality of these similes.

Kara:
I love you like vampires love interviews.
I love you like lesbians love softball.
I love you like air traffic controllers love sleeping.
I love you like sausages love meat curtains.
I love you like a pirate loves swashbuckling.
I love you like T-Rex loves Jurassic Park.
I love you like Casey Anthony loves being acquitted.
I love you like Richard Simmons loves spandex.
I love you like Charlie Sheen loves tiger blood.
I love you like stingrays love Steve Erwin.
I love you like Andrew Zimmerman loves bizarre foods.
I love you like Takeru Kobayashi loves eating hot dogs.
I love you like honey badgers love rattlesnakes.
I love you like the Kardashians love athletes.
I love you like the Duggars love procreating.
I love you like Jon Gosselin loves Ed Hardy.
I love you like Bobby Flay loves throwing down.
I love you like BP loves spilling oil.

Stacy:
I love you like Paula Deen loves butter.
I love you like Napoleon Dynamite loves chapstick.
I love you like olives love martinis.
I love you like chimps love flinging poop.
I love you like mosquitoes love blood.
I love you like damsels love distress.
I love you like Dr. Dre loves the chronic.
I love you like Snoop Dogg loves doggy style.
I love you like Tom Hanks loved Wilson.
I love you like leg warmers love calves.
I love you like hobos love canned beans.
I love you like Dennis the Menace loves Mr. Wilson.

Kara:
I love you like a banana loves a hammock.
I love you like muffins love their tops.
I love you like Ellen loves dancing.
I love you like Glenn Close loves fatal attraction.
I love you like Chris Farley loves living in a van down by the river.
I love you like Scott Rothstein loves Ponzi schemes.
I love you like Kate Gosselin loves dancing with the stars.
I love you like California loves wildfires.
I love you like Florida loves hurricanes.
I love you like senior citizens love AARP.
I love you like dentures love gums.
I love you like Hugh Hefner loves bunnies.
I love you like Kayne loves Beyonce.
I love you like limes love Corona.
I love you like farmers love the almanac.
I love you like hookers love the night.
I love you like the Boxcar children love trains.
I love you like Jude Law loves nannies.
I love you like Mel Gibson loves the thunderdome.
I love you like Chris Brown loves his fists.
I love you like Mitch Albom loves Tuesdays with Morrie.
I love you like drag queens love manginas.
I love you like Night Ranger loves Sister Christian.
I love you like Rick Springfield loves Jessie's Girl.
I love you like Nia Vardalos loves her big fat Greek wedding.

Stacy:
I love you like Pam Anderson loves fake tits.
I love you like porn stars love the "money shot".
I love you like Billy Ray Cyrus loves mullets and his achy breaky heart.
I love you like priests love little boys.
I love you like Bon Jovi loves a bed of roses.
I love you like Fleetwood Mac loves sweet little lies.
I love you like the KKK loves a good lynching (tasteless, yet true).
I love you like Biggie Smalls loved being called Big Poppa.
I love you like Sir Mix A Lot loves big butts (and he can't lie).
I love you like addicts love denial.
I love you like sorority girls love Uggs.
I love you like a midlife crisis loves a Porsche.
I love you like batman loves the batcave.
I love you like cats love a fresh litter box.
I love you like superheros love showing off their packages.

Kara:
I love you like Tyra banks loves "smizing".
I love you like waffles love syrup.
I love you like the Amish love churning butter.
I love you like Coolio loves living in a Gangsta's Paradise.
I love you like the Bates Motel loves psychos.
I love you like Jamie Lee Curtis loves Halloween.
I love you like Keanu Reeves loves speed.
I love you like Texas loves going big or going home.
I love you like Sarah Palin loves Alaska.
I love you like Sarah Palin loves going rogue.
I love you like Discovery loves Shark Week.
I love you like Pee Wee loves his playhouse.
I love you like Mr. Bean loves silence.
I love you like the deaf love sign language.
I love you like hoarders love collecting.
I love you like Howie Mandel loves making deals.

Stacy:
I love you like Howie Mandel loves OCD.
I love you like the carpet loves to match the drapes.
I love you like Bravo loves housewives.
I love you like Lifetime loves making movies about incest, rape, and murder.
I love you like Tim Gunn loves to "make it work".
I love you like Carrie loves pig blood.
I love you like Voldemort loves snakes.
I love you like Snape loves the Dark Arts.
I love you like Picasso loved having one ear.

Kara:
I love you like leprechauns love pots of gold.
I love you like the British love dentistry.
I love you like Americans love obesity.
I love you like Canadians love maple.
I love you like Mexicans love tamales.
I love you like the Spanish love their armadas.
I love you like Queen Elizabeth I loves lead makeup.
I love you like the Japanese love kamikaze pilots.
I love you like Captain Sully loves the Hudson River.
I love you like Zach Morris loves being saved by the bell.
I love you like Chelsea Handler loves her horizontal life.

Stacy:
I love you like the Lord loves the ring.
I love you like balls love being sweaty.
I love you like undies love sharts.
I love you like Lindsay Lohan loves driving drunk.
I love you like the hood loves hood rats.
I love you like root beer loves the barrel.
I love you like the Packers love the Lambeau Leap.
I love you like republicans love gay marriage (NOT).
I love you like you love to say NOT like it's 1992.

Kara:
I love you like the Germans love the Jews (NOT).
I love you like the Jews love Jesus (NOT).
I love you like Molly Ringwald loves pink.
I love you like Justin Bieber loves calling you baby.
I love you like Nicole Richie loves eating.
I love you like Jessica Simpson loves Chicken of the Sea.
I love you like Rihanna loves weaves.
I love you like MTV loves music videos (NOT).
I love you like VH1 loves the 90's (and 80's).
I love you like my boss loves washing his hands (NOT).
I love you like Brett Favre loves the Packers (NOT).

Stacy:
I love you like Tonya Harding loves metal rods.
I love you like Ke$ha loves autotune.
I love you like olives love martinis.
I love you like librarians love to whisper.
I love you like Osama loves being a terrorist (NOT ANYMORE A$$HOLE).
I love you like the Terminator loves being back.
I love you like Jay Leno loves stealing shows (using his chin as a weapon).
I love you like Cajuns love gumbo.
I love you like George W. Bush loves finding WMDs.
I love you like Skee-lo loves wishing he were a little bit taller.
I love you like Dawson loves the creek.
I love you like R. Kelly loves believing he can fly.

Kara:
I love you like Nancy Kerrigan loves her kneecaps.
I love you like Saddam Hussein loves crimes against humanity.
I love you like Tom Cruise loves Scientology.
I love you like babies love breast milk.
I love you like Donald Trump loves combovers.
I love you like Randy Jackson loves dawgs.
I love you like Santa loves ho ho hos.
I love you like snow loves WI.
I love you like Hulk Hogan loves bandanas.
I love you like Forrest Gump loves to run.
I love you like Sarah McLachlan loves building a mystery.
I love you like Madonna loves her papa not preaching.
I love you like whales love breaching.
I love you like Jamie Foxx loves blaming it on the alcohol.

Stacy:
I love you like Lady GaGa loves wearing meat.
I love you like Susanne Sommers loves the Thighmaster.
I love you like gunslingers love a noon showdown.
I love you like the Irish love potatoes.
I love you like Madonna loves Malawian orphans.
I love you like turkeys love to gobble.
I love you like bbq sauce loves chicken.
I love you like Bert loves Ernie.
I love you like Chaucer loved pilgrimages.
I love you like Shakespeare loved unrequited love.
I love you like the Quakers loved burning witches at the stake.
I love you like Columbus loved discovering.
I love you like Warren G and Nate Dogg love to regulate.
I love you like Jarrod loves Subway.
I love you like Michael Jordan loves nothing but net.
I love you like Garth Brooks loves friends in low places.
I love you like Jimmy Buffett loves cheeseburgers in paradise.
I love you like Jimmy Buffett loves Margaritaville.
I love you like Jimmy Buffett loves stepping on pop tops and blowing out flip flops.

