OK, LDs. We're going to see how many more we can get through in the next fifteen (all I have left on my lunch hour)....
Day 20: your views on drugs and alcohol.
Let's see...alcohol: I like the occassional adult beverage. Beer, wine, mixies, it all depends on what kind of mood I'm in. If you don't drink, fine. If you do drink, fine. Just don't drink and drive.
Drugs: I used to smoke loads of weed in college. I've since grown out of that phase, but I wouldn't see the harm in legalizing it. I would approach pot like I approach alcohol (since I am a grown-up and shit): recreational. I'd smoke/drink on the weekends when I didn't have work responsibilities.
Day 21: You and your best friend are in a argument; an hour later s/he is in a car accident. What do you do?
I would feel horrible, and most likely, let the argument go. It was probably over something incredibly asinine anyway.
Day 22: Something you wish you hadn't done in your life.
There's quite a bit I wish I hadn't done. I can't narrow it down to one simple thing.
Day 23: Something you wish you had done in your life.
Gotten good enough grades to spend a semester in Wales when I was in college.
Day 24: Make a playlist to someone and explain why you chose the songs (song/artist and letter).
Well, shit. I'll have to think on this one.
Day 25: The reason you're still alive today.
Colleen and Camp Ondessonk.
Day 26: Have you ever thought about giving up on life? When and why?
So, air my dirty "I tried to kill myself" laundry? Only once and it was because I was tired of life and being a mother and a teenager all in one.
Day 27: What's the best thing going for you right now?
I have a very happy marriage. I love Mr Realist with all my heart, and he knows it.
Day 28: What if you were pregnant/got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Aside from puke/laugh/pass out? Bake a baby to the best of my abilities, birth that baby in any means possible, and then try not to go insane raising a mini Ms Dreamer/Mr Realist.
Day 29: Something you hope to change about yourself and why.
Weight. I know I bitch about it way more than I should, but my goal is to start doing 20 minutes every day beginning 12/1. After the first of the year, my goal is to start the Couch to 5K program (helped by an iPhone app). I'm 60 pounds overweight, and my blood pressure is consistantly in the 160/90-100 range. Doc's concerned I'm going to have a stroke. Yeah...at 32.
Day 30: A letter to yourself, telling EVERYTHING you love about yourself.
Dear self.
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways:
Your eyes. Your smile. Your mind and your soul. Your personalities.
Because you're you.
There. There's my 30 Days. Went a little over, though.
Fuckers. :)
Heepwah, and be safe out there.
Ms D
Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label funny. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
"She puts the whore
in 'horrible'."
"She puts the itch in 'bitch'. Big Red doesn't have feelings. Just testicles."
~Whitney and Courtney, Bring It On
I know. It's pretty sad that I can remember lame ass lines like the above.
LDs, if I was batting for the other team (so to speak), I'd be all up in Kisha's shiz like 'white on rice on a paper plate and a glass of milk in a snowstorm.' (LDs, if you can name that movie, take 900 points).
I like to think that she's helping me be a better blogger, and in turn, it's going to make me a better writer. I had a dream last night that I was at a ball, dancing with this handsome younger man, and instead of holding my right hand in his left, he intertwined his fingers with mine. Do you ever wake up feeling slightly bereft based on the dream you had? Ok...totally digressed on the post I was intending to write. I might go back to this one later on.
I started this postie with a 'whore' quote. Kisha is spoon-feeding me with 'one word association' and I'm doing a pretty good job rolling with it. Don't let her hog all the spotlight - give me something, yos! Her suggestion was 'whore.' He he he...
And this one's kind of a long one. Sorry.
~~
Whore. I haven't been called that in a long time; at least, not in seriousness. If you find that me talking about sex and sexual conquest might disturb you, you might want to stop reading.
Now.
Mr Realist calls me 'his whore' (which, technically, I am. I am married to the guy, and he'd better not be gettin' it anywheres else *grin*). But...once upon a time...namely my freshman year in college, little under halfway through my first semester....
See, I was dating this guy; we'll call him Bob.* But before I get there, here's a small bit of background on me.
