lady liberty died today

I live in a small town smack in the middle of Washington {the state}.  When people think of Washington they think of Seattle and rain and Starbucks and Eddie Vedder {yep, he’s still yummy.  don’t care what you think.}  My town is the opposite of all that.  Like  magnets doing that weird polar trick they can do.  Seattle would push my town right off the refrigerator because it’s just that opposite.

When we lived in Seattle, we had to micro-manage our trash and wash it up all nice and tidy and then properly divide it into 3 categories and 14 sub-categories so as to keep the trash cops off our ass.  Then we moved to this little gem of a town and we could just throw our glass in with our newspaper and then sprinkle it all with a  little bit of #4 plastic coated with spaghetti sauce and no one cared a bit.

It was freaking garbage freedom!

Today was garbage pick-up day.  Long before the loud collection trucks came ’round I heard a strange ruckus out in the street.  {Lest you forget, Gladys Kravitz inhabits my body from time to time so I had to check it out.}  I peer out the window and what should I see but two Hispanic gentlemen tossing a shit-load of various sized teflon tumblers all throughout the streets.   What the hell?

Then I see it.  The bright blue top glaring at me from it’s cozy new home on my curb.  What the shit?!?!

Ladies and gentlemen, garbage freedom died today.

My former – larger than life, fit a Christmas tree, bicycle and three weeks worth of trash in one receptacle – garbage can has been reduced to a “yard waste” canister.  Taking its place is a “recycling bin” about half its size, plus a garbage container that the can under my kitchen sink could take on.  This poses a few problems.

I.  Where in the holy shit am I supposed to store this family of receptacles?  Maybe I can sell one of our cars to make room in the driveway.

B.  How much money am I going to have to spend on indoor receptacles to keep this shit sorted?  Well, at least I”ll have the car money to invest.

#3.  Most Importantly:  Who, around this joint, has time to wash the fucking garbage?!?!

I moved to this rural, “smells like cow shit 70% of the time, no PF Chang’s” town so that I could lump all my garbage into one big, fat dumpster and sleep peacefully at night.  {How am I supposed to do my part to save the Earth without one of those nifty blue recycle bins to organize my garbage with?  What are you gonna do about that Leo DiCaprio?}

Dammit!  Dammit all  straight to hell.

And what?  What IF I don’t wanna do it?   What if I  just put my Styrofoam peanuts and pizza boxes and plastic bottles and junk mail all in the yard waste bin?  Huh?  What’s gonna happen then?

Bring it on, Al Gore.  Bring it freaking ON!

Profanity 101

In my spare time, when I’m not blogging, browsing the internet for sales or creepy-stalking my other favorite bloggers, I have a job. It’s running a daycare out of my home.YES, that IS a real job.

I know, don’t tell the parents what a loser I am in real life. The only great thing about this is that I get to make money without having to pay someone else to watch my brats. Well, that and the fact that I get to wear sweats and flip flops to my job.

There are a few downfalls to this gig. The one that bugs me most is the constant microscope my kids are under and not just by parents but by the other kids.  Now, I don’t pretend to believe my kids are super great kids. They can be bratty and disobedient just like the next kid.  But they are overall decent kids.  They might have a few small hang-ups according to the average overachieving mom: burping at the table is an art they are trying to master; they say “fart” rather than other more acceptable terminology for passing gas; and they are confident and independent children that don’t like to take shit from other kids.

Apparently, according to the 8 year-old phenom that was at my house today, my daughter also has a “serious potty mouth.”  HUH?!  The kid that yells at me for saying Dammit has a potty mouth?  Thank God!  Maybe she’ll get off my back now!  Unfortunately, I had to  keep up appearances and feign concern.

“Please, dear child, tell me what she said that was so offensive to your darling ears?”

“The ‘C’ Word.”

Hmmm???  Is there a C word?  I mean, there’s that C word, which not even her mother would dream of uttering in the light of day(but at night around a campfire it’s perfectly acceptable!) … What the heck???  Moments pass… the tune from Jeopardy begins to play in my head.  And then it hits me!  “CRAP?!  Are you talking about crap???”

“Yes!”

And before I could even think about something reasonable and Good-Mommy-ish to reply I just blurted out “Oh honey, that’s not a swear word in this house.  Sorry.”

What the hell kind of daycare provider am I if I’m giving other people’s kids permission to say crap?

But seriously, CRAP?!  I mean, I know it’s not the height of intelligence or something Ms. Manners would advise folks to allow their children to spout off,  but seriously?  In the day of bj’s in the middle school bathroom are we really going to sweat it if a seven year old says Crap in the sanctity of her own home?

