The One With All The Crotch Grabbing

Yesterday was a gorgeous sunny day in northern New York, where I have the misfortune to be living.  (No, really... it's ugly as snot here right now.  I'm all, "This is spring?  Where are the flowers?  Where is the sun?  Where are the leaves on the freaking trees?  Pull your head out of your ass, New York... this isn't spring.  This is Winter:  The Sequel.")   Even though it was sunny it was still cold as the coldest day in a frozen over Hell so imagine my surprise when I saw locals toodling around the neighborhoods in shorts and t-shirts apparently fooled into believing that sun = warmth.   (Which it totally doesn't.  Not here, anyway.  I suffered from California Brain for the first two years I lived here, lulled into a false sense of joy every time the sun shone.  I would traipse outside in my flip-flops and summery clothes and then be bitch-slapped back into reality by a Polar bear demanding that we give him back his vortex.)

Meanwhile, back to the summer weather be-frocked locals:

I was driving home from the dentist and having to take all the back roads because naturally, the entire county is currently under construction and will remain so until the next snow fall.  I was slowly cruising down a neighborhood street when I noticed a man walking his dog.  Awwwwwww, I thought to myself, cuuute doggy!

And that's when doggy's owner besmirched the charming tableau by casually grabbing his crotch.

How lovely, I thought.  Was he afraid it  had fallen off when he stepped off the curb to cross the street?   Does he think he's invisible and no one can see his hand gripping the front of his shorts?

I shook my head and continued on my journey, hoping the man's penis and testes were exactly where he had seen them last.

And then I started noticing something...

Almost every man I saw out and about that day were randomly checking their crotches.  I witnessed crotch checks at the pharmacy,  the post office, and while dog walking.  I saw crotch checks on road side work crews,  in the grocery store, and then, finally, in the living room of my home.

And that is when I snapped.

"Get your freaking hand out of your pants!" I screamed at my husband.  "It's not going anywhere!"

Him:  *shrug*  "What?  I had to rearrange things."

How many "things" are there, for Jesus's own sweet sake?  I can only think of three.  How much disarray can possibly occur while the "things" are safely (you would assume) housed in the pouch of your underwear?

As it turns out, the "things" are constantly having a party down there and occasionally go rogue.

Who knew?  My lady bizness stays calmly in place 24/7.  It's always where I left it, always doing what it's supposed to do, always reliable.  When I need my girl parts, there they are.  I don't need to go looking for them, I don't need to check to make sure they are still there.  I don't have feelings of angst when I'm walking down the street that causes me to randomly shove my hand down my pants to investigate their whereabouts.  I don't need a GPS to locate them and I don't spend any time at all worrying about them.  I don't feel the need to buy them a cellphone so I can keep tabs on them. 

Men's downstairs bizness, however?

As it would seem, not so much.  Those bad boys are, according to my husband, the juvenile delinquents of the body.  They are never where they are supposed to be or doing what they are supposed to do.  The can sneak out the window at night and knock up the neighbor.  They are always out carousing, getting drunk, hitting on strangers, and looking for mischief.  They need constant supervision and can't be trusted alone for one. single. second.

I'm not sure what else goes on down there but it can't be good.  My 17 year old nephew is constantly kicking one of his legs out when he walks, apparently trying to shake things loose.  (I can't even begin to tell you how irritating that is.)  Or while he's in the middle of a conversation he will suddenly do a little bended-knee jiggle while shifting from one leg to the other and yanking on the front of his pants.  (Nails on a chalkboard, people.  Nails. On. A. Chalkboard.)

The husband will reach down and get a look on his face like he's about to give birth, grab around for a second and then act like nothing happened.  (Yeah.  So sexy.)  I have inadvertently walked in on my father in law while he's hiding in the kitchen with his belt unbuckled adjusting himself.  (GAHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!  MY EYES!!!!  MY EYESSSSS!!!)  

And yet?  I have never seen a woman (except for you, Miley Cyrus) seemingly as obsessed with clutching her vagina.  (And maybe Madonna.)

As I researched this subject, I came to the conclusion that baseball players and rock stars seem to have the most unruly members.  I mean, don't get me wrong:  Men in general cannot keep their hands off the front of their pants.  It's not news that the male species truly believes that the center of the universe is a giant penis and they are all worshiping at it's altar.  (They also share the rather humorous belief that women all worship at the same altar and that we spend as much time as they do thinking about peeners.  Newsflash:  We don't really care what's in your pants.  We are not impressed by your selfies of the size of your junk.  We do, however, laugh about it with our friends... and if you send one of my single girlfriends a picture of your package?  She will immediately forward it to me and the rest of her friends.  And we will laughhh and laughhhh and laughhhh...  Now you know.) 

