A Nipple By Any Other Name...

Confession:

Nothing makes me happier than discovering a person with a truly horrifying name.  It's like Christmas morning, only better.  It's the gift that keeps on giving.  For example, the day I discovered Sybil Nipple's listing in the phone book to this day counts as one of the most joyful moments of my life.

Sybil Nipple, you guys.

Sybil Nipple.

There is a women in California named Sybil Nipple.


How can you not love that?

For years I would put "Sybil Nipple" in the return address section of my envelopes when mailing payments to the power company, the phone company, the cable company, credit card companies...(that was back in the day before online bill paying, in case you're super young and you're going, "Return address?  Mail in payment?  No habla...")

Just knowing I was sharing the joy with a faceless stranger in a mail room somewhere gave me the warm fuzzies.  (I know, right?  I'm a giver, y'all.)

Recently, I came across this:

Best. Headline. EVER.

"Police Say Kermit Butts Is Tied To Boob Murder."

That actually happened.

And the fact that this cracked me up so much is one of the reasons that I am destined to die in a horrible and humiliating butt-related accident.  Because Karma never forgets. 

So after learning of the fascinating case of the Butts-Boob murder, I decided to hit up Google to see what other awesome names existed.  I found the usual suspects:  Dick Trickle (tee heeee), Dick Butkus, every person who has had the misfortune to be named Dick Johnson, etc.


(I had a neighbor once named Dick Cox.  Dan almost wet himself with joy the first time they were introduced, because he may or may not be something of an asshole, like me.  Funny names crack us  up. We can't help it.)

Since laughing at people named Dick is soooo yesterday, I was pleased to find some new names to tickle my funny bone.  You're welcome in advance for sharing these with you:

At least it isn't "Gobbledick"... silver lining?

Danielle Cobbledick...

No.

Which is what the Holy Ghost should have worn... yes?

(I'll wait a moment to see if lightning strikes me...)


Nope.  I'm golden.  Though I'm sure the devil is currently stoking the fire and sharpening a marshmallow roasting stick with my name on it.

There are times when even I have no words.

Danielle Mangina.

Dani Mangina.

"Hi, I'm Gina.. MAN-gina."

"My mangina brings ALL the boys to the yard!"


Okay, I'll stop.

Moving right along...

Even if their platform was strictly pro-kicking puppies, I'd vote for them.  Just because of the awesomeness of  saying, "I voted  for the Weiner-Beaver ticket..."

And also, Thea Beaver?  No, I didn't thea beaver... did you?  Did anyone thea beaver?  I haven't theen a beaver in years...


Oh, law... that shit's funny, I don't care who you are.

If the doctor thing doesn't work, at least he has other options...

I'm picturing the Christmas card...

MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM THE PORNSAKS!!  

Bwaaahahahahahahahahaaaa!!!  I know, I know... Grow up, Dani.

Good to know... I won't be turning my back on him then, will I.

And finally, last but not least even though I could do this all day:

So THAT's what he does behind the bench all day...

                                             

Share your funny name stories with me, people!!!

Yes, Virgina, there IS a Santa Claus

I'm getting a little worried about the whole "transvaginal mesh/vaginal sling" issue.

Those commercials are always on.  Always.  I mean, it's one thing to have a million moments of panic when one of those "Did you or a loved one take two aspirin and then die?  You may be entitled to compensation!  If you or a loved one has died after taking aspirin, call Blah Blah Blah and Associates" commercials.  I spend enough time as it is trying to remember all the medications I've been given throughout my life just in case I die suddenly and need to file a class action law suit.

See?  Not just me.

I just don't have time to wonder if I've been injured by vaginal mesh or if my vaj fell out of a sling.  Who knows this shit?

Is my vaj in a sling and I just forgot?

Because I could really use the money.

These ads are on so frequently that they make me nervous.  I mean, I am almost positive that my pelvic floor is pretty much where I left it the last time I used it, but I haven't checked lately.  Do I need to reinforce it?  Build a fence around it?  Put it in traction?  Reupholster?  Wrap it with an Ace bandage?

Does Michelle Bob Duggar have one?  

But is it in a sling??

And then...

there's...

THIS:

I have no idea whether or not my vajay is relaxed.  

It's usually pretty chill; hanging out, smoking a cigarette, having a cocktail... (no pun intended... really)...

But is it relaxed?

Wait... Is it supposed to be relaxed?

IS MY VAGINA TOO RELAXED??

Wait... what??

Oh, the dark places this blog is taking me...

Where is my virgina and why does it need to be tightened??