I mean, Dammit! I’m really going to have to watch my p’s and q’s around here.  It’s a good thing none of them read my brilliant blog.

Now that I look back on it, I wish I’d said something more creative in response.  Pretentious people really just piss me off.

they that camp together…

“So hey there, have you been missing me?  Yah, I know.  I’ve just been suuuper busy.   Uh-huh.  I’ve just had stuff.  Super Important Stuff.

That’s code for, I’ve been such a loser and can’t get my shit together so I’ve just been hiding out on my couch eating a lot of cheetos and that squirt cheese from the can.  It’s been super awesome.  Seriously, I don’t know what my deal is.  I have never had writer’s block in my life, but lately I just plain suck ass at trying to put a sentence together.  But enough about me.   I really need to tell you about CAMPING.

So the Hubbs and I haven’t been camping together in  ummm… forever.  We certainly haven’t been camping with JORDAN.  Dude, that kid would take a dirt shower then roll around in the dirt to dry off and then try to clothe himself in a dirt wardrobe.  He was made for the dirt.  Camping… totally his gig.  He had a blast.  And Elle, she just hid out in the camper and did girl stuff and then roasted marshmallows and went back into the camper.  Whatevs.  She was hanging with her gal pals.  Both kiddos LOVED the tubing on the lake and all the usual boating activities.  They had a blast.   That’s totally not important.

The real fun came when the kiddos fell into a sun and marshmallow-coma induced sleep and the grown ups finally got to play.  There is just nothing like the crisp mountain air and smell of a campfire to make grown ass people lose their freaking mind. This is why I love my friends.  And am highly entertained by their friends.

Our first night in the great outdoors, we so pissed off the skinny bitch librarian “next door” that at half past quiet time she marched her happy ass over to our site and proceeded to inform one of our bunk-mates {ummm yah, I have no idea what that means.  It’s Swedish for “we camp together”} that it was indeed past quiet time and our fire was too bright.  She was being forced to move her tent to escape the bright light of the fire.  ERRR… WHA?  Quiet Time = No Fire Time???  I so did not read that on Smokey the Bear’s hat.  And really, it’s a camp fire.  Not the Burning Man.  Close your eyes.

{What is up with me that I am constantly pissing off my neighbors?!?  At least this bat-shit crazy woman got up and moved the next morning.}

Night Two:  The whole evening can be summed up by watching the following video.  I realize this is crappy videography or whatever but it’s shot with an iPhone, in the middle of the darkest of nights, being spot-lighted by a drunk with a flashlight.  The hero of our story is sporting a head lamp (AKA head lice),  purchased at our local sporting good store (AKA Tri-State) {when you see the video you’ll understand why you might care about this.  or not.}  We spent the entire dark time of our weekend having our retinas burnt out by the LED-ness  of this damn light.  It was only befitting that a song be sang in its honor.  Ladies and Gentlemen… meet Bobby Light.

Night Three.  There are so many things to be said about Night Three,  our last night in the woods.  Day/Night Three provided a Camping Trip Survival Guide that I will carry with me on all future expeditions.  Please hear me when I say this… no matter how much you offer to pay me, I will never reveal the source of my knowledge.  What happens in the woods, stays in the woods… sort of.

1. It’s not a good idea to tell your Hubbs it’s his turn to be the campground drunk {and therefore idiot} at 10:00 am.  This will set your whole day off to a really, really interesting start.  Most Hubbs won’t make it to see dinner time.  Those that do,  will wish they hadn’t.
2. There’s really no point whatsoever in packing real food of any kind for those who are legal to drink  (except for the makings of Reece’s Peanut Butter Cup  S’Mores).  We drink our meals here, bitches.  ‘Nuf Said.
3. Assholes who show up to your campsite bringing beer to “apologize in advance” for their forthcoming behavior might be nice deep down inside.   Assholes who only bring beer for the men and ignore the women are just as we thought… assholes.  When they notice that your men passed out hours ago and show up to your campfire for some friendly chit-chat, consider flicking hot coals onto their pedicured feet and running into the woods.  It’ll be more pleasant than anything the next 30 minutes might have to offer.
4. It’s never appropriate to bring up one’s step-dad’s saggy balls around a campfire.  If you accidentally do, it will provide unending entertainment for the rest of your “bunk-mates” as they talk about skinny bitches and saggy balls all weekend.
5. It should be seriously considered that one brings along some “pocket cash” for emergencies.  Emergency cash, in this instance, is reserved ONLY for those times when  one’s Hubbs is on the verge of being taken to the clink for “disturbing the peace” {Peace, what peace?  I haven’t seen a moment of peace since we’ve been here!}  and certain Green Jeans (AKA Park Rangers, AKA the Po-Po) need to be bribed to save the night.  Said emergency fund MUST be kept in the pockets of the females only, so we can determine if we really want to bribe your asses out of the clink or not.  God knows we are far too well-behaved to be disturbing anyone’s peace!