So back to baseball players. 

I need to know why they do this.  Are they concerned that their balls will fly out of their pants and inadvertently get slammed into the outfield?  Are they going to roll down their pant leg and get stepped on by a cleated foot?  Will their balls make it to first before they do?  Or will they get clobbered by the catcher at home plate? 

I'm sorry, but I think the whole pine tar debacle that the Yankees are currently claiming such deep shock and embarrassment over pales in comparison to the severe crotch grabbing epidemic that seems to be plaguing the game.   What's more embarrassing, MLB?  A cheating player who is only being suspended because he was stupid enough to make it too obvious for officials to turn the other cheek?  Or an entire league with rowdy penises?  Peni.  Peeners?  Wenises.  Peens.  Whatever.  The thought of all those sports parts getting loose during a game is definitely a cause for concern.

HOWEVER!  In the deepest, darkest regions of cyber space I encountered the most unruly penis of all....

What would happen if he let go?  Would it run screaming off the stage and be hunted down by tweenagers and gay men?  Would it go back to Canada, where it belongs?  Is it even there?  For the love of GOD, Justin... DON'T LET GO!




 

Come and live in my brain...

Lawd I wish I could sleep!  Given the choice between sleep and almost anything else, I would choose sleep.  The thought of being able to fall asleep quickly, peacefully and easily makes me almost giddy with desire.  Having my brain actually shut. the fuck. UP. when I go to bed at night causes my eyes to mist up with longing and my arms ache to embrace the wooly curves of a fence-jumping sheep (but in a totally non-sexual way.  More like in a "Take me with you to Slumber Town" way).

Imagine, I say to myself, not thinking for 1 to 8 solid hours....

And then I have the same feeling I used to get as an annoyingly skeptical child when I would try to convince myself that a fat man in a red suit actually came down my chimney on Christmas Eve and left  unwrapped gifts under my tree...

Nope.  Not possible.  Pleasant to contemplate but it ain't happening.

(Except I never said "ain't."  Ever.  I'm pretty sure my mother would have shot me dead should the word "ain't" ever have dared to pass my lips.  Even as an adult when I'm being all ghetto and cool and shit I can't bring myself to say "ain't."  I write it... sometimes... and then I feel compelled to explain that I never actually say it, mostly because in my mind?  It would be like swearing in a house of worship.  Can't do it.  Would burn in Hell if I did.  Because my other sins pale in comparison to using a slang contraction of is and not.)

(FYI?  This is why I don't sleep at night.  I can't hold a single train of thought for longer than 8 seconds.  My brain would never win a bull riding contest because it couldn't hang on that long.)

Last night, as I was slowly climbing up the stairs to go to bed, I was soooooo tiiiiiiired that I couldn't keep my eyes open.  I dragged my exhausted body onto the bed and barely had the energy to pull up the covers.  I laid my weary head upon the pillow and BOINGGGG!   Wakefulness attacked me like a rabid dog. 

As if my mind had been planning it all day the theme song to Three's Company popped into my head. 

Just.... WHAT?  Where the hell did THAT come from?

Hello, Brain?  The 1970s want their theme song back. 

And Janet's hair.  And her clothes.

And Chrissy's short-shorts.

And Mrs. Roper's muu-muus.

Which led to an exhausting half hour trying to remember Janet's last name.  I had Jack Tripper, Chrissy Snow, Stanley and Helen Roper, Ralph Furley...

*crickets*

Janet WHAT? 

It. Was. Agonizing.

Come and knock on our dooooor...
We've been waiting for youuuuuu...
Where the kisses are HERS and HERS and HIS
Three's Company tooooooo!

*insert stupid 70's theme music*

*Author's note:  If you Google image search Three's Company, about half way down the page your eyes will suddenly be assaulted by a fairly graphic photo of a man with a rather large willy getting ready to lay some pipe on two very naked women.  FYI.  And if you're like me and sleep-addled, the first thing you will think is, "The fuck episode was that?"


What the hell was Janet's last name???  I was totally going to google it and then I got distracted by the porn.  Now I'm too tired to go back and check.  Crap.

Anyway.


