Something about something...

This morning I may or may not have climbed into the shower still wearing my underwear.

(I'll let you all contemplate that for a moment.)

(Seriously... this shit totally happened.)

As I was raising my right foot to step over the threshold I thought, "Wait... wait... something doesn't feel quite right."

Water began pelting my head and shoulders while I lifted the other foot to complete the transition from dirty to clean and I thought, "OHHHHhhhh... underpants!"

Right?

Underpants.

This is just one small thing in a long list of so-called Senior Moments (which I used to call Blonde Moments, even though I'm brunette) that have been happening lately with increasing regularity.


I tried to find the bright side...


"At least I am in the privacy of my bathroom and not standing in the check out aisle at Walmart."


Then I went to the Dark Side...


"Next time I'll be at the post office and wearing my underwear on the outside of my pants and I will be forced to do the Walk Of Shame back to my car."



But yeah, the crazy is starting to rear it's ugly head more often than it probably should.  It happens so often, in fact, that I found myself googling Symptoms of Alzheimer's Disease on WebMD.  In case you aren't familiar with WebMD (in which case, I salute you) there is a section in which you can check your symptoms and see what they match up to.

There was no symptom that read "Showering in Underwear" so I moved on to the Wheel of Disease and just clicked on Alzheimer's.

Yep...

Yep...

Check...

Check...

Check...



I'm sure it's no shock to anyone that according to the internet, I totally have it.

The internet was all, "Dude... Remember the time... Oh wait.  You can't." 

(The internet is an asshole.)

And it has crossed my mind (what there is left of it) that I am no longer Of An Age where Alzheimer's is not a possibility.  In fact, if I suddenly were so afflicted, no one would say, "Oh, that poor thing... she's so young!"  Instead they would nod their heads and say, "Yep... we've seen it coming for a while now.  Her poor husband... he's so young."


Me, to Husband:  "When I am old and senile will your new, young wife take care of me until it's time for me to be put in a home?"

Husband:  "What??"


Men... so clueless.

If I'm going to be honest, I have to admit that senility has been a long time coming for me.  I've been spacing out since late December back in '62.  Back in my infancy, I was "preoccupied" (read:  clumsy).  According to my mother, I have Not Been Paying Attention since shortly after birth.  I tripped, I fell, I banged, I cut, I dropped, I spilled, I crashed, I burned. 

Long story short, it's a miracle I survived.  (I had stitches five times before I was 6.  No lie.  All my fault.  Every single time.  Why, you ask?  Because I Wasn't Paying Attention.)

Later, as a child, I was "not being challenged enough."  (Seriously... if you don't have to pay attention to your teacher in order to complete your work accurately and in a timely manner, why bother?)

Thus, a Bad Habit was born.  (Or I was born with a Bad Habit.  Either way, it didn't bode well for my future.  Thank God I was pretty.)

I skipped gleefully through school rarely paying attention, rarely taking notes (I doodled and wrote long letters to my friends, all of whom were paying attention and are therefore more successful than I am), doing my homework at the last possible second, staying up all night writing 20 page term papers that were due the next day on books that I had forgotten to check out of the library until that afternoon...

It worked for me.  Sort of. 

At any rate, it worked well enough that I opted not to change it.

Scatter-brained School Girl beget Absent-Minded Mother beget... well, me.

My catchphrase has become, "Oh shit... I forgot."

My headstone will read, "Dani's not here yet.  She forgot what day it was."  (It'll be awesome.  People will wonder if they should wait for me or just leave a note saying they dropped by.  Maybe I'll just have an answering machine installed and everyone can just leave a message.  Or text.  I prefer text.  I never listen to my messages anyway.  So yeah... if you call and I don't answer, hang up and text me.  Because if you don't, I'll just see that you called, not listen to the message, and then totally forget to call you back.   Now you know.)

Come the Rapture, I'll be watching Dr. Phil and a Special Report will cut into my Regularly Scheduled Programming and I'll be all annoyed and scream at the TV, "THERE IS NO TALKING DURING DR. PHIL!" and then I'll mute it and go to the bathroom and get a diet Pepsi and come back and wonder where everyone went.  And then I'll be all, "Oh yeah... shit.  That was today, wasn't it."

Long story short, I'll wind up being Raptured in my sweat pants.

(Hopefully some of my close friends will totally see that coming and bring something along for me to change into.  Lindsay, I'm counting on you.)


Have you ever run into a person in the grocery store that seems to know you, so you are all "HI!  How ARE you?" and you chat for a while and the whole time you are thinking, "Who IZZZZZ this person???"  and then you hug and air-kiss and tell them you'll see them soon and you come home and your mother-in-law calls you and says, "Such and such a relative said they ran into you at the store today!" and you suddenly have a moment of clarity because you just saw that person at a family reunion six weeks previously?

