Kathryn Leehane's Blog, page 11

8 Signs Your Midlife Crisis Is Approaching

My grandma is 95, and I’m almost not even half her age. Ergo, I am too young for a midlife crisis.

(If I keep repeating that to myself it will come true, right?)

But the clues are all there … it’s coming. Here are eight signs your (my) midlife crisis may be approaching.

You go over the top for special occasions. Me? I spent a wild weekend in Vegas to celebrate my friends’ 40th birthdays. And I discovered I’m too old to party there.
You see things in a whole new way. Me? Specifically through a very bent pair of bifocals.

These sit crooked on my face. But I wear them anyways.

You can’t stay awake anymore. Me? Let’s just say the following is regularly heard in my house: “Mom’s bedtime is movie o’clock.”
Your eating habits change. Me? I ate this bowl of chopped kale and broccoli stems. On purpose.

I’m serious about fiber.

You do crazy things you never would have considered before. Me? I got up on stage and made a fool of myself—and gave zero fucks.
In some ways, you become more practical. Me? I don’t use fancy wine glasses (that I’ll just tip over), and I put them on coasters even when unnecessary.

You start thinking about those life goals. Me? I finally wrote that book. No shit. I wrote an entire book, and it’s now being edited by a real-life editor.
You buy expensive and/or unusual items. Me?

BOOM.

 

The post 8 Signs Your Midlife Crisis Is Approaching appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

What Do You Do with a Bag of Dickeys?

I’m giving away a bag of dickeys. Want some?

I guess before any dickey transactions, I should give you a little warm-up. See, when I was in junior high, I wore a lot of oversized sweatshirts and Cosby sweaters (wait—are we still allowed to use that phrase?). Underneath these garments, I always wore turtlenecks. Not because it’s cold here in the mild-weather-capital of the world. Because that’s what we did in middle school. It was The Look.

See? (I could have included at least a dozen more horrible photos.)

So I’m getting ready to attend a conference in Baltimore, and one of the parties has a Middle School to the Max theme. Naturally I thought of my sweatshirt and turtleneck combination. But it will be June in Baltimore—two layers would turn me into a sweaty, melty mess. (Not unlike when I discovered my 8th grade boyfriend had kissed another girl, but I don’t want to repeat that look.)

Clearly, I had to get my hands on a dickey. (That’s what she said.)

Now, I don’t foresee myself donning a dickey often, so I really didn’t want to spend a lot of money. I only needed a single white dickey to reenact my horror glory days, but the cheapest one I found came in a multi-pack.

Four dickeys for less than $8? THOSE DICKEYS WERE MINE.

But there I was … with three extra dickeys in my hands. I wanted to spread my dickey-filled joy with my conference-going friends so I posed a very serious offer on the attendee board: “I just bought a 4-pack of dickeys, but I only need the white one. I’ll bring the extras with me—in case anyone wants a navy, grey, or black dickey. One size fits all.”

(Of course) Mike from Papa Does Preach was the first to respond, “I feel like there is a joke in here somewhere.”

WHAT? This was no joke. I wanted serious dickey discourse. I replied, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, ‪Mike. BTW, I can’t tell from the pictures if the dickeys are ribbed or not.”

Fortunately Karyn from picklesINK.com asked a very interesting question to help move the dickey discussion forward: “Foxy, I might be interested, but I have some concerns. Would you recommend any sort of protective covering for your dickeys? I wouldn’t want to have any accidental spilling or staining.”

Good point. I didn’t think these dickeys needed protection; rather I figured she might need some protection for the dickey itself, so I responded, “Well, one reviewer stated that the dickeys were a bit itchy. I’ll wash them before I pack them.”

To which Kathleen from Middletini added, “Nothing worse than an itchy dickey.”

I had to agree. But even with my promise of clean dickeys, no one wanted them. Then Tracy from Orange and Silver made the BIG demand: “You know, this isn’t usually the way I roll, but could we get a dickey pic?”