Kara:
I love you like you clearly love Jimmy Buffett.
I love you like TLC loves being crazy sexy cool.
I love you like Dennis Rodman loves piercings.
I love you like Chastity Bono loves being a man.
I love you like Lady GaGa loves hatching from an egg.
I love you like Mark Zuckerberg loves Facebook.
I love you like Justin Timberlake loves bringing sexy back.
I love you like Ryan Seacrest loves E!
I love you like Snow Patrol loves chasing cars.
I love you like Eminem loves Recovery.
I love you like Tom Petty loves American Girls.
I love you like Tom Petty loves having a last dance with Mary Jane.
I love you like Tom Petty loves running down a dream.
I love you like George Foreman loves grills.
I love you like the TMNT love being heroes in a half shell.
I love you like Jimmy loves cracking corn and not caring.
I love you like a ninja loves nunchuks.

Stacy:
I love you like monks love meditating.
I love you like Mario loves defeating Bowser.
I love you like Jesus loves resurrecting.
I love you like 867-5309 loves being the coolest number ever.
I love you like Nirvana loves smelling like teen spirit.
I love you like Marilyn Manson loves the beautiful people.
I love you like Fred Durst loves doing it all for the nookie.
I love you like Haikus love 17 syllabyles.
I love you like Abe Lincoln loved the hole in his head.
I love you like Paul Bunyan loved Babe the big blue ox.
I love you like Patrick Swayze loves dirty dancing.
I love you like Baby loves carrying the watermelon.
I love you like Johnny loves a rusty hanger taking care of his little problem.
I love you like Danny Zuko loves greased lightning.
I love you like Sandy loves being hopelessly devoted.
I love you like ChaCha loves being the best dancer at St. Bernadette's.

Kara:
I love you like Fred Durst loves his Limp Bizkit.
I love you like Korn loves being a freak on a leash.
I love you like the Red Jumpsuit Apparatus loves being face down.
I love you like Ray LaMontagne loves trouble.
I love you like Baby loves not being in a corner.
I love you like Baby loves having the time of her life.
I love you like Kevin Bacon loves being loose with his foot.
I love you like Tom Cruise loves days of thunder.
I love you like a southerner loves NASCAR.
I love you like Tom Cruise loves being top gun.
I love you like Jay-Z loves the concrete jungle.
I love you like fire hydrants love dog pee.
I love you like sidewalks love smeared chewed gum.

Stacy:
I love you like Maverick loves feeling the need for speed.
I love you like Iceman loves playing beach volleyball shirtless.
I love you like Goose loves great balls of fire.
I love you like Ron Burgandy loves smelling of rich mahagony.
I love you like the Vikings love to rape and pillage.
I love you like Justin Timberlake loves his dick in a box.
I love you like Beyonce loves having a ring put on it.

Kara:
I love you like Timbaland loves the way I are.
I love you like Miley Cyrus loves the climb.
I love you like fleas love dogs.
I love you like Spiderman loves webs.
I love you like tampons love blood.
I love you like vampires love sucking blood.
I love you like teenage boys love popping zits.
I love you like birds love airplane engines.
I love you like Metallica loves the unforgiven.
I love you like Lnyrd Skynrd loves sweet home Alabama.
I love you like Ursa Major loves Ursa Minor.
I love you like Miss Cleo loves her crystal ball.
I love you like Bella Swan loves twilight.
I love you like oysters love their shells.
I love you like clams love chowder.
I love you like termites love wood.
I love you like the Golden Gate Bridge loves suicide jumpers.
I love you like Brooklyn loves pizza.
I love you like Seattle loves rain.
I love you like Vegas loves Celine Dion.
I love you like Tony Romo loves being a homo.
I love you like Jamie Oliver loves food revolutions.
I love you like nerds love dungeons and dragons.
I love you like gays love rainbows.

What Happens to Vegas...

2011-07-08T14:23:00.002-04:00

Ernie's is a barbecue restaurant in Ft. Lauderdale, actually just a block from my office, which makes happy hour easy for me. There is a quiet family friendly restaurant downstairs and an upstairs, loud and raunchy patio bar.

This place is our watering hole. Or, hole in the wall if you will.

The first few times we went to Ernie's we basically kept to ourselves and just watched the people around us. That may seem boring to some of you, but for us, there is nothing in this world we enjoy more than people watching. Our favorite place for this activity is an airport. We fly a few times a year and each time I bring my iPod and several books, each time hoping I can get some reading done. Wrong. I don't read. I barely hear the music coming from my ear buds. It's not for lack of trying; I just can't stop staring at people.

After visiting the place a few times, we met an awesome bartender named Rachel with long curly black hair (JewFro as I like to call it) and fake tits. I know what you're thinking and it's okay; we thought she was a bitch at first too but it turns out that although she's one of the most athletic, body-conscious people out there (and with breast implants too!) she's also extremely hilarious and down to earth. She's our kind of people. Outspoken, brash, rude, and funny.

The only reason we still go to Ernie's is because Rachel works there. Of course we spend time with her outside of work, but it's easy to catch up with her while she's working. If she didn't work there, not sure we could endure the perverted drunks and stupid yacht crew people who hang out there. I do like the townie bar feel to the place, but sometimes the customers are just too much.

Like I said, it is a great place for people-watching though. For my birthday this year, I think I'm going to ask Emily for a people-watching book and binoculars so I can identify all the weird species of people I'm not familiar with.

We've been going to Ernie's for almost two years now, and each time we are there, something hilarious happens. If it's not playing beer pong with two cute college boys from Indiana or threatening to slay the pervert Vince who asked me if I keep dildos in the microwave oven to keep them warm, it's watching Rachel get irritated with her customers.

Her least favorite customer is a black dude from South Africa. We'll call him KG to protect his privacy. Of course I first thought she hated him because he was black, but then I realized she's a Jew and since she herself is from a racial group that has suffered a history of mass murders and lynching, that probably wasn't the case.

But race doesn't even play a role in her hatred for this idiot. He is there every day, gets drunk every day, and racks up a huge bill and only tips her in pennies and dimes. She reminds him every single time that "Tipping" is NOT a city in China. The first time I heard that joke, I laughed. The 893rd time I've heard her say it, not so much. It's time she learns a new joke.

Last I heard KG's wife was sick of his public drunkenness and idiocy that she said quit it or go back to South Africa. Pretty sure he went back to South Africa.

We've encountered all sorts of people while at Ernies. Yachties (people who work on boats), who all have foreign accents and are cheaper than KG, if that's even possible. Travelers who are just stopping in to get a bite to eat before heading to the airport, which is less than a quarter mile down the road. College aged kids, single lonely men, and Canadians.

But there are only a few people worth mentioning just to get a laugh (they're not worth much more).

There is Chuck the Choad (he calls himself Charles), a young, naïve college boy from Illinois who hit on me relentlessly one night and bought me drinks all night. He even let me write "CHOAD" on his arm in red permanent marker. It gave me great pleasure to inform that I am a lesbian and sitting beside me was Emily (she kept herself busy while talking to our other friends there that night) and that I was sorry I couldn't take him home to babysit while he threw up Jaeger Bombs and suffered from Whiskey Dick. We still see him occasionally at the bar and when we do Emily and I burst into a fit of giggles and yell "Chuck the Choad!", but he won't even make eye contact with me. Not even when I give him the stink eye and point in his direction and laugh!

There's Robert, a Vietman vet who claims he carries a gun in his shoe, who wears a Crown Royal hat, plays 134 country songs and 89 classic rock songs from the jukebox in one night, and whose laugh can be heard from miles away. It doesn't matter if the bar is slow and quiet, or packed and loud, Robert's laugh hits a certain octave every time.

I'm not even certain Mariah, Whitney, or Celine could even hit that octave. Every time I hear it, I feel like I'm eating chalk while someone scrapes a fork against a plate. It makes me quiver, and not in a good way either. It's pure torture. Even worse when he acknowledges us, which is my fault because I made the mistake one night of asking him a question, and now the lines of communication are forever open (even though I do my best to ignore him and not break my beer bottle on the counter and stab him in the neck with the broken remains).