It all started when I saw the same commercial for male catheters five times during a one hour show.  Five times.  Five times.  In one hour.  And I was all like, "I had NO idea that men needing to 'cath' before they pee was even a thing."  I mean, I pee at least 400 times a day.  Not being able to pee has never been an issue.  I can pee on command.  I can pee, then be told we're getting ready to go somewhere five minutes later, and I will need to pee again before we leave and then probably at least twice on the way there and then that'll be the first thing I do after we arrive.  So I'm like, "Really?  Dudes can't pee?  Is this like a trend?"

Is "cathing" the New Black?

Then I started getting paranoid.  Because like I've mentioned before, I am a hypochondriac.  Tell me about a symptom and I will have it within hours. I was beginning to worry because at least 4 minutes had passed since I last peed and I wouldn't even know where to PUT a catheter.  It took me YEARS to figure out how to insert a tampon correctly  (I mean, I knew where to put it, just had some confusion on how to get it there.  It's not as cut and dried as you might think.) ... I know for a fact I wouldn't have YEARS to figure out a catheter.  I always figured I'd die due to something butt-related and embarrassing, but dying because I can't pee?  That would suck.  Hard.  

So I googled "reasons why men can't pee."

Apparently, it's usually because of the prostate.

Which I don't have.

Thank God.  I can pee in peace now.

Or... CAN I?

I DON'T KNOW!!!

And then I made a hideous mistake:

I Googled "vaginal sling."

Word to the wise:  Don't Google that shit.

I will never eat hamburger again.  Just sayin'.

On some of the pictures I was all, "WTF is that?"  And then on others I was all, "Oh sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph... is that what I think it is?" and "Steak sounds good..."  And in one I was all, "I had NO idea my asshole was that close to my vagina."

(I mean it's really close.  REALLYYYY close.  Like right freaking there.  Which may or may not explain some isolated incidents throughout my life.  *cough*)

Twinkle, twinkle, little starrrr...

I've never been one of those women who examined my private parts with a hand mirror and then named them, which could be why I'm a little vague on the proximity of everything.  I mean, I know where things are and where things go and the utilitarian purposes of it all, but I have no desire to come face to face with it.

In fact, when I was giving birth the first time and the nurse put up a three way mirror so I could watch the whole thing, I screamed like a crazy woman and ordered them to "take it awayyyyy!"    Some things are better left unseen.

(No offense to my beautiful children, none of whom are reading this, I'm sure.  And if they were, they stopped as soon as they saw the word "vagina."  I guarantee it.)

As for vaginal mesh, why, it could be anything.  Because I refuse to Google it.

Well that's... terrifyingly vague...

I'm picturing something like a window screen, only for the vaj.  I'm not sure why a vaj would need a window screen (To deter mosquitoes and other flying pests?  To prevent robbery?  To filter out leaves, twigs, and other debris?) and I don't really want to know.

Or do I?

No.  No I don't.


*long pause*

Crap.

My swan song

Once again, Karma has made me her bitch.

(Karma is either a woman or a gay man because no heterosexual male in the universe is as clever or diabolical as Karma.  Sorry, guys.  If you'd stop thinking with your peeners and use your brains, you might achieve the level of evil brilliance that women, gay men, and Karma all use against you.  Take notes.)

Ever since my last blog post, where I complained about Dan complaining about being sick, I've been sicker.

For real.

Like, practically at Death's door.

Okay, maybe not THAT sick, but close, dammit.

It all started Friday, when my mother arrived from California to spend a few days with me.

Friday morning dawned bright and clear, after a night of no sleep listening to Dan snore, cough, and make a sound that can best be described as gargling snot.  (Sorry so graphic but really... it was that gross.)  My throat started hurting at around 2 a.m. (yes, Joanie, IN THE MORNING) and by 7 I was sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, and stuffy-headed.  

I called my mother at the B & B where she was staying and hacked into the phone.

Mother:  *suspiciously*  "Are you sick?  Because I don't want to get sick.  If you're sick, stay away from me."

(Because she loves me that much.)

Me:  *coughcoughcoughcoughcough*  "I'b pretty sure it's just allergies..."

We spent the day touring Amish country (which pretty much describes the entire area surrounding me).  As luck would have it, we didn't see one single Amish person.  Not one.  Nada.  Zip.

I kid you not.

I took her to the Amish Mothership, where all their farms and businesses are lined up neatly along the countryside, promising her with my hand to God that we would see herds of Amish tilling the fields, scampering along the roadside, living and breathing in their natural habitat...

They weren't there.

None of them.

The Amish were not home.

The closest we came to seeing Amish were the houses that they live in, which I pointed out to my mother, who greeted it with much skepticism.

Me:  "See?  Those are their houses..."

Mother:  *looking at the houses, that look like all other houses*  "Uh huh..."

Me:  "Really... those are Amish houses.  I swear."

