Make it a double.

Sometimes in life, there are things that just go together.

Lucy and Ethel.  Red Bull and Cheetos.  Ying and Yang.   Tango and Cash.

Everybody knows this stuff.

And, in life, you are lucky if you find the ying to your yang.  The Ethel to your Lucy.

One thing that so compliments you, it’s like the universe just opened up, and shat perfection right up on you.

Be jealous.

Because this happened to me.

Two words.

Barefoot Wine.

I know, right, could the world be more fucking perfect?

I like to drink wine.  I like to not wear shoes.  I would like to combine these two things.  Guess what.  Now I can.

Thank you universe!

And, because Barefoot Wine and yours truly have collided, in a hungover, perfectly pedicured love fest, I want to share the love, and include you in this tipsy orgy of  sand and bubbly.

Not one, but TWO lucky people will win this super amazing Barefoot Summer Essentials Pack, full of everything you need to drink and be merry (ahem…wine not included).

Check it out, y’all.

Fucking awesomeness.

OK, here are the details.  This contest will run for one week, ending July 1st at 9am, at which time I will use the random number generator to select two lucky winners.

There are a few ways to enter.

1. You must go here and join the Barefoot Republic, then come back here and leave me one comment with your Barefooter name.

Then, you can earn additional entries by:

2.  You can check out all of Barefoot Wine’s delicious flavors, and come  back here and leave me one comment with your favorite.

3.  You can earn unlimited entries by leaving me a separate comment(s) with something you want to kick off your shoes and get barefoot and do this summer.

So that’s…um…I don’t know, this Riesling is yummy as hell…ummm…let’s just say, lots of ways to win.

Bottoms up, y’all!

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I didn’t forget to put this up officially on Father’s Day.  I was just too caught up in celebrating my husband yesterday…with BBQ ribs and hand jobs.  But, I did write this post for him in a totally timely fashion, so that the world can know that he is completely awesome, and his kids adore him.

Once.

Twice.

Three times a father.

And you just keep getting sexier each time.

P.S. This is post was completely my doing, obviously the kids had nothing to do with the ribs or the hand jobs, as that would be both distasteful and dangerous.   They got him a Cookie Monster card and some pictures.  I think it’s obvious who gives the better gifts in this household.

P.P.S. I was going to call this post, I Love it When You Call Me Big Papa…but Andy totally didn’t find the humor in that and I wanted it to be a totally appropriate, classy and lovely tribute to his fatherly awesomeness.

P.P.P.S. But, I did, however, feel the need to include the phrase hand job.  Twice.

P.P.P.P.S. This post is ruined.

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So, six weeks ago, this little piece of girly yumminess popped out of me.

Ok, not so much popped, as exploded out, leaving in her wake, total and utter vaginal destruction. But I’d hate for the horrific reality to overshadow her cuteness.

Regardless of the gory details, she’s here.

And for six weeks, we have been adjusting to our new life.

My husband and I, we’ve done this twice before, taking the time to get  into the groove of our new normal, dealing with, now, three screamy, messy, full diapered midgets, with needs and wants and holy crap, they will fucking cut you.

And, as any new parent will attest, the no sleep, the crying, the filth…it’s stressful as hell.

We’ve seen it take it’s toll on our friends as they welcome babies into their lives.  We hear their desperation and depression, their fights, their unhappiness.

And, we are so thankful we don’t go through that.

Because for six weeks, we live like dudes.

Fucking dudes.

Ok wait, not like fucking dudes, because, well, this is part of the point, we don’t fuck, because, like, I’m not allowed.

Just, you know, stop picturing me with a soul patch and stay with me here.

I just pushed a baby out of my vagina.  A baby.  Followed by a entourage of umbilical cord, cottage cheese stuff, blood and a placenta the size of a roast.

So, aside from my inability to sit without crying, pee with out screaming, or poop with out biting down on a leather strap, Andy is also dealing with his own set of post traumatic issues.

These six postpartum weeks of doctor ordered no nookie, are a welcome break for both of us to, well, recover, both physically and mentally.

So, for six weeks, we focus on the kids, on adjusting, on keeping everyone alive, and fed, and clean-ish.

We don’t worry about squeezing in sex or looking hot for each other.