Have you ever not recognized the person who works at your local market (which only has three employees whom you see pretty much every day and know more about than you probably should because it's a small town, people talk, and you listen) because you see them somewhere outside the store where you aren't used to seeing them and your brain can't seem to wrap itself around the fact that maybe, just maybe, they go other places, too?

Have you ever climbed into the shower still wearing your underwear?

(Oh wait... we already did that one.)

I forget to take my ear plugs out in the morning and worry that I've suddenly gone deaf, I can't remember half the time if I've put detergent into the washing machine so I double up because I really don't want to dig through all the dirty clothes to see if I put it in first, I frequently don't remember if I already washed my hair when I'm taking a shower so I wash it again just in case...

Oh... and one day last summer I only shaved one leg.  I think I got distracted or something, because I didn't get around to shaving the other one and didn't notice until I was sitting next to the pool in my bathing suit.

It was slightly awkward.

(Husband:  "Why is one leg hairier than the other?"  Me:  "I dunno... one grows faster or something.")

If I suddenly start blogging about growing up in a small log cabin somewhere on the prairie, you'll know why.

Consider yourselves warned.


 

The One Where My Vagina Is Not Ready For It's Close-up

I'm almost embarrassed to admit this, considering I'm a grown-ass woman and all, but I avoid gynecological exams like it's my JOB, yo.  (And since I currently don't have a job, I have plenty of time to dedicate to my avoidance.)

I know that in this day and age of the Vagina Monologues and Femi-Nazis and Girl Power that I should be out there just like, "Yeah... this is my vaj.  Wanna see it?  Her name is Tiffany" or some such shit but I'm not quite there, ya know?

In fact, I'm nowhere near there.  I'm so far from there that in terms of time and distance I haven't even been born yet.

This isn't a new thing with me.... I've been actively avoiding the gyno since I knew what one was.  I actually didn't have my first Lady Parts exam until I was 5 months pregnant with my first child, and only then because I had no other choice.  He was coming out of that end one way or the other whether I liked it or not.  I'd made my bed... now I needed to climb up on the table, plant my feet in the stirrups, and lie in it.

(I made my sister go with me.  Yes, I AM that much of a coward.)

I honestly don't know why I'm so afraid.  Millions if women do this every day with no hand-holding, no bribery, no problem.  They're all, "Gotta go to the Box Doctor today.... we'll meet later for coffee" and off they go, ho hum, ready to have some dude with a miner's light on his forehead get friendly with their nether regions and crank them open with an icy cold speculum.  "Helloooooo in there....."

(They should probably send in a canary first to make sure it's safe.)

I'm not ashamed of my girl parts... as far as I can tell they are functional and normal and according to the porn I've seen (which granted, isn't a lot... perhaps I should watch more?) look pretty much the way they're supposed to.  I mean, I don't have a nose or teeth or anything untoward growing out of my business.  No one has ever complained about it or commented on it in a negative way, like "Dude.... the fuck is THAT?"  during moments of intimacy.  So I assume everything is cool down under the hood, know what I'm sayin'?

Like this, only on my vagina.

I've never looked at it with a hand mirror or named it or drawn a picture of it, but I am accepting on good faith that as far as vaginas go, mine is serviceable and aesthetically correct. 

(While I'm on the topic I just need to throw this out there before I forget:  Guys, stop calling it a pussy, okay?  Just... eww.  I can guarantee that we do not refer to it that way, EVER.  Except for your benefit because for some reason that's the only word you're comfortable with.  If we say "Would you like to touch my vagina?" you're all, "Your what?  Huh?"  Trust me on this.  I've never been in a doctor's office and had him say, "Okay, let's take a look at your pussy now..." or been in a conversation with one of my girlfriends about Female Trouble and had them say, "So does your pussy ever feel like something something something...."  because WE DON'T SAY THAT AND NEITHER SHOULD YOU.  This has been a public service announcement.)

(Also?  It's pronounced "men-stru-a-tion" not "men-i-stra-tion."  FYI.)

I have managed to avoid going in for my Well Woman Exam (doctor talk for pap smear, rectal probe, and boobie fondling) for 5  years.  I'm not proud of that... in fact, I'm pretty ashamed of that... but there ya go.  I don't know what it is about dropping trou, laying flat on my back with my ass scootched to the end of the table and my legs high up in the air with my feet pointing east and west, but I would rather have my fingers cut off with a dull, rusty butter knife under the hot, hot sun than find myself in that position.

First there are the fears:

1)  What if I fart?