So after the whole Three's Company debacle (not that the damn song ever left my brain... it just provided the background music for the remainder of the night) I thought I would try meditation.  You know, clearing my mind, thinking of nothing, just breathing and being.

Here's what happens when I breathe and be:

I become hyper-focused on my breathing.

Then I become dizzy and woozy because I hyper-ventilate.

Then I decide I'm having a heart attack.

Or a brain tumor.

Or both.

All to the tune of Three's Company.


GAHHHHHHH!


I know!  I'll make lists in my head!  I hate lists!  Lists bore me stupid!  I'll bore myself so badly with list making that I will stop thinking and I will fall asleep!!!!

Bloody brilliant idea, old chap!

Great.  Now I'm thinking in a British accent.

Groceries!  I hate grocery shopping!!!  What do I need?

Milk
Dates
Pecans
Sweet potatoes
Boca crumbles
Honey

One potato, two potato, three potato, four...
Five banana six banana seven banana more...

Do I need bananas?  Meh... I'm over bananas. 

Three's Company tooo!

Toilet paper?  You can never have too much toilet paper.
Dog food
Shit.  There was something else...
VODKA.  I need VODKA.
Tonic water
Oooh!  Cinco de Mayo!  Tequila!

What the hell is the date today?  Or is it already tomorrow?  What time is it?

Crap.

There's a lovable SPACE that NEEDS your FACE
Three's Company toooooo!

Should I just get up already and go downstairs?  I've been in bed for four hours and all I've accomplished is remembering all the words to that damn song.

What the FUCK was Janet's last name?

I hated those girls who replaced Chrissy.  And what was up with that girl they hired to play Jack's wife or fiancé or whatever?

Is Don Knotts dead?

Is Gomer still alive?

What was so funny about that friggin' hillbilly family they always had on the Andy Griffith show with the mute brothers and the horny girl who had the hots for Andy?  And that little annoying guy, Ernest T?  Why was he even there?  Why didn't Andy just shoot him already?

People in the 60s were wayyyyy too easily entertained.

Or was it the 50s?

The Darlings.  That was their name.

What is up with all those redneck shows on the Discovery channel lately?  It's like rednecks are the new Jersey in so-called reality television. 

Naked And Afraid... bwaaaaahahahahaaaaa!  I keep forgetting to watch that.  Where do they poop? 


Come and dance on our flooooor....
Try a step that is newwwww....


Lame.

I hate it when men have perfectly plucked and shaped eyebrows.  I don't care HOW gay you are, it looks ridiculous.  Don't do it.  Unless your goal is to look like a drag queen, in which case?  Rock on. 

I wish I had their eyebrows.

Even if I fall asleep right this second I will only get 2 1/2 hours of sleep.

Wait... did I just fall asleep?

*long pause*

Nope.

And then I do that thing where I wonder what it'll be like to die.

And then I think, "At least I'll get some friggin' rest."

 

The One Where I Come Careening Back Into The Blogosphere With Pomp And Circumstance

SOOOOooooo... this is awkward.  Where the hell have I been?  What the hell have I been doing with my time???? 


Well, there's been a lot of this:

And this:

And this:

Maybe this:

A LOT of this:

And ultimately, this again:

... followed by much slipping on ice, falling on my ass, bitching and moaning and taking pictures of the thermostat in my car and sending them to family and friends in California because no one in the state of New York gives a shit.  (I may or may not have spent a considerable amount of time whining all summer about the heat and humidity and proclaiming loudly "I WISH IT WOULD SNOW!"  Now it's like everyone is blaming me for this endless winter, like it's MY fault that Mother Nature is an asshole.  I said SNOW, not fucking NARNIA.)

Did I mention that an ice storm hit on my birthday and I had to cook my own birthday dinner and didn't get a cake?  Because THAT was fun. 

So yeah, all that complaining took up most of my time.  It was like having a full time job and working tons of over time. 

On the plus side, I DID find a cute pair of high heeled wedge boots that are made for walking in the snow and have reasonably good traction.  That made getting dressed and leaving the house a little less craptastic. 


In other news, when I wasn't bitching about the weather I was deep in contemplation about Finding Myself.  (Yes, I said Finding Myself.  Like it's 1970 or something.  Seriously.  I'm a Time Traveler, yo.) 

I turned 51 on December 20th.  That, in and of itself, was way more traumatic than it should have been.  I mean, 50 is the new 30, yes?  Which would make 51 the new 29, because as you all know, I am aging backwards.  What's hard about turning 29? I asked myself.  You've been 29 before.  It wasn't that bad.  You got through it.  You didn't die.  So what's the big deal THIS time around?