There you have it,  folks.  Camping might be good fun, but it is definitely NOT good, clean fun.

The Mommyhood Blogs

{A sneak peak for you, my personal friends, at what the future holds for me.   A collection of the stories, rants and senseless bitching I wrote as a new mother.  And a look back on those entries, to gain perspective at how far we’ve come- mixed in with some new stories, ranting and senseless bitching of all sorts.  Behold, The Mommyhood Blogs®}

On August 8, 2006, when my children were still tiny and my life still resembled an orderly one, even if I didn’t consider it so at the time, I began a blog.  It was the days of Myspace, Glitter-Graphics and foofy little blog backgrounds.  It was a cathartic obsession and along with my on-line friends it eventually got me through one of the toughest times of my adult life.  I owe it some homage.  If I had a good bottle of liquor I’d pour a little out in its honor.  (I totally don’t get that.  Why waste good liquor? I am so not livin’ the thug life.) Someday I hope this trip down memory lane will become my memoirs and my kids will sit and laugh and cry with their crazy-ass mother as they read the stories of themselves and the love I have for them.

Entry Number One.

Here’s the thing:

I am old. okay- not really, but I feel old.  My day is this- get up, shower, take care of kids, take care of hubby, take care of house, take care, take care, take care!  Go to bed and collapse.  Wait a minute- I’m not old – I am BORING!  I have forgotten who I was before kids, hubby and “taking care of”.

So- I decide to be young.  I start myself a myspace page.  And do you know what?  It’s all about my KIDS!  God help me!  I decided it’s because I like them more than I like myself- they are cuter, they are sweeter and they are really more interesting.  So- I have to work on that.  We’ll see how it goes.  Here’s to finding myself (again)….

That was my very first blog.  My original intent was to have this little corner of my life where I could write and it not be about my kids.  Just reading it, I realize even though I’d been practicing at being a mom for three and a half years, I certainly didn’t know what the hell I was doing yet.    I guess even after those years I was still too new at being “Mommy” (or still too wacko from the postpartum depression with Jordan) to realize that being a mom isn’t a name or a title or something you do, but it’s in every part of who you are.  There’s no separating part of your life away to be untouched by your children, not if you’ve truly given yourself to being a mother.

Even if I write something now that has nothing to do with Elle or Jordan, which is rare, they are a part of it because they have consumed me.  I think differently than I did before motherhood; and most beneficial to me, being a mom has helped me to become comfortable in my own skin.

That’s not to say I am completely at ease with who I am.   I have so many insecurities and have made so many mistakes in my life, I’m not sure I’ll ever be at peace with me.   I  also don’t have thousands of dollars or a free hour a week to devote to therapy to help get me there.  I just have Jim, some great friends, a supportive family, and my kids.  Combined, this little support group offers me someone to ground me, people who love me regardless, laughter in the midst of the crap, and a future to love and fight for.  If that isn’t therapy at it’s finest then I guess I’m in trouble.

In starting this project, the reliving of my first blogs and reflecting on what I’ve learned since then,  I  have discovered so many more moms than I was ever aware of that write about their adventures in mommyhood.  I’m sure there are almost as many motivations in writing as there are writers, but there is absolutely one common thread (aside from loving our kids- if at the very least when they’re sleeping).  We all wonder if what we’re doing is even remotely “right”.

I can say with 100% assurance that I have most definitely not done everything right.  I doubt if I’ve even done half of it right.  I do; however, know for certain that my kids have thrived even in my wrongness.  They’ve learned that “mommy is so not perfect, but at least she says she’s sorry”- and means it.  “Mommy loses her temper”, and her mind more often than not, “but she always loves us”.  And “mommy might have days that she can’t manage to get herself off the couch from sheer exhaustion, but the rest of the time she works hard at caring for us”.  In seven years of mommyhood, I’d say those are some decent truths to have passed on to my babes about how I operate.

will write for food…and then die of starvation

I’m sitting in the “office”, trying to write something that will just knock your socks off, and I realize that’s just impossible today.

