Bad Mom Monday 

Bad Mom Monday:  a weekly post about why I might be a bad mom.  

This was a recent conversation with the kids while on our way to Nana’s. 

Monkey brought up “nuts”.  Yes, those nuts.  Now, I make a point of using correct biological words for all body parts but somehow his father, my husband, still managed to teach him the fundamentals of guy talk and at some point during their primitive garage get-togethers has taught my son “nuts” and “balls”.  I’m pretty sure there’s a piss bucket in the garage too.  (And that’s a whole ‘nother story about why my daughter is angry that she can’t go pee in the garage.)

So it went like this.  We heard the DJ make a joke.  “Why didn’t the skeleton go on the roller coaster?  Because he didn’t have any guts.”

Monkey:  He didn’t have any nuts!?  Hahaha. 

Me:  No, buddy.  He said guts. 

Monkey: Oh. 

Me:  Monkey, do you know what part of the body are nuts?

Monkey: Duh, you’re penis.  

And then we got to Nana’s and started to hop out of the van.  That’s when Abalone said:  Me like to eat nuts. 

And Monkey got a horrified look on his face, with a dash of confusion.  

Me:  No, buddy.  She means like peanuts, or almonds.  The nuts you eat.  

And thats when my husband fell apart, doubled over, and could no longer contain himself.  

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Vacuum Mafia

This is Wanda.
Wanda Dyson.
(Yup, that’s a photo of my dirty vacuum)

So named because I can hear her yelling at me in true Wanda Sykes fashion. “I know you’re not going to make me suck that!” (I don’t know if WS actually said that, exactly, but you can pretend in your head like she did.)

WD doesn’t like me. I make her vacuum weeks’ worth of dog hair pushed into the corners of the bedroom and hidden behind the doors. And I excuse my behavior by asserting that I live in an old house. It needs old stuff in it. Weeks-old dog hair IS old.
I make her vacuum up other gross things, like cat litter. And things she hates, like rabbit hay. She hates hay because the long strands get stuck in her hose and Wanda loses suction.
Wait! Dysons don’t lose suction.
Yes, that Dyson commercial lied – and now I’m going to get sued for libel. In my defense, the commercials said “never loses suction”. And it does lose suction. Well, not completely all the way, no. But it loses some suction.

Who here loves a good sucking? Raise your hand. Don’t be shy.

You want that Lego toy sucked just as much as you want the cat fur sucked. And none of it gets sucked when WD gets a throat full of hay.

Half sucked, sort of sucked, is like blue balls for housekeepers. Those poor housekeepers, they just want the task done. Nobody wants blue balls.* And we all know that rush we get when the hose releases its load and we’ve got some amazing suction once again. Ecstasy. AmIright?

But nothing sucks more than a Wanda that won’t suck.

She’s slowly toying with me. One day she’ll suck like a seasoned whore. I can tell when she’s sucking best just from the sounds she makes. She’s loud, mad. And then other days her loud noises are only whispered sweet nothings. Do I look like I need a nothing sucking? Probably not.

So, now, WD is refusing to do her required sucking on demand and I’m growing weary of her crappy work ethics. I’ve complained to other management here at Chateau Jeans and they stare at me in bewilderment. But my complaints have been overheard by WD and I think she’s unionizing.

I drove into work this week and you can imagine my confusion when I was greeted by two more floor cleaners waiting for me in the parking lot. Initially I thought that they belonged to the janitor but then I remembered that he sucks (not in a WD sort of way) and can’t even clean the toilets. And then my brain wondered if the landscaping dudes had left them but then the voice of my husband asked me if I honestly thought they were planning on vacuuming the grass. Shut up, voice of husband.

Did some pissed off teenagers drop them off? They wanted to be rid of chores forever?! It’s a good plan on paper.

Oh oh, it’s a Jets vs. Sharks thing, right? When you’re a Jet you’re a Jet all the way. Swiffer Jet? Shark Vacuum? No?

So then I realized these had to be associates of WD. And they were here to do her bidding. She’s pissed that I’ve been abusing her, demanding that she work.

These two were floor cleaning Union stewards. AKA her pimp and bodyguard (canister guard?).
I parked, and got out of the car. Then I did what any same person would do: walked quickly to the door and peeked around the corner from inside. They hadn’t moved. Whew, I was safe.