There's also Terri, a toothless, wrinkly old man who smokes non-filtered cigarettes and whom I would estimate to be at least 134 years old. He smells like a homeless person who just pissed himself yet always has enough money to drink.

There's Allister (one of the only regulars I actually like), an extremely handsome man in his 40's. He is a great conversationalist, he always smells nice, and he is desperate to take me to a gun range and learn how to shoot. I told him I would only go if I Vince and Robert would be my targets.

But none of these regulars at Ernie's can even compare to a guy we met a few weeks ago. Emily and I were extremely thirsty one Thursday night, also a night Rachel tends bar, so we headed to Ernie's for drinks and dinner.

Not two minutes after we sat down and gulped our Miller Lite, two guys came in and sat down right next to us. They work at EagleRider (a motorcycle shop) across the street, so they come in for drinks after work. We had seen these guys before, but had never sat near them to talk to them.

Until that night. The night we met Vegas.

Vegas (real name Michael) is an attractive guy—tattoos, piercings, good haircut, nice eyes, great smile. Although recently he's been growing this crazy mustache for some "Guy's Weekend", so he looks a little ridiculous. But still cute. He's also Italian and talks as if he's a castoff from Jersey Shore. Luckily, he is NOT a dumb Guido and has an amazing sense of humor (and doesn't even know it!) Nor does he know I'm writing a story about him (well, if he checks his Facebook, he'll know now!)

At first we ignored each other, but after a few drinks, Vegas and his friend Doug started talking to us. It's funny how alcohol can do that; when you are sober, people can be complete strangers, but once you have a nice dose of alcohol in your system, strangers become your best friends! Idle chitchat led to question-asking, name introducing, which led to Vegas sharing the craziest stories.

Doug and I were chatting about something not worth remembering when suddenly Vegas, after a few drinks, starts complaining about his ex-girlfriend.

Doug rolled his eyes and I found out later that Doug had been trying for a week to stop Vegas from telling the same story over and over again.

The story of how his girlfriend dumped him.

Which began like this.

"Man, what a bitch!" Vegas exclaimed, slamming his Blackberry down on the counter.

"Seriously dude? This again?" Doug asked. Vegas looked at Doug, then glanced at Emily and me and said "my girlfriend dumped me on Facebook!"

I nearly spit beer out my nostrils. Who gets dumped on Facebook besides nerdy tweeners and pedophiles posing as teenagers?

All I could do was smile and laugh.

"Dude, it's not funny!" Vegas said, but he was even trying not to smile.

"Pretty sure I've never met anyone who has ever been dumped online so this is a huge honor. I've always wanted to write a story about this," I said.

"I was really into her. She was cool with tattoos and she rode ponies and partied in South Beach. She also let me lick her asshole," Vegas described this seemingly interesting person.

"I hope she bleached it before she let you in there," I said, completely grossed out. Assholes are exit only ramps, not an appetizer for sex (personal opinion; I don't care if anyone else munches butts).

"Nah man...wait, who bleaches what now?" he asked, confused.

"Nevermind. I bet she dumped you because of your asshole licking fetish."

"No, she liked that."

"Well, then what happened?" I asked him.

Reminder: I had just met this guy and he was treating me like I was one of his oldest friends.

Vegas shrugs his shoulders.

"I told her I wanted to move to Broward from Miami. Then she deletes me and blocks me on Facebook and now she won't even answer my calls or texts!" he explains.

"When did this happen?"

"Last week! And since she kicked him out, he's been living with me and this is all I've heard about for 6 days! Thank GOD he picked up his keys to his new place today!" Doug says, clearly irritated.

"She even threw away a lot of my stuff! I am a sunglasses freak and she threw out all my sunglasses and a lot of my clothes!" Vegas shrieked.

For a moment, I got the scene from Waiting to Exhale in my head. The scene where Angela Bassett finds out that her husband is cheating on her and she piles all his belongings into his Mercedes and sets it on fire, standing by while smoking a cigarette. Classic.

Vegas goes on to tell me that he doesn't know what he did wrong (what man does), that he loves her (probably just loves having sex with her), and she didn't have a car or a license (sounds like a mooching bitch to me).

I told him he needed to go out and get laid. Apparently, that is not an option for Vegas. If Vegas just meets a girl one time, he cannot "perform" his manly duties on her; however, if he's met the girl more than once, he will "pound that pussy" until the sun comes up.

"So, you're saying one night stands make you flaccid?" I joked with him.

He nods and lifts his hand and makes his index finger flop, as if showing me what flaccid actually means.

"I've seen my fair share of whiskey dick in the past my friend; no need to illustrate", I joke with him.

"I've never had a one-night stand either. Sex has to mean something to me," Rachel interjects. I look at her as if she had just told me she was a Martian.

"Ha! You'd be surprised at the number of random hookups I've had!" I said, and Emily nodded her head. It may surprise you, but we have slept with many men once upon a time. We had gone to the same college and before we started dating, there were men, a fact that surprises almost everyone we meet here in FL. Goddamn lesbian stereotypes. They're not all true people!

"Well, you still need to get laid," I repeated. We all nodded in agreement, which led to another story.

Doug, being the good friend I'm sure he is, took Vegas out to a strip club one night after he was dumped. Vegas had his face full of tits and his lap full of ass, and he admitted that he could not get a boner.

"How does that happen? How do you not get a boner at a strip joint?" Doug and I ask simultaneously. That's almost like not getting a hard on when a Wisconsinite eats cheese (read: what happens to me every time I get my mouth on a nice slice of aged Wisconsin cheddar or a couple cheese curds).

"Strip clubs just make my uncomfortable. I need to know someone before I can get turned on," he explained. Oddly, I believe him; why tell me this when he clearly has no chance with me? I think Vegas is a hopeless romantic and he gets his heart broken more times than he gets hard.

Which is the exact reason why he says this.

"Even though she dumped me and won't talk to me, I know she has to get to the airport and I offered to drive to Miami and bring her!"

"Why would you even offer that? Dude, you got dumped on Facebook," I say, bursting into laughter.

"Fucking idiot," Doug says, and I laugh harder. Thankfully, Vegas laughs too, otherwise I might be slightly worried that I would hurt his delicate feelings, akin to the feelings of a Disney princess.

"Either you're hopeless, or you're a hopeless romantic; I'm not sure which is worse," I tell him and he nods in agreement.

After ordering another drink, Vegas goes on to tell me he has a giant cockroach living with him and when I suggested he get a cat to chase that thing out or eat it, he said he was allergic. But that didn't matter. He said he wants to get a hairless cat, tattoo a skull and crossbones on it's head, and punch it in the leg until it gets a limp so it can walk all "gangsta like".

Emily grimaced at my suggestion of him getting a cat (she hates cats; especially mine) so when he was getting freaked out by the cockroach (imagine Jessica Simpson falling into a spider web type of reaction), Emily took over and said as long as it was a big one and not small ones (offspring), he'd be fine. We've had two cockroaches in our apartment, and at first I thought it meant we were dirty, poor, and disgusting. Then I realized they were just cold and came in to warm up.

The mere thought of more than one cockroach made me feel physically ill (I may be a tomboy, but I'm worse than a little girl about dirt and bugs).

He still wasn't convinced that his apartment wasn't poverty type of filth (especially since he had just moved in that day!)

"Emily is a cockroach expert. Her clients have cockroaches, so you should listen up," I told Vegas.

"Really?" Vegas asked, surprised. He must think she's an exterminator or a hooker.

"She's a social worker," I interject quickly before Vegas has a chance to use his imagination as to what type of work Emily does.

"Sometimes I'll be sitting on the couch at a client's house and I'll have to flick one off my leg or my arm and when I leave, I usually shake out my clothes to make sure they're not getting in my car for a ride!"

It was true; as a social worker, Emily worked with clients who not only had but were so used to having cockroaches in the house, they were practically a part of the family. Emily suggested to Vegas that he get a roach aerosol bomb because that's what her clients have used before, but even the thought of bombing a cockroach seemed to make Vegas sad.