2)  What if I pee a little?

3)  What if there is a terrible smell that I'm not aware of?

4)  What if there is something hideously, horribly wrong and I need to be scheduled for an emergency vagectomy?

5)  What if, God forbid, I shart??

Then, of course, is the knowledge that at some point the doctor will... willll.... stick his/her finger up my butt.


I don't like that.  And I don't know why you think it's necessary.


Recently I was fired by my doctor due to my unwillingness to let her look at my pee-pee.  I may or may not have cancelled on four Well Woman exams and apparently, this upset her.  She sent me a letter that, translated, basically said, "Dear Danielle,  Since you won't let me look at your vagina and touch your boobies, we need to break up.  Love, Doctor."

I'm not gonna lie, I was a little miffed.  It kind of reminded me of the worst date I have ever been on IN MY LIFE when a guy I went to high school with (Dear People I Went To High School With,  He was a red-headed asshole and I think he drove a VW bug.  If you know who he is and keep in touch let him know I have a List and his name is at the top)  took me to a cheap-ass Mexican restaurant in the middle of nowhere (this really happened, you guys), spent $2 on a tostada for me, and then demanded that I put out because he bought me dinner.

Two dollars.

Seriously.

When I told him NO, in no uncertain terms, he told me that a girl I knew (who hated me, OBVIOUSLY), had PROMISED HIM that I would blow him if he bought me dinner.  (Her name is on the list, too.  I've been keeping my eye on her on Facebook and long story short, I'm super glad she got real fat because that'll make it easier to catch her when I finally get around to hunting her ass down.)

When I informed him that not only was she a liar, but also a whore, he dropped me off alongside a canal bank and left me stranded in the boonies.  

Yeah.  That's how being fired by my doctor for not showing her my goodies made me feel.  It took me back down a dark, dark road, you guys.  A dark road that started with a lousy tostada and ended with  me not putting out and being kicked out of the car.

(I can laugh about it now but at the time it was beyond humiliating and devastating.)

(Okay, I lied.  It is still beyond humiliating and devastating and I still can't laugh about it.)


Since I am now Of The Age where having a doctor available to write me prescriptions is more than just convenient, it's actually a matter of Life and Death, I didn't have the luxury of procrastinating (which is something I actually DO enjoy and am really, really good at).  I had to haul out the phone book and start making calls.

As luck would have it, I found a doctor who is literally less than a block away from my house.  If I fell out of a tree and broke my leg she could hear me screaming and come running, she's that close.  (Considering how frequently I fall and hurt myself, that's incredibly handy.)   I made my Let's Get To Know Each Other appointment and drove the .09890 miles to her office.  (Yes, I drove, even though I can see the building from my house.  Shut up.  It was hot and I was tired. I was running late.  Plus I didn't want to get sweaty.  I wanted to make a good impression.  Okay fine, and I'm lazy.  There.  Happy now?)


I toodled into the examination room and played Twenty Questions with the nurse, who weighed me (whore) and checked my blood pressure (high).  As she was preparing to leave the room she said "Doctor will be with you shortly" and tossed me a cotton gown.


Just hold the motherfuckin' phone.


Me:  "Wait.  Wait.  Wait.  What??"

Nurse:  "??"

Me:  "And you want me to do WHAT with this?"

Nurse:  *blink*  *blink*

Me:  *holding the gown with one finger and raising my eyebrows in an "I don't think so" way*

Nurse:  "You need to disrobe and put on the gown so Doctor can examine you."

Me:  "I am here just to get established as a patient, not to have a complete physical."

Nurse:  *looking frightened*  "Doctor will be with you shortly."



That's right, bitch.  Hurry along now.  Don't MAKE me kick your ass.


When the doctor entered the room she found me fully clothed, sitting on the wooden chair and reading my Kindle.

We chatted about the weather, my tattoos, where I was from, and why I was there.

And then?

It happened.

Her:  "So I need you to disrobe and put on this gown so I can examine you."

Me:  "I am not here for a physical."

Her:  "I hate to disagree with you, but you are."

Me:  "Noooo.... I'm just here to establish myself as a patient."

Her:  "Well, that's how we establish patients here.  We give them physicals."

Me:  *grasping at straws*  "That's not how *I* do it."

Her:  "You're not in Kansas anymore, sweetheart.  That's how *I* do it."


Holy fuck.


As luck would have it, God saw fit to hand me an ex-Army doctor with a sweet little grandmotherly cookie-baking face and a back-bone of steel. 

AND as luck would also have it, God handed HER a dedicated procrastinator with a sweet little middle-aged cookie-eating face and the stubbornness of a mule.