No one in the office bullpen mentioned the vacuums that day. Maybe they never noticed? Maybe they did and like to fuck with me (they would). Or maybe it was just me who saw Vacuum Pimp and I really am going nuts.

I went about my work day and forgot about them. When I left work they were waiting for me, melting in the sun. I hoped they dropped they’re shanks somewhere because there was no way that I was going to miss taking a photo of random vacuums in the parking lot.


I’m sure Wanda is going to blame me for the Great Vacuum Melt of 2016, and refuse to suck when it’s time to vacuum the front porch the next time I don’t feel like sweeping. Whatever, bitch. You’ll suck it and you’ll like it.

Two days later there was a murmur in the office about the vacuums. There was only one left. I think they got into a turf war with some mops and the second vacuum was likely tossed over the bridge.


The problem wasn’t that one was gone, the problem was that one had somehow made it inside and now I might have to go into witness protection.


* This does not include my BDSM peeps. They might actually want blue balls.

Why My Razors Rust

imageIs shaving really necessary?  I mean, if I wear pants and sleeved shirts for eternity, can I be exempt from body shaving?

I was helluv excited the summer before I started junior high (that meant 7th grade in the olden days) and mom told me I could now wear mascara (blue!) and I could shave my legs.  And I did shave my legs.  I shaved my arms once, too, when I went to a party where my 8th grade ex-boyfriend was going to show up so I could totally make him jealous with my super model smooth skin.  Then the hair started to grow back and I was afraid I was going to have man stubble on my arms forever.

But the last two times I can remember shaving?  Sometime a year ago.  And the day before Abalone was born in 2011.  It was a scheduled c-section and I didn’t want to subject some poor nurse to my leg fur tickling her while she tried to shave my mons pubis in prep for birthing my second crotch fruit.

Stop yelling at me.  I can hear you all the way in Washington.  No.  I don’t shave my bikini.  My pubes are retro, bitches.  This muff is vintage.  (and now my co-workers know all about my hygiene habits because I was an idiot and gave them my blog address) (and I swore to myself that I wouldn’t reference my vagina area two posts in a row.  I lie to myself a lot.)

But that’s not the beginning of this story (it never is.  Carlos Mencia jokes that women have to know all the details.  “Did you hit the snooze button?” (you had to be there to know why this is funny) This is why my dildo hustling parties took 5 hours.  I had to give all the details.  Took longer with the drunk ones.  My gawd, they never shut up!).  Anyway, the beginning is that I was in the bathroom, itching my armpit (why do these stories always start in the bathroom.  I swear this was not the niche I was going for).

Side note:  I’ve always had a hypothesis that body hair can only grow so long and then your genetic code shuts it off.  If this were false, well I’d have 10 foot hair down there.  Except for facial hair.  That stuff has no limitations and is evil.  WHY?  Why does it prefer to grow out of moles and hide in the shadow of my second chin until I finally spot it and it’s 6 inches long (true story)?

So I felt a tickling in my armpit.  And I’ll share that I have an explosion of white girl afro.  The hair, on my head, is curly, thick, and there’s a lot of it.  this means that there’s also a lot that ends up down my back and somehow lodged into the weave of my shirt, traveling to unexplained lands like my under boob, or an armpit.  So, I figured this hair was from my head.  And I yanked.

The fuck it wasn’t.

If I don’t have a pus filled hair bubble tomorrow, I’ll be surprised.  And I’ll have to ask DH for help and he’ll either laugh at the irony from all those times I’ve harassed him to let me pop a zit on him (that.was.bugging.the.shit.out.of.me.).  Or he’ll grab something freakish from the first aid kit and I’ll be missing some lymph nodes by the end of the week.

You don’t have to feel sorry for me.  I’m aware that I’ve created my own nightmare.

But I faithfully swear that next week I will not talk about vaginas or vulvas.

Eh, who am I kidding.  I can’t promise that.

My First Post Is About Vaginas

dreamstimefree_148418My first post is about vaginas?  Well, not all of them, just mine, and a menstrual cup.  It’s also called a “Diva Cup”.

Why “diva”?  Is Mariah going to spring forth from my vag and serenade me with “Touch My Body”?  Why not call it the “Dare Devil Cup?”

Nope. Diva. Got it.

