Monthly Archives: February 2014

And This Is Why I’m A Cat Person

I’ve been trying to come up with a delicate way to introduce this topic, but I have come to the conclusion that there just isn’t one.


I once suffered attempted ear-rape by two large Doberman Pinschers.  Simultaneously.

There.  I said it.  My name is Stephanie and I am scared of large dogs, specifically ones who look like they might try to hump my face.

Like this, only two, and on my face.

Like this, only two, and on my face.

I got myself into this unfortunate situation by going to a party with a couple of girlfriends.  It was a friend-of-a-friend kind of thing, and I only knew about four people there.  So, since we all know how great I am at chatting up strangers, I had too many a few drinks.

At one point during the night we were all gathered in the living room.  I was sitting on the floor towards the front of the room, just minding my own business, when I felt a weight on my right shoulder.  I was turning my head to investigate when I felt pressure on my left shoulder.

That’s right.  Whichever way I turned, all I could see was furiously pumping Doberman crotch.

I couldn't see their faces, but I suspect they looked just like this.

I couldn’t see their faces, but I suspect they looked just like this.

I remember screaming and trying to scramble awkwardly away, but they were pretty heavy, and there was the added obstacle of trying desperately not to be touched by a dog penis.

I also remember a LOT of laughter.  You’re welcome, assholes.

The dogs’ owner finally got the beasts contained, but it was too late.  I was scarred for life.  To this day I try to keep away from large dogs, especially males.  Apparently, my animal magnetism is just out of this world.

Please, share your story of humiliation at the hands (ha) of man’s best friend.  Surely we’ve all been leg-humped a time or three.  What else have these furry, four-legged perverts been up to that I should watch out for?

It Could Be Me.

I do not know Merry.  But I do know, all too well, the damage fibromyalgia and depression can inflict on a life.  This could easily be me.   You can go here to read Merry’s story and donate if you can.


Peeing Is Important.

I strongly suspect that this post is going to contain Too Much Information.  So, if you are one of my kids, go clean your room!  I already told you about that pile of laundry!

Other people, consider yourselves warned.  I am highly medicated and I’m going to tell you a story.  About my vagina.

Still here?  K.  Let me start by saying that I am like a medical anomaly.  Things that no one is allergic to, I am allergic to.  Simple procedures turn into nightmares.  Medications “anyone can handle” make me want to crawl out of my own skin.

Five years ago, after the birth of Thing 3, I had an IUD placed.

Otherwise known as birth control.

Otherwise known as birth control.

The best thing about this, in my mind, was the whole “set it and forget it.”  It lasts five years.

Fast forward a couple of years and I was at the lady doctor for regularly scheduled maintenance and…they couldn’t find the IUD.

Um…what?  Where in the hell could it have gone?  Eventually, I was assured that it was all good, even though my doctor at the time admitted that she “had no idea” how we’d get it out when the time came.  I think she basically called my uterus a black hole.

Okay, so now my five years are up and it’s time to find this little bastard and get it out.

I had to have an ultrasound to locate it which, again, made me feel like my uterus was being called bad names.  (I might be overly sensitive.)  Anyway.  So the doctor says he’s going to use these giant pliers forceps to grasp the thing and pull it out.

I should've taken a picture.  They were bigger and scarier than this.  Really.

I should’ve taken a picture. They were bigger and scarier than this. Really.

But first, he was going to numb me up down there, “much like the numbing shots you get at the dentist.”  Yeah.  Only IN MY VAGINA!

It hurt.  Next they had to open my cervix.  You may know this as cervical dilatation, or what happens WHEN A BABY COMES OUT.

It hurt.

He finally got done stabbing me with various instruments of torture and said I should be good to go.  Except I was shaking and pale and about to pass the fuck out.

Eventually I recovered enough to get out of there and my mom took me shopping, because ouch.

Once we got to the store I quickly realized my limitations and ended up driving this sweet ride through the store:

This was the best part of my day.

This was the best part of my day.


We got home and I went directly to bed.  To give you some idea of the amount of pain I was in, I dreamt that I was being shot three times in the stomach, then I would pull the bullets out and get shot three times again.  Over and over.

I woke up around 10 p.m. and thought I was dying.  (This happens pretty frequently.)  I realized then that I couldn’t pee and, in fact, had not been able to pee since I’d had the war on my insides simple procedure performed earlier that day.

The next morning I called the doctor’s office and the nurse I spoke to told me to go to the emergency room.  I told her that I was really hoping she would just tell me to go back to bed.  She did not seem to find me amusing at all, which was sad, ’cause I’m pretty funny y’all.  Anyway, I politely declined the ER and eventually had my mom drive me back to the doctor.

Apparently, somehow because my body hates me when my cervix was getting numbed, my pee-control nerve got numbed too.  (I know, these medical terms I’m using are difficult to comprehend, just bear with me.)  Also, my bitchy uterus considers the new IUD a little invader and wants it out, and that’s why I’m being shot repeatedly in the guts cramping.  I was told that normally this doesn’t happen.  Normally, a person would only cramp for 30 minutes or so.  So, to stop the cramping, the doctor prescribed me some medicine which I’m allergic to and now here I am, with a numb pee-button and an angry uterus.

The moral of this story is:

How the fuck should I know, I can’t even pee right.

I’m Not Awkward. I’m Just…Squeaky.

I’m not very good at anything that has to do with people.  As my son just pointed out yesterday, if you have to argue that you are not that awkward, then you probably are.