This could be interesting.




Me:  "Ummm.... errr.... I'm not prepared for that."

Her:  "How so?"

Me:  "Ummmm.... I need to prepare.... things."

Her:  "What things?"

Me:

Her:

Me:  "Uhhh..."

Her:  ?

Me:  "Ummm... my vagina."

Her:  *snorting with laughter*  "How do you plan on preparing your vagina?  Are you going to marinate it?  Have a talk with it?"

Me:  "You know.... grooming and stuff."

Her:  "Honey, I'm 60 years old.  I don't care what your vagina looks like."

Me:  "Riiight.... but I do."

Her:  "Will there be any vajazzling going on or are you just needing time to get a wax?"

Me:  "No vajazzling.  Just... upkeep."

Her:  "Okay.  I am making you a Well Woman Exam appointment for October 31.  That gives you four months to trim, wax, buff and vajazzle.  You also might want to do something with your breasts because you will also be getting a mammogram.  And we will be taking some labs.  No excuses."

Me:  "Okay, good,  I'll be there."

Her:  "Damn right you will or else I will come get you.  I know where you live."



Note to self:  The jig is up.

Shit.

Well, hell!  If OPRAH can do it, SO CAN I!!!

 

I think I'm growing a hump (and other stories)

*Author's note:  If you're under 40 and can't relate to this AT ALL, just wait.  It's called middle-age, people, and it's coming for you.

I'm starting to accept the fact that I'm not getting any younger. 

Okay, that's a lie.  I'm starting to accept the fact that I can't afford the type of surgical procedures that will delay the aging process. 

At first I decided to just go with it and embrace my inner Crone.  I was all, "I'm turning 40!  It won't be so bad... 40 is the new 30!" 

I lost a shit ton of weight, got new boobs and a hot young husband (not necessarily in that order... first I got the husband, then I lost the weight.  The boobs were kind of a necessity after the weight loss left the old ones hanging down around my knees) and was Loud and Proud about being Forty And Fabulous.

And then I turned 48... then 49... and lied to myself for 364 days about how "50 is the new 40!" even though no one ever, EVER says that. EVER.  Then on December 19th, 2012, 24 hours before my birthday, I flung myself face down on my bed and sobbed about the fact that I was this close  to being half a century old.

Half a century.

That's freaking old, y'all.

I made a daring decision to Not Turn 50.  If  I refused to acknowledge it, it wouldn't happen.  Denial IS your best friend.  I staged a protest, had a sit in, drank copious amounts of vodka, and refused to answer the phone on December 20th (because if one single person had called and said "Happy 50th Birthday!" shit would have gone down, and gone down hard).

Shockingly, despite my efforts, I turned 50 anyway.   (Time is kind of a motherfucker, in case you are under 40 and didn't know.)


And I learned why nobody says "50 is the new 40!":

Because it isn't.  50 is the same old rat bastard it's always been.

Which brings me to turning 51 half a year ago.

51. 51, in case you can't do the math, is older than 50.  It's more than Half a Century.  Which means, in technical turns, I'm almost 100.

And things are starting to fall apart.

Like my face, for example.


I've always had a great relationship with my face.  I like my face.  It's been a good face over the years.

It has all the right features, in basically the right places:  Two eyes a reasonable distance apart, one nose that is well-centered and doesn't dominate the middle of my face, a mouth with teeth that haven't decayed yet and made their appearance in somewhat straight lines, a chin that pokes out and doesn't sink into my neck...

 It's served me well over time, you know?  It didn't get pimply in high school, it didn't get too wrinkled from all the sun I exposed it to during my "I Don't Care If I Get Skin Cancer And Die... I'll Look Hot In My Coffin With My Killer Tan!" years, and though it ballooned up on the feeding frenzy known as my "Let Me Eat Cake Every Day" years, it slimmed right back down during my "I Refuse To Be 40 And Fat" years without any horrible side-effects (I am chronically horrified yet fascinated by the falling faces of the people who appear on shows like My 600 Lb Life.  They look like melting candles.  There but for the Grace of God and excellent genetics could have goneth I).  My cheekbones stayed resistant to gravity, my double chin turned back into one, my neck didn't resemble a turkey and I never grew an eyebrow hair anywhere it didn't belong.

Until recently.

Slowly but surely, things are starting to change.

And not for the best.

The Asshole known as  Father Time finally caught up with me, and he is kicking. my. ass.

My eyelids are drooping, my forehead is begging for Botox, my nasal-labial folds (which makes it sound like I have a vagina on my face) are becoming slightly more prominent, and I'm getting age spots on my right cheek.

Age spots.

AGE SPOTS.

