The unwanted visitor

It always arrives early in morning, typically on a Saturday or a Sunday but sometimes it even stops in on a weekday morning. It lingers, usually far too long, and generally has enough of a presence that my entire day is affected by it. Even if i close my eyes, it still stays around. Doesn't really get the sense that it is not wanted.

It's funny. It never used to come by so regularly. There was even a time in my life when I used to gloat that it never came around. I would wake up at the crack of dawn, smile on my face, annoyingly cheerful, and fresh. No unwanted visitors to wreak havoc on my life. Then..I got old.

I now can relate to why my housemates would miss their 2pm classes after a night out on the town. I used to think it was crazy that they would be couch ridden for the day, unable to move suddenly, or speak loudly.
My iron stomach has now become mush. I long for the days of yore.

It is not entirely my fault that things have changed, I haven't changed my indulging ways, but the proverbial hangover has definitely come on stronger in the past few years. I have now come to expect it. The moment I take a sip of a numbered dirty martini, I have accepted that my mind will no longer be mine the next morning, that my head will be playing a symphony of boisterous sounds and that my body will feel like it's rotting from the inside out, and then will hate me for heading straight to the golden arches in an attempt to cure the wretched feeling deep within the pit of my stomach.

Sometimes, I don't even make it out of the house. Sometimes, I lie like a fish out of water, flop around in agony trying to muster up the strength to be 'sweet' and 'cute' and send the man (who somehow still loves me) out, requesting a pit stop to pick up a cold gatorade and some advil. I used to be the one who would do the gatorade runs for others. I used to be the one who would pull back the hair of my friends (SWF) as they lay on the cold bathroom floor in a sarong, reaching for the sides of the bowl. I used to be the one who would make a big batch of soup to feed the bodies sprawled painfully on the couch downstairs. I used to attend every 8:30am class, and pay attention.

To this day, you won't find me hugging the porcelain bowl, but you WILL find me in sweatpants, oversized sweatshirts, makeup from the night before, and i will be peering at you through puffy bright red eyes. I remind myself of someone who would be profiled on Intervention, or something you might find at the side of the road, after having been hit by a truck. That sounds depressing, but the good news? It's only a phase.

I will NOT be accepting visits from this unwanted visitor past the age of maturity. Right now, it's hard to know when that particular age will arrive, but once this body decides to house a baby, you can be sure that i will change the locks on my door. I will wake up, open one eye, and then the other. The sun will not penetrate my brain and feel like it's burning my retina. I will open the blinds, spring out of bed and maybe even hum a soft tune, or sing along to easy listening on the radio. I will prepare a pot of coffee, and start my day vertically.

I will smile to myself, maybe chuckle a bit, and wonder who the unwanted visitor has decided to pay a  torturous visit to.

"Take it Easy, Chico'

Sunday Morning: 11:30am

My eyes flutter open … reluctantly.

There is an immediate and insistent pounding in my skull, and a sour taste in my mouth.

Hung. Over. Ugh.

I have to hand it to myself. Judging, by my PJ’s, I seemed fairly confident last night that I would make my early morning yoga class, and decided to save time by sleeping in my gym clothes. Too bad I forgot to wash my face (the trail of mascara on my pillow tells me that the previous night’s smoky eye has gone awry), and take out my hoop earrings. Oh, my bad. I remembered to take out the left one. Hot.

As I sit up and begin to stretch, I become aware of the blinking item clutched in my left hand.
It’s my cell phone – and I have a text message

Sunday February 28th at 10:54am
“FYI: I don’t feel good and I am awake.”

Instant relief!
This text comes to me courtesy of my best friend who is in the other room (and probably in an equally terrible outfit and streaky face), and not from my current crush saying something like: “Please stop texting me… forever”

As a dreamy image of him pops into my head, my feelings of relief dissipate and are placed with feelings of dread.

Did I?

I nervously scroll down into my sent mail. And there it is. The Drunk Text.
Sent: 3:25am
Recipient: Current Crush
Message: “Would also like to point out that I can spell APPARENTLY and I feel good about it. Take it easy chico”

I want to die.....Chico? No. I deserve to die. I don’t even bother looking at the prior text message I sent which obviously questioned my spelling of apparently. It’s too shameful.

Why is it that with every Dirty Martini I sling back on a Saturday night, my need to exercise my fingers while putting my reputation at risk intensifies?

Miss Munch summed it up perfectly in her blog entry. It’s all about that moment. The moment where all of a sudden your feelings of love / lust / anger / joy transform themselves into a sudden burst of creative energy which results in something brilliant like: “Take it easy chico.” It is in that moment while hearing your favourite song, or seeing an unattractive couple make out – that your true feelings emerge and you are compelled to share these emotions with the most important (and sometimes random) person your pathetic polluted self can drudge up.

Personally, I think it’s kind of flattering and endearing. And like Miss Munch, I love receiving drunk texts. (Drunk Dials? Heaven) Really, could anything be more validating than being the one person that someone is thinking about while they only have aprox 3 working brain cells? Come on!!!

