Day 19: 31 Days of Blogging Honesty





Day # 19 Question: The longest period of time I’ve gone without showering or bathing is…

image via

When I was 17, I lied to my boss. I informed him that a dire family emergency made going to my job as a lifeguard impossible for me for an entire weekend, but in truth, I headed to the beach with four of my best friends. For the first two days, we ruled the beach in our string bikinis; sunning and funning and sneaking the occasional underage beer that my friend Laurie had brought along. Everything was literally going swimmingly until on the third and final day of our retreat when, on a simple beach stroll, we chose to ignore a sign that in bold, red, blaring letters spelled out “Restricted Area, No Beach Access.” “Screw that sign!” my friend Amy roared. “We rule this beach!” We all heartily agreed with her as we brazenly shimmied under the heavy chain meant to keep us out. “This part of the beach is freakin’ amazing,” my friend Beth declared. She was right; it was astonishing! The sky was bluer, the beach was cleaner, the water was clearer and the waves were wavier. We were just about to engage in an underage toast to celebrate our new paradise when we were captured by pirates!

Unfortunately, our captors weren’t the Orlando Bloom or Johnny Depp type of pirates. These were buccaneers of the filthy, stinking, unwashed and very unattractive variety. Certain that their mission was to violate the five of us in unsavory and unspeakable ways we fought them tooth and nail, but their thick layers of filth made them impervious to our assaults. “What do you want from us?” I demanded as they dragged us to small, humid quarters located in the very bowels of the ship. “Arrr, we aim to make ye as filthy as we be!” one pirate snarled as he chained us to the wooden walls. “Well, that’s kind of ridiculous,” our friend Pam chimed. “Why don’t you just deflower us and let us go?” Pam was kind of a slut. “Shut up, Pam!” we said in unison. “Arrr, tis not yer young, nubile forms that we be a wantin’. We’re bein’ literal. We aim to make you as grimy and grubby as we be!”

True to their word, for 30 long days and 30 long nights the pirates pummeled us with dirt, garbage and unnamed filth. Finally, on the morning of the 31st day their ship was overtaken by a cutter of very attractive Coast Guardsmen. “Are you here to deflower us?” asked Pam wearily. “No, we’re here to rescue you. Your families have been worried sick, except for yours, Pam. Your mom figured that you met some guy and, um…well…” “Yeah, Pam’s kind of a slut,” Laurie added as she flexed her arms, now free of the chains. By the end of the day we were safely home, basking in the cleansing waters of our own bathrooms.

So, there you have it. I went for 30 and ½ days without a bath or shower. It was a grueling adventure and I definitely learned my lesson about ignoring restrictive signage. What? You don’t believe me? Alright, I’ll fess up! None of that really happened. (I know you’re shocked, because my tale seemed so very plausible!) I would have never lied to my boss at 17, nor would my strict parents have allowed me to go to the beach for a weekend without adult supervision! It’s just that my real answer of 13 days of going without showering or bathing, because I had mono, seemed so terribly boring!

🙂 Have a super fabulous and safe weekend, dear readers!

Day 18: 31 Days of Blogging Honesty





Day # 18 Question: The most outrageous thing I would do for a Klondike bar is…

I am extremely lactose intolerant, so my obvious answer would be that I would have loads of diarrhea for a Klondike bar. BUT, that answer doesn’t sound very nice, so let’s play pretend and imagine that I could enjoy the crunchy, chocolate shell and the cold, creamy, dreamy, center of a Klondike. Would an ice cream treat actually be something that I would engage in an outrageous activity in order to eat? I tend to think that it wouldn’t. Perhaps this is because my lifetime of explosive experiences with ice cream has formed a nearly Pavlovian response that forces me to avoid it at all costs, or perhaps it’s because my personal standards are so high that there are only a few things that I would do something outrageous for. Here are some of those things in no particular order of importance:

Things that I would do Outrageous Acts For:

1. Money: Long ago, before I had my student loans paid off, I told my best friend Donna that I would be willing to spend an entire year naked if someone would pay them off for me. That someone never came along, but I would do similar outrageous things involving nudity for large, life-changing sums of money.