Fuck, aside from the occasional fist bump after another successful day of no one dying and/or setting something on fire, we barely touch.

Which is great, because then I don’t feel bad about dressing like an asexual high school softball coach, and he is kept at enough of a distance to not rub up against the embarrassingly high elastic waistband of my granny panties.

I don’t shave anything, I don’t brush my hair, all my shirts have two big, hard circles over the nipples that smell like breast milk, and the garbage in our bathroom is overflowing with bloody phone book sized maxi pads.

Sounds hot, right?

Well, it’s not.

That is, until our six weeks is up, and I have to start waxing and smelling like something other than old yogurt, and my husband has to remember my vagina is not the lower ninth ward, but rather a place where puppies and unicorns hang out, and like, sing and eat cotton candy…but in a totally hot, fuckable way.

And, today is that day.

The day I get declared healed and open for shop.

The day I put away my big scary underwear and my perineum bottle, and pluck that one weird black hair off my boob.

But, I have a feeling I still might need the leather strap.

I’m kinda skanky like that.

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Five days ago today, I asked my husband to mail out a package for me. 

It’ s just hard for me to get out these days.

Unless it’s for burritos riddled with guacamole.

Or milkshakes.

Or any food, really.

But, mundane tasks that don’t involve a drive through are just a bit too much for me to handle.  They require interaction with, like, people.  People who judge if you have a kool aid mustache or if you’re wearing a skirted maternity bathing suit and knock off Ugg boots.  People that, frankly, I just don’t have the time or hygiene skills to deal with at this time.

So, you would think knowing all this, and seeing that I barely shower or brush my hair, and that I walked around for 3 whole hours with a dum dum sucker (cream soda, best flavor ever!) stuck to the back of my sweatpants, that my husband would do me a solid and mail my package for me.

Um, no.  

Which seemed selfish to me, so I was all, what the hell, Andy,  I stood in line at the post office for an hour once to mail a gigantic model airplane for you.  And he was all, I’m busy and important, and you don’t even have a box to mail it in, so I was all, so what, they sell boxes at the post office.  Dumb ass.  But, he was like, it’s candy and a purple vibrator, and I was like, duh, and he was all, I’m not waiting in line at the post office to mail candy and a purple dildo, which made no sense and, clearly, he needed a quick lesson on the obvious differences between a vibrator and a dildo.

At which point, he stopped me, because we were in church, but whatever, we were sitting in the back, so the priest totally couldn’t see me mouthing the words dildo or giant veiny penis, and as for the old lady in front of us, she had one leg that was, like, super swollen and way bigger than the other normal old lady leg, so the cock talk was probably the highlight of her day. I mean, she didn’t have a wedding ring on, and anyone who has one gigantic leg, and one normal size leg on top of an unfortunate lady mustache, probably totally already owns a vibrator, anyways. 

Regardless, the package was time sensitive, and needed to be shipped, because it was a wedding gift, and he was all, what kind of person gets someone a vibrator and strawberry pop rocks as a wedding gift? And I was like, um, we do.

I mean, it was that or hand towels.

Who the fuck wants to open hand towels?

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 Ok, so you know when yo

……….

Um.

Sorry, I just blacked out.

30 Day Shred is kicking my ass.

I am starting with level 2, hoping to bump this whole charade to something more along the lines of a 15ish Day Shred.

But, it’s totally hard, and by the time I am done with the 20 minute workout, I can’t feel my arms and I smell like a rave.

But, I’m sorta in a hurry.

I just saw a super bad (fat) picture of me.

Super bad (fat).

Like Dom Delouise bad (fat).

I literally sobbed on the couch until my husband went up to the gas station and bought me a frozen cherry slushie.

Counterproductive?  Probably.

But, it’s hard to see yourself look so…swollen (it’s a nice word for fat).

In all fairness, it was at a super bad angle, and my boobs were engorged as hell, but that doesn’t excuse my thighs, my arms or my chin(s).

Pfft.

Anyways, back to what I was saying before, you know when you hold up a pair of jeans, and you are all like, oh, these look huge, and then you try them on, and you can’t even get them up your thighs?

This?  Happened to me yesterday.

Which led to more crying.

And more cherry slushie.