I know for a fact that my personal drunken texts come from a place of honesty- and for the most part (though not on my birthday or any sort of “tequila” night) have some kind of meaning.
For example, I’m not being a fake and a phony by texting my ex something like: “I just have to thank you for being such a jerk and teaching me about myself. I hope your penis doesn’t fall off and you don’t go bald” Those would be malicious lies.

Instead, I channel my drunk texts into positive messages of love to my girlfriends (like the Saturday night convo Miss Munch has outlined below), or words of encouragement like “Take it Easy Chico”, to the guy I desperately want to lock down.
Is this so bad?

The answer is yes and no.
Yes, because it makes me look like a drunken asshole and probably does not aid in my quest to lockdown Mc Dreamy
No, because my friends know I am a drunken asshole and they love me anyways and hopefully after reading this, realize that if you receive a drunk text from me, it probably means I think pretty damn highly of you.

I know you are all dying to know if crush responded to my drunk text, and the answer is no.
I will admit to biting my nails for half the day until he called me that evening and we chatted with no mention of my embarrassing late night endeavors.

See? No harm done. Maybe he found it endearing. Maybe he found it cute? (doubtful)

This does not however, excuse what I have done, and I will do my best not to make texting the object of my affection (until he realizes he’s madly in love with me) a habit.

Instead, I plan to direct all drunken texts / emails/ phone calls to Miss Munch a Lot who “is my fave” and “makes my life a better one”
….. And whom I know will accept me for my drunken self with open arms, and respond with equally inebriated enthusiasm.

You don't text at 3am to start a relationship.

  I love planning things. I take pride in my ability to organize and scheme, write to-do lists and follow through on them. I crave order, and enjoy seeing a well developed plan come to fruition. But…I also LOVE drunk texts. The act of drunk texting should contradict my love for preparation, but instead, it brings joy to my OCD heart. Although I do very much prefer being on the receiving end.

There is something amazing about the random instance of inebriation that stimulates a creative spurt that makes for a sometimes hilarious, usually rude awakening the next morning. Checking your history from the night before usually requires a few deep breaths.

Rewind to the night before. The moment you press send, you have done something irreversible: told a dark secret, ratted out a friend, admitted a deep burning truth, announced a sexual fantasy, led someone on, bitched someone out, cock teased a crush, delivered an undecipherable string of words (which is your best case scenario)—basically ruined your reputation in some blush-worthy way.

The good news is, most people are so used to receiving drunk texts that they don’t read too much into them. ..or that’s what we tell ourselves. It isn't true. We have all spent countless Saturday and Sunday mornings communally deciphering the meaning of texts sent by mangled slurring textjaculators (copyright VW) the night before. This usually makes me feel like I am right back in English class, looking for a deeper meaning, a hidden metaphor or example of imagery. There are usually lots. This is probably the most practical application of my English Degree. Thank you Queen’s. Too bad that when considering texts from the opposite sex, there generally isn't much to "get"--most late night texts are booty calls. Sorry to break your bub, but you don't contact the opposite sex at 3am to start a relationship.

As a respectable married woman who admittedly still lives my life in somewhat of an undergrad fashion (excessive drinking and partying), I have somehow trained my inebriated self to limit my drunk texts to proclamations of love for my girlfriends. Saturday night is a perfect example: I was sitting in a bar, enjoying the live band, when a familiar tune started playing. SANTERIA by SUBLIME. I reach for my phone, to text SWF, the very person I used to lip sync or more commonly scream along to this song with back in undergrad. BUZZZZZZZ. I couldn’t believe my cross eyes.

It was SWF, beating me to the punch. Sometimes, drunk texts appear to be little miracles. Coincidences are always more fun after a few dirty martinis.

The exchange went a little something like this:

SWF: “Love you like it’s going out of style. For real”.
MMA: “Hey SWF, you texted me as the band started playing Santeria. Love!’
SWF: “you are my fave”
MMA: “You are my love of life”
SWF: “you make my life a better one”

It then degenerated to some dirty and weird exchange that is not suitable for the average reader’s eyes, even those who are not faint of heart.But, because the site Texts from last night exists, I will share some gems I came across instead of tainting our reputation. Reading them makes me feel a lot better about myself.They help me confirm my own normalcy as I scoff hypocritically at these ‘drunken fools’. Here’s hoping my texts (or yours) will never compare to these:

(312): I slept with some guy because he drew a dinosaur on my arm.




(858): I drank 13 shots. Which is unlucky. Which is why i threw up.

-you threw up because you drank 13 SHOTS.

(330): Just ate cheeseit crumbs off the floor. i feel like Kirstie Alley.

(339): i don't remember it, but i know we had sex because my stuffed animals were facing the wall.

(317): she literally pooped in the closet. i sent the picture to everyone i know.

(720): I just found glitter on my vibrator... whatever we're doing has to stop.