2. Meeting Hugh Jackman: More than anything on Earth, I am afraid of moray eels, but I would be willing to swim in a tank filled with 10 large moray eels in order to spend one day with Hugh. Eleven eels; the deal is off!

3. A larger house: My current house is adorable, and it’s certainly filled with love. The problem is that it’s only 1,100 square feet and it usually has anywhere from 4 to 6 adults and two fat cats in it at any given time. I like my space, so for the gigantic home of my dreams I would engage in sewer swimming. Yes, I’m aware that I’m showing no pride of self or sense of safety with this response, but I am a really great swimmer, and I would be willing to swim several miles worth of sewer, in a bikini, for a 5,000 square foot home and a few rounds of antibiotics.

4. To star as Eric Northman’s love interest in the next season of True Blood: Sookie, be damned! Eric should really be with me and the best way to insure that is if I promise to actually drink real, unscreened human blood. Don’t try to talk me out of it; this is a risk I’m willing to take!

5. The guaranteed health of my family: This is a super important one so I would be willing to go pretty far. For this I would pull out all the stops and volunteer to be Oprah’s personal bathroom assistant. This means being there for all of her ups and downs and all of her ones and twos. There to hand her magazines, tissue, and towels, all while averting my eyes per our special contract. Gross? Yes, but for the guaranteed health of YOUR family you might do the same!

Well, there you have it! If anyone in the blogosphere has 10 eels, a large sewer, a random pint of human blood, or knows Oprah, AND can guarantee me wealth, Jackman, a mansion, Northman, or perfect health for my family, call me. I’ll be perfectly willing to be totally outrageous!!

Day 17: 31 Days of Blogging Honesty





Day # 17 Question: Given the choice between giving up sex for the rest of my life or giving up kissing, I would choose…

Photo courtesy of Wikipedia

Remember in the movie Pretty Woman when Julia Robert’s character, Vivian, told Richard Gere’s character, Edward, that she had a strict “no kissing” rule? In so many words, she told him that it was too personal, yet by the end of the film she threw her “no smooching” regulation out the window and played some serious tonsil hockey with old Eddie. As viewers of the flick, we knew that this was the point that Vivian had fallen in love with Edward. It was the moment when rules no longer mattered and she was willing to engage in an act that she believed to be far more intimate than sex.

At first, I was going to impulsively say that I would give up kissing, because who really wants to give up what most consider being the ultimate act of intimacy, sex? But then, my husband’s simple goodbye kiss this morning made me rethink my answer. A kiss can mean so many things that sex cannot. It can be the first greeting given or the last touch when you say goodbye. Remember when you were “sweet 16 (now days perhaps sweet 14 or 15) and had never been kissed?” Recall the awkward anticipation of lips against yours and the secret thrill of meeting a milestone when at last you engaged in your perfectly imperfect first one? A bride and groom kiss when they are pronounced husband and wife. Loved ones kiss the forehead of a friend or relative who had passed away, in a final goodbye. We kiss mothers, fathers, children, brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, friends, and even our pets. Sex could never replace all of the beautiful things that a kiss means, and if we tried to replace a kiss with sex, well, that would just be awkward!

Day 16: 31 Days of Blogging Honesty





Day # 16 Question: If I were given just one day to relive I would most definitely choose…

Bridal magazines are too expensive!

Lately, one of my favorite Friday night activities is watching wedding shows on TLC. Shows like  Say Yes to the Dress and Four Weddings give me a small glimpse into the lives of other women on one of their most special days. While I enjoy living vicariously through these brides as they plan their lavish weddings, I think that my own very simple wedding was perfect and it is the day that I would most like to relive.

If TLC were to make a show about my wedding it might have a title like Say No to Spending Money or Four Guests. My wedding was C-H-E-A-P, and that’s just the way my dear husband and I wanted it to be! Shortly after my husband asked me to marry him, we decided to add an addition to his existing home so that each of my daughters could have their own bedroom and my husband and I could enjoy extra closet space and a bathroom of our own. This was an expensive undertaking, so we decided that the best place to cut costs would be in the wedding department. After all, a wedding is one day, and a marriage is a lifetime.