Oh. I’m ALL OVER dickey pics.

BOOM. See? The lady seems quite pleased with her dickey. And that picture really seemed to get the dickey juices flowing:

Karyn: She definitely seems to be enjoying her dickey.

Tracy: If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was afterglow. Actually, don’t know better, so it still could be.

Kathleen: She looks quite satisfied. I guess it was a good dickey.

Karyn: The fit seems snug but comfortable.

Kathleen: You don’t want it to be too loose. A little friction is ideal, but if it’s all floppy and rubbing around too much, you could get blisters or worse.

But still, I didn’t have any dickey takers. Apparently, they were more concerned with one much more important aspect:

Karyn: Okay, this might be a little off-color, but just visually, is there any major difference in size between the white and the black dickey?

Kathleen: It’s not the size of the dickey, it’s how you use it.

Karyn: It’s funny, isn’t it? I mean, visually, just on their own, dickeys aren’t really all that much to look at, but when you use them just right, they can really have a lovely effect.

I was trying to keep my very serious conversation going. After all, these dickeys needed to be placed in good homes. So I sent them another visual, “Here are the dickeys all lined up. No noticeable difference in size. Although one reviewer noted the neck on the gray one was slightly shorter.”

In response, they first discussed the grey dickey:

Tracy: Perhaps the grey one is older?

Kathleen: I’m sure the grey one still works. It just might need a little more TLC.

Karyn: I’m not sure about the grey one … I like a dickey that’s ready when I need it. I’m not interested in one that needs a lot of special care.

Kathleen: Sometimes the grey ones have other ways of compensating that can be quite pleasurable. From a fashion perspective, I mean.

Then they questioned the blue one:

Kathleen: I’m very concerned about the blue dickey.

Karyn: I’m with Kathleen. The blue one looks a little lop-sided. Has it always been like that? Because if it’s a recent change, that could signal a dickey issue.

Kathleen: And it’s blue. It’s really not supposed to be blue. Maybe it just hasn’t been used in awhile?

Man, these ladies were picky about their dickeys. I mean, I was offering FREE DICKEYS. I would think their first reply would have been, “YES! YES! YES!”

Because I was still concerned about their dickey satisfaction, I suggested they read the comments on the product page: “One customer bought the dickeys for her mom, and ‘she loves them.’ But another one said that they were ‘thicker than expected.’ So, be careful when you’re selecting your dickeys.”

So Karyn and Tracy took my advice to heart and checked out those comments. They selected some of the most helpful ones:

“It is somewhat small, but that is the way I like it. I am very petite and for me it is perfect!”
“Some are a tight squeeze, but not bad, after in place, very comfortable.”
“I am 80 years plus old and am experimenting”
“Too small for me and not enough length and width”

Then McCall from McCall of the Wild just flat out rejected my dickeys.

McCall: These dickeys seem like a lot of work. Seems easier to just stick with my own V neck.

Tracy: I don’t know—some things are worth working for. There are a lot of very positive reviews about these dickies. So many people enjoy them—men, women, old, young. They seem quite universally pleasing.

McCall: I’m sure they’re great. It’s just I’m used to my V so I can get it on and off with very little effort.

Kathleen: That’s true—a V on its on can be very easy to get off.

(She had a valid point.)

I also discovered that there is a whole group of women who are dickey experts (and they have the photos to prove it). Kerry from HouseTalkN, whom I now affectionately call Queen Dickey (I’m hoping she’ll bestow the title Princess Dickey on me), very astutely observed, “Dickies come in all shapes and sizes. I’m a bigger framed gal, so I like the big dickies.” (I think my dickeys are too small.)

Clearly, they didn’t need my dickeys either.

Come to think of it, I probably should have asked if anyone had a spare dickey before I went out and bought a whole pack of them. SHAME ON ME.

Oh well. I guess you can never have too many dickeys.

P.S. In the process of locating middle school pictures of myself, I found a picture of me WITH A REAL LIVE DICKEY.