I was a virgin all the way through high school. I was one of those 'good Catholic girls' that didn't do more than a bit of heavy petting. My first real boyfriend was Catholic as well, and we were both determined to be virgins when we got married (and yes, a year into the relationship, we'd started talking about it. It might have been the beginning of the end: a year later, we called it quits). There were a couple of times it had come down to beingthisfreakingclose to saying, literally, "Fuck it." But we didn't, and we move on.
Freshman year. Bob.* I was ready. He was ready (wtf is with these virgins??). I had it planned (come on, who has sex on a fucking schedule? Me, apparently). We did it about two months into the relationship...and again, that was the beginning of the end. He told me he loved me because I was different - that I didn't care what people thought, that I was beautiful and witty and athletic and artsy. After he took my heart, tossed it into a blender with some fava beans and a nice Chianti and had it for dinner, I found out from his roommate that he got told that there was 'no way I was a virgin - she was way too into it, and how could sex be that good with a virgin?' Um, fuck you? I did what felt good (and by the time you're 18, you've probably seen your fair share of sex scenes in movies) and I ran with it.
I must have taken that "I didn't care what people thought of me" to heart, because I went all Tiger Woods. Became a 'jersey chaser' (going after the sports players...but I never went baseball. Wonder if subconsiously I didn't because Bob* was one?).
Football players.
Soccer players.
Basketball players.
Nerds.
Rednecks.
I was an equal opportunity whore - if you had alcohol you were willing to share (and on a rare occasion, weed) (some may say slut, but I see those words as interchangeable), but I was still selective. I mean, I didn't sleep with just anyone.
I remember being called a whore to my face, very cruelly, by a football player that I'd denied. He could be violently angry when drunk, and on the weekends, he was that most of the time. I was at a party with some girl friends in the all-guys dorm, and there were quite a few people around. The guy called me this, and I stood my drunken ground, and said, "No, I'm just a bitch because I won't fuck you, right?" He was furious, and a couple of the football guys had to bodily remove him from the party. I went down to the girls' bathroom on the first floor, and a couple of my soccer mates followed me to make sure I was ok. One asked me why I said what I did, and I had to laugh. I'd heard a joke not long before:
"What's the difference between a whore and a bitch? A whore has sex with everyone; a bitch has sex with everyone but you." Rob* came down to see if we were ok, and he found three of us sitting on a nasty bathroom floor, laughing hysterically. He wanted me to come to his room with him. I went.
I was trashed, yos. He made me lay down, got me a glass of water, and talked to me. He didn't try anything, and I passed out. Several hours later, I woke to find a sheet over me, and Rob* sleeping on the couch.
It made me realize that I was a fucking moron. I put on my shoes and grabbed my keys and left. What I didn't find out until later was that Rob* liked me. As in 'wanted to be with me.' He and I talked. I couldn't be with anyone until I figured my own shit out. I skipped too many classes, got drunk quite a bit, baked a little less often, but quickly shut down the "Free Sex" factory. I actually don't think I had sex more than a couple handfuls of times the rest of the second semester. Almost flunked out of college, too. He graduated, and I haven't seen him since. Rob*, I hope you've found a good woman that you deserve.
For a brief time, I was a whore. Like Coconut Pete says: "Have a good time, all the time; always eat the worm." (Club Dread) I've changed my ways, LD.
Of course, one of my conquests just had to tell Mr Realist several years ago at our Homecoming, just after we got married:
"You do know you're now the President, right?"
"President of what?"
"President of the 'Who's Messed Around With Mrs Dreamer' club." (we'd talked about all our sexual partners long before we got married, so he knew.)
Here's to President Realist. *raises glass*
And before you ask, yes. I was on the Pill AND I made Every. Single. One. wear a condom.
Heepwah, and be safe out there (of course, I feel bad writing heepwah and talking about being a whore in the same postie).
Your retired whore
Mrs Dreamer
PS: *names have been changed to protect the innocent.
PPS: I love that a story from more than ten years ago can be commented on with something from today's world.
PPPS: Yes. I smoked weed in college (quite a bit, actually). I haven't done it in years, and I have no intentions of doing so. It wasn't worth gaining the 60 pounds in three years. If you think less of me, well, then, that's your problem.
