birthdays

Vagina Birthdays

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,
Sure, you look all peaceful now. Just wait til the day you can’t bend over to pick something up without wetting yourself.

Everybody thinks birthdays are so sweet and awesome. Well, okay, I admit that maybe people living in the gutter or who are basically being karma’s whipping boy at this stage in their lives may not think birthdays are all that awesomesauce, but generally speaking the people I come in contact with tend to see the glass-half-full when it comes to birthdays.

What no one realizes is that for every birthday in the universe, there is some woman who is commemorating the event by remembering how amazing her lady garden used to be. Past tense. Was.

I actually don’t remember thinking about my hooha all that much (well, except for the obvious times when I was supposed to be concentrating on my hooha) before that fateful day twelve years ago when I suddenly found myself feet in the air, having everyone from the ultrasound tech down to the custodian coming in my ugly industrial room to “check me” during the labor and delivery of my firstborn. After the fact, though, all women begin thinking about their cooterlands a lot, mostly starting with those first few days when we think, “So, when does it stop resembling ground beef?”

I am pleased to announce that vajajays are universally resilient little things and that all is mostly well, except that I am too young to have to cross my legs when I sneeze.

(author’s note: the comments section on this post will be closed to anything resembling a description of how to do Kegel exercises.)

(more author’s note: my spellchecker is taking issue with the word “Kegel,” which means the spell checker was designed by a sexist woman-hating man who doesn’t want women doing crotch crunches to make their girl parts pretty again.)

(still more author’s note: just to prove my sexism theory, I typed “prostate” and “testicle exercises” and the spell check had no problem with those terms…everything’s a plot, I swear.)

What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Happy Birthday, sweetie!

(another author’s note: Dear First Born, when you forget to put away the dishes like I told you to six times, my revenge is to write a blog post for the entire internet about you emerging from the womb and shredding my privates on your way out that door. Do the dishes next time. Love ya!)

I’m 266 Years Old in Dog Years

ME Overly simple thoughts , , ,

I was afraid of ending up like this dog when I'm old, but then I remembered that I know how to say, "Kill me now."

I had the nerdiest 21st birthday party in the history of partying, and there was even alcohol involved. My dad and I went to a bar the evening before I actually turned 21, just so they would have to wash off the giant “NO” stamp on my hand at midnight. It’s not a birthday party without party games, so we played, “Shit You Still Can’t Do Even Though You Just Turned 21.” He came up with, “You can’t rent a car until you’re 25,” and I fired back with, “I can’t be President for fourteen more years.”

At midnight, I ordered my own drink for the first time. I had a bucket of strawberry daiquiri with a straw and we ate at Taco Bell the next day. I was livin’ the dream.

But now that I’m waaaaay older than 21 and I can both rent a car AND be President (even though I still can’t join AARP or receive Medicare), I’m kind of stuck in middle-aged limbo. I’m old enough to know better than to do something but not so old that I a) don’t go ahead and do it anyway without thinking it through or b) really not care if you find out I did it. It sucks here in the middle.

On a lighter note, I learned yesterday about a concept known as Donating Your Birthday. On the surface, it does sound a lot like agreeing to die. I was a little alarmed when I got the message asking me to do this, so my first thought was, “What the fuck, dude? What did I ever do to you?” Luckily, I finished reading the whole thing this time.

No, you pledge to donate your birthday (I promise they don’t come kill you, I even double checked the Terms & Agreements) so whenever your birthday rolls around, instead of gifts or spending money by going out drinking or buying yourself that chain saw you’ve always wanted but really don’t need, you give the money from your I-need-a-chainsaw fund to charity. I pledged my birthday to charity:water (I don’t know why it’s lower case, either, but they make drinking water happens in places where there isn’t any).

My next step is going to be to donate all my Dinnertimes to charity but I haven’t picked the lucky winner-charity yet. In this version, instead of cooking dinner, we eat Saltines with peanut butter out of the jar and I give the money I was going to spend on making Beef Wellington to someone deserving. Everyone wins!