(The last time I went to the salon and had my hair colored, my stylist spent 5 minutes trying to rub one off because she thought she had gotten dye on my cheek.  THAT wasn't awkward AT ALL.)

I will now share with you a deep, dark secret that no one tells you until it's too late:

As you grow older, one of two things will eventually happen.

1.  Your eyebrows will sprout like weeds OR

2.  They will disappear completely.

There is no happy medium.

My brows fall into the second category. 

Where I used to have two very nice eyebrows, I now have none. 

So I have (or so I thought) perfected the art of drawing them on.

As it turns out, if you put your make-up on in a low-light room, when you catch a glimpse of yourself in bright light, you wind up looking like this:

Which may or may not have happened to me yesterday.

Yesterday was a bad day.

Yesterday was one of those days that gives you an atomic wedgy in front of your crush then knocks you down and kicks sand in your face.  Yesterday was one of those days that steals your boyfriend, tells your mother you smoke, and puts your bra in the freezer at a slumber party.  Yesterday was one of those days that pretends to be your friend and then talks about you behind your back.

Yesterday was a real asshole.

I had to run some errands so I put myself together bright and early.  I left the house feeling pretty good about myself.  Hair was behaving, face was working, clothes fit... all positives in my life.  I was wearing a cute sundress and awesome shoes and overall, I felt like, if not a million bucks, at least 20, ya know?  I left the house with a song in my heart and a credit card in my wallet, ready to do a tiny bit of damage to my bank account.

And then I caught a bright and luminous glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror.

*cue slasher movie music*

Realization hit me over the head like it was mugging me and trying to steal my purse.

Make-up just isn't for fun and games any more.  Now it's a desperate line drawn in the sand.  Too little and I look like I've given up.  Too much and I look like Jackie Stallone.

Shit just got real.



By the time I arrived at my destination (Walmart, people.  Yes, I was going to Walmart.  Because at Walmart?  I am the prettiest girl at the dance) I had managed to convince myself that age is just a number and if I add my numbers together, I am only 6.  Or if I reversed them, I was merely 15.  Either way, I was good to go.

I sashayed through Walmart smiling at all the homely people and feeling beneficent for gracing them with my fabulousness.

And then?

I started to sneeze.

I sneezed, and I sneezed, and I sneezed and I sneezed.

And every time I sneezed...

I peed a little.

I sailed through Walmart peeing on my feet... and I couldn't stop.

Oh, the horror!

Ohhhhh, the humanity!!!!!

Fake it, Danielle!  I said to myself.  Hold your head high, girl... people will just think something in your cart is leaking!  Even though it's coming from underneath your dress and there is no water-like substances in your cart, they will just assume!!! 

I made eye-contact with an elderly woman and she gave me the nod.

She knows, I said to myself.  Fuck!!

I wanted to die.  Not just cease to exist, but actually drop dead right there in Walmart with my tinkled on tootsies pointed skyward, just like the Wicked Witch of the East with the house crushing her body.  (Only without the gawd-awful striped socks and pointy shoes.  I don't care WHAT Stacy and Clinton say, pointy shoes always give you witch feet.  It is a scientific fact.)


Needless to say my wish went un-granted and I spent the rest of the morning in wet shoes and damp underthings smelling faintly of pee-pee and wondering which Old Folks Home my children will put me into. 

Probably one in the mid-West, I decided.  Then they won't have to come and visit their constantly urinating mother and take her for walks in her pissy shoes.

And then I came home and discovered that I'm growing a hump on my back.

Either that, or I'm just really fat right below the back of my neck.

And all my missing eyebrow hairs have relocated to my chin.

Wasn't it just yesterday, I asked myself, that I was graduating from high school?

No, replied Self, yesterday you were refilling your pill organizer because you take so goddamn many that you can't remember if you took them or not.  And you left pasta boiling on the stove for 25 minutes because you forgot you had started cooking it.  Yesterday you discovered that you missed an entire section of your knee while shaving your legs and were closely inspecting a mysterious and suspicious mole that you couldn't remember if you had ever seen before. 


Screw you, Self! 

 

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!!






 

Falling Down In 10 Easty Steps

1.  Quickly survey your surroundings.

2.  Note objects or anomalies that can create a potential hazard.

3.  Promptly forget to watch where you are going as you head into the Great Unknown.

4.  Bump into it, trip over it, slip on it or fall in it as the situation demands.

5.  Feel yourself being hurtled through space.

6.  Try to correct the situation by doing one or both of the following:

     a.  Propelling arms in windmill like fashion, hoping it will help you become slightly more air born so that the odds of landing on your feet will increase by a thousandth of a percent.

     b.  Continuing moving forward at a rapid speed in hopes of somehow gaining your balance, thus creating the impression that you are racing towards your inevitable doom.