Being a thrifty girl, I’m actually quite proud of the details of our big day. I wore a lovely, form-fitting, white, beaded dress purchase from a consignment shop for $25 and my husband wore a black suit that he already owned. My bouquet was a simple mix of flowers from our garden (free) and our venue was the county courthouse (free) with the justice of the peace officiating (so free that you’re not even allowed to tip the guy!). I splurged a bit on my daughters and took them to choose dresses and shoes from the mall. They both agreed on lavender, and all totaled with shoes and hair accessories I spent about $100. We had four guests; my ex-in-laws, whom I’ve remained good friends with, and two of my best friends who served as best man and maid of honor. Our rule for them was no gifts and no buying anything special to wear for that day. After the ceremony, we all went to lunch at a fancy restaurant with a bill of about $300. I guess we could have made things less expensive if we had all gone through a drive thru, but I thought that just seemed tacky!

The very best moment of our wedding day was when we’d said goodbye to our friends and loved ones and just the two of us were in our car heading to Rehoboth for our honeymoon. We were slightly tired from the excitement of the day and our fingers intertwined on the console as we quietly looked to the road ahead. I was thrilled, not just to be going on my first real vacation without my kids, but thrilled at all of the possibilities that our new life together would hold. So far, I haven’t been disappointed.

Day 15: 31 Days of Blogging Honesty





Day# 15 Question: If I had to spend an entire day as the opposite sex, I would look like _______ and I would spend the day doing…

I thought we had a good thing going. I can't believe you're NOT choosing me!

This question took a great deal of contemplation. Should I spend the day as the beautiful, talented Hugh Jackman, or as the equally gorgeous and super-hot Alexander Skarsgard? Though both would be dreamy to “wear” for the day, I think the man that I would most like to spend 24 hours as, would be my own very wonderful and very loving husband. Something magical happens when you love, and are truly and absolutely loved by, another human being. My husband’s love and kindness has made me a better, softer, more genuine person and my wish, while spending the day as him, would be to make his life a little bit easier. So, here’s my “To Do” list for my day as my husband.

1. Take care of a few uncomfortable situations at work: My husband is usually very happy with his job as one of the division heads of an engineering firm, but one thing he would rather avoid at work is counseling his employees when they exhibit not-so-stellar personal behavior. Though he performs effectively, he’s totally uncomfortable dealing with issues of a personal nature. Having spent the past 16 years as an educator, I’ve taken care of my share of unusual issues, so dealing with the next two problems would be a piece of cake for me!

a. Tammy and Jack: Tammy and Jack are two of my husband’s married employees. The problem is they’re NOT married to one another, BUT they spend their work days carrying on like they are. Last Wednesday they took their affair to the “next level” The problem is, that level was level #3 of the public parking area where their unsavory union in a company truck was witnessed by a mom and her twin toddlers. She hastily reported them to upper administration. Guess who upper admin has asked to counsel with a letter of reprimand this very morning? Yep, my poor awkward husband. Don’t worry honey—I’m on it!

b. John’s nut sack: (John is my husband’s employee) John is a fabulous engineer, but clearly not a fashionista. It has come to the attention of many, that John enjoys a commando lifestyle sans underwear. This would be all well and good if John’s pants fit him properly, but because his slacks tend to be on the snug side, people are complaining about the old trouser snake and his two very large companions. I have no problem with delivering the news that he needs to wear larger pants in order to not offend. Heck, I’ll even offer him the Kohl’s coupon that I got in the mail yesterday so that he’s guaranteed 15% off some new khakis.

2. See an allergist: The Allegra isn’t cutting it. My husband has sniffed, snorted and sneezed since the onset of spring. After I go, as him, to my allergist, Dr. Matthews, he’ll be breathing better in no time.

3. Check out the ol’ poop shoot: My darling husband is 54. This means that he is past due for a colonoscopy by four years. No matter how much I prod him to just make an appointment and get it done, he doesn’t listen. So during my day as him, I’ll endure a scope up my ass out of pure love for my hubby.

4. Do hard math just for the fun of it: Okay, I’ll admit, this one isn’t for him, it’s for me. All my life I’ve struggled with all types of math beyond Algebra I. I’m going to get out my daughter’s calculus book and solve at least a chapters worth of problems, just to see how it feels to actually understand what I’m doing!