A girl with a flute and a dickey. Mike, maybe the jokes should start now?

Dickey product pictures from amazon.com.

The post What Do You Do with a Bag of Dickeys? appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

10 Reasons Summer Sucks

All over the country, moms and dads are counting down the days until the school year is over. They are writing love letters to summer vacation, singing songs of liberation, and rejoicing about the end of all things school-related.

Quite frankly, I don’t get it. ‘Cuz I think summer sucks.

“What?!”  you shout with indignation.

Yep, you heard me right. Summer sucks. I mean, sure, I’m going to enjoy sleeping in a wee bit more each day. I will no doubt be relieved to not have school projects that are assigned to my children but end up being my problem. And I won’t experience car-line rage. But overall, the school year is FAR SUPERIOR.

Here’s why summer sucks:

I’m in charge of my kids 100% of the time. During the school year, marvelous teachers impart endless wisdom into my children’s brains from 8-3 every day. It’s glorious (for me). I get so much work done. During the summer, I have to cash in favors with grandparents or pay the neighbor kid if I even want to get a haircut. Or a pap smear. Or anything without my kids. And, holy shit, have you seen the cost of summer camps?! It’s ridiculous. Maybe I need to open my own summer camp. Oh wait. I’m way too lazy. Fuck that.
There are no schedules. I love order and routine—I thrive on them. The school year provides a rigid schedule, and I cherish it. Here’s when the kids are at school (and I can work peacefully). Here’s when the kids are doing homework (and I can drink wine). Here’s when the kids need to bathe (and I can send the dog in to check on them). In the summer, every week—hell—every day can be different. There is no schedule, and I actually have to think about the day’s events. I don’t like that.
I hate summer meal preparation. Sure, it’s nice to not make school lunches every morning during the summer. But since I put my son in charge of assembling them, lunch preparation during the school year is a breeze (for me). Meals during the summer are a constant battle (“Have you eaten anything today besides Goldfish?”) and a constant mess (“How did the peanut butter get on the walls?). Also, when the kids are at school, I don’t have to listen to them complain while they eat their lunches.
I don’t have my go-to social excuse. [To my dear real-life friends, please look away now.] During the school year, if I don’t want to attend something, I just say, “Oh. I’ve got a school thing.” It works like a charm and aligns perfectly with my social anxieties. It’s much harder during the summer to use that excuse. I have to get more creative. And didn’t I just mention that I’m lazy as fuck?
I hate hot weather. During the school year, it’s cooler. I can wear sweaters and scarves and other layers that hide my muffin top. During the summer, it’s much harder to disguise the extra bulges. Also? I sweat. I don’t like boob sweat. Or butt sweat. Or chub rub. (I do love maxi dresses though.)
I miss our wake-up routine. Yes, the kids are grumpy in the morning. No, they don’t want to get out of bed. But it is SO MUCH FUN to poke the bears during the school year. I love to sing ridiculous songs to them to jolt them from their sweet slumber. My favorite? Dean Martin’s rendition of “When the Red Red Robin (Comes Bob Bob Bobbin’ Along).” AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS. Their grumpy groans delight me. I don’t get that fun in the summer.
I “forget” to exercise. The school routine forces me to exercise. I have to get up early anyhow, I might as well do it 30 minutes earlier to get a sweat on. I get L.A.Z.Y. during the summer. And that doesn’t work well for my aforementioned muffin top.
I miss homework. Okay, I admit that homework time sometimes forces me to day-drink, but overall I love that my kids have something they need to do at a certain time of the day. And I get a lot of Facebooking work done during that time too. During the summer, I have to actually come up with things for them to do.
I long for school bedtimes. I love my kids, and I enjoy spending time with them. But I also love sending them to bed at 8 PM every weeknight so I can enjoy some time with my computer husband. During the summer, bedtime chaos reigns supreme. Even if I send them to their rooms by 10 PM, they’re always up later. And wake up even grumpier.
I hate school supply shopping. Summer brings the dreaded school supply shopping. I’ve mentioned before how much I hate shopping for school supplies. Seriously, there are hundreds of things I’d rather do. I tried turning it into a scavenger hunt, but it still sucks balls. The only silver lining? School supply shopping signals the end of summer and the coming of the glorious First Day of School.