7.  Position your body so that landing will be painful and embarrassing.

8.  Whatever you do, DO NOT DROP YOUR PURSE/PHONE/COCKTAIL.

9.  Briefly forget that you have arms with which to help break your fall.

10.  Make sure there's an audience so that your performance will result in the utmost humiliation.

     10a.  (For women only:)  Pee a little when you land.



As I write this I am sporting injuries of my most impressive fall to date (which is totally saying something, believe me).  I thought I had achieved my most awesome and embarrassing fall LAST week when I fell into and broke my in-laws toilet, but alas, I was wrong.



In my lifetime of falling, I have:

1.  Broken the same foot 5 times. 

2.  Three of those breaks happened in two years.

3.  Broken the middle fingers on both hands on two different occasions.

4.  Knocked a small disabled child into a water toy.

5.  Broken my ankle.  (I was carrying my 2 week old child in his car seat and stepped on a rock.  I fell down three steps, never let go of the baby, and broke my ankle.  In other news, I had three kids ages 3, 1 and newborn, and a broken ankle.  Yeah.  Good times.  I've blocked it all out.  All I remember is the fall and my hysterical laughter when the doctor told me to rest and stay off my feet.)


Those are just the more notable incidents where severe injury occurred. 

This fall?  The one I had two days ago?  Much, MUCH better.


My string of bad luck started two weeks ago.

(By "string of bad luck" I mean "two really embarrassingly stupid falls.")


Two weeks ago I had gotten up in the middle of the night to pee.  I was wearing ear plugs, because as previously blogged about, my husband snores for a living and he's damn good at his job.

We were at my in-laws house and everyone was sleeping, so I crept into the bathroom and did not turn on the light.  (Pay attention:  You may recognize a theme here.)  I sat down and immediately plunged into the freezing cold toilet bowl as SOMEONE (my 16 year old nephew) DID NOT PUT THE SEAT DOWN. 

Being groggy, half asleep, in the dark and sensory impaired due to the ear plugs and lack of visibility (Ambien also may or may not have been involved) I fell backwards into the toilet tank.

I know, right?  Da fuck???

Pain shot through my back as I flailed about and gracelessly tried to right myself.  I stood up leaned against the wall while I put the seat down, then sat my wet fanny down to pee. 

Then I idly wondered why my feet were getting wet.

I got irritated, thinking SOMEONE (16 year old nephew) had missed the toilet bowl and piddled on the floor.

I stood and pulled up my pajamas.

Also wet.

Huh?

Vaguely I became aware of the faint sound of my husband yelling.

The light flashed on and I was greeted by a large naked man with a wild look in his eyes and loud words pouring out of his mouth.

I removed my ear plugs and over the yelling could hear the sound of rushing water...


Fucking hell, you guys.  Just fucking hell.  I didn't crack the toilet tank.  I broke that mother in half.

Water was gushing out and flooding the bathroom.  I grabbed towels and started mopping while my husband ran downstairs.  I heard another bellow of shock and ran down to see what was happening.

Oh happy joy... the water was pouring through the ceiling and into the kitchen below. 


Later that morning Dan and I did the Walk of Shame through Home Depot to pick out and purchase a new toilet for my in-laws.  (They told us not to be silly... it was an old toilet and as my father-in-law so sweetly said, "We can GET a new toilet.  We CAN'T get a new Dani.  Are you okay?"  He is so sweet.  I love him forever.)

Dan:  *helpfully*  "Dani broke it, so we have to buy the new one."

Long story short, for the next two weeks I had to hear and rehear the story about how "Aunt Dani broke Gramma and Grampa's toilet."

(Please note that the most frequent teller of the tale was my wonderful and understanding husband, may he Rest In Peace.)


I escaped from the Broken Toilet Fiasco fairly unscathed.  I had a huge bruise on my back and hip but otherwise was unharmed.  (My ego took the biggest beating.)


I thought that would be my crowning achievement, my Mark of Fame at the home of my in-laws.  It totally erased all other less impressive mishaps. 

Karma being what it is, it decided to prove me wrong.


Two nights ago (yes, still at my in-law's house) everybody went to bed by 9:00.  I decided to stay up, talk to my girlfriend, and enjoy the peace and quiet.

Around 11:00 I headed up to bed.

I got into the bedroom and suddenly realized I had left my Pomeranian, Javi, downstairs (he can't climb the stairs anymore) and had also forgotten to turn down the heat.

Because I am so graceful and not at all accident prone, I determined that I didn't need to turn on the light... I could maneuver the stairs in the dark.