Well that’s my day as the fantastic Mr. Sprinkles! Readers, who would you choose?

Dodging a Bullet Apocalypse Style

Whew! It’s May 22nd, and I feel like I’ve dodged yet another apocalyptic bullet. Actually, I’m very happy to confess that I wasn’t in the least concerned by crazy Mr. Camping’s May 21st Rapture prediction, but I do very seriously wonder how many children out there were frightened by his prophecy. The reason for my speculation is that I was once a completely terrified twelve year-old certain that the world would not last beyond my childhood. There were two extremely valid reasons that my pre-pubescent self was certain that doomsday was drawing near. The first was that my grandmother had ever so lovingly taken me, at least a dozen times, to the Pentecostal church that she attended. One thing I soon found out about Pentecostals, besides the fact they rolled in the aisles and spoke in tongues, was that they talked constantly about “the end times,” and according to them just about everything was a sign that the end times were near. If there was a slight earthquake in California, it was a sign of the end times. If teenaged boys began wearing their hair longer, it was a sign of the end times. If an R-rated movie won an Academy Award, then Armageddon was soon to follow. The other, and perhaps most binding, reason that I feared the end of the world was imminent was that a person that I deemed extremely credible told me that it would be happening. This person was my 7th grade science teacher and at 12, I had no doubt that any grain of knowledge passed down to me by a teacher was absolutely, positively, beyond a shadow of a doubt the truth.

Mr. Smith was hired to teach 7th grade science a few months after school had actually started. Before him, we had a series of substitute teachers who never seemed to get past the first chapter in the science book. I was tired of learning and relearning about cell functions, so I was pretty psyched when the board of education granted Mr. Smith the position of our science teacher. Mr. Smith was a cool, young, teacher fresh out of college. He energetically pushed us through the rest of cell biology and moved through several more chapters. Everything was going swimmingly until we reached the chapter on astronomy. At first, this unit was rather exciting because Mr. Smith deemed himself an amateur astronomer complete with a very expensive telescope and a notebook brimming with universal theories. Immediately, after he spent some time bragging to us about the size and cost of his device, he began sharing his theories. Most were fairly benign, but the theory that he called “The Big One” was horrific. He claimed that in March of 1982 the planets would align on the same side of the sun causing an event so cataclysmic that we would all be hurled into a black hole where our bodies would implode, leaving nothing but our severed consciousness to float in a sea of nothingness for eternity. This was some pretty deep shit that he was springing on a bunch of naïve 12 year-olds, but he was a teacher; an authority figure, and I felt forced to consider the possibility of his postulations.

Suddenly, my small world began to feel more than a little hopeless. Things at home were already pretty grim. With my mother recovering from a radical mastectomy and my father drinking himself to a raging oblivion on a daily basis, school had been my escape. Now with nothing but additional doomsday theories from Mr. Smith to look forward to during 5th period, school felt sullied and ruined. I began to look for ways to get out of his class. I was far too terrified of the wrath of my father to ditch 5th period, so I attempted to claim illness every day after lunch, in order to be sent home. At first it worked, and my grandmother or a neighbor would pick me up from school. After a week of this, however, my mother grew wise to my ruse and demanded to know why I didn’t want to spend the entire day at school. Was I being picked on? Was I doing poorly in a class? I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what I was trying to avoid. She was battling cancer and I was terrified that if she knew that we were all going to die in 1982 that she would abandon her fight. So I told her everything was fine, that I was feeling better and would no longer call to come home. This left me with finding a way to get through Mr. Smith’s class without listening to his theories or his responses to my classmates constant queries about “The Big One.” Not paying attention in class had always been sort of problem of mine, and I decided to use it to my advantage. So, during Mr. Smith’s class I completely blocked out his lecturing and voraciously wrote in my science notebook. I made sure to periodically look up, make eye contact, and nod in agreement with what he was saying so he would think that I was hungrily writing down his every word. In truth, I was writing my bucket list, and since I knew that most of the goals on my list would never be completed before the planets aligned and we were all screwed, I wrote about how they might have been. I wrote of graduation and college, about my marriage to Donny Osmond and our two kids named Jasmine and Xavier. I wrote about my career as a famous actress who did both dog food commercials and soap operas with Academy Award winning flair.