So there you have it. That’s ten reasons summer sucks. I’m sure I will think of more as the summer weeks drag their butts across my carpet. Do you have any to add? Or do you have reasons summer doesn’t suck?

I truly do hope that y’all enjoy your summers. I know my kids will. Especially when I make them clean out their closets for a fun afternoon activity.

 

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Motherhood Is Disgusting

I read the following story at Listen to Your Mother Portland on May 7, 2015. Stay tuned for the YouTube video of the performance when it is published in July.

It’s such an amazing feeling—bringing home your perfect newborn, in a brand-new outfit, into the beautifully-appointed nursery. Everything is so sparkly and fresh and tidy. But after the umpteenth spit-up, the zillionth dirty diaper, and the inevitable projectile poop, you realize: Crap. Kids are messy. And *I’m* the one who has to clean up after them.

So you look around your now stained and cluttered house, and you methodically adapt to your new reality. You stash baby wipes in every room and purse. You go to IKEA and buy a gajillion bins to store the toys. And you revel in the dog’s ability to clean in and around the high chair after every meal.

But try as you might, you simply can’t fully prepare for every mess.

My disgusting story started with a farting mishap. The kind of mishap where my preschooler thought that he was going to release a simple fart but instead found himself sitting in warm, squishy underwear.

Please note: this has never happened to me. I’m talking about my son here.

He’d had similar incidents before. And each time, I refrained from calling it a “shart” and casually advised my son to “learn the difference between a fart and a poop.”  He would nod, present me his butt for cleaning, put on a pair of fresh underwear, and get on with his day.

I was never thrilled to have to deal with one of these accidents, but they didn’t happen all that often. And let’s face it—I was just so happy that my son was out of diapers that I didn’t make a fuss over the occasional slip-up.

Until one terrible day…

My son came to me to report that he’d had another farting “mistake.” I held back a curse word, forced a smile, and said, “We all have accidents, Sweetie. Let’s go clean up.”

We went into the bathroom, where I directed him to the toilet so that he could finish whatever it was that he clearly needed to finish as I rinsed out his underpants in the sink.

As I was scrubbing, he sneezed, and a HUGE booger on an enormously thick string of snot torpedoed from his nose. And just hung there … precariously, down his panic-stricken face.

Now I can handle a lot of gross things. But, honestly, mucus pushes me to my limits. And this was like no mucus I had ever seen before. This … had a life of its own. That monstrous tentacle of slime swayed dangerously back and forth … just taunting me.

I. Was. Terrified.

But this was my child, and I would show no fear. I hitched up my yoga pants and went in.

Like a slow-motion scene from an action movie, I dropped my son’s soapy clothes in the sink, grabbed a tissue, reached over to contain the foul mess, just as the entire hanging mass of mucus—booger and all—accidentally got inhaled RIGHT INTO HIS MOUTH.

Time stopped. Our eyes locked. We exchanged a silent, “What the fuckity-fuck?!” Okay, that might have been me, but my son conveyed the little boy equivalent.

And then, my son began to gag. I knew precisely what was coming. LIKE A NINJA, I grabbed the bathroom wastebasket and shoved it right in front of his face. Just. In. Time. My son puked the ginormous glob of snot—and his entire breakfast—into the trash can. All of this—ALL OF IT—while pooping on the toilet.

A trifecta of bodily fluids. If it hadn’t been so repulsive, I would have said it was a beautifully choreographed piece of performance art.

Heart racing, I looked at my son who was staring back at me with a betrayed look in his eyes, as if to say: “Mom. You never prepared me for this scenario.” And I was shaking my head slowly, trying to catch my breath, thinking, “My husband had better get me something shiny for this one.”