*insert ominous music*

I went jogging down the first few stairs when the vague thought entered my mind that I was falling.

It happened so quickly that I wasn't afraid, or startled... it was more like, "Huh... I seem to be bouncing on my face down the stairs.  How unusual.  I've never gone down this way before..."

I fell down approximately 8 stairs.

And knocked my ass out cold.

I don't know how long I was there, sleeping peacefully on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, but I woke up to the sound, once again, of my husband yelling.

*blink*  *blink*

I remember very little after that, other than throwing up for hours and trying not to fall asleep.  I don't remember going to bed or changing my clothes, I don't remember bringing the dog up or turning down the heat.

I remember nothing until I woke up at around 5 in the morning with an excruciating headache and my body feeling like I'd been hit by a truck.

The entire left side of my face is swollen and purple.  I can't open my left eye more than about a quarter of an inch and my forehead is so puffy that I look like I'm about to experience the rare occurrence of Forehead Birth, something which hasn't happened since Athena sprung full grown from the forehead of Zeus, circa whenever B.C.

I have a huge bruise on my left shoulder, can't turn my head, have a bruise on the palm of my right hand (no idea what my left hand was doing as I was hurtling down the stairs... probably the Princess Wave or something equally useless) and bruises covering my lower body from hips to feet. 

I can't wear my glasses because any pressure on the side of my head makes me cry.

I can't wear a bra because of the shoulder bruise.

I can't comb the left side of my hair because IT HURTS.

And I'm not quite sure how to put on my make-up... Should I make the right eye look like the left, or just pretend I don't have a left eye and only put make-up on the right?

Decisions, decisions...


Anyhoo...

Next week my funny and fabulous friend Cassidy will be guest blogging for me!  She writes the wonderful blog,  Vanilla In The Front, which is a poignant, thought provoking, funny and insightful look at loving yourself and accepting yourself unconditionally.  She stepped out of her usual blog topic to share her hilarious viewpoint about raising boys and I can't wait for you all to read it.  Cass cracks me up on a daily basis and her boys are as bright and funny as she is. 

Plus she's beautiful and has amazing hair. 

Stop by her blog and show her some love.


And in case you are wondering, I am accepting all offers of sympathy, Vicodin, and vodka.




 

The One With All The Gas

*Author's note:  I apologize in advance for this blog posting.

My husband Dan and I had this conversation yesterday while driving together to an appointment:


Me:  *suddenly and inexplicably being over-taken by the most heinous cloud of stink ever to encounter the human nostril*

Me:  *gasping for air and clawing frantically at the button to roll down the window*

Me:  *hanging my head out the window like a demented Shi-Tzu and sucking in oxygen*

Dan:  "What?"

Me:  *finally able to speak*  "WHAT. THE HELL. DID YOU DO??!!"

Dan:  *looking perplexed*  "Why?  What's wrong?"

Me:  "SERIOUSLY??  DO YOU NOT SMELL THAT?"

Dan:  "Smell what?"

Me:  "ARE YOU KIDDING ME??  DID YOU FART??"

Dan:  *taking a moment to ponder this apparently difficult question*  "I don't know... I don't think so."

Me:  "YOU DON'T THINK SO?  THERE ARE TWO OF US IN THE CAR.  I KNOW FOR A FACT THAT I DID NOT FART.  THAT LEAVES YOU."

Dan:  "Huh.  Maybe I did.  I don't remember."

Me:  *gulping in air like a beached guppy*

Dan:  "Man, that stinks..."


This is where I went totally crazy and beat him to death with my purse.


Okay, not really.  But I did wax eloquent for the next 10-15-20 miles about how it is simply not possible to pass gas and not remember.


My soliloquy included such pearls of wisdom as "How does something come out of your ass and you not realize it??  I have never had anything come out of my ass without me being aware of it" and "Seriously?  Your ass is so independent of your brain that wind can shoot right out of it without your knowledge?  How is that even possible?"

His contributions to the conversation mostly consisted of the phrases "I don't know..." and "Could you drop it already?  It was a fart, okay?  It's not like I burned down an orphanage."

Me:  "You might as well have!" 


Because yeah, it was that bad.

Here's what I don't get:  How can a man who demands to know "what that smell is" every time he enters a room not smell a powerful stink bomb that has just emerged from the depths of his boiling and surging bowels?  Because that's what he does.  He will be idly sitting on the couch and suddenly will raise his head, look suspiciously around, and start sniffing the air like a blood hound on the scent.  "What's that smell?" he will demand, while the dogs and I sit quietly next to him and try not to look guilty.  Or smelly.