My plan was working beautifully until report card time rolled around and the square that usually housed an above average science grade held an F. This F brought me much more worry than it would to your average 7th grader, my mother, who had always been very active in my school life, was insistent about attending a parent-teacher conference to discuss my poor mark and lack of progress. Like any kid with an F on her report card, I didn’t want her to attend a meeting with my teacher. This wasn’t because I was afraid of her finding out that I had been slacking in class. It was because she was receiving chemotherapy and I was terrified that she would contract a life-threatening illness at my germy school. This was my tipping point. It was the moment that my fear of losing my mother became greater than my fear of the end of the world and I fessed up. Everything came spilling out. I tearfully showed her my detailed bucket list and begged her to not abandon her fight despite the short time that we all had left on Earth. She circled me in her arms and assured me that for centuries people have foretold the world’s demise without success. She said that I had nothing to worry about, and that’s all it took to make things better. I believed her, because when you’re 12 a mother’s theory trumps all others.

With some work I eventually raised my science grade to a B, although a substitute placed the higher mark on my report card. Mr. Smith wasn’t permitted to finish out the school year, once school officials found out that he had been inviting students to his home to see his “telescope” and discuss his theories. My mother recovered and spent the rest of her life cancer free, and I’ve never worried about the end of the world again.

Day 14: 31 Days of Blogging Honesty





Day # 14 Question: The most disgusting food I’ve ever eaten was…

Ah, this question prompts me to tell you the tale of when I met prank phone call guy’s parents, my first set of in-laws. After PPCG (“prank phone call guy” from here on) had been dating for about a month, he decided that I should meet his mom and dad. Despite my silly interior, I’ve found that I am the type of girl that you take home to mom. So, dinner invitations were extended to me and I soon found myself sitting at the head of the table in their formal dining room.

Before I go any further in this story, it is important that I share with you my history of food up to that point. My mother was extremely picky about what she fed to us. I grew up in a very rural area where we had a ginormous, pesticide-free vegetable garden, an orchard of apple trees, a sprinkling of peach and pear trees, and a lovely bunch of chickens. All of our vegetables and fruits were either eaten fresh, or canned or frozen for the rest of the year by my mother and grandmother. The meat that we ate, aside from our chickens, came from the farm that was less than a mile from my house. My parents only bought a few things from the grocery store like dairy products, cereal, which was never the sweetened variety, and the components for baking bread. When our garden wasn’t producing mom would purchase some produce, but she would treat it as poison until she had thoroughly washed it.

You can imagine that my transition from eating a diet of whole, preservative free food, to eating food from a college cafeteria was a rough one. While I was thrilled to have the option of sweetened cereal, and ate my weight in Fruit Loops my first semester, my stomach was very sensitive to most of the foods offered. To avoid sudden attacks of intestinal distress, (AKA diarrhea), I found myself sticking to very safe options in the cafeteria; mainly foods that were in their whole form and not mixed into some sort of gloppy casserole.

After struggling to eat cafeteria food for so long, I was thrilled at the prospect of a home-cooked meal when PPCG’s mom invited me to dinner. There I sat at the head of the table where everyone could get a proper look at the girl who had stolen their son or brother’s heart. PPCG’s mom had prepared quite a spread of baked chicken, au gratin potatoes, green beans, and rolls. PPCGs mom was one of those who prepared everyone’s plate for them. First, she served the men, which would have NEVER gone down in my household! Then she served me. Before she spooned an item on my plate she asked me if I liked it. When she got to the au gratin potatoes, I told her they were one of my favorites, so she gave me an extra-large helping. After grace was said, we proceeded to chow down. The chicken was great. The beans were perfectly steamed. The rolls were delicious. The au gratin potatoes, however, were HORRIBLE. There was no creamy dreamy cheese sauce like my own mother made, and certainly no mellow, earthy taste from the potatoes. This dish tasted like garbage. It tasted as if it had been hatefully crafted by the Devil in the kitchen of Hell. As I politely choked down this orange glob that seemed to be growing on my plate, PPCG’s mother, asked me if I liked them. For a moment I wondered if she was being facetious. I wondered if I had been seated at the head of the table as part of a girlfriend poisoning ritual. I expected that if I peeked under the table that I would see her dainty cloven hoof impatiently tapping, waiting for me to die. “They’re great!” I said enthusiastically as I suffered another mouthful. “Well, believe it or not they’re from a boxed mix, but I think they’re just as good as homemade,” she replied. Relief swept over me. She wasn’t trying to kill me; she had merely made a bad cooking choice. I pretended to adjust the strap of my sandal and checked her feet. No cloven hooves! I was safe.