(936): you went around the entire night in your french maid costume dusting off the "cob webs" on everyone's crotch saying "you havent gotten any action in a while"

-I was wondering why i got so many friend requests the next day...

Ok maybe that last one could have been me, but it wasn’t.

My French Maid costume is missing though…

Come on Sweet Cheeks..

I have a well-educated suspicion that my blog sister is going to be writing an Ode to Grandma Undies, and so I am taking this opportunity to defend the invention of the thong, save our blog’s image on the free web, and of course avoid the average demographic of our blog follower being 75 and retired. SWF can bash the t-bar and sing praises to the Balloon Undies God as much as she wants, but when it comes to practicality, aesthetics, (and in my opinion, comfort), Sisqo has it right-thongs are just one of the ‘finer things in life’. Ah, I am a bit embarrassed Sisqo just made it into my post, but I am certain SWF will be cursing his name all over our blog.

Why?

Because for some unknown reason, she feels like MORE of a woman by wearing MORE material on her buttocks. Instead of trying to convince the female world (I  am confident I don’t have to, since most are capable of properly choosing suitable underwear), I will simply be directing my comments at SWF trying to delve into her psyche a little bit. It all began with a 911 email from her saying : “I am wearing a thong today. And I might murder someone”. The little itty bit of material covering her nether regions is causing this much animosity? I must intervene.

I decided this topic deserved some attention and good old fashioned research. I found a discussion board online (WHY there so many “I hate Thong’ forums out there is beyond me--most of them have probably been started by SWF and her full coverage fans). While the following will not promise to be an intelligent glimpse into the type of people who generally opt to wear Poofers, it may be telling in that fact alone. I am hoping that maybe by the end of this post, you will let your cheeks free. My dreadful findings:

Posted by: The Answerer
I wear them because i don't want my pantyline to show and they dont give me wedgies because i make sure that i have a fresh pair on everyday because by the second day they get moist form being in your behind for so long and you start to feel them .

First of all, you are just disgusting. I am glad you have come to the realization that a daily underwear change is necessary. Congratulations on being so hygiene conscious. Secondly, you have helped me remember one of my pet peeve words: moist. I hate that second day moistness. Will add to the Pet Peever page asap.

Posted by: Brandi L
I hate them, them, they are ugly and uncomfortable, anyone who wears them, have a fun type with that wedgie.

Well, Brandi, the fact that they are ugly is your own fault. You do have a choice in what you buy. No one is forcing you at gunpoint to purchase thongs with cherry bombs on them. Secondly, get spell check.

Posted by: sarbear
theyre so unhealthy for ur butt.

Thanks Sarbear, cute name. I can see you have indepth medical knowledge. You have enlightened the world.

Please tell me your anti- thong arguments are not in tune with the above reflections. I wouldn’t even be upset if you stopped reading this post now, so that you could rush off to throw out all your discussion board-poster under garments, and replenish your stock with some cute ones resembling these personal favs:

I would like to think that people who wear thongs are not only wearing them to ‘feel sexy’, or to impress the opposite sex. If you rely on a small piece of fabric to ‘feel sexy’, then chances are you need a bit more help than that. I would hope that a woman feels sexiest with nothing on at all. The naked body should trump all the sexy thongs on the market.

It’s true, the person inside the thong does contribute to the overall look in a large way (sometimes larger than others).

I am sure most men wouldn’t throw Heidi Klum out of bed if she showed up donning pair of granny panties, and catching a glimpse of Susan Boyle strutting around in a thong would be enough to leave you sleepless…probably forever. But in general, for those of us who exist in the ‘normal’ spectrum, a little thong action can only be a good thing.

I’m sure SWF can’t deny that the basic aesthetic design of the thong is far more attractive than the full coverage cotton granny. Her take on thongs will always remain a mystery to me. I. JUST. DON’T. get it. She likes nice things. She is well put together and looks great. She carries Michael Kors purses on her shoulder. She wears cute heels, and then…..unzip. AH!! She is wearing BRIGHT YELLOW granny panties. If that isn’t a ‘caution’ sign, I don’t know what is. SWF, get your sweet cheeks into a thong. STAT. Stop living the life of a Nonna!

And for the record, thongs are not ALWAYS the best choice. I am not a lunatic who wears a thong while dressed in a flowing skirt and standing above a subway grate with an updraft. There is admittedly, a time and a place for booty shorts and fullbacks:
1. Windy days
2. Athletic pursuits
3. Short skirts that have some bounce and flounce
4. That's all i can think of.

Hey Sisqo! Call me.

Hey Sisqo! Your Thong Song is Stupid.

For the last decade, February has been a difficult month for me.

February ’09 - Valentines Day Weekend: The jerk I am semi dating takes some twit he met online to NYC for a Romantic Getaway – and I find out via pics posted on Facebook.

February ’05 – My Birthday: I decide to do something drastic and cut my curly hair into a short “do-saster”… which my then boyfriend says makes me look like the Campbell Soup kid.