My son and I both walked out of that bathroom despondent and wounded. We had become different people—scarred from the epic battle we fought together.

Once I recovered, I knew I needed to do my motherly duty and address the real issue. My son and I had a long discussion about when to trust a fart. And when not to. The difference between air pressure … and the pressure from a solid mass.

But this is a difficult skill to master when you’re only four years old, and my son had more than a few accidents during the process. Worn down from the war on sharts, I eventually threw my hands in the air and gave him the best advice I could think of, “Just go sit on the toilet every time you need to fart.”

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I Didn’t Trip and Fall (This Time)

If my life had a bloopers reel, it would contain hundreds (possibly thousands) of scenes of me tripping and falling on my face. In holes. On bumps. Down stairs. UP stairs. Over absolutely nothing at all.

Seriously, I trip about once a week with a spectacular fall at least monthly.

The (possibly) most cringe-worthy spill happened in college. My boyfriend and I went to a fancy restaurant, and there was a staircase leading directly into the middle of the dining room. About halfway down the stairs, my heel caught on the carpet, and I fell to my knees. Fortunately, my hand caught the railing so I was able to hoist myself back up fairly quickly (and without too many people noticing). But then I took one more step and fell AGAIN. This time I didn’t catch myself, and I slid on my knees down several stairs as the entire room of fancy diners watched. I was able to grab a hold of the railing, only my bracelet got stuck on something. It broke and flew across the room. Along with my dignity.

I trip and fall so often I was fairly certain it would happen during my reading in the 2015 Listen to Your Mother Portland show.

The day of the performance, I was pretty nervous about that and turned to my friends on social media.

If I trip on stage and/or fall flat on my face tonight, I can assure you it was 100% intentional. #LTYM #Portland

— Foxy Wine Pocket (@FoxyWinePocket) May 7, 2015

Fortunately for me, Mr. Foxy arranged for some calming aids to be delivered to our hotel room hours before the show.

I even shared with him. (I’m nothing if not a giver.) I’m not gonna lie, though. I was still incredibly nervous.

This is me being nervous. Also possibly needing some Botox between my eyebrows. But I only eat pork products, I don’t inject them into my face.

Fortunately for me, the women in the cast were so fucking amazing and supportive. They helped calm me down. We had already been cheering each other on for months, and that day was no different. We (sometimes literally) held each other up.

I love all of them so much, I took selfies with each cast member, but they all came out awful (of me, not them). Thank goodness Carisa took this Ellen-inspired groupie of us backstage, which will be saved in my memory box for eternity.

But honestly, while waiting to take the stage, I was still pretty anxious. About stumbling. About face-planting. About possibly peeing my pants. Bart was there to support me, but he mostly just made the nervous pee trips less comfortable.

Bart and I are getting ready to go on stage. Wish us luck. #LTYM #Portland

— Foxy Wine Pocket (@FoxyWinePocket) May 8, 2015

Here I am watching a story on the green room monitor waiting to go on deck. It’s a piece by Kelli with some incredible funny, but clearly, from the expression on my face, I can’t laugh—otherwise I’ll vomit.

But guess what? I didn’t trip. Or fall. Or barf. Or even accidentally spit on the audience. (Sorry to disappoint anyone.) In fact, I felt pretty good about my performance. I read it well, and the audience really responded to it. (Mr. Foxy even mentioned some people behind him were cry-laughing. That’s my Holy Grail.) I got to talk about sharts and yelled, “What the fuckity-fuck?” to a packed house.

‘Cuz I’m Klassy like that.

I read “Motherhood Is Disgusting” because it is sometimes. I’ll post the YouTube video when it is released in July. (However, I will not be watching said YouTube video because I just can’t. You’ll have to watch it for me and let me know what you think.)