A couple of years ago, my husband and I and some friends went to Texas Frightmare Weekend.  It’s this awesome horror convention and if you haven’t been, you should definitely go.  I mean, if you like zombies.  Or porn.  Or zombie porn.  We had a booth to sell t-shirts so it was kind of an awesome vacation/work trip.

Shameless Self Promotion

Shameless Self Promotion

I was super excited because Norman Reedus and Michael Rooker were there.  DARYL AND MERLE DIXON, YOU GUYS!  And don’t even get me started on Boondock Saints, or I might not stop.

So anyway, we drove like six or eight hours to get there, and then set up and wandered around and worked some and I, of course, eyeballed the long line forming at Norman’s table.  The line where people were paying 30 bucks for a picture and an autograph.  My husband was not having any part of me paying money for a picture before we’d even made any money.  So I did the next best thing, made a new friend, and headed up to the room to drink.

I’d only been gone about 3 shots of whiskey 30 minutes when my brother-in-law called me.  “Norman Reedus wants a shirt.  Get your ass down here if you want to give it to him.”

Say whaaa?  From this point on, I mainly only spoke in squeaks.  It seems that Mr. Reedus saw one of the guys go by wearing an awesome shirt (see my adorable husband above.  That shirt.) and he asked for one.  And because the guys LOVE me, they let me deliver it.

Now, my husband was no doubt thinking how AWESOME it was that Norman liked his design, and how GREAT it would be to have his picture on our website with one of our shirts!

Does this really need a caption?

Does this really need a caption?

I was thinking, “Sqweeeee!  OMG!  EEEEK!  DARYL!”

So I take the shirt to him, and he was very, very nice and gave me a lovely hug, and even held the shirt up to himself, presumably so I could take a picture.  This is the picture I got:

This is not exactly what my husband was looking for.

This is not exactly what my husband was looking for.

In my defense, the shirt is in the picture.  See it?  It’s right there, clenched in my fist.  I promise it’s there.  (If you ever see Norman Reedus wearing a shirt with two fish on it, I need a picture of that real, real bad.)

The fun didn’t end there.  Oh no, I was just getting started.  After babbling something incomprehensible about “the stupid fucking rope,”  I made my way back to our booth.

For some reason, my husband left me in charge; I don’t know, I guess because I had shown such stellar marketing skills thus far.  So there I sit, a little drunk, a lot happy, just watching the madness that is a horror convention, when who walks up to our booth but MERLE.

Much cleaner and less murdery in real life.

Much cleaner and less murdery in real life.

I shit you not.  I was kind of scared, but I couldn’t stop grinning like a damn fool, and he was grinning back, and I knew I should say something, but I swear I just squeaked.  Again.  Then I said, “Ummm…doyouwannasticker?”  He accepted it very graciously.  Do you remember that scene in dirty dancing where Baby says, “I carried a watermelon”?  It was just like that, only with a bloody zombie sticker.

So, anyway, my husband is totally going to put me in charge of promotions and customer service.  Because I am really not that awkward.

I’m Pretty Sure Pinterest Wants Me Dead.

I love Pinterest.  I’m not even going to estimate how much of my life I’ve wasted spent on pinning.  Just now, I was doing some research for this post, and I almost got sucked in.  Watch yourselves, people.  Pinterest is almost as dangerous as Twitter, or even Candy Crush.

I love the projects and ideas I’ve found there and I’ve made a ton of stuff successfully.  But I’ve come to realize that just because somebody pinned something, doesn’t mean it is a good idea. There’s a really funny website called Pinterest, You Are Drunk and there are all sorts of fails and just funny shit that I don’t know why anyone would ever make in the first place…

Slippers made of MAXI PADS??  Seriously?  Who does that? But that’s not what I’m talking about.  I’m talking about craft ideas that seem totally legit…until you are on fire and you’ve used the fire extinguisher for a different project, so you’re just fucked.

Anyway, Pinterest does not always know best.  I hardly ever click through and go to the page where the pin originated and maybe that’s my problem, because then I could tell if it came from a reputable source, like Martha Stewart, or if it was just some criminal sharing bad ideas.

So, here’s one I tried.  The idea was to put plastic beads into a pie pan and bake until they melted, making a sun catcher.  Just my style – easy.  Only one problem.  I’m not sure plastic beads were made for the oven.  It was like I said, “Hey kids, let’s inhale a bunch of burnt plastic and see what happens.”  The smoke detector went off, we all had headaches, and none of us could take a breath without gagging.  And my damned sun catcher looked like this:

Not what I was going for.

Not what I was going for.

Another idea I got from Pinterest was to put coffee beans in a pretty bowl with a vanilla candle in the center, which sounded like it would smell ah-mazing.  Either I didn’t read the instructions (possible) or there weren’t any, cause this is what I got:

I put the fire out quickly, but those beans were burning.

I put the fire out quickly, but those beans were burning.

Then there was the Fairy Glitter Jar.  Supposedly, mixing a glow stick, glitter, and some other stuff I can’t remember, would produce this:

Nope.  This is not what happened.

Nope. This is not what happened.

I ended up with a jar of what looked like unusually thick, speckled urine.  My Fairy Princess was not impressed.  Although my fairy glitter was not a success, I did try another glow stick experiment for a party my teenage son was having.  It was supposed to make glowing bubbles.  I don’t have a picture, because it was dark and THEY DIDN’T GLOW.  But here’s a picture similar to what my kid and his friends thought of it:

Yeah.  Super impressed.

Yeah. Super impressed.

I’ve got a lot of other cool stuff I want to try, but my husband is really unreasonable and won’t let me have the tools I need.  I don’t know what he thinks is going to happen.  I mean, how much damage could I possibly do with a blow torch?

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