February’ 00 – The Thong Song: R&B Singer Sisqo releases his hit single announcing to the world that my choice in underwear is both uncool and unsexy.

I am happy to report that this February, life has improved:
I have since ditched the idiot of Valentines Past
My hair is the longest and most luxurious it’s ever been…..

But you know what?

Sisqo, it’s been 10 years, and I still beg to differ!

Ever since you first urged me to “Let [you] see my thong!” ten years ago, I have been forced to live in a world where my cotton full backs are considered taboo and frumpy –and I resent this.

I also blame you Sisqo.
I blame you for brainwashing many of my otherwise intelligent and grounded girlfriends into believing that they actually find having a piece of fabric shoved up their booty cracks comfortable.

“Oh my god. I only wear thongs! I wouldn’t dream of anything else, they are so comfortable!” – a quote from a real woman that I know.
Disturbing.

Last week I decided to take my own thong out for a test drive. Ok, it wasn’t exactly on purpose, I was running low on laundry and I actually debated calling in sick to work when I realized that the only 2 pairs of underwear available were a) a thong I bought back in 2000 when I was desperate to fit in b) another thong.

I went with option B because that one actually fit properly, and was on my way to work.

Sure, there were no “underwear lines” to be seen with my dress pants – which is a look I usually can achieve with my bamboo seamless undies – but what there was, was something up my ass. Literally.

As if that was not disturbing enough, as I walked to the printer I realized that even though I was wearing pants, I was actually bare assed. I was very aware of my cheeks being exposed and vulnerable to the elements, and could almost feel my co-workers snicker as I walked by. I felt cheap.

Sitting down was no walk in the park either. As I worked away I became absentmindely aware of the fact that I had a huge wedgie. A huge wedgie that could never be picked and it was only 10am. Panic began to set in.

Sometime around 2pm later that day, I emailed Miss Munch-a-lot informing her that I was wearing a thong and that I was ready to murder someone.

And now here we are.

It is not like I wear French cut full backed briefs that sag at the bum and have a thick elastic waistband.
NO. I like lace; I like bells and whistles, and boy shorts with cute bows, and tarty-see through things that would make any guy blush…. But I like them to do their job and cover my tush with their fabric.
And you know what? I can still make my booty go “dun – dun –dun –dun” and it’s happy to do so. You know why? Because it knows that it’s loved, supported, and covered.



Here is my confession. I like my bum. I actually think it’s one of my better attributes.
I just don’t like the way it looks in a thong – vast, ghost white, hungry, and munching on a strip of lace.

I like to be able to bend over without a trashy T-Bar rising up above my jeans – which I guess means I’m not the lady for you Sisqo.
And I think I’m good with that.


Ps. For all you pervs http://daythong.com/

Tiger Woods and the "Dork Epidemic"

Oh Tiger, Tiger, Tiger, Tiger,

Look. I agree with my blog sister on this one. I could really care less about the scripted apology of yet another public figure that caught with his pants down.

Please.

I am not sure why Tiger Woods feels like he owes me (!) an apology and explanation for his transgressions. Unlike many people who had practical conniption fits when this news broke, I was quite unaffected, and not even a little surprised.

In fact, this whole media circus has only reaffirmed my belief in a disturbing new trend amongst powerful, rich, male figures who can’t keep their peckers in their pants.

I call it the “Dork Epidemic”

Let me explain.

No one can deny that Tiger Woods is something like a phenomenon when it comes to the game of golf. He is one of the greatest athletes of all time and has made more money than I would ever know what to do with. In fact, if I’m being honest, he could have saved the little apology speech and just lent me a million dollars. That way I would more apt to forgive and perhaps less willing to expose him for what he really is

Which is … an absolute…. DORK.

I’m not just saying this because his name is actually Eldrick and that he has a speaking voice reminiscent of Screech from Saved by the Bell. These things are not his fault.
It’s also not his fault that he was groomed practically from birth to be the greatest golf player in the history of the world, had his face plastered all over sports magazines and endorsements, and was given a lifetime supply of free Gatorade. (Ps. do golfers really need Gatorade? Just saying….)

I don’t even think that the fact that this guy is such an obvious NERD is his fault, but I do think it’s the reason that he has found himself in hot water.

I know what you are thinking – um, this guy is a multi millionaire and he landed a Swiss Swimsuit Model as a wife – how could he possibly be a nerd?

Wake up.

Has anyone else ever noticed that Tiger Woods has the same personality as one of his golf clubs? Has anyone ever seen this guy in an interview say something funny?

I thought so.

Tiger Woods is a classic text book case of the dweeb in high school who never touched a boob and got a boner at just hearing the word “panties”
Sure he was successful and has done amazing things in his professional life, but I would be willing to wager that the only “game” Tiger Woods has …is, well, GOLF.