Listen to Your Mother was an amazing experience. The cast started out as complete strangers. And even though all of our stories were sooooo different (just like the storytellers), we bonded instantly after the first rehearsal. Then, we continued to encourage each other in the weeks leading up to the show and as we each went on stage that evening. Finally, the Portland audience was so warm and fun and awesome. (Just like Portland.) If you have a story to tell, I highly encourage you to share yours at a city near you if you can. It really is life-changing.

Lest you think everything was perfect, I can assure you that it was not. I spilled coffee all over myself at the airport. And I tripped (twice) on the neighbor’s lawn when I got home.

The post I Didn’t Trip and Fall (This Time) appeared first on Foxy Wine Pocket.

My Son Could Have His Own TV Show

If you’ve been around here long, you know I love to write about the quirky conversations that my son Colin and I have. He’s fabulous: very smart and extremely sweet. He’s also a bit unusual. He’s been compared to Sheldon Cooper and Dr. Spencer Reid. (Yes, we’re constantly working on his social skills and “street smarts.”)

But the bottom line? Colin is a really great kid.

One of the many things that I love about the boy is that he is very literal and rule-oriented. And he’s damn funny. He keeps me laughing on a daily basis. Here are a few of my absolute favorite quips from him.

Driving down a steep, windy road:

Erin and Mr. Foxy: “Weeeeeeeee!”

Mr. Foxy: “It’s like a roller coaster!”

Erin: “Weeee!”

Colin: “Well, yeah. Except we’re in a 4-person car. And there’s a steering wheel.”

Eating dessert at the dinner table:

Erin to Mr. Foxy: “You’re the best dad ever.”

Mr. Foxy to Erin: “You’re the best daughter ever.”

Erin to me: “You’re the best mommy ever.”

Me to Erin: “You’re the best daughter ever.”

Erin to Colin: “You’re the best brother ever.”

Everyone: …

Colin (not looking up from his bowl): “I’m busy eating ice cream.”

Getting Colin dressed in his pajamas:

Me: “Look at you! Snug as a bug in a rug!”

Colin: “No…I’m snug as a boy in a shirt.”

While kissing Colin good-night last night:

Me: “What are you most looking forward to at school tomorrow?”

Colin: “That it’s one day closer to Saturday.”

While shampooing his hair:

Colin: “It smells tasty, but it’s not.”

Looking at Colin’s crusty, bloody nose:

Me: “Colin, were you picking your nose again?”

Colin: “Uhhh, no. I was just pushing boogers out of the way.”

At bathtime:

Me: “Colin, are you done with your bath yet?”

Colin: “No. I haven’t washed my hair.”

Me: “Why not? You’ve been in there long enough to wash 12 heads of hair!”

Colin: “I can’t help it. I get distracted by my mind.”

Me: “Oh? What’s going on in your mind?”

Colin: “Awesome thoughts.”

I wish I could crawl into that brain and see all of those awesome thoughts.

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I Cancelled Fun and My Son Took It Back

Some days I’ve got a shorter parenting fuse than others. Last week was one of those times. I went into my daughter’s closet to find a particular item, and I was knocked over by an avalanche of clothing and toys and random crap that she had stuffed in there.

I threw my angry face in her direction and snapped, “WHAT. IS. THAT?! You were supposed to clean your room this weekend.”

I pointed at the carnage and waited for a response.

My daughter stammered and gave me some lame excuse about how she did clean her room. And how she likes her closet that way. And how it’s her room not mine. And, and, and… A pre-teen hormonal meltdown ensued.

So I put my hand out, and she put her iPod touch in it. I told her that she could have it back when her room was clean. No iPod touch or any playtime until it was spotless. I walked out of her room before the meltdown escalated.

About fifteen minutes later, the kids and I left for school. As we are driving on the expressway, my son told me, “Mom, you forgot to print out my pictures for Student of the Week.”

“I forgot? **I** forgot?!” I coughed out. “No, YOU forgot. You forgot to ask Dad to help you do it. You were supposed to do that this weekend.”