"She puts the itch in 'bitch'. Big Red doesn't have feelings. Just testicles."
~Whitney and Courtney, Bring It On
I know. It's pretty sad that I can remember lame ass lines like the above.
LDs, if I was batting for the other team (so to speak), I'd be all up in Kisha's shiz like 'white on rice on a paper plate and a glass of milk in a snowstorm.' (LDs, if you can name that movie, take 900 points).
I like to think that she's helping me be a better blogger, and in turn, it's going to make me a better writer. I had a dream last night that I was at a ball, dancing with this handsome younger man, and instead of holding my right hand in his left, he intertwined his fingers with mine. Do you ever wake up feeling slightly bereft based on the dream you had? Ok...totally digressed on the post I was intending to write. I might go back to this one later on.
I started this postie with a 'whore' quote. Kisha is spoon-feeding me with 'one word association' and I'm doing a pretty good job rolling with it. Don't let her hog all the spotlight - give me something, yos! Her suggestion was 'whore.' He he he...
And this one's kind of a long one. Sorry.
~~
Whore. I haven't been called that in a long time; at least, not in seriousness. If you find that me talking about sex and sexual conquest might disturb you, you might want to stop reading.
Now.
Mr Realist calls me 'his whore' (which, technically, I am. I am married to the guy, and he'd better not be gettin' it anywheres else *grin*). But...once upon a time...namely my freshman year in college, little under halfway through my first semester....
See, I was dating this guy; we'll call him Bob.* But before I get there, here's a small bit of background on me.
I was a virgin all the way through high school. I was one of those 'good Catholic girls' that didn't do more than a bit of heavy petting. My first real boyfriend was Catholic as well, and we were both determined to be virgins when we got married (and yes, a year into the relationship, we'd started talking about it. It might have been the beginning of the end: a year later, we called it quits). There were a couple of times it had come down to beingthisfreakingclose to saying, literally, "Fuck it." But we didn't, and we move on.
Freshman year. Bob.* I was ready. He was ready (wtf is with these virgins??). I had it planned (come on, who has sex on a fucking schedule? Me, apparently). We did it about two months into the relationship...and again, that was the beginning of the end. He told me he loved me because I was different - that I didn't care what people thought, that I was beautiful and witty and athletic and artsy. After he took my heart, tossed it into a blender with some fava beans and a nice Chianti and had it for dinner, I found out from his roommate that he got told that there was 'no way I was a virgin - she was way too into it, and how could sex be that good with a virgin?' Um, fuck you? I did what felt good (and by the time you're 18, you've probably seen your fair share of sex scenes in movies) and I ran with it.
I must have taken that "I didn't care what people thought of me" to heart, because I went all Tiger Woods. Became a 'jersey chaser' (going after the sports players...but I never went baseball. Wonder if subconsiously I didn't because Bob* was one?).
Football players.
Soccer players.
Basketball players.
Nerds.
Rednecks.
I was an equal opportunity whore - if you had alcohol you were willing to share (and on a rare occasion, weed) (some may say slut, but I see those words as interchangeable), but I was still selective. I mean, I didn't sleep with just anyone.
I remember being called a whore to my face, very cruelly, by a football player that I'd denied. He could be violently angry when drunk, and on the weekends, he was that most of the time. I was at a party with some girl friends in the all-guys dorm, and there were quite a few people around. The guy called me this, and I stood my drunken ground, and said, "No, I'm just a bitch because I won't fuck you, right?" He was furious, and a couple of the football guys had to bodily remove him from the party. I went down to the girls' bathroom on the first floor, and a couple of my soccer mates followed me to make sure I was ok. One asked me why I said what I did, and I had to laugh. I'd heard a joke not long before:
"What's the difference between a whore and a bitch? A whore has sex with everyone; a bitch has sex with everyone but you." Rob* came down to see if we were ok, and he found three of us sitting on a nasty bathroom floor, laughing hysterically. He wanted me to come to his room with him. I went.
I was trashed, yos. He made me lay down, got me a glass of water, and talked to me. He didn't try anything, and I passed out. Several hours later, I woke to find a sheet over me, and Rob* sleeping on the couch.