Ok, he was able to obtain a harem of mistresses. I’m sure his bank account and notoriety may have had something to do with this – oh and the fact that these women were for the most part fame whores and porn stars. These chicks with their hair extensions and silicone represent SEX, which judging by his “dirty talk” skills (“Go into the bathroom and take a picture of your privates and send it to me” – um EW?!) – is probably not something Tiger excelled at getting before he was a gagillionaire.

So he parties in Vegas and makes “Friends” with the nightclub owner. OMG! He’s so bad ass! Sin City!! Um, does anyone recall any word of him partying with any wingmen? Guess what? If I owned a nightclub and you wanted to bring in your entourage of zero Tiger, I would be your friend too… because you are famous and you have lots of money.


What really blows me away is that he trusted these “ladies” to keep his secrets. Isn’t that sad? It’s like those cliché movies where the slutty head cheer leader uses her womanly wiles to make the school nerd putty in her hands and willing to do her homework. Pathetic.

The sad part is that these guys are everywhere.
For example, power geek and boy wonder – Adam Giambrone with the TTC. He cheats on his live in girlfriend with some young twit who “wants to be an actress”, Giambrone practically shits himself, pulls out of the mayoral race and all hell breaks loose in Toronto.
Why is this front page news? He isn’t even married!

Ugh. I am so sick of infidelity being front page news and having to hear about what (literally) goes down in these people’s bedrooms. It’s nauseating and if you think about it, really weird.

Elin, get a divorce and date someone like George Clooney who is rich and cool and who will at least cheat on you with another swimsuit model and tell you about it.

Tiger, get a life.

And for the record, “Tiger” is a dorky nickname.

Hey Tiger! Thanks for checking in but..I don't care. At all. Not even a little bit.

There are certain things I really care about in this world. I am not a totally disinterested member of society who lives in my own little bubble of self worth. Unfortunately, the details of Tiger Woods' intimate extra marital encounters is not something I care to see coverage about on THE NATIONAL NEWS. I watch TMZ and assorted other celebrity gossip shows for my fill of the Hollywood limelight stories, and that's where I think they should stay. And while I admit that not every story on TMZ is a gem--ie. oh wow-- Lil Wayne got 8 root canals in one sitting- at least I don't have it shoved down my throat on a reputable news network.

I am not sure why this came as such a shocker to the world. Tiger is NOT the first celebrity who has committed an act of dishonesty or betrayal and he is certainly not the last. There always seems to be a massive outcry, and then some scripted public announcement of guilt followed by a feigned attempt at gaining back the respect from the public eye through a teary apology:

"I am sorry for the pain I have caused. I want to say to each of you simply and directly that i am deeply sorry for my irresponsible and selfish behavior" Blah. Blah. Blah. I could have predicted the contents of his entire speech.

We get it. You are sorry. So sorry. ......sorry for getting caught.

You would not be swallowing your pride and risking your image and sponsorship in front of millions if you hadnt been caught in the act. You would not simply 'man up' and tell-all because you felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. But, because you failed to discretely partake in these affairs, you now have to face the interrogation lights. You wouldn't be enlisted in sex rehab if your wife hadn't checked your phone and found all kinds of dirty texts between you and a bunch of fame whores.You set yourself up for this fate. What would you be doing today if you hadn't been caught? Probably chasing tail in Vegas, using your big and bad Tiger name and relishing your suave and debonair way with women. Maybe it was Nike's fault. They told you to JUST DO IT. You were only obeying.

I think the assumption you and the newsmakers are making is that we, as a collective, care. I guess some  do..but for the rest of us, please don't splatter it all over the news where most people go to grab important, relevant and timely information  This is an embarrassment to the notion of national news.

Tiger,  I used to openly choose to watch you do what you do best on the greens. Now, annoyingly, I am being forced to watch you on the news for something else you apparently do best-puppeteering the public into caring one way or another about you.

Saturday Night Live thanks you for your press conference, they now have lots of material to work with.

Give us some AMMO

We aren't running dry, we still have endless topics to discuss, but we wanna write about what YOU want to read.

Use the comments section to throw some topics at us. We will try and please the crowds.

How bout a Diamond bracelet for a Whopper?

Summary notes:

• Hoarders are disturbed individuals.
• They often live in shit.
• I lose my appetite every Monday night at 10pm, watching them try to exist in their cluttered lives.
• Their living spaces often resemble the aftermath of a natural disaster.
• I might add hoarders to my list of pet peeves.
• Single White Femme better pick up her socks (literally) to avoid this fate. 

I can hardly stomach the show Hoarders. It's not even the car wreck effect where you can't look away, as is the case with Intervention, another one of A&E's beauts. Instead, I am absolutely unable to watch someone live in a state of disaster and subject their CHILDREN to a life of piled boxes, clutter, filth, countless (useless) items and sometimes literal shit. I even saw an episode where the kids were forced to sleep in tents in the backyard. No big deal, just a cockroach infestation. Sleeping in tents? Fun for a night in the summer with your friends. Not so fun when you are cuddled up next to your brother and sister due to lack of better options.