“It’s okay. I don’t really need them today anyhow,” he rationalized.

“No, it’s not okay. You were supposed to do that this weekend, and you didn’t. You played Minecraft instead of doing the homework that you were supposed to do.”

I was getting pretty worked up. I wasn’t yelling, but my voice was definitely louder than normal as I declared, “That’s it. I’m cancelling fun today. No playtime for either of you.”

Both of them were silent. They may not always listen to me, but they know when to shut up.

“Neither of you can use your iPod touches. Or the computer. Or the Wii. Or the television. No fun for you,” I continued.

They remained silent, and drop off was pretty somber. After all, I had just cancelled fun.

I went about my day feeling mildly guilty for losing my patience. But, I decided, there had to be consequences for not doing what they were supposed to.

Still, I cancelled FUN.

At school pick up, I was waiting for my son outside of his classroom. As he emerged, the pensive look on his face revealed that he had been thinking about the “Cancelled Fun” situation all day.

He walked right up to me, and before he gave me his usual hug, he said, ”Mom. You may have cancelled fun today and taken away all of my toys, but there’s one toy you can’t take away.”

And then he pointed right to his head.

Smart little fucker. He got me. (And I should cancel fun more often.)

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I Wrote an Open Letter to Bruce Jenner

When I was in 4th grade, we had to write a letter to a celebrity as a class assignment. I wrote my letter to Ricky Schroder from Silver Spoons. (I know it’s Rick now, but back then it was Ricky.) One of my classmates wrote to Ricky too. She told him that he was dreamy and that she loved his blonde hair and that she’d like to ride on his train. (That was not a euphemism; his Silver Spoons character had a train in his house, remember?)

I, however, wrote to Ricky and told him that I enjoyed his show and that I really enjoyed the character of Derek Taylor. (Which if you didn’t already know was played by Jason Bateman. My love for him goes back THAT far.) And that it’d be great if Derek could be in more episodes. A LOT MORE.

That may have not been the best approach to get Ricky to write me back. After that fail, I stopped writing to celebrities.

Until this week, that is. This week I wrote a more serious letter to Bruce Jenner. I think it’s pretty important. Please read it and let me know if I did a better job this time.

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Like Grandma, Like Granddaughter

“Everwear wavy slide” by Nels Olsen is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

My Grandma is a natural storyteller, and she loves to make people laugh. She has fantastic stories to tell—some that I’ve heard a few times. No matter, I always love to listen to her tell them.

The other day she was telling me the story of a time she had some fun with her friends at a school yard. It’s a gem. (Just like her.)

Grandma: “Did I ever tell you about the time I went down the slide?”

Me: “Hmmm, I don’t know. Tell me again just in case.”

Grandma: “So it was after the dinner dance, and we were hanging out in the playground of the school. I had had a few drinks, and …

Me: “Wait. You were drinking at school?”

Grandma: “I didn’t go to the school, you moron. I was there for a fundraiser.”

Me: “Okay…”

Grandma: “So we’re all in the playground, and I wanted to go down the slide. The only problem was I had my one good dress on, and I didn’t want to get it dirty.”

Me: “Did you go down anyways?”

Grandma: “Well, if you’d shut up and listen, you’d find out.”

Me: “OKAY.”

Grandma: “So I climbed to the top of the slide, hitched up my skirt, and got ready to go down. Your grandfather was standing at the bottom screaming, ‘What the hell are you doing, Ruth? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!’”

Me: “What did you do?”

Grandma: “I ignored him and slid down anyhow.”

Me: “HAHAHA! You did?!”

Grandma: “Yeah. I had a girdle and a slip on. It’s not like anyone saw anything important.”

Me: “Wait. You were married already? How old were you then?”

Grandma: “Oh in my early 40s. Old enough to know better. But young enough to ignore that.”

Clearly, I love this story. I love the thought of a 40-something-possibly-definitely-tipsy woman doing something for the pure fun of it—even though society may have scorned her for it. Obviously, I want to be just like her.