I sincerely believe he would never hurt a living creature (not even a cockroach? What...an idiot) especially since he is adamant about being a pescatarian (fish eater) and yelled at me for eating grilled chicken on my Greek salad right in front of him.

Even so, this guy is a gentleman, despite his rough exterior. He's Italian; he's taught by his Mama how to treat a lady, meat, and cockroaches. Just not how to treat cats apparently.

As we're eating, Vegas and Doug are telling us a story about how everyone in their lives thinks Vegas is actually an asshole. A lot of Doug's friends' girlfriends and wives hate the guy, which might explain why he has so many EX-girlfriend stories. I tried hard (that's what she said), but I just could not get the asshole vibe from him. Maybe it was because we were so much alike. Humorous without even trying, imaginative, exaggerative, and loved to spew out our inner monologue to innocent bystanders.

I took a minute to judge Vegas. Upon first glance, he would be easy to judge as an insensitive jerk, but once he opens up, he really is a nice guy. So what he eats assholes and has a small transparent skull and crossbones face tattoo? So what he dresses and talks like a Guido? Who cares that his hands are always dirty from working in a motorcycle shop every day?

That night he told us multiple stories about girls he used to date. The only one that stood out to me though, was the one I nicknamed "The Nazi Jew", after hearing his story. Apparently, this girl is Jewish, embraces her heritage, yet loves Hitler and even has a tattoo of a swastika on the palm of her hand. Vegas swears that she's not a Nazi, but I believe the evidence proves otherwise. And if the Casey Anthony trial can teach us anything, it's not what you did; it's what you can prove!

Vegas then proceeds to tell me that he was once interviewed for VH1's Tool Academy. Not because they thought he was a tool, but because his girlfriend at the time was a tool. Yep. You guessed it. Even VH1 knew his Nazi Jew girlfriend was a tool, a fact Vegas still will not admit (nor will he admit she's a Nazi).

Perhaps the most interesting part of the night—besides the fact that he was dumped on Facebook, dated a Nazi, has a horny grandfather who whittles canes in his retirement community, lives with an uninvited giant cockroach (no, not Doug; a real roach), and could be considered a tool—was when he shared a story about something he saw in South Beach. Or should I say, someone he saw in South Beach.

At first I was thinking this would be another chick story, but I was wrong. This guy was unpredictable and unbelievable. Somehow we had gotten on the topic of Hasidic Jews and how weird they were. Rachel is Jewish, like I said, but she's really a non-practicing, totally liberal type Jew. She even celebrates Chrismukkah because she can't pick between either holiday—Christmas or Hanukkah.

Don't ask how we started on this topic; I have no clue. I generally am clueless as to how I end up talking up creationism, dinosaurs, Hasidic Jews, and quoting lines from Napoleon Dynamite in one night. But it happens because I'm me.

First Vegas asked how tall I am, just so we could get an appropriate mental image of this person he saw. I said I was barely 5'2" but I do a sweet ninja kick to the nuts if needed. He nodded and said I was only a few inches taller than the person he saw.

"So, I was cruising down Collins Avenue in Miami and I saw a Hasidic Jew with those crazy curls!" he told us.

"And? There's tons of Jews in Florida. What makes this guy special?" I asked. We used to live in a Jewish neighborhood when we first moved here, and there was nothing special about seeing a Jew with curls or a Jewfro.

"It wasn't a man! It was a midget child!"

No sooner were the words out of his mouth that I collapsed into a fit of laughter. Bear in mind Vegas had not stopped talking and we had gotten to the bar about three hours earlier. He was on a roll and I had been laughing (read: drinking) all night, but as soon as he said "midget child", I lost it. Pretty sure Emily refers to me as her midget child, but at least not to my face.

"How can you have a midget child? A child isn't even fully grown yet, so of course it's short!" I said, completely baffled by this concept.

"Well, when midgets are born that means they're children; hence, midget child," Vegas explained seriously.

"I believe the term is 'little person' now," Rachel piped up while serving us a new round of drinks.

"All children are midgets! Until they hit puberty dude! So how do you know this was a 'little person/midget' child and just not a midget adult?"

"I'm telling you, the kid was a midget," Vegas said. I knew I wouldn't win, so I gave up trying to comprehend.

"Wait guys, it gets better," Vegas added.

"Not only was this a midget child, it was a Hasidic Jew midget child."

"Now you're just making shit up," Doug said, punching Vegas in the arm. I rolled my eyes and laughed. Emily was cackling right next to me, her laugh as contagious as the Swine Flu, so she got everyone else in an uproar.

"I'm dead serious!" Vegas said, once he caught his breath.

We laughed at the image of a midget child (still not understanding that) with curly sideburns. The only image I could muster was Weird Al as a midget singing his parody "Amish Paradise".

"Wait, it gets better," he said again.

"What could possibly get better than a Hasidic Jew Midget Child?" I asked him. Certainly this was a new species and I wanted to be the first one to call National Geographic and break the news.

"There was something wrong with the kid. Like he was retarded or something. I hate that word, but I don't know how else to describe it. I'm pretty sure he had Down syndrome," Vegas said.

Unbelievable. There is no way in hell such a person existed. I used to work in a group home and I had dealt with my share of people with Down's. Sure, a lot of them were short and fat, so I could see how he could have been confused. But for the most part, they grew like normal people.

"Can you tell me the situation in which you found a Hasidic Jew Downs Midget Child in South Beach?" I asked him, almost scared of the answer.

"He was walking down the street with his parents, and one of them was Asian!"

"Hasidic Jew Downs Midget Asian Child cross breed? HAHAHAHAHA!" I slammed my fist down on the table multiple times, laughing so hard my abs were burning (read: my abs are somewhere below my fat). I wondered if he even knew the difference between someone with Down's and an Asian, or the difference between an adult midget and a child, or the difference between fact and fiction. My guess would be no.

"Did you get a picture of this thing?" I asked him. He said he did not because he was driving, which if you've ever driven on A1A in South Beach, you'd know driving and doing anything with your phone is damn near impossible.

With no proof of this creature, Vegas could not prove its existence. He didn't need to because, although I wouldn't admit this out loud, I kind of believed him. I mean, I am the girl who got mistaken for a boy, almost got sliced and diced into chow mein while bowling with Asians one night, got kicked out of sex education for laughing too much, and slept with Spiderman. So who was I to doubt the authenticity of these stories?

We have now come to know Vegas pretty well and see him occasionally on Thursday or Friday nights. He is a super nice guy, very polite, and every time, he makes me laugh. And every time, I grab the nearest pen and pad of paper to take notes.

Even though we had to wade through the muck and slime known as Robert, Vince, KG, and Chuck the Choad, we finally found a rare and precious gem in Vegas, a cute Italian boy with tattoos, piercings, and a good heart.

Vegas, a guy who gives me amazing writing material. A guy who is not afraid to tell us girls sometimes queef in his mouth (and admits he likes it). A guy who is a psycho chick magnet. A guy who pisses on cop cars.

A guy who will tongue punch a fart box any day.

Getting Older is a Bitch; But That Depends...

2011-05-06T15:46:00.000-04:00

Getting Older is a Bitch;

But That Depends

One year left in my twenties and all I have to show for it is an angry, abused liver and a muffin top. There were so many things I had planned for myself and haven't yet accomplished. Good thing I don't take myself or life too seriously otherwise I'd have to be on anti-depressants and have a suicide hotline programmed on speed dial because I literally have not accomplished anything in my twenty-nine years on this planet.

I wanted to travel the world and see places like Greece, Australia, Hawaii, and North Dakota. The furthest I've gone is Ireland and Canada not counting the twelve United States I have visited. I haven't even been to Mexico, although I have taken that destination off my list for now. Apparently, American tourists are targets for violent crimes there. I wonder why that is? What's wrong with Americans?