I am getting more and more angry just thinking about it, and part of me wants to hoard all these neglectful hoarders up into a house all together. It wouldn't be torture, they would be in utter bliss. Collectors unite! They could sit around in their diapers, on boxes of used tupper ware and broken toasters and compare 'gems'. I wonder if A&E would be open to that pilot proposal.

I know we all have our attachments to "things" that have some sort of important meaning attributed to them, and sometimes our lives get too busy and the household chore schedule falls to the wayside. I am not the female version of Mr. Clean. I do not dust my house every week. I have held onto old notes from grade school. I made a mirror frame out trident gum wrappers (note: this was done in 1993). I sleep with my baby blanket under my pillow. I collect pens and markers. I keep things past the expiry date in the fridge and sometimes, I even consume them (after a visual/smell test of course). Yogurt usually passes the test by a week.

But what concerns me, is that these people are seemingly unable to make decisions about the value of things. I would love to offer my brutally honest opinion of the value of their belongings but I have a feeling there isn't a thing someone could say that would clue them into reality. Cleaning up a Hoarder's environment would not be easy. This wouldn't just involve grabbing some bins, marking them A and B and organizing. This wouldn't be a matter of tossing the useless stuff to the curb. Why? Because everything is simply precious.

There is no way that someone who squeezes their body through passageways narrowed by piled boxes will be open for a discussion on the value of a tidy home. Someone whose clothes for daily use are draped on boxes on the floor will not want to hear about that closet organizer on sale at Walmart.  Someone who becomes too embarrassed to entertain friends in their disaster of a house loses that outside objectivity and soon, their clutter becomes their only 'friend'. There wouldn't be a square inch for anyone to sit, anyway. God this is depressing.

 







One of the 'hoarder therapists' that tried to make sense of the mess these hoarders call their lives once suggested that a crumpled hamburger wrapper is no different than a box of diamonds to these people. To them, everything has value, or potential for future use, even if it's broken or trash. So they keep everything. My newest mission is to locate some hoarders and propose a burger-diamond tradesies. I can easily round up a few whoppers and quarter pounders to part with. To make it even more appealing, I will even throw in a burger along with the wrapper!


I sincerely hope these hoarders have blind partners lacking olfactory glands and having had a prior lobotomy, because otherwise they are looking at a lonely existence. No one with their sight, smell, and of their right mind would consider subjecting themselves to a life of utter filth.

Sentimental Waste

Let’s. Talk. Hoarders.
(If you live under a rock click here)

This gem of a reality show raises a lot of questions and observations like:

*How does one not realize there are several dead and decaying cat carcasses under their bed?

*Excuse me sir, but the fact that you have to defecate on newspapers because you keep your collection of old, useless, pieces of wood in the bathroom, is a little out of control

*How can your love of tchotchkes and trash be greater than the love you have for your children, who have been sleeping in tents because your home is infested with bed bugs?

You know – questions and observations like that.

We are all quick to judge these people who haven’t seen the surface area of their kitchen floor since the Clinton administration (I have always wanted to say that!) However, recent events have led me to wonder – if maybe there isn’t a little bit of a “Hoarder” hiding in each and every one of us?

This thought occurred to me the other day when I popped open the trunk of my car and discovered 5 boxes of vinyls taken from somebody’s trash (they were for a friend who asked me to keep my eyes open for him – but still), a box of colorful leis from a bachelorette party that happened over 6 months ago, a coffee urn that I really should return to work, and about 8 pairs of shoes.
There was a moment of horror before I convinced myself that all of this crap was definitely stuff I could toss (except the coffee urn, because that is actually expensive, and the shoes) without getting the sweats and having a meltdown.
I reassured myself that I was keeping all of this junk hidden in my trunk because I was lazy and messy and not because I was mentally ill and trying to breed a herd of rats in my Sentra.

I will admit that I have always had a “messy” streak. My room in University looked like a perpetual 4 year bomb had detonated… and while to this day I still have a chair in my room that is used primarily for collecting clothes rather than for sitting in and gazing out the window, I’ve definitely cleaned up my act.

In fact just the other day I was doing a quick clean up of my room – hanging up clothes from the weekend, putting away my make up, and throwing out the empty water bottle from my bedside table. I went to put the bottle in the trash and stopped myself. You see, I had this amazing date on Friday with a guy I am crazy about. At the end of the date I was insanely thirsty and went to purchase a bottle of water and a package of gum to ready myself for an end of date kiss. I didn’t have any change so I pulled out my debit card, but my date insisted, and reached his dreamy hand into his dreamy pocket and broke a $20 bill.
Suddenly, remembering this moment, I was unable to immediately part with the empty water bottle and convinced myself that I could let it stay there …just a little while longer… to preserve the moment.

This afternoon after lunch – I ate the last piece of gum in the pack. The empty pack is now in my purse instead of the trash bin where it belongs. I think we all know that there is nothing more irritating than an empty package of gum in ones purse.
And when I emptied my jean pockets I realized that I had the receipt for these items and I didn’t even pay!! You guessed it; the receipt is in now in my wallet for safekeeping.