Then Mr. Foxy suggested that my midnight wrestling match with my evil twin might make me similar to her already.

I hate to admit it, but I think he might be right. (Work with me here, people.)

 

 

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Oh My Vulva, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?

I’ve been good to my female parts all of my life. I go to the doctor regularly and keep a tidy house. I’ve been in a monogamous relationship for over twenty years, and my lady garden has not received many visitors—either foreign or domestic. And because of my mother’s nightmare-inducing warnings about Toxic Shock Syndrome, I fastidiously clean “down there” and obsessively change all of my feminine hygiene products.

Recently, however, my vulva betrayed me. She allowed passage to a very unwelcome guest.

The uninvited jerk is a Bartholin’s cyst. If you dare, you can read about this type of cyst (and see a very NSFW picture), or you can just trust me when I tell you that it’s caused by a generally harmless blockage in the duct of the Bartholin’s gland. (We like this gland; it’s the one that provides some natural lubrication. Cue the sexy music…) Because of the location of this wondrous gland and the not-so-wondrous blockage, however, the cyst is on my labia.

ON. MY. FUCKING. LABIA.

Naturally, I named my cyst Bart.

The first time Bart showed up, I told a friend about him. She assumed Mr. Foxy had had an affair and had given me a sexually transmitted disease. (She’s not my friend anymore.)

Bart is not sexually transmitted. He is just another piece of fabulous female bullshit that we women have to deal with. Some Internet sites will tell you that Bart is common; some will tell you that he’s rare. (I’m confused—isn’t everything on the Internet true?) But even if it’s a rare medical condition, it seems to be more likely than not that I will get it. Along with my anosmia, my MTHFR mutation, and other random, “rare” maladies and reactions, I’ve heard, “Boy, I’ve NEVER seen this before,” from a doctor more times than Gwyneth Paltrow has attempted to convince us that she’s a common woman.

And much like Gwyneth loves her steamed vagina, Bart, it seems, loves my vulva. His initial visit was on my labia majora (the outer lips). This time, he’s having a party on my labia minora (the inner ones). (You didn’t know you were going to get an anatomy lesson today, did you?)

Since he is my constant companion, I find myself frequently talking to him:

Me: “Pssst. You’re an asshole.”

Me: “Hey, dickwad, when are you going to leave?”

Me: “You know what they say about seafood and houseguests, don’t cha, you little fucker?”

Don’t worry. He doesn’t talk back to me. That would just be weird.

Let me be explicit (because this story wasn’t enough already): Bart SUCKS. And clearly not in the good way. He is annoying, uncomfortable, and a little painful. Kind of like Roseanne’s rendition of the National Anthem.

My doctor suggested sitz baths to help ease the discomfort. You know, where you sit in a warm bath several times a day for four to five days. Seriously? I’m lucky if I shower a few times A WEEK. I don’t have time to soak my bare ass in the tub like a batch of rehydrating kidney beans.

Mr. Foxy has generously offered to help massage Bart and administer warm compresses. Uh huh. I’m certain my vaginal health is the top thing on his mind. And Bart needs to be nuked, not pampered.

Have I made it clear how much I hate Bart?

I realize that there are far worse ailments than Bart. You might even try to convince me that an episiotomy is more painful and more annoying. Having had my perineum slashed twice myself, I’d argue that Bart is 98237498375498745 times worse. I mean, with an episiotomy, you’re all messed up down there anyway—just spray, pat, and let it chill for a week or so. You’re recuperating from having a baby anyway, and you’re not even remotely interested in sex.

That there is the big rub. I’m not recuperating. I’m not post-partum. And I’m very interested in having sex. But Bart is a giant pain in my ass. Well, my labia. (You know what I mean.) With Bart hanging around, there will be no sex. NONE AT ALL.

Sorry about that, Mr. Foxy. Never mind the discomfort. I just don’t do threesomes.

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