Apparently NOT made in Hell by the Devil. Who knew?

Do You Recognize This Guy?

No, I am NOT Barbara Bush!

My daughter just posed an exciting and important question to me. If you saw the Quaker Oats Man, out of context would you recognize him on the street? I’ve taken the past few minutes to ponder her query. My daughter is, after all, going to be a doctor, so she must be taken quite seriously. For these past few moments I’ve imagine the Quaker Oat Man dressed in a flannel shirt, old Levis and hiking boots, with his hair pulled back in a low ponytail like any of the other aging hippies in my town. In this scene I’ve decided that I probably wouldn’t recognize him.

My daughter pictures him wearing the thick glasses of a pedophile, wearing brown corduroys and a green button down shirt. I remind her that corduroys might not be the best choice for a pedophile who might want to sneak up on his prey. She reminds me that pedophiles groom their victims, they don’t sneak. She’s really smart. I’d want her as my physician.

Then I pictured the Oat Man in a well-tailored suit, his gray hair in a discreet braid, a briefcase in his hand, standing in front of our town’s courthouse. I’m certain that if I passed him on my way to the Chinese restaurant beside of that courthouse that I would think he was just another lawyer. No recognition.

My daughter then notices Oat Man’s gender flexibility. Would I notice him dressed similar to Aunt Bea from The Andy Griffith show? I imagine a house dress peppered with tiny flowers, with the Oat Man’s hair in a neat bun. He/She’s bringing Otis the drunk a perfectly balanced lunch at the town jail. I decide I would recognize him as an Aunt Bea imposter, but that his identity as the Quaker Oats Guy wouldn’t cross my mind. My daughter agrees with me on this one. I take this to mean that I am nearly as smart as a future doctor.

It is times like these that I wish I could afford Photo Shop. Then I could see what Oat Guy would look like in a Speedo, a turban, or a nurse’s uniform from the 1940s. Perhaps if I took the time to create pictures of The Quaker Oats Guy in as many scenarios as possible, then I would be ready for that fateful moment when our paths cross. I could point to him and call him a time traveling imposter. I could warn people of his ruse, potentially saving humanity from an anachronism whose mission is to force oat products on one and all. My daughter points out that, though my intentions are noble, this would be a great waste of my time on a potentially fictional character. She also reminds me of the health benefits of whole grains, including oats. Yep, she’s doctor material.

Day 11: 31 Days of Blogging Honesty





Day # 11 Question: I stopped __________ at age ___ …

The tooth fairy is kind of a bitch.

This one is too easy. I stopped sucking my right index finger at age 10. Yes, I know that’s rather late, but I believe strongly in hanging onto the things that comfort us for as long as possible. According to my mother I was born with a fixation for the finger. In retrospect, I’m not at all surprised that I had the need for an extended and permanent security device. My father was a highly insecure person who was jealous of his own offspring. The mere existence of my brother and I was often the only catalyst to one of his rages. The odds were pretty favorable that from the moment my index finger found my mouth in utero, a relationship was formed. So, it’s no wonder that I resisted when my parents attempted to break the bond I had with my perfect soother.

From about the age of three onward, my parents, at the urging of my pediatrician, tried everything to stop my finger sucking. Their first attempt was to put a pair of little white gloves on me at bedtime, the hour when sucking seemed most favorable to me, as I often fell asleep to the sounds of their arguing. The gloves were a huge failure. The moment my mother left the room, I peeled them off and sucked my little heart out. When it was discovered that the gloves weren’t working, they offered me rewards for giving it up. They, however, soon realized that a one day trip to the zoo was not an equivalent reward for ending the lifetime relationship that my finger and I enjoyed. Their next attempt was to paint my fingernails with a putrid smelling substance intended to curb thumb suckers. Despite the horrible taste and the warning that the polish would make me sick, I fought through its offensive taste. I attribute this experience to teaching me the life lesson that sometimes you have to eat a little shit to get to the thing you really want.