Even as I write this, I am cracking myself up and my cheeks are red with embarrassment. The fact that I am keeping date “mementos” is really lame (ok, pathetic and creepy) and I am pretty confident that if my crush knew I was doing this, it would be considered a “turn off”.

What really worries me though, is that these items are trash. It’s not like I’m drying flowers for decorative purposes here…. I am keeping garbage by tricking myself into believing that it “means something”
OMG I’m Hoarding!!! And in some cases ….subconsciously !! – Hello mysterious receipt for items I didn’t pay for!?

Suddenly I can begin to empathize with these poor, crazy, people and it worries me.
What I do know, is the minute I stop typing, that empty package of Cinnamon Flavored Dentyne is going in the bin …. and ditto for the bottle of water that is still on my bedside collecting dust.

I feel incredibly lucky that I hit rock bottom so early in my illness and that I am able to recognize my problem before my friends stage an intervention and I am swimming in a sea of “Sentimental Waste”.

What I do know is the next time I tune into A&E Hoarders, I will try to watch with less judgment and chagrin – keeping in mind that often what we despise in others is what we really despise in ourselves.
…. That is however until there is any mention of poop, bed bugs, or dead animals –when judgment and disgust will resume and prevail.

The Gate Keeper

Recommended reading: The nasty story we both are reacting to!!

Um, Ew.

I’m horrified.

While the most “under” I’ve ever been is when I had my wisdom teeth out (if hands went anywhere south of my jaw line we are in trouble), I still feel incredibly violated and in need of a hot shower after reading this article. And maybe a drink.

Call me a prude but when it comes to that “area” I consider myself a bit of a Gate Keeper. Usually, I like to have a handle on who gets to see my woman bits, and to be perfectly honest, I also prefer to know names most of the time. Not to mention that before that area is generally exposed to friends and/or strangers, this Gate Keeper also likes to engage in certain mental and possibly decorative preparations.

I get that these would be future medical professionals taking turns sitting in front of and inspecting my birthing canal. However, the fact that Doogie and his colleagues are doing this while I lay unconscious, drooling, and unaware, seems a wee bit invasive… and a little bit like an alien abduction.

Unless I am on the operating table flatlining, and the only thing that will save me is an “emergency pelvic exam”, I would expect the doctors to carry out only the procedures I’ve signed up for. It only seems fair.
It’s true that during consensual pelvic exams with my own doctor, I often wish she would club me over the head to spare the awkwardness of the procedure. However I do appreciate her guiding me through the process and commenting on my choice of toe nail polish. It’s kind of nice to be awake and alert while your most private parts are being examined … just saying.

I’m not against hands on training – especially in the medical profession – and I understand that in order for these people to get good at their jobs they have to practice. Believe me, I want these people to be good at their jobs – they get paid enough.
I just feel as though there are certain ethics that should be followed…. kind of like buying a lady dinner and opening a car door.
Ask First. Ask me nicely..... and who knows? Maybe I’m feeling generous and just might grant Doogie and his friends front row tickets to the show.

Bare and Unaware (casting call)

Ew. Ew. Ew. My woman parts quiver with disgust. 

I am fairly confident that there are a few other ways in which medical practitioners to-be could get their hands wet, so to speak, which don’t involve a completely anesthetized drool -cake who is under the impression her nether regions are being left in their hopefully (but unlikely) pristine pre-surgery condition. 

This is slightly reminiscent of those awful college horror stories, involving skanky little jersey chasers who happen to slurp up one too many coolers at the frat house (rookie mistake), who then pass out in compromising positions only to be approached by Mr. Pathetic who takes this as a prime opportunity to cop a feel. Not cool at all. Except the difference here, is that Mr. Pathetic will likely serve some time in the slammer, not get promoted to Chief of Surgery for his actions. 

The scary and hairy (ha) truth is, this is a common practice, done in a Hospital, in a controlled environment, by a team of respectable medical practitioners and their mentally privileged muses. WHAT?!!!

There have GOT to be some desperate Vag models out there, who are willing to get paid good money to put their manicured little who-ha’s on display for the-- as Single White Femme calls them-- Doogies of the world. There’s gotta be some women just dying to share their prized crown jewels, to get some dough to pay for those implants they have always wanted. Why can’t these women be the catching mitt for all the prodding gloved fingers instead of.... my grandmother? 

This is an official casting call for VAG MODELS. Anyone with a manicured lawn, who doesn’t mind having some seasonal pruning done by a crew of curious polymaths? Come on…

We warned you. NOT for the faint of heart.

 

No Big D.

Nothing about either of us is quiet, tame or gentle. So, accordingly, this will not be a quiet, tame or gentle experience.