My number one goal in life has always been to be a published author, sitting pretty in the #1 spot on the NY Times Bestseller List. The only list I'm on is my ex- fiancé's hit list (I broke off our engagement four days before our wedding; can you blame the guy?) and possibly the No Fly list at the airport. I can be a bit loud and obnoxious in public, and some might find that threatening.

Of course I could always self publish my book, but that's about as fulfilling as self-medicating or masturbating. Nothing beats prescription drugs and sex. Even better when you combine the two.

I also thought if I weren't a published author by now that I'd at least have a sweet, good-paying job doing something I love. Like being a crossword puzzle writer, a sandwich shop owner, or a video game tester. That also hasn't happened yet. I do crosswords, write, eat sandwiches, and play Wii, I just don't get paid for it.

I guess I shouldn't be complaining though; turning 30 soon really isn't the end of the world. I could be dead, or worse, in my 40's. At least I don't have gray hair or an AARP membership just yet. I haven't resigned myself to wearing turtlenecks, sweaters with sparrows sewn on them, or watching PBS. I haven't taken up bird watching or crocheting as hobbies, nor do I belong to a bridge club. My smile lines are still under control (no need for botox yet) and my boobs are still perky. At least some things are still looking up for me!

Lately I've noticed I don't recuperate as quickly as I used to after a night out drinking. Back in my early twenties, I could go on a twenty-eight day drinking binge (coincidentally the same amount of time as a stint in rehab) and never felt hungover! Now if we go out for a few drinks on a Thursday night, I'm a tank ass at work Friday, sluggish Saturday, and just exhausted on Sunday. And Mondays suck no matter what, so really I'm not quite 100% until Tuesday!

It could be that I'm not much in shape or that I'm just getting old, but man alive does it take me a long time to get off the floor after I've been on my knees (insert sexual innuendo here). My joints ache frequently, and I have this bulging disc in my back that bulges at inconvenient times. Like when I'm trying to sleep or just relax and watch TV! The only time my bulging disc doesn't give me attitude is when I exercise, but again, I'm not exactly sure what that word even means.

The most significant sign of aging I've noticed is my lack of bladder control. Or bladder size. I think my bladder used to be the size of a cantaloupe, but now it's the size of a cantaloupe seed! I pee about 100 times per day, no matter how much water I drink. If I don't pee right before I go to bed, there's a slight chance I will pee the bed. That happened once in college, but luckily hadn't happened since.

Until recently when I discovered my bladder cannot control itself when I'm unconscious. Sober or drunk.

It was a Tuesday night (I remember because we had gone out for drinks the previous Thursday and couldn't recuperate until that Tuesday) and after watching Biggest Loser, Emily and I headed to bed. Even though I knew it was dangerous, I had three glasses of water before bed. Hey, I get thirsty watching those contestants working those treadmills!

That night, I had the most beautiful, scenic dreams. I dreamt that we were at Niagara Falls and I was swimming and frolicking in the waterfalls. I was with a bunch of faceless friends (I read somewhere people in dreams are just a reflection of yourself and therefore, they are faceless) and I kept telling them I had to pee. My bladder was throbbing like a thumb that had just been slammed in a car door and I was seeing stars. They urged me to pop a squat, saying "C'mon KC! You do it all the time anyway!"

That was true. I do pee outside all the time. I'm a Midwestern tomgal; "up nort", we're not afraid to pee outside in mud, snow, rain, or in an alley leaning against a dumpster or even in someone's backyard.

Then the scene suddenly shifted to the most beautiful toilet, positioned adjacent to a babbling brook. The toilet was made of gold and it called my name, urging me to sit on it. I didn't even think it odd that a golden toilet was next to a body of water. Maybe that's because there's this restaurant called Le Tub in Hollywood, Florida, located on the Intracoastal Waterway, and they have toilets and tubs (used as pots for plants and trees) decorating the exterior of the restaurant.

In my dream, I followed the commands of the golden toilet and took a seat upon the throne. As soon as my ass hit the golden seat, a stream of gold was released from my body. Ahhhhhh...sweet release. It was the most amazing feeling in the entire world. Then suddenly, the toilet disappeared and my dreams slowly merged with reality and I was lying in my bed, staring up at the ceiling fan.

Soaking wet.

Every other time I dream about urinating, my body forces me awake so I don't pee the bed like an eight year old who still uses plastic sheets on his bed. But that night my brain and body both failed me.

I lifted my butt off the mattress and felt below my ass and there it was. A puddle of pee. Scratch that. It was a goddamn lake of pee! I glanced at the clock and saw that it was 4am. Emily was sleeping peacefully beside me, unaware of Lake KC that had just formed in our bed.

I ran to the bathroom to finish the job and it sounded like Adam Sandler's Longest Pee skit. Even my cat got bored with the unexpected early morning excitement and fell asleep at my feet.

I faced a difficult decision. Should I wake up Emily at 4am and tell her we have to change the sheets because I peed the bed? Or do I use the extra large beach towels in the closet to sop up the mess and hope it dries in three hours when we have to get up for work?

Beach towels. Clearly the obvious choice.

I grabbed the beach towels from the closet, trying to make as little noise as possible. I put one under the fitted sheet and one on top. I slept like a rock (from the bottom of that babbling brook) for the next few hours and woke up thinking that had all been a dream.

Until I realized I was sleeping on beach towels, not sheets. When I got out of bed, I removed the towels and put them in the laundry basket. They had done their job beautifully and soaked up Lake KC to the point my sheets were dry!

Second difficult decision. Do I tell Emily what happened when she wakes up and wash the sheets right away? Or do I pretend like nothing happened and wash the sheets after work?

I did a mixture of both. I got ready for work, left the house, and I failed to mention I had lost all bladder control that night. When I got to work, I was dying to tell someone I peed the bed. If I were going to tell anyone, I knew it had to be Emily. She was out walking a dog and I knew she would be home late morning before going to her real job (social worker real job; dog walker second job).

"Hey hons. When you get home, do me a favor and wash the sheets. K?" I texted her.

"Um...why?"

"Just do it. Please?"

"Why?"

She wasn't going to let me off the hook.

"I peed the bed."

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Laugh it up."

"Do you want me to pick up Depends on my way home too?" she added.

I was hoping I wouldn't have to wear Depends until my late 80's, but I guess lack of bladder control came 50 years early.

One of the reasons I love Emily is that although she teased me relentlessly, cracking jokes about bed wetting ("Remember that time you peed the bed? As an adult?") and asking me if I should wear Depends to bed, she did offer to pay for a Detrol LA prescription and even printed out paperwork for an AARP membership. Quite a gal if you ask me.

For a few months after this incident, Emily was also the Pee Police. She would force me to try and pee, even if I didn't have to go. I remember my mom saying the same thing when I was younger and I couldn't believe this was my new bedtime ritual. I might as well be in a nursing home with a bedpan catching my pee dribble.

I was so scared to drink anything before bed. I was even scared to rinse my mouth out with water after brushing my teeth because I might swallow some. I would have a hernia trying to squeeze every last drop of pee out of my bladder before heading to bed. No matter. I still sometimes had a full bladder at night. The dreams about peeing in a babbling brook still came, but since then, my body hasn't failed me.

I've gotten a bit more relaxed about my water before bed restrictions. I still tempt fate by drinking a cup of tea or an ice-cold glass of water before bed. I still bring a bottle of water to bed in case I get thirsty at night. Sometimes I have phenomenal sex dreams and I get parched.

Even though I sometimes feel old, I know I'm not. Getting older is a bitch, but it depends on the way you look at it. I'm so excited about my last year in my twenties but I'm ready to say goodbye to them and welcome the 30's with open arms and plastic sheets.

Although I haven't set any unrealistic goals for myself, I have high hopes that this book will be published and someday I will be on that Bestseller list, that I will get to travel to exotic places, and finally learn the definition of "exercise".

If I live to see 30 I will have accomplished at least that. For my birthday that year, I plan on either taking an Alaskan cruise, flying to the land down under, or at the very least, getting the F out of Florida.

Hopefully I won't have to pack an extra suitcase just for my Depends.