Still, armed with the fear of spending thousands on orthodontics, my parents didn’t give up. A month or so before Christmas, they involved Santa Claus in their quest. While I had a pretty healthy fear of “mall Santa,” I thought the real Santa who visited my home each December 25th was on my side. Turns out that fat fucker wanted me to stop sucking my finger too. He began leaving little notes on my pillow telling me that rat bastard Rudolf, and the other eight tiny reindeer wanted me to quit. Then he got the elves involved. To this day, I don’t trust anyone under 3’2”.

Ho! Ho! Ho! I'm a shifty bastard!

When I began losing my primary teeth, the tooth fairy, with her infinite oral wisdom began leaving notes with a measly quarter, alluding to a much larger financial reward if I gave up the finger. The next time I lost a tooth I went to bed armed with my mother’s fly swatter, determined to teach the tooth fairy a lesson. I was however lulled quickly to sleep by my sucking and awoke to a quarter and warning letter from the fairy. I still wonder if that winged bitch realizes that my finger saved her life that night.

As soon as I was old enough to understand the concept of bullying, my parents told me that if my kindergarten classmates found out about my little habit they would make fun of me. I knew this was ridiculous. I was way too smart to finger suck at school, plus if I ever slipped up and stuck my finger in my mouth during story time, I knew from sitting beside of Willard Cogan, whose hands were always down his pants, that there were kids with far worse vices who would be picked on well before me.

As time passed and years of cajoling continued to prove futile, my parents gave up and began saving for my braces. Then one fateful day I was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. I spent two long weeks struggling to breathe before I finally began to recover. Near the end of my stay my mother made the observation that I had gone 14 days without sucking my finger while in the hospital. She was certain that if I could go that long, then it was highly likely that I could stop for good. I wasn’t as sure, so on my last night in the hospital without the obstruction of an oxygen mask, I stuck my finger in my mouth eager for its comfort. It turned out that my mother was right. No matter how hard I tried to make it work, my finger just didn’t feel comfortable in my mouth anymore. On that night I demoted my right index finger to mundane tasks, like pointing and nose picking.

For those of you wondering how many years I spent in braces, the answer is none. Once all of those funny little gaps between my permanent teeth filled in, my teeth were perfectly straight. However, my brother, the non-sucker wore braces for years!

No braces for me!

Day 10: 31 Days of Blogging Honesty

 Day # 10 question: What I dislike envy most about the opposite sex is…

You weren't there when I needed you!!

Honestly, I don’t dislike much about the opposite sex, but there is something that men can do that I’m highly envious of. I could bitch about the fact that in the corporate world the majority of men are not confined by a glass ceiling, or I could bemoan the issue that they don’t have to endure a monthly period, but I’m not going to. The thing that I envy the most about the opposite sex is that they have a penis. Now please, please, please don’t think that this means that I’ve confirmed Freud’s theories and I’m a card carrying member of the penis envy club, because I’m truly not. I tend to not be a big fan of unpredictability, and the penis seems to be one impulsive little critter. I have no desire to go through my day with something that has the possibility of taking on a life of its own hanging around in my underwear. However, there are those occasions that I would like to be the proud owner of a male unit and those occasions always involve a long stretch of road without a rest area in sight.

With a penis, the world is your toilet. There would be no more limiting my fluids on a road trip. No longer would I deny myself a beer near the end of a concert because of long bathroom lines, nor would I leave an amusement park thirsty due to an impending parking lot back up. There would always be a bottle, cup, or discreet wooded area on my horizon. Dudes, I don’t dislike you for your ability to make wee against your front tire on a dark roadside when the next rest stop is 64 miles away. I’m envious, because I know that when I try the same maneuver in a squatting position, that nine times out of ten I’m getting back in the car with a wet spot on the back of my pants!

Not true!