It made me realize that I was a fucking moron. I put on my shoes and grabbed my keys and left. What I didn't find out until later was that Rob* liked me. As in 'wanted to be with me.' He and I talked. I couldn't be with anyone until I figured my own shit out. I skipped too many classes, got drunk quite a bit, baked a little less often, but quickly shut down the "Free Sex" factory. I actually don't think I had sex more than a couple handfuls of times the rest of the second semester. Almost flunked out of college, too. He graduated, and I haven't seen him since. Rob*, I hope you've found a good woman that you deserve.
For a brief time, I was a whore. Like Coconut Pete says: "Have a good time, all the time; always eat the worm." (Club Dread) I've changed my ways, LD.
Of course, one of my conquests just had to tell Mr Realist several years ago at our Homecoming, just after we got married:
"You do know you're now the President, right?"
"President of what?"
"President of the 'Who's Messed Around With Mrs Dreamer' club." (we'd talked about all our sexual partners long before we got married, so he knew.)
Here's to President Realist. *raises glass*
And before you ask, yes. I was on the Pill AND I made Every. Single. One. wear a condom.
Heepwah, and be safe out there (of course, I feel bad writing heepwah and talking about being a whore in the same postie).
Your retired whore
Mrs Dreamer
PS: *names have been changed to protect the innocent.
PPS: I love that a story from more than ten years ago can be commented on with something from today's world.
PPPS: Yes. I smoked weed in college (quite a bit, actually). I haven't done it in years, and I have no intentions of doing so. It wasn't worth gaining the 60 pounds in three years. If you think less of me, well, then, that's your problem.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Funny Ha-Ha and OMG Moments
It's been an up-and-down couple of weeks here. My full-time job is rough most days, but I'm looking forward to beginning my Pampered Chef business! Anyway, you're probably wondering about the title, and I'll tell you, Dear Readers....
~
Last week...softball game. We'd beaten this team pretty handily the first go-round (some gawd-awful score that I don't even remember), so we were feeling good going out there.
End of the first inning - us, 13-0.
End of the second inning - us, 19-0.
Third inning we decided to change it up. Everyone changed positions...I pitched (something I hadn't done in two summers). First at bat - in the park home run. Hellfire and damnation - I had to go and ruin our shutout. They scored some runs. We're up.
We batted around the order and were on the second go. I hit one into left center and I'm headed for first. Two steps away from first, I trip over my own two feet! Fall down...over first...without touching it. I had to scramble back to be safe. Stand up and brush dirt off of me.
Next girl is up...she hits one long left center and I take off for second. For whatever reason, I cut second short and had to reach out with my right foot and tag the base, heading for third. Doing this...
completely throws me off balance. I stumble. I see the ground coming up at me, so I reached out and pushed away from me, putting me in a 'stop-drop-and-roll' move. Yeah, I'm rolling around in the dirt inbetween second and third like a beached whale. Everyone...and I do mean everyone - my team, their team, the crowd, was in hysterics. Third base had the ball. She was laughing so damned hard that she didn't even try to tag me out. I brush more dirt off of myself, waved to everyone. "Just trying to keep the game interesting! I'll be here all night!"
~
Last night, we played. First go-round with this team, we beat them 25-5, I think. At one point, I got (not had to) slide into home plate and was safe. It was one of those plays that the catcher wasn't sure if she had to tag me or the base, so I made myself as low to the ground as possible.
We were losing 15 to 16, and since we were the home team, we got last at bat. Had two girls on base, and I was up. I hit a wonderful shot deep to left center, making a triple. We won the game 17-16.