You Can Take The Tomgal Out of The Midwest, But You Still Can't Bring Her to South Beach

2011-05-05T15:43:00.004-04:00

It’s true what they say—you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the girl. I think there’s a white trash joke here somewhere, but I’m not smart enough to think of one. I’m from the Midwest yo!

In my case, you can take the tomgal out of the Midwest, but you can never take the Midwest out of the tomgal. That's right; I'm a tomgal, not a tomboy. I'm not manly enough to be considered a tomboy, but I'm definitely far from feminine, hence the tomgal. Either way, neither sex wants me on their team, so I'm happy being somewhere right in the middle as a tomgal.

I moved to South Florida from Wisconsin three years ago, and to this day, there is nothing about me that screams South Beach or Florida, unless you consider my nearly empty wallet and odd tan lines. I’m not even sure I’d be welcome in South Beach. After all, I wear jeans and t-shirts and drive a Saturn. I don't know my Louis Vuitton from my LA Gear and for the longest time I thought Gucci was either a French dessert or a Caribbean fruit.

I’m damn proud of where I come from and refuse to conform to the plastic and rich lifestyles people lead here. Or on the other end of the spectrum, I refuse to become a heroin addict and make a cameo appearance on Policewomen of Broward County. Now that is a quality show.

Everyone (especially Southerners) all claim they’re special, simply because of where they come from. Well, the same can be said for Midwesterners. We are a special group of simple-minded people who lead simple lives. Midwesterners are smarter than Canadians but sometimes dumber than the cast of Jersey Shore. Ironically, most people in the Midwest can’t even get cable or satellite at their house to even understand this reference.

The Midwest is full of small towns that aren’t even considered towns. Sure, we have cities like Milwaukee, Chicago, and Minneapolis, but if you don’t live in an unincorporated area, then you live in a college town, or at least a town near a college town. If you want to see a concert, go to a fancy restaurant, or see normal people, it’s at least an hour’s drive.

Growing up in Rhinelander (home of the Hodag; Google it), a small town I’m not even sure is on the map of Wisconsin, I was spoiled into thinking everyone in the world was nice, friendly, and simple. My town is like Cheers; everyone knows everyone. Gossip travels faster there than Malaria travels in Africa. For years I was convinced Kmart was practically like Macy’s and Burger King had the best burgers in the world. The most exciting time of the year was the 4th of July parade where two fire trucks, an ambulance, and the local 4H float would cruise down Brown Street in a matter of minutes and the fireworks later that night lasted for thirty-six seconds.

We even have a special neighborhood in Rhinelander called “Divorce City” where all the single pregnant/young moms live out their twenties surviving on welfare and the paychecks of the summer carnival workers. I have a cousin who lives there and she’s a damn proud Divorce City-zen. As long as the rest of you Wisconsinites keep working, she doesn’t have to. Sweet deal if you ask me.

The summer I turned 18, I moved to Oshkosh and spend the next five years and over $30k in student loans reading, writing papers and studying (read: pretending to be a student while partying heavily) to only learn one thing: everyone is a drunk (myself included). Then I move to SoFlo and realize everyone is an asshole (again, myself included). Although my partner Emily and I do love living a mile from the ocean (that’s right folks; 1 mile) and having our choice of food, arts, entertainment, and strip clubs at our fingertips, it’s just not the same as the Midwest. It’s just not home.

Back in the Midwest, parties take place in a field or in someone’s basement, not in an overpriced club on the beach where there is a plethora of fake tits and Extacy tablets available for sale. Grocery bills are a fraction of the cost, as are speeding tickets. Licensed Midwest drivers aren’t afraid of driving 65 MPH through eighteen inches of snow on icy covered roads. Florida drivers (with or without said licenses) are afraid of a few raindrops and slam on the brakes the minute they detect moisture in the air. Bitch, please.

Midwesterners aren’t afraid to kill a hog, throw it on the grill, and have a pig roast to celebrate a wedding, divorce, or just for shits and giggles. In Florida where the Jewish population reigns supreme, pigs are not considered Kosher because they do not have cloven hooves, or some dumb shit like that. Every time I sink my teeth into a baby back half rack, I count the days until Yom Kippur so I can atone for my sins. And I’m not even Jewish!

Here in SoFlo, there is an obvious difference between the male and female sexes. Most women have fake tits and rock hard tan bodies. Men have the exact same, minus the tits, unless they’re gay men and have peck implants.

The genders of us Midwesterners can easily be mistaken. Both sexes wear plaid flannel shirts, Carhart clothing (that shit is warm!), and official NFL gear and/or Nascar gear. And that’s only during the winter! The only time you can tell the difference between a redneck man and a redneck woman is during the summer simply by looking at the length of Jorts (jean shorts) worn by both sexes. Men’s Jorts are shorter and if you look close enough, you might even see a ball. Or two.

Women in Florida drive cars most consider cute, like a Smart car or a VW Bug, cars I think you have to be mentally handicapped to even step foot in, profoundly mentally retarded to own and drive. These women carry Coach purses and wear Manolo Blahnik heels; Midwestern women don’t need purses. That’s what pickup trucks and Carhart jackets are for. We wear steel-toed boots and sporty sandals.

Florida men drive BMWs and Bentleys and are more boring than mortgage brokers and teachers. They also think their sexy, sleek cars will make up for what they lack in personality. Or what they lack under the hood, if you catch my driftwood. Midwestern men drive tractors (and yes, we do think they’re sexy) and have trucks bigger than most of the houses in Florida.

In the Midwest (and the South), the streets and the three major highways are clogged with pickup trucks and actual smart cars like the Ford Taurus or Chevy Malibu. Those cars can handle the two seasons in the Midwest—winter and road construction. Pretty sure if anyone in my hometown drove a Smart car, they would be shot with a hunting rifle, tagged and brought to the DNR. Or killed and thrown on a roaster like those poor pigs.

There’s just no comparing Florida to the Midwest. Sure, the weather is nicer (only in the winter; in the summer I sweat more than a hooker in a Catholic church) but the people are rude, everything is expensive, but it’s like comparing ground turkey to ground beef. It simply cannot be done.

I will always be a Midwest gal (er, I mean, tomgal) even if I don’t live there currently. Midwest gals are just as tough as the guys. We don’t flinch when we need to use jumper cables in the winter or apply Deet immediately after showering in the summer. We can chop wood, kill deer, throw a mean right hook, and almost all of us are professional hoers. The only thing SoFlo women can claim is being professional whores. The words sound the same, but they are so not.

Living in SoFlo has been an amazing, eye opening experience. When I mention the word “cheese”, people around me gain three pounds. I gain ten. When I say the word “Minnesota”, people mimic my accent and let the long “O” sound in “sota” go on for an hour. I learned quickly the only thing $20 will buy you at a bar is shitty valet service or worse, self parking in a parking garage for a measly three hours. When I say hello to the cashiers in the grocery store, they damn near stroke out in complete shock that I’m friendly. And I’m not even that friendly; in fact, I’m an asshole who happens to be from the Midwest where other people are friendly. It’s just in my blood.

It is, however, possible to compare Midwesterners to Southerners because we are basically the same, just without the annoying accents and just a smidgeon classier. I’ve been to the South several times and enjoyed it long enough for me to have credibility in my comparison. The Midwest is still better, y'all.

We Midwesterners are about as redneck as you can get without crossing the Mason-Dixon line. We say you guys, not y’all. We say ask, not aks. We prefer baked chicken over fried; green beans over collard greens. We drink beer, not Jack Daniels. We eat Walleye instead of crawfish. We have fish fries, not clam bakes. We eat corn, not peaches. We add cheese to everything the same way Southerners add BBQ sauce. We eat oatmeal; not grits.

I love everything about the Midwest as a region, but everyone knows there’s no better state in the country than the state of Wisconsin. The Badgers aren’t just a football team; they are also cute woodland creatures found in almost everyone’s backyard. We buy our entire list of Christmas presents at Fleet Farm.
We know a brat is something you eat and a name you call every single one of your children. Or other people's children. We have more miles on our snow blowers and snowmobiles than our cars. We have accepted the fact that we can use the heat and A/C in the same day and have gotten frostbite and sunburn in the same weekend. We’ve all seen a Hodag (haven’t Googled it yet? you really should) and we can identify the difference between an Illinois and Michigan accent.