First, I had to get up with the sun this morning and neither my body nor my brain can handle that kind of crap.  There is no amount of caffeine that can sustain rising before even God himself intended for one to rise.

Secondly, I have a toothache to end all toothaches.  Seriously, I want to gouge out my own eyes to try to make the pain stop.  {I know that makes no sense, but it just seems like something that might help.}  It’s like my mouth was set to self-destruct once I  hit my thirties.

Lastly- and most importantly, as I  sit here trying to type something clever,  a demon-possessed talking toy sits on the opposite side of the room and speaks the backwards lyrics of some 1970′s Led Zeppelin song to me.  Why do they {my spawn} have to leave these freaking toys out in the yard for the sprinklers to possess?  Why can’t they leave the shit that doesn’t talk to you out there- you know, the stuff that was actually made to be taken outdoors?  Not only does it annoy the hell out of me but it makes the dog do back-hand-springs and yelp like a coyote.  There’s just got to be something to that.   We’ve already determined that my dog is a wonder-pet that senses danger and eats the legs off of would-be burglars .  This just in, she now also senses paranormal activity and predicts the appearance of aliens! Maybe the freaking aliens can fix my teeth.  I’ve heard their guys do wonders with some Novocaine.

So, I just give up.  I’m calling it a night.  SO WHAT if I don’t get a super swanky writing gig and all my hard work is for nothing.  Big freaking deal.  At least the Fisher Price gremlins won’t eat my brains for a midnight snack.   I’ll be feeling good come morning- not sure about the talking firetruck {or those BP  guys who just can’t seem to get anything right}.  And at least I still have you, all 20 of you that read this crap.  So, there’s that.

dude, they even park the u-haul on the lawn… the photo-journalist edition

I know you’ve been wondering what the heck’s going on in the neighborhood.  Shortly after my look what the u-haul done drug in post, my new neighbors-to-be decided to postpone their move-in date.  Rumor has it, the house smelled so strongly of urine they told the landlords they would not move in until it was taken care of.  You know it had to be bad, people.   These are the same folks that transplanted weeds into their yard.

Since it’s my duty to be the Gladys Kravitz* of the neighborhood, I’ve been keeping an eye on things.

In the past week and a half, work crews have come in to clean the house,  paint the interior and sanitize the carpets twice. And this is just while I’ve been watching. Did the landlord not meet these people?  Does she not realize what a colossal waste of resources this is?  These people are obviously going to get piss drunk and urinate on the living room rug at the house-warming party.

(I’m bringing Home Interiors butterflies circa 1979 that I found at the Goodwill and my infamous pigs in a blanket.  Dude, you know that shit will be a hit!)

I’m almost positive this is my neighbor caught on film a while back at our local Agriculture Parade.

Imagine my joy, nay exuberance, when I saw the u-haul return this afternoon.  “Writer’s Block Officially Cured!  Yahoo!!!” And then it got better.  This happened.

I know it’s a bit hard to see folks, but that there u-haul  is parked right smack on the front lawn.  At one point, the ramp from said u-haul went all the way in the front door.  There’s just something to be said for working smart.  {Does anyone else notice even the rented u-haul looks ghetto?  Just me?}

My evening consisted of sitting in my easy chair and watching this guy grunt in an array of yard sale furniture.  The highlight; however, came when the Boxer, aka Jake, decided to take a stroll across the lawn.  Mr.  Good Ol’ Boy unleashed an arsenal of insults at poor Jake and ended it all by knocking the shit out of him… right on the front lawn. Dude, we civilized folk wait till we’re indoors to beat our dogs.

The Bitch-Lady must not have seen him because the cops didn’t show up.  Maybe she went straight to the ASPCA though.  Only time will tell.

I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.

*Gladys was the bat-shit crazy neighbor on Bewitched that I aspire to be.

dressed to kill

When the Hubbs and I were first together, he would have worn basketball shorts and sneakers to a wedding.  I’m not sure if it’s a complete lack of understanding when it comes to what not to wear or if it’s a stubborn refusal to give a shit what other people think.  I’m  betting it’s a bit of both.

Aside from his incessant need to shower and change underwear 3 times a day, he is as far from metro-sexual as one can get.  And no, I am not exaggerating about the obsessive hygiene.  He has issues.   And 47 pairs of undies.