Mother:  "Sure they are..."

After I dropped her off at her hotel, the Amish came spilling out in droves.  I passed four buggies on my way home.

Well played, Karma.

Sigh.

Saturday morning came with more hacking, more coughing, more sniffling, more ickiness.

I called my mom to set up our plans for the day and again, we had this conversation:

Mother:  "Are you sick?  You sound sick.  If you're sick, I don't want to see you."

Me:  *coughcoughcoughcoughHACKcough*  "No, no... I'b fide..."

Saturday was spent touring the North Country with my mother in the backseat, both windows open, head hanging out the window like a golden retriever, frantically avoiding my hideous death germs.

A fabulous time was had by all.

Sunday I just couldn't fake it anymore.

Our conversation went like this:

Me:  "I'b sick."

Mother:  "Don't come near me."

Me:  "Hurricade's a'cubbin... Are you sure you don't want be to cub get you?"

Mother:  "Don't come near me.  I'd rather face the hurricane than your germs."

I spent Sunday in a face-plant on the couch, praying for death and that Frankenstorm Sandy wouldn't stop planes from flying out of Syracuse so that I could just die in peace without the judgmental stare of my mother blaming me for trying to kill her with my germs.

Monday my mother braved the elements and my disgustingness to come and sit 10 feet away from me in my living room.  She power-drank Airborne and tea with honey, counting on the antioxidant qualities of both to prevent her from catching my lungcancer/braintumor/whoopingcough/pneumonia/tuberculosis.  As she eyed me warily from across the room, she inquired accusingly as to whether or not I take vitamins.

Me:  "Sometimes..."

Mother:  "You need to take extra C, cod liver oil, and use Listerine Breath Strips.  I haven't been sick in years since I started taking that."

Me:  *because I have a tendency to be snide... shocking, right?*  "If it works so well why are you so afraid I'll make you sick?"  *cough*

Mother, not finding me funny:

Me, thinking I'm clever, cute, and hilarious:

Okay, maybe not exactly like that, but close.

Truthfully, as much as I enjoyed seeing my mom, all I wanted to do was sit on the couch in my yoga pants, drink hot tea with honey, sip NyQuil through a straw, and watch crap tv.  

Because I felt that shitty.

Meanwhile, you're probably wondering:  Where's Dan??  Why isn't he figuring prominently in this blog, waiting on you hand and foot in your hour(s) of need?

I'll tell you where Dan is...

Dan is in Las Vegas.

I'll give you a minute to digest that.

Here's the timeline, to help you out:

Monday, October 22nd:

Dan gets sick.  He commences dying.

Tuesday thru Monday, October 29th:

Dan lies around and whines endlessly about how horrible he feels.  He writes his will.  It's all very sad.   Even though I'm sick, too, he is so much sicker that my sickness goes unnoticed. I wear black and practice being a widow.

I may or may not contemplate putting him out of my his misery.

Humanely, of course.

Tuesday, October 30th:

Dan is miraculously heeled and leaves for Vegas, conveniently on the same day that my mother flies back to California.

My yucky flu takes a turn for the worse.

I begin coughing like it's my job.

I have no energy.

I spike a fever.

Dan arrives in Vegas in record time and calls me from the hotel.

Me:  *cough cough cough cough cough cough cough*

Dan:  *happily*  "Hi baby!!  I miss you!!!"

Me:  *cough cough cough cough cough cough*

Dan:  *not really sounding interested*  "What's wrong with you?"

Me:  "I'B SICK, DABBIT!  YOU BADE BE SICK!!"  *COUGHCOUGHCOUGHCOUGHCOUGH*

Dan:  *cheerfully*  "You are?  Sorry.  Okay, well, I'm gonna go eat, drink and be merry!  Have a good one!  Don't go dyin' on me!  Ha ha ha ha haaa!"

(Yes, he actually said that.)

Anyhoo.

Flash forward to today:

I spent last night coughing up a lung and surfing WebMD.  As it turns out, I have Black Lung Disease.  Or possibly Typhoid.  Either way, it's dire.

My final wishes are as follow:

I want Misty, from Misty's Laws to prosecute Dan to the fullest extent of the law for making me deathly ill.  I think the death penalty would be fitting in this case.

I want Jen, from "Jen" e sais quoi to write something clever and witty for my headstone, like "That'll do, pig... that'll do."  (Only not that.  Something not involving the word "pig.")

I want Mandi from Atypically Relevant to write my eulogy.  I want it liberally sprinkled with words like "douchebaggery" and "fuckery" and something about "sand in her vagina."

Oh, shuddup.

I will go kicking and screaming into that good night.

And coughing.

And probably butt first.

And wearing ratty underpants and no bra.

I'll see you all on the Other Side...