And most importantly, we know our ABC’s and have a full set of teeth (per person, not per family).

Oh yes I did!

eCuriosity

2011-04-26T15:35:00.003-04:00

Matchmaker, Matchmaker Make Me A Match

(I'm eCurious)

With modern technology these days, it seems finding a partner for all you lost souls out there would be relatively easy. There are websites like eHarmony, Plenty of Fish, and Date Hook Up. I hear some people even use Craig's List for their single white female ads, although I've read that's a good way to go and get yourself murdered.

I used a dating site about nine years ago. Pretty sure I was a drunk college student and thought it would be a good idea. I never had a problem finding people to date at bars, on campus, or in class. Curiosity just got the better of me. I didn't want to find my soul mate; I simply wanted to see what kinds of weirdos I could attract and laugh about it with my friends.

Ironically, I used Yahoo personals, created a profile, and within days I attracted a guy named Mike who described himself as being like Mark from the movie Empire Records. That was a false representation of what he was actually like. Still, we dated for about four years on and off and I almost married the poor sap. Calling off your wedding four days before the big day is not a good way to bow out. But hey, at least I wasn't the Runaway Bride, right?

But that's not how all personal dating website stories end, according to the eHarmony ads. Lately, there has been a large amount of eHarmony commercials on TV. Every ad shows "happy" couples ice skating, sharing spaghetti, or cuddling together. eHarmony portrays itself as a website that is capable of making magical marriages, akin to love found only in Disney movies, just by taking a compatibility quiz and uploading a picture.

What the commercials portray is how grounded they are in core values, like religion, heterosexuality, and family. And when I say family, I mean a man, a woman, marriage, and children. What other kind of family is there anyway? Duh.

There's a problem with their commercials though. Every couple is a man and a woman. They do not show two men, or two women together. Then I got to thinking. They only show straight couples, but are there gay couples that find love on eHarmony? I'm eCurious.

So, as an experiment, I decided to become a member just to see if I would be accepted or rejected. Yes, it is possible to be rejected by a website. Not just the porno and alcohol websites that require a valid birth date. Even eHarmony can reject you, so your chances at finding true love at the local watering hole might just be better than sitting on your fat ass behind a computer creating an online dating profile.

Which is exactly what I did.

Before I go any further, please note that I have already met my match. Her name is Emily and she is the woman I will marry someday. Not sure what day that will be, as gay marriage is not allowed in all the 50 states or Puerto Rico, which apparently the United States owns or dictates or some shit like that. But we are engaged and have been together for over four years. My creating an eHarmony website is not because I'm looking for a spouse, a spiritual partner, or a mediocre lay; I'm simply trying an experiment. An experiment to see if the most popular dating website caters to everyone.

eHarmony brags about how people can find a match on their website, so I wondered...would they accept someone like me? A sarcastic, foul-mouthed lesbian who drinks like Keith Richards and always has to have the last word? Well, we shall see.

The questionnaire starts off with your basic info. Name, location, race, religion, height, etc. Then they ask you how important it is for your mate to be a certain race or religion. Well, I didn't want to discriminate (equal rights people!) so I said I didn't care if my match was white, Hispanic, Japanese, or Arab. Is it wrong that I assumed "mutt" would be an option?

Although I'm not religious and don't associate myself with any church or faith, I didn't want to leave anyone out. Christian, Jewish, Hindu, or Sikh. I would have preferred a Wiccan or someone who practices Voodoo New Orleans style, but again, that was not an option.

So far, it seems eHarmony is not quite for everyone. But let's keep going. Just because Wicca and Mutt are not options for religion and race doesn't mean the website is completely prejudiced. Not yet anyway.

When I get to the part where I have to describe myself, I think it will be easy. Wrong. I have to go through at least 200 varying adjectives to describe myself. Here are a few of the best options.

Witty? Yes.

Humorous? Yes.

Moral? Definitely not.

Charming? Somewhat.

Open? Yes, sometimes too open.

Aggressive? Yes.

Getting bored yet? I am. But let's keep going.

Persistent? Yes.

Stubborn? Fo sho!

Outspoken? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Calm? Not always.

Opinionated? Ask everyone I know.

Judgmental? Ask my sister Kate.

After I have gone through the list of adjectives to describe me and pick, yes, no, or somewhat, I get to the section where I have to guess four adjectives that my friends would describe me. These adjectives are outgoing, creative, funny, and perceptive. No doubt in my mind.

The other options to pick from were been respectful (as if), physically fit (so what I have a beer belly?), rational (I'm Irish, let's be real), and quiet (double AS IF). So, I'm confident that I picked the right adjectives my lovely friends would pick for me.

I then come to a section that has upgraded from one-word adjectives to complete sentences. These are sentences that I completely agreed with.

I enjoy a good joke. (Especially the dirty ones).

I have a high desire for sexual activity. (Damn straight!)

I like to play pranks on others. (One of my hobbies actually).

I often see humor in every day life. (How can you not when there are so many idiots out there?)

I have an ability to make others laugh. (Which, I hope you have done at some point while reading my stories).

My friends come to me when they are in difficult times because they know I can handle emotional crises. (According to my peeps, I am their therapist. Free therapist, mind you).

I find that going to church is a good way to meet people who benefit my social and/or professional life. (I said strongly disagree on this one; but see how they manage to slide religion in there ever so sneakily?)

Now comes the fun part. I get to decide what I would important qualities I want in a match. Here's where eHarmony would decide who I should be matched with, depending on my answer. From what I gather, they wouldn't want a gay, sex-obsessed atheist. So I made it my goal to appear as one.

I marked that my match's sex appeal, physical appearance, romantic attraction I feel, and our sexual compatibility were most important. I marked that I didn't care about their religion, family values, beliefs, or love of children.

At this point, I was expecting my computer to be attacked with an anti-gay virus, reject me from the website immediately, and email me a link for the local Sexaholics Anonymous or Gays 'R Us group meeting.

I was actually disappointed when that didn't happen.

They have now decided that they have scratched the surface of who I am, so they are now going to ask me trick questions. Like if you are applying for a job and your interviewer asks you "Have you ever lied?" and you start sweating because you know it's a trick question. You can't answer "no" because that's a lie, but you can't answer "yes", because then they won't hire you because they know you just lied. There's no right answer.

I always read ALL of the warning literature on side effects before taking any medication. False. (Isn't that what pharmacists are for?)

I sometimes drive faster than the posted speed limit. False. (I ALWAYS drive faster than the posted speed limit).

I don't care what other people think of me. True. (I am who I am).

I dislike some people. True and False. (I dislike most people).

I would never lie, even if it wouldn't hurt anyone. False. (Everyone lies).

I sometimes wish that certain other people would fail. No answer.

Phew. This questionnaire is exhausting and I'm not even 2/3 the way through it yet. Good thing I'm stubborn and aggressive or I would have given up already.

Moving onto the next section, I get to list my favorite activities. Unfortunately, swearing, drinking, and fornicating are NOT options. So I'm forced to pick activities like board games, camping, cooking, family, parties, wine, traveling, and video games. Thankfully during all these activities, I swear and drink, so I guess it counts.

Oh goody! I get to evaluate my living skills now! I'm still alive, so what else does this damn website need to know?

Apparently, they need to know if I maintain a close network of friends. If I use humor to make friends laugh. If I entertain in my home. Yes, of course I'm funny and entertaining. They also want to know if I create romance in my relationship (for all you perverted eVoyeurs out there, the answer is yes!).

I guess it's also imperative for them to know if I share my beliefs through teaching, participation, and example and if I understand local, national, and world events.

Not gonna lie; I only understood three words in that whole sentence. So I skipped it.

Next I get to evaluate my communication style. What, using my outdoor voice and curse words isn't enough for you eHarmony? You haven't figured me out yet?