Disclaimer: Do not read if pregnant or breastfeeding. Possible side effects may include, but are not limited to:

• Intense groaning ( guttural, generally brought on inadvertently as a reaction to content)  

• Uncontrollable giggles (sound and pitch varies from person to person)

• Frequent eye brow raising (induced generally by shocking content)

• Crows feet (usually a secondary side effect of smiling) 

• An intense urge to head to confession (attributed to a strong sense of guilt brought on by a personal relation to the content)

• Possible long term addiction.     

Introducing Miss-Munch-A-Lot:

This isn’t my first time. My blog cherry was popped exactly a year ago.

  

The experience: It was an uncomfortable combination of excitement and trauma. Looking back, I was so naive. It took place in my first week at the University, when I was quietly approached and then quickly thrust (for lack of a better word) into it all. There I was, a grown adult who should know what to do, and what to say, how to begin, but I was totally lost.

But, like every ‘first’, it soon became increasingly comfortable and over time I have become known as an expert-the resident blog guru.  My job includes the maintenance and training of all blogs at the University but as can be expected, the creative freedom I crave is limited by the confines of the educational institution in which I work.

So, I decided to join blog forces with someone who makes me laugh daily and never ceases to entertain me with her anecdotal emails, Single White Femme. I guess every blog needs a Raison d'être.  This one was prompted by a deep love for the written word, and an even greater love for sharing quirky viewpoints. Objective: not to make this blog stagnant, lame or take the form of an online diary. I realize a lot of the blogging world uses blogs as an outlet for their narcissism but I, along with Single White Femme, promise to deliver more.

We will try and avoid topics that induce snoring, and instead concentrate on the important news worthy topics that plague our lives. I can’t promise that all posts will be teaching you a valuable lesson, although most will. Sometimes it will just be necessary to address our disdain for thin lips, unruly fan-shaped nails, or tight underwear lines and we should be entitled to complain about the presence of undergrounder zits which were supposed to exist only in adolescence.

Note:  posts of that nature will only surface on days when we are experiencing heightened womanly symptoms. We will return to our human form soon after.

The plan: Regular entries by both of us, on the same topic, taking a separate stance on the matter. You can be certain that we will agree on most things, but our differing life experiences will undoubtedly pave the way for some contrasting takes.

Snippets of life, love, healthy and unhealthy choices and most importantly… hilarity. That is our pledge to you.

Stop judging. Now.
-Miss Munch-A-Lot

Introducing Single White Femme:

Deflowerment.

I am a blog virgin.

I call this my….   “deflowerment”.

I expect it to feel different, maybe a little painful, but I am glad I have waited to do it with Miss Munch-a-lot, one of my closest friends, whom I love and trust.  

I think it’s important to wait until you are truly ready to blog. I think I am.

First Base – “Initiation”  

From the ages of 8 to 16 I did seriously flirt with the prehistoric form of blogging also known as the “diary”. My first diary had a lock and key which I stored under my bed so that no one would be able to discover my hideous secret life : ie -  which boy I had a crush on that week or which girl in my class I wished would wake up bald.

Second Base – “Fetish & Obsession”

I have been known to “creep” (or religiously follow) certain blogs.  There is one in particular that is saved to my favorites folder on my work computer. I check it daily at 3:45pm. It’s become a ritual.  The blog in question is a completely appalling and radically conservative religious site that goes directly against everything I believe in. It is also written by the father of this guy I’m kind of dating – who has no clue I even know it exists.

(That’s a story for another day)

Third Base – “Fantasy”
I’ve definitely fantasized about writing a blog
But there has been one thing stopping me. What to write about?

Urban Dictionary Defines the term “Blog” as follows:

Blog

n.
Short for Weblog 
A meandering, blatantly uninteresting, online diary that gives the author the illusion that people are interested in their stupid, pathetic life. Blogs consist of such riveting entries as "homework sucks" and "I slept until noon today."

It’s true. Blogs can be really lame. And as much as I may want to broadcast the deepest darkest secrets of my friends under thinly veiled pseudonyms like “The Lawyer” or “Bridezilla” – it’s not the kind of blog I want to write. That type is better suited to my “Journal” (adult diary) which is under my bed and contains deep secrets like who I have a crush on and which co worker I wish would wake up bald. 

I was thrilled when Miss Munch-a-lot  approached me about co-authoring an online forum where we can do what we do best : chit chat, analyze, make each other (and hopefully our readers) pee a little in their desk chairs, and of course offer words of wisdom(?), encouragement, and love.

I’m not promising daily, mountain moving, entries here… sometimes all we’ll be able to tackle is an account of how hungover we are and how we skipped a work out or ate a piece of chocolate cake. And we reserve this right.

However, so as not to align with the definition above, we plan on writing an amusing and honest blog about our lives, the healthy (and not so healthy) decisions we make, and just about everything else that comes to mind. We aren’t much for holding back – so the faint of heart be warned.

We are two different women, in different places, living different lives – and while we are the closest of friends – we are bound to get into some interesting debates which we hope to share with you.

There … That wasn’t so bad.

I think I’m ready to go again ;) 

-Single White Femme