After nine years of dressing the man, the amount of screaming matches we have over whether or not the crazy-ass ensemble he’s put together is indeed appropriate has decreased dramatically.  In fact, most of the time we go out, he looks pretty hot without my assistance.  Last night; however,  was a very different story.

A couple of friends were having a night on the town for their birthday.  It was one of those unique times we get to go out without kids, and I had been upstairs for about an hour and a half relishing this uncommon opportunity to shave and buff and primp and beautify.  This is a rare thing for me.  I’m a pretty low maintenance gal.  If I have clean hair and make-up on, it’s a good day.  If I remember to brush my teeth too, it’s freaking fabulous.

So, I come downstairs from my beauty salon experience and find the Hubbs still in his (you guessed it) basketball shorts and freaking ugly softball shoes (they are supposedly very comfortable.)  I already let him go with me to Walmart dressed like this today, but what the hell?  He fit right in- we all know the trashy folk that frequent Wally World.  So, I nicely say, “Hey babe, can you go get dressed so we can leave as soon as the sitter gets here?”  {See, that sounded nice and sweet, right?!}

So then he’s riffling through a pile of t-shirts (that I have been putting off folding for about 3 days) and I say, “What are you looking for?”

And he innocently and completely obliviously replies, “A t-shirt that goes with these shorts.”

Me:  [losing the sweet and innocent tone and jumping straight to crazy bitch]  Are you fucking kidding me?  Look at me!  Does this outfit look like  someone that wants to be seen with Mr. Fucking Basketball Shorts and Softball Shoes?

Hubbs [sounding completely dumbfounded and stupid and overall just PISSED]:  Well, wha,  uh, duh, buh.  YAH.

Me:  I mean for godsakes, I just spend an hour and a half to look  HOT and you’re going to fucking wear THAT? Do you even want to GO?  Is that what the problem is here?

Hubbs:  [Marches up the stairs and mumbles something, who-really-cares-what?]

Me:  [Marches up the stairs after him.  NOT losing momentum because I am clearly going to win this fight.]  Are you going to answer me?  Do you just not want to go to this thing or are you just freaking stupid?  Oh, and I’m sorry for snapping at you like that but…seriously, what the fucking shit?!  I mean, really?  Uh.  Gah. UH!  GAH!!!!

Hubbs:  [something that sounded like]  Blah, blah, blah… I’m always right and you are just an over-reacting bitch 99.9% of the time.

[but was probably more like]  Whatever, crazy.  I’m changing my clothes.  Stop bitching at me and let’s just go.  We’re not going to have to speak to one another for the rest of the night anyway.

[and then says in his head, "besides... you're going to drink too much tonight and I'm still going to get lucky anyway so this whole argument is just a waste of time, and who really cares who the winner is?  I can wear whatever I want, I'm just changing so you'll shut the hell up."]

Followed by a good half hour of my saying, “Are you really not still mad at me?” and other pointless crap, and him saying,”whatever… it’s over,” [and I'll just hold your major freak out over your head sometime when it will really benefit me]

Then we went out and had a fantastic time.

{and almost got shot in the head at some bar fight, but that’s for another day.  seriously, we did almost get shot.   I mean, practically… Well, there was a bar fight.  And we were there. You never know what can happen in this crazy town.}

i don’t give a shit WHERE lebron james plays basketball.

I can’t even believe I am devoting precious keyboard strokes to even discuss the spectacle that is lebron james.  I am so disgusted with him I’m not even going to capitalize his name.   Okay, maybe I’m being a little too hard on the guy… it’s not his fault he’s the newest Brittany Spears of the sports world.

Last year I had equal disgust for Brett Favre [pronounced favor, not farve.  anyone with half a brain can see that there's no way in hell farve can phonetically be derived from Favre.  see how the v comes before the r.  whatever genius. i don't care how hot you are for an old guy- phonetics are phonetics.]

I mean, why do they feel the need to drag out their oh so important decisions of where they are going to play with their balls for weeks on end?  They know WHERE before they even start talking about  it.  They are going to the place where the most money is being thrown at them.  Have you ever heard of strippers holding press conferences as to  which pole they’re going to gyrate on?  I’m pretty sure whoever’s making it rain the hardest is going to get the lap dance.*  Is the world of professional sports any different?  I’m thinking not.  So why the hell do they get so much attention?

Here’s my ultimate problem… I am a woman that is marginally interested in sports and married to a man that is obsessed with them.  Do you understand what that means for me?  If his brothers, dad, friends,  fellow card-carrying testosterone junkies are not handy, I have to hear about the ins and outs of whatever latest sports related soap opera is on satellite radio.  As much as I like to sit and veg to a football game on a dreary fall day,  I don’t want to hear about the rest of their crappy lives.  They are overpaid drama queens that care more about the money than their talent.

