Well, those of us with kids know how special some of those "firsts" can be. You know, the first word, the first step, or the first tooth. Then there are those firsts that aren't so celebrated, such as the first detention, first traffic violation, and of course, the first hickey.
Really, I'm not quite sure what says poor white trash like a big, purple, pulsating, thronging hickey right in plain view. Except perhaps having such a hickey while perched on the hood of a '82 Camaro, drinking a Pabst Blue Ribbon, sporting cut off jeans shorts, a wifebeater, and a mullet.
As the Mom of Hickey Guy, it's embarrassing for me, so I have no choice but to make it a little embarrassing for Hickey Guy and his girlfriend, hereafter to be known as Hickey Chicky. What the hell? I think I'll just sit them down for a nice little talk that'll start something like this:
"You know, guys, it's not that hard to make out without leaving any marks on each other. After all, Mr. H and I play some serious championship level tongue hockey and you don't see any boo-boos on me, do you?"
I'll improv the rest, but I can't promise it won't include a rendition of that old Toni Basil song Hey Mickey. Only in this case, of course, it would be Hey Hickey.
Showing posts with label Revenge. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Revenge. Show all posts
Obstetrical Revenge
The previous post and the comments that followed brought to mind my favorite obstetrical revenge story, and I just couldn't resist posting it. Now, you're in luck since I'm not posting a picture with this one. I know, I know...I'm a real model of restraint.
Before I go on, I assure you that I will continue with the Rants by Request series after this small detour. I'll also say that if you menfolk (or ladies) aren't comfortable with some unvarnished vagina talk, you may want to find another way to spend the next five minutes. Don't say I didn't warn you!
Without further delay, I hereby present a special technique you ladies can use to make sure your gynecologist or obstetrician is giving you his or her complete attention at all times. I discovered this technique completely by accident, as I'm about to describe.
When I was pregnant with Tyler, I was still in the Army, and their policy is that when a pregnant soldier gets sick, she has to be seen by the obstetrician, no matter the nature of the illness. So about six months along, I came down with a fever and a brutal, violent cough, prompting me to waddle on into the OB's office.
I've never understood why, but the first part of my exam for my cough was a good old-fashioned-feet-in-the-stirrups pelvic exam. I was really less than thrilled, since I felt like death on a stick and didn't anticipate having to unlace my boots and take off my elastic-topped camouflage pants, but the Army was never big on giving me lots of choices, so I put on the crunchy paper gown and assumed the position.
In comes Dr. Peekupurcooter and the nurse whose whole job is to make sure the doctor doesn't try to strum your banjo, and the exam begins with the brandishing and insertion of an ice-cold speculum. As he's checking under the hood, so to speak, he's asking me about what brings me in today, how long I've had a fever, the usual questions, and I start to feel a coughing jag coming on that I just can't restrain.
Anyone care to guess what happens to a speculum that's stuck up your vajayjay when you're lying on your back with your legs spread and you cough violently? In case you haven't guessed, let me dispel the mystery: the damn thing shoots out of your nether regions like a rocket propelled grenade, right into the forehead of the guy who has his face inches from the launch site. And yes, it will leave a mark. Right on the forehead, exactly as you would have hoped.
Now, I'm not suggesting that you need to do this, but it certainly is very tempting when the doctor is condescending. Or if they don't validate your parking, right?
Before I go on, I assure you that I will continue with the Rants by Request series after this small detour. I'll also say that if you menfolk (or ladies) aren't comfortable with some unvarnished vagina talk, you may want to find another way to spend the next five minutes. Don't say I didn't warn you!
Without further delay, I hereby present a special technique you ladies can use to make sure your gynecologist or obstetrician is giving you his or her complete attention at all times. I discovered this technique completely by accident, as I'm about to describe.
When I was pregnant with Tyler, I was still in the Army, and their policy is that when a pregnant soldier gets sick, she has to be seen by the obstetrician, no matter the nature of the illness. So about six months along, I came down with a fever and a brutal, violent cough, prompting me to waddle on into the OB's office.
I've never understood why, but the first part of my exam for my cough was a good old-fashioned-feet-in-the-stirrups pelvic exam. I was really less than thrilled, since I felt like death on a stick and didn't anticipate having to unlace my boots and take off my elastic-topped camouflage pants, but the Army was never big on giving me lots of choices, so I put on the crunchy paper gown and assumed the position.
In comes Dr. Peekupurcooter and the nurse whose whole job is to make sure the doctor doesn't try to strum your banjo, and the exam begins with the brandishing and insertion of an ice-cold speculum. As he's checking under the hood, so to speak, he's asking me about what brings me in today, how long I've had a fever, the usual questions, and I start to feel a coughing jag coming on that I just can't restrain.
Anyone care to guess what happens to a speculum that's stuck up your vajayjay when you're lying on your back with your legs spread and you cough violently? In case you haven't guessed, let me dispel the mystery: the damn thing shoots out of your nether regions like a rocket propelled grenade, right into the forehead of the guy who has his face inches from the launch site. And yes, it will leave a mark. Right on the forehead, exactly as you would have hoped.
Now, I'm not suggesting that you need to do this, but it certainly is very tempting when the doctor is condescending. Or if they don't validate your parking, right?
Creative Mortgage Financing
Well, folks, the time has come for me to throw my mortgage company under the proverbial bus. I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this.You see, I have my mortgage through Countrywide, and every month on the first, I send them a payment. Everyone is on the same page, and everyone's satisfied with the arrangement. Pretty simple, right?
You'd think it would also be self-explanatory that when the trophy shop completes an order for Countrywide Mortgage, that we'd get paid. On time. In full. Without incident.
Now, if I had declined to pay my mortgage since May of 2008, I'm confident that right now I'd be out on my ass wearing a barrel on suspenders in lieu of legitimate housing. Frankly, I'm miffed that Countrywide has failed to pay the $94.80 that is now 200+ days past due, and I'm considering my options.
Here's my idea: I'm considering calling Countrywide customer service and explaining to them that I'm going to be paying $94.80 less on my February mortgage payment. I'd offer to fax them the ancient invoice, and politely tell them that I'm even willing to waive the late fee.
Where the hell is a video camera when you need one? Wouldn't that be a great YouTube video?
Pushing My Buttons
After almost 18 years of marriage, G does know how to push my buttons, and sometimes he even does so without knowing it. A good example of this took place on our way home from the SEGC meeting on Wednesday night.As I've blogged previously, I hate when people point out that I am glue-stick white from my scalp to the tips of my toes. Be that as it may, we had the following conversation in the car.
Him: "You look super-freakin' white tonight. Extra white."
Me, not hiding my irritation well: "What are you talking about?"
Him: "You know, you look like an extra from that vampire movie, you know the one, Talking to The Vampire."
Me: "I think you mean Interview With a Vampire."
Him: "Yeah, that's it...maybe it's the hair."
How am I insulted? Let me count the ways!
1. I know I'm white. In case you're wondering, I'll still be pale tomorrow. And basically every tomorrow forever.
2. I'd like to think that if I had been cast for such a movie, I'd at least get a speaking part and not be an extra.
3. I know the black hair is a disaster...does he have to keep reminding me?
4. Last but not least: Talking to the Vampire? Really? Maybe G knows something I don't know, like maybe that was Anne Rice's working title for the book, or not...because that title STINKS!
Since I'm grievously insulted by the whole thing, I'll also take this opportunity to debunk another one of G's illusions: it's not flan & gypsum, it's flotsam & jetsam.
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