Well, I might not have turned into an operatic singer, but I sure had some choice words while trying the cup out.

It all started with a FB Group convo with some fitness friends.

Did you know there’s a website with all the measurements of the various brands of cups?  I didn’t.  I found out from my Nerd Fitness sisters of such an existence.  For science, I went to this site and decided on a cup to try.  Except the cup I wanted is only shipped from the UK.  Fuck it, Amazon it was.  So I went with one of the few options I could find with Amazon Prime. You’d think Amazon would have more options.  For goodness sake, they have this.

But that’s not the beginning of the story.  The beginning is that the cup was actually introduced years and years ago, back when I was a teenager (we’re talking decades here), back when the only manufacturer who made it called it “Instead”.

Instead of what?  Instead of my period?!  Yay.  I’ll take it!

It’s so easy, they said.  You just pop it right out, they said.

Liars.

That fucking thing put me on the floor.  It pummeled my cervix as I tried to yank it out, it slipped through my fingers over and over, until I felt like passing out and was curled around the toilet like a drunken floozie back from an all night binge fest. Fuck Instead.

And then I discovered that the next generation of menstrual cups have stems.  Stems!

The day came for our date, Big M and I (M for Mariah) It was time to test drive our relationship and see about leveling up.  But because I’m not a dirty whore, I boiled M for 5 minutes (and let it cool down) before I used it.
And then I lubed up M gingerly.

Side note: I used to hustle dildos for fun, and if there’s anything I’ve learned, if you want your silicone toys to stay in tip top shape, you’ll use a toy cleaner and water based lube.  And since Big M is another silicone apparatus that gets to spend a few days a month all up in my shit, well I’m gonna take care of my boo.  We might be together forever.

Remember those poppers when we were kids?

They looked like colorful diaphragms and when you turned them inside out they’d jump 10 feet.  Soo, I didn’t have a good enough grip and Big M flew right across the bathroom.  He was almost a goner.  Back into the boiling water.

Alright.  Now I was ready.  If I followed the directions correctly, I was to maintain a relaxed toilet position and pray that this thing would come out easily later.  I opted for the C-Fold and then prepared myself for bathroom calisthenics.

The instructions read that you’re supposed to spin the cup with your fingers up around the rim after it’s been inserted.  Say what?  So that the cup will pop out from the C-Fold. Do what?

Look, cup-making people, I’m not sure if you’re aware but I’m fat (and so is 50% of the U.S).  And as a fat girl I have this thing lovingly referred to as an apron.  And it gets in the way of most yoga poses.  How the fuck do you expect me to bend in half, on the toilet, and then reach all the way up into my nether cavity, without falling face first into the floor?  My arms don’t bend that way, I don’t know how to dislocate my shoulder.  I’m not double jointed.  Neither of my parents are Gumby.  Can’t you make a selfie stick or something for the Dare Devil Cup?  (No.  You’re right.  Yes. I know.  Idiots would impale themselves.) But the instructions read like this is a frolic in the park, with ice cream at the end.  I’m trying to keep this thing from pelting one of my kids in the head (because the concept of privacy in my house is like explaining Jupiter to a one year old), trying not to get a cramp in my pinky, while simultaneously trying to get Big M to pop and supply adequate coverage to my tampon tunnel.

It would be more honest to write:  “It’s just a jump to the left…” with diagrams of squats, pelvic thrusts, and cabinet leg lifts.

Then it came time to change the damn thing!  Man am I glad there’s a stem on this thing.  If not, I’d be writing from the ER.

I’ll keep this part short.  I basically birthed the damn cup and then had to keep a death grip on it so it didn’t slip out of my fingers and fall in the toilet.  No amount of boiling water will save it.  It’s a goner then.

I then tried the S-Fold.  Nope.  No matter how many times I did the Time Warp, that thing was not going to pop.  Back to the C-Fold.  I know you’ll never fail me, C-Fold.

Final thoughts.

I like the cup.  I’ve been using it for a few cycles now and haven’t lost it to the toilet yet.  I might get a smaller cup and keep Big M as back up, you know, if I’m feeling squirrely.  Or, if I feel like donning some bustiers and a garter belt.
Amazon reminded me that this is the cup I got. I love how Amazon remembers.  And if you want to be my vagina twin, you can get one just like mine. (Affiliate link. This girl’s gotta have a side hustle)