I try to make sure that my position prevails, that I win. (Damn straight).
I try to make sure I'm understood. (How can I win if people don't understand me?)

I try to understand the other person. (How can you win an argument unless the other person feels the opposite?)

I am passionate/intense about my position. (Some would say I'm obsessed when I know I'm right).

I try to drop an issue once it is resolved. (Nope. I've been told I am notorious for rehashing old arguments. Again, just ask my sister Kate).

Have I proven my point yet? If you disagree with me, I would love to argue with you about it. No takers? Okay. Moving on.

Relationship style is next. Do they mean style as in doggie style? Surely not. What they mean is when I think about what I want in a relationship, how important are the following items:

Knowing as much as possible about my partner's past? (Yes. I would like to know how many people have been in or around their naughty parts).

Being able to tell my partner everything about myself. (Duh. I'm more open and unabashed than Courtney Love).

Enjoying physical closeness with my partner. (Sex? Yup!)

Feeling that my spouse can do little wrong. (Um...no. I'm not the only one to take blame here).

Then they ask me for three things for which I'm most thankful. Hmmm...I always have a difficult time coming up with one thing on Thanksgiving, let alone three on this website. I immediately type in the first three things that come to mind: alcohol, sex, and life.

Man, I am not portraying myself in a very positive light, am I? Well, like I said. It's an experiment. And most of what I've answered is true. Except for the whole sex obsession. That's almost false.

It then asks me who the most influential person has been in my life. I write "Oprah...'nuff said".

What is the most important quality that I am looking for in another person? "For my partner to be as sexually expressive as I am".

Other than your appearance, what is the first thing people notice about you? "My gapped front teeth. Rumor has it, they give my face character".

The questionnaire ends with me marking if I need my match to smoke/drink. Well, I don't care either way. I don't want to be matched with a drunk, but my match certainly cannot be Mormon (no drinking, swearing, or pre-marital fornicating? What kind of life is that?)

Wait, that wasn't an option in the religion section. I guess Mormons aren't welcome on this site either. I kept waiting for it but it never happened. Not only are Mormons not considered as prime eHarmony matches, neither are homosexuals. There was not a section where I could mark if I wanted to meet a man or a woman. If I was gay or straight.

Regardless, I clicked "continue" and impatiently waited to see whom I'd be matched with. After waiting 30 seconds, I had seven matches.

Dean.

Matt.

Mark.

Luke.

John.

Adam.

Robert.

Changpu.

I was matched with eight men all in their thirties. Seven white males and one Chinese man. FML. I never said I liked Asian inspired food, so what's with Changpu? Are they trying to prove they're not racist?

Is it coincidental that I was matched with four men whose names also appear in the bible as gospels? Most likely not.

Good news: I wasn't rejected.

Bad news: I wasn't quite accepted either.

If eHarmony would have asked a few more questions (ugh, was that even possible), they would have matched me with women and men, not just men. I can't say I was surprised; it's not as if I didn't know this simply based on their commercials.

I guess I just would have liked to see the most popular and "successful" dating website cater to everyone, not just a man and a woman who go to church, want marriage, kids, two cars, and a nice house and would never cheat, lie, or steal. Ever. That's the only life eHarmony portrays (in my opinion).

Well, we are two women who want the same things. Emily goes to church (I'm not certain I could cross the threshold without receiving third degree burns). We want to get married. We want to have kids. We want to own a house. We don't lie, cheat or steal.

So, what's the dealio eHomies? Why was I only matched up with men? Why are you judging me based on a couple questions? All you have to do is make a box that says "interested in men or women" and this website would be damn near perfect.

Thankfully, Emily and I didn't have to rely on eHarmony to find each other. If we had, there's no chance in hell (my future home, by the way) we would have been matched with one another.

My favorite question from this whole survey was: "Is there any additional information you would like your matches to know about you?"

My answer: "I am the most sarcastic person you will ever meet. You might not like me right away, but slowly over time, I will grow on you like mold on a strawberry."

"Oh, and I'm a lesbian".

Love is Like...

2011-04-19T15:43:00.000-04:00

So, yesterday I came up with a new game. It's a game of similes called "I Love You Like"...I came up with the game because one of my best friends in the entire world is going through a rough time right now, so how better to ease her stress than letting her know I love her AND making her laugh, right?

The game goes a little something like this: "I love you like (insert) loves (insert). For example, you could say "I love you like a fat kid loves cake". But who says that anymore? Be creative people.

I laughed so hard yesterday as we came up with these, I just had to share a conversation via text messages that I had with my above mentioned best friend.

Please keep in mind most, if not all of these, may be offensive to the general public. I don't care though; I think they're hilarious. Also, there are times when we refer to certain people in our lives, and in order to protect their identities and to protect us from being disowned/murdered, I have used XX to conceal their real names. Please don't assume the XX is you; you never know if it refers to you or multiple people in both our lives. Just sayin...

Me: "I love you like Eazy E loved rapping, before he died from the HIV".
Rae: "LMFAO" (not knowing I was playing a game yet).
Me: "I love you like Steven Tyler loves girl jeans".
Me: "I love you like the Real Housewives love drama and plastic surgery".
Me: "I love you like Bobby Brown loves hitting Whitney".
Me: "I love you like my panties love my farts".
Me: "I love you like Anna Nicole loved Trim Spa".
Me: "I love you like a barnacle loves the bottom of a boat".
Me: "I love you like a bunion loves a toe".
Rae: "I love you like a sausage loves its casing". (Ah...she's caught on now and is playing!)
Me: "I love you like a hamster loves its wheel".
Rae: "I love you like a tampon loves its string".
Me: "I love you like a maxipad loves its sticky side".
Me: "I love you like a pube loves its follicle".
Rae: "I love you like a sperm loves an egg".
Me: "I love you like the Jonas Brothers love giving blowjobs".
Rae: "I love you like Martha Stewart loves lace".
Me: "I love you like Martha Stewart loves women's correctional facility".
Rae: "LMAO" (need a break to laugh)
Me: "I love you like the makers of W.O.W. (World of Warcraft) loves losers
Me: "I love you like XX loves XBox
Me: "Emily loves you like cat poo loves cat litter".
Rae: "LMFAO God I'm dying!"
Me: "I love you like Ben Franklin loved electricity".
Me: "I love you like I love my new 'I love you like' game".
Me: "I love you like the Japanese loved Pearl Harbor...NOT!"
Me: "I love you like a pedophile loves playgrounds".
Rae: "I love you like the Japanese love big waves...too soon? My bad" (no disrespect intended; we are human after all)
Me: "I love you like Oklahoma loves tornadoes".
Me: "I love you like hippies love grass".
Rae: "I love you like XX loves denial".
Me: "Oh, this game just took an interesting turn..."
Me: "I love you like XX loves XXself".
Rae: "LMFAO! I can't breathe!!!"
Rae: "I love you like XX likes to complain".
Me: "I love you like XX loves to cry".
Rae: "I love you like XX loves fantasies".
Me: "I love you like XX loves having bipolar disorder".
Me: "I love you like Billy Ray loves his mullet".
Me: "I love you like XX loves the Army".
Me: "I love you like Kirstie Alley loves being fat".
Me: "I love you like emos love cutting their wrists and wearing their sister's jeans".
Me: "I love you like the gays love aromatherapy".
Rae: "I love you like Emily loves losing hubcaps".
Me: "I love you like Helen Keller loves Braille".
Me: "I love you like Mr. Holland loves his opus".
Me: "I love you like Willy loves being free".
Me: "I love you like Will.I.AM. loves black-eyed peas".
Rae: "I love you like 50 cent loves being shot".
Me: "I love you like Tupac loves Thug Life".
Me: "OMG I LOVE my new simile game!"
Me: "I love you like Celine Dion loves having twins while in her 40's".
Rae: "LMFAO I AM DYYYIIIINNNNNGGG"

If you don't have a decent sense of humor and aren't witty, you may not enjoy this game...just sayin. We enjoyed it cause we're amazing, funny, and clever.

To be continued...