 

"I don't smell anything..." I will say, while the dogs nod their heads and hope it isn't them, because honestly?  I don't.  I smell nothing.

 

I surreptitiously sniff my arm pit when he isn't looking.  Nope, all good.

 

The dogs sniff their arm pits.  Also good.

 

He will continue to sniff and glare, occasionally wafting his hands to circulate the scent more efficiently.  "You don't smell that," he states.  Not a question... more of an accusation, like how is it even remotely possible that any normal human being can't smell whatever elusive aroma is tickling his nose hairs.

 

This can go on for hours.  If he can't ferret out the stink (which he usually can't... and I can't help because I cannot smell it) he will suddenly look at me and say, "Is it YOU?"

 

 Because apparently I'm known for my stench.  The fuck, I say!  He will lean over, sniff me, sigh, and say, "No... you're fine."

 

Well thank the Lord for small favors.  It's never me.  Yet he sniffs me suspiciously every. single. time.

 

Me:  *insulted*  "It is never me!  Stop smelling me!"

 

(Doesn't everyone have to order their spouse to stop sniffing them?  No?  Just me?)

 

He lets me know when the dogs smell, when the house has a strange odor, when dinner seems slightly off, when my shampoo isn't right, when I change my perfume, buy him the wrong scent of deodorant...

 

But he can't smell his own farts.  Or recognize what's going on when one escapes from his ass.

 

And therein lies the mystery.

 

Color me skeptical.

 

 

 Other conversations have gone something like this:


Dan:  *sniff sniff* 

Me:  "What?"

Dan:  *sniff sniff*  "Do you smell that?"

Me:  "Smell what?"

Dan:  "Did you fart?"

Me:  "No?  Why?  Oh my GOD!!!  WHAT IS THAT?"

Dan:  *light dawning on his face*  "Oh yeah... maybe that was me.  Sorry."

Years ago I had a Rottweiler named Coco.  She was the most amazing dog ever... fat, lazy, loving... and full of gas.  I have never before or since had a pet that farted as constantly or as noisily as Miss Coco-moco.  All day, every day, earth, air, wind and fire were shooting out of her hind quarters with alarming regularity. 

And yet...

And yet...

Every single time she farted, she would look startled, whip her head around, and bark at rear end.

Every. Time.

You'd think she would have eventually figured it out... like, "Oh yeah, that happened last time and it was just me again, farting..."  But she never did.  It was a huge surprise to her for the entire 10 years she spent on this earth. 

That's kind of how Dan is.  For 40 years he has been releasing noxious fumes from his rectum and he still doesn't get that the noise is coming from him.

This man has more gas that the Middle East and Texas combined.  Millions of years ago, dinosaurs curled up and died in his lower intestine and have been waiting ever since to emerge from his rectum in the form of methane gas.  Meanwhile, he firmly believes that if he holds in a fart, he will immediately explode and die.  Consequently, he has no compunction about farting anywhere and everywhere the need arises.  A typical trip to the store goes like this:


Me:  *casually standing in the aisle, perusing products and comparing prices* 

Dan:  *suddenly walking up behind me and shoving me down the aisle whispering "Go! Go! Go!" under his breath as we power walk through the store*

Me:  "What the..."  And then I notice the people walking down the aisle behind us, gagging and puking and clutching their throats.


I don't get it.  I really don't.  I would hold in a fart until my head blew off my shoulders before I would release it in a public forum.  But Dan?  Dan farts everywhere.  Work, home, church (if we went, that is), weddings, funerals, family gatherings... He does it so constantly and so naturally that he doesn't even know he's doing it.

 The 16 year old nephew, Dorkin, is starting to follow in Uncle Dan's footsteps.  (Hard not to when your role model has a never ending green cloud clinging to the seat of his pants, not unlike Pepe Le Pew.)  He is still at the age where every time he lets one go, he practically pees himself with delight.  The worse it smells, the funnier it is, apparently. 

But not to the King of Gas.


When Dorkin farts, Dan gets pissed.

"What the hell?" he will bark.  "What's wrong with you?  You just sit there and fart in front of your aunt?"

Me:  "YOU fart in front of his aunt."

Dan:  "I never farted in front of my aunts!"

Me:  "You fart in front of your parents, your brothers, their wives, their kids, my sister, her kids, their kids, my mother, your co-workers, your clients, your doctor, your friends, my friends, strangers in a grocery store, but not your aunts?"

Dan:  *long pause*  "That's right.  And don't you forget it."


An evening of togetherness usually ends with Dan loudly ripping ass then doing his Steve Urkel impression, "Did I do that?"  He will then laugh himself off the couch while I choke and die from the fumes.


That's love, baby.