Well, as it turns out, the Big Deal is that turning 29 the second time around isn't nearly as fun as it is the first time.  The second time you have wrinkles, thick gray hairs randomly springing out from various parts of your face and head, skin that is losing the battle with gravity and allllll this old age shit that is screwing up your mojo and causing you to do strange things like purchase a pill organizer because you take so goddamn many that you can't keep track of them yourself because your mind is going.

Your friends start getting grown-up illnesses and dying.

In your head, forever and ever, you see them as being 18 years old and fearless, racing into the turquoise surf of the Pacific Ocean, smiling... laughing... and then suddenly, they aren't there anymore.  And you ask yourself, how did this happen?  Wasn't that, like, yesterday?

The last time I spoke to my father before he passed away he said to me, "This life... it goes so fast.  It just goes so fast."  He was 91 and dying of cancer.  His life was full of incredible things.  He was brave, strong, tough... talented, creative, a genius.  He did terrible things, he did wonderful things.  He was a seriously flawed human being who never stopped living until the day his number was up. 

I'm 51 and I haven't done shit. 

I became overwhelmed with panic because I am closer to 100 than I am to 0.  Loosely translated, this means that I am almost dead.  With all the health issues that I have not been allowed to ignore lately (fucking doctors) the fact that I am not immortal has become increasingly clear. 

The knowledge of my imminent demise had a massive domino effect:

Holy shit... I've wasted over half my life sitting around wondering what I should do with my life.

Oddly enough, time didn't stop for me... it just kept right on going.

Time is such an asshole.

I don't want to die thinking I have wasted this life.

*suddenly losing train of thought*

Oh Jesus, what if I gain 600 lbs and wind up being like the mom on Gilbert Grape and have to be hoisted out of the roof because I'm too fat to fit out the door and my family has to burn the house down to save me the indignity of having my huge, bloated carcass being dropped into a dump truck because I'm too large for the hearse...

Shit!  Do I have time to lose weight before I die?

*CRASH!*  All the dominos came down.

For some reason, everything in my life eventually boils down to exactly where  I am weight-wise.  Like, it's okay to die if I'm thin, but if I'm fat?  No.  Not acceptable.  I will not be fat throughout eternity.


My entire life has been centered around my weight.  Seriously.  My mother put me on my first diet when I was 8 years old and according to photographic evidence, was a normal, healthy little girl. 

Summers in junior high and high school were spent at our family cabin frantically dieting for a month or so because I needed to get down below 100 lbs.  (I usually started the summer at 105.)

Then came the roller coaster ride of pregnancy, baby weight, pregnancy, baby weight, pregnancy, baby weight, depression, weight gain, weight loss, weight gain, weight loss,...  And so it goes.  How do you feel?  I would ask myself.  Well I don't know, I'd respond, let me go step on the scale and I'll get back to you.

So I spent a few years in the 90s gaining and losing 100 lbs.  And gaining it back.  And losing some of it and gaining back more of it. 

I pulled my head out of my ass in 2005 and lost all of it and kept it off until I moved to New York, when I began re-fatting with a determination that should have won me a prize.

When I was hoisted by my own petard in August of last year (aka informed that I was ridiculously unhealthy due, in large part, to my weight) I had a head-removed-from-ass-ectomy and started putting my health first again.

In doing so, I finally, FINALLYYYYYYYY figured it out.  Finally.

My huge light bulb moment went something like this:


It's not about your weight, you dumbass.  It's about your health.  And your personal choices.  Stop waiting to be at your ideal of a perfect weight to live your life. 


I knowwww, right?  Profound.

And yeah... for a smart girl I'm not exactly quick on the draw when it comes to myself.  (However, if you ask me for advice about YOUR life, I'm Dr. Freaking Phil.  I rock with the good advice, and I do it without all the hillbilly homilies.  Though that's not to say I don't appreciate a good hillbilly homily.  Or Dr. Phil.  In my next life I want to be Robin McGraw.)

In case you were wondering, this is the Year Of The Dani.  I am making changes, positive changes (this is, indeed, a changing day in my life).  I've changed my intake, my out put, my outlook, my hair (I'm growing it out, which is Kind Of A Big Deal).  I became a vegetarian in January and am so freaking creative in the kitchen that I deserve my own show on Food Network. 

I'm happy.  For the first time in a really, really long while, I am truly happy with myself. 

Go me!!