~
Now for the OMG moment. I loves my friend Jen's baby Skylar. She's byooooootiful! I get to hold her whenever I can (right now, it's every Tuesday during out knitting night), and she's just so damn cute! Jen fed her and burped her, and then handed her off to me. She was on her tum in my arms, and it didn't take long for her to crash out. Eventually, my arms got tired, so I moved her from tum to back, my left arm supporting her. She was in and out (mostly out)...and suddenly, there was a ripping-type noise, and my hand...and lap was suddenly warm and wet. She'd pooed right out the leg of her diaper. (Insert either horrified sympathy or maniacal laughter here)
Took a bit to clean up, and my capris are in the wash as I type. Wouldn't have been so bad had it not been directly down between my legs and in the chair. Bowlegged it to the bathroom, stripped my capris off and tried to scrape most of the poo off (breastfed babies have slimy poo, or at least this one did)...no such luck. Mr. Realist, Jessi, Jen, Angela all thought it was hilarious (Jen seemed a bit mortified). No worries, Jen - nothing you could have done to prevent it. No harm. Mr. Realist finally gave me the dress shirt he had on from work (he had an undershirt on, pervs), and put it on over my shirt. Even as a cheerleader, I had skirts longer than this shirt. If anyone drove past and saw my ass, I do apologize! I just couldn't sit in my car in soaking wet pants. Mr. Realist calls me 'Poopsmith' now. It's ok, Skylar, you didn't hurt anything. I still loves you.
Heepwah, and be safe out there.
Mrs. Dreamer
~
Last week...softball game. We'd beaten this team pretty handily the first go-round (some gawd-awful score that I don't even remember), so we were feeling good going out there.
End of the first inning - us, 13-0.
End of the second inning - us, 19-0.
Third inning we decided to change it up. Everyone changed positions...I pitched (something I hadn't done in two summers). First at bat - in the park home run. Hellfire and damnation - I had to go and ruin our shutout. They scored some runs. We're up.
We batted around the order and were on the second go. I hit one into left center and I'm headed for first. Two steps away from first, I trip over my own two feet! Fall down...over first...without touching it. I had to scramble back to be safe. Stand up and brush dirt off of me.
Next girl is up...she hits one long left center and I take off for second. For whatever reason, I cut second short and had to reach out with my right foot and tag the base, heading for third. Doing this...
completely throws me off balance. I stumble. I see the ground coming up at me, so I reached out and pushed away from me, putting me in a 'stop-drop-and-roll' move. Yeah, I'm rolling around in the dirt inbetween second and third like a beached whale. Everyone...and I do mean everyone - my team, their team, the crowd, was in hysterics. Third base had the ball. She was laughing so damned hard that she didn't even try to tag me out. I brush more dirt off of myself, waved to everyone. "Just trying to keep the game interesting! I'll be here all night!"
~
Last night, we played. First go-round with this team, we beat them 25-5, I think. At one point, I got (not had to) slide into home plate and was safe. It was one of those plays that the catcher wasn't sure if she had to tag me or the base, so I made myself as low to the ground as possible.
We were losing 15 to 16, and since we were the home team, we got last at bat. Had two girls on base, and I was up. I hit a wonderful shot deep to left center, making a triple. We won the game 17-16.
~
Now for the OMG moment. I loves my friend Jen's baby Skylar. She's byooooootiful! I get to hold her whenever I can (right now, it's every Tuesday during out knitting night), and she's just so damn cute! Jen fed her and burped her, and then handed her off to me. She was on her tum in my arms, and it didn't take long for her to crash out. Eventually, my arms got tired, so I moved her from tum to back, my left arm supporting her. She was in and out (mostly out)...and suddenly, there was a ripping-type noise, and my hand...and lap was suddenly warm and wet. She'd pooed right out the leg of her diaper. (Insert either horrified sympathy or maniacal laughter here)
Took a bit to clean up, and my capris are in the wash as I type. Wouldn't have been so bad had it not been directly down between my legs and in the chair. Bowlegged it to the bathroom, stripped my capris off and tried to scrape most of the poo off (breastfed babies have slimy poo, or at least this one did)...no such luck. Mr. Realist, Jessi, Jen, Angela all thought it was hilarious (Jen seemed a bit mortified). No worries, Jen - nothing you could have done to prevent it. No harm. Mr. Realist finally gave me the dress shirt he had on from work (he had an undershirt on, pervs), and put it on over my shirt. Even as a cheerleader, I had skirts longer than this shirt. If anyone drove past and saw my ass, I do apologize! I just couldn't sit in my car in soaking wet pants. Mr. Realist calls me 'Poopsmith' now. It's ok, Skylar, you didn't hurt anything. I still loves you.
Heepwah, and be safe out there.
Mrs. Dreamer
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