*Don’t ask me how I  know so much about strippers.  I saw it on an episode of Made or something.   OK?!

meet my little people

We might as well get this out of the way now, as I’m sure you’ll be hearing lots about my kids if you read me regularly.  This may not be one of my more hilarious blogs, and I’ll have to try to keep the inappropriateness to a minimum (I mean my kids are present), but I’m sure you’ll enjoy getting to know my little people.

Allow me to start off by saying, I adore my babes.  At the end of the day, when they’re sleeping peacefully in their beds, and I go in to give them one last kiss of the day all is well in the world.

The rest of the time, they are…

yep- that's at a bowling alley

and a restaurant

and this:

and sometimes even this

My little man, Jordan, has a knack for getting in trouble.  I mean, serious trouble.  Turn some neighbor’s camper into your personal fort without anyone knowing kind of trouble.   He also has a love of peeing outdoors… wherever really.  It may be on the sidewalk between our house and the mailbox.  Or off the front porch to  see how far he can shoot into the front lawn.  My personal favorite is on the air conditioner unit along the side of the house.  (Don’t tell his dad.)  And thankfully NOT on the dog since I walked in just in time to put a stop to that.

The little diva, aka “sis” aka Elle,  is becoming a young woman faster than I care to think about.  She has the sassiest mouth of any seven year old that ever lived and has recently decided she’s getting boobs and needs a bra.  Ummm… NO.  She is more like her mom than should be legal in any state and I have already started to fear for her husband and children.

I’m sure at some point in the near future there will be stories about the crap they get into.  Trust me, there’s a never ending supply of crap.

Thanks for letting me ooh and aahhh over them.  And stay away creepy internet pervs.  We have a guard dog.

Did I ever tell you about that time I had a crush on a transvestite?

Forgive me male readers, this one is a little estrogen heavy- or maybe just pervy.  Tomorrow I’ll write about football or beer… or farting.

Sometime last year {or somewhere in the distant past- I don’t know, I’m not a calendar!}  I decided to have one of those “tupperware” parties where they don’t really sell plastic resealable bowls but more things like vibrators and flavored what-nots.  It was crazy fun, especially when the “sales consultant” put a humongous suction cup dildo on the giant mirror hanging right above her head.  (Who does that??)  She then proceeded to  pass around a whole menagerie of flavored and/or mentholated [read: tingly] items that people were supposed to somehow sample.  That got a little weird for me.

Ummm… no.  I’d really rather you NOT put that on yourself right here in my living room.  Thanks.

[But seriously, I'd already had somewhere around 9 martinis so I wasn't really complaining.]

Just buy some shit and earn me my free hostess gifts, this stuff is crazy expensive.

So at some point in the night, my recently divorced friend (in who’s honor the party was thrown because I am a kick-ass friend to have around if you need to get divorced and celebrate the fact that you just cut off 170ish pounds of dead weight)… anyway… SHE decided we should go to the local drag show.

And we couldn’t say no.  She brought a penis cake.

So we called up the local establishment that offered drag shows [read: gay bar] to make sure they were having one.  They must have heard what sounded like a bunch of 15 year-old girls that got into their mom’s stash of Boone’s Strawberry Hill in the background because they lied and told us no.

Much to their chagrin, we showed up a couple of weeks later in all our Vanilla-ness {me with my mom hair and flip flops} to see just what the Trannies have to offer.  Now, I’m no sheltered prude, but I was scared shitless.  I mean, who frequents drag shows?  (Besides Drag Queens?)   Not this girl.  But I am telling you, I developed the biggest {girl?} crush I have ever had that night!

She was decked out in Skinny Jeans, Hooker Boots and a Red Leather Bustier.  She sang {lip-synced.  whatever.}  “I Kissed a Girl and I Liked It” and for just a moment I wanted to taste her cherry chap-stick.   Then I remembered she had a penis and changed my mind.

But I did see “her” as a “him” later on that night- and he was just as hot.  Go Figure.

[Dear Gay and/or Transvestite Readers  {I'm sure there are so many of you}
Please forgive any offensive and completely ignorant comments I may have made in reference to you.   I can't even tell you how Vanilla I am.  Remember the aforementioned Mom-Hair and Flip Flops?  That was true.
Okay.   Thanks.]