And, I know I just had a baby 5 weeks ago, and it’s not out of the ordinary for me to be the size of a small country at this point, but, sob, I still hate it all the same.

My body is older this time around, and this third pregnancy may just do me in, things just don’t have that feeling of…bouncing back.

It’s like a sleeping bag.  The first pregnancy, my body was like a brand new sleeping bag, one of those bad ass ones that cost a bunch because you could totally take it with you to climb Everest, even though you only use it for drunken tent camping at the local KOA.  Anyways, so you have a kid, and even though the sleeping bag is got kinda dirty, and you spilled beer on it, it still totally rolls up all neat and fits in the bag.  But by the third kid?  The thing smells like cat piss and campfire, and it’s so lumpy and misshapen, it doesn’t even roll up anymore, so you just stuff the thing in a ratty ass garbage bag. 

My boobies are way cute though.

This is my body.

Good for beer drinking and pie eating contests.

Bad for bikinis.

But, for totally good reason.

P.S.  I love shiny awards and irony, so if this post wasn’t depressing enough, go here and vote for me for funniest blog! 

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I love giving away vibrators on the Sabbath.

It’s like I am doing God’s work.

Congrats Audy!

Here are your random numbers:

11

Timestamp: 2009-06-01 01:58:28 UTC

Didn’t win? 

Don’t worry, I am a fool for these Eden Fantasys giveaways, I’m like the Feed the Children of vibrators…you know…like…I like to distribute them to the needy.

This analogy made more sense in my head.

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Rule of the universe #485748…You will always look like crap when you run into your ex-boyfriends mom in Target.

While you are there shopping for hemoroid cream, maxi pads and giganatic brief cut underwear.

Always. 

And, you totally want to tell her you just had a baby, and your hair isn’t always flaky and stuck together in big greasy chunks, and you are normally totally on top of plucking your eyebrows, and you totally own nice shirts without pit stains and dried leaky milk spots on the front, but, you’re too tired to explain, and you can’t be sure the folded tube sock you used in place of the maxi pad (that you are totally out of!) isn’t leaking down your leg righthissecond.

There just isn’t time for the explanation this tragic situation clearly deserves.

So, she just smiles, looks you up and down, and talks to you about how kick ass her son is doing, with his skinny hot wife, and their new boat, and the third world orphans they just adopted, and you smile and nod, but what you really wanna say is, listen bitch, your son had the smallest penis ever, and his breath always smelled like ranch dressing, so his skinny wife and the orphans can keep him, I ain’t missing a thing!

So, after five more minutes of passive agressive banter, because, after all, you did dump her son right after homecoming and she is clearly still bitter, (and while she thinks it was because you were only using him for the limo, you secretly know it was because he stole your underwear twice, and oh yeah, his breath smelled like ranch dressing!) you say goodbye, and make your way up to the check out.  After you stop to grab a big bottle of KY, because your six weeks of celebacy are almost up, and there is no way things are going down, down there without lots of lube and, probably, whiskey. 

So, as you wait your turn behind the old smelly lady with 900 tiny cans of cat food and 500 coupons, it only makes sense that you ex boyfriend’s mother finds her way behind you in line. 

Which is wonderful.

Because now you are her son’s ex girlfriend that wears huge underwear and  likes anal sex. 

What the fuck, universe?

I digress.

The parents of the boys I dated in high school never liked me. 

Never.

Which, I never quite understood, because my friends were way bigger whores than I was. 

I didn’t even put out.

But, I did fancy myself some push up bras, swear words, and flirting with daddies…sigh…I guess some things never change.

P.S. Only 3 more days to enter my giveaway!

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I love giving things that I love away.

Not the exact item that I personally own.

But, like, a replica.

There are some things you shouldn’t get second hand.

This is one of them.

That being said, if you call me daughter, sister, granddaughter, daughter in law, or if you distribute communion to me when I semi-sporadically attend Mass…stop reading now!

It’s freebie vibrator time!

And, what better way to pay homage to my new baby girl than to give away a lovely pink Hello Kitty Pocket Rocket?

(That’s what all the classy moms do, right?)

Thanks to Eden Fantasys, this girly little gem can be all yours, or your wife’s, or your girlfriend’s, fuck, give it to your mama for all I care, point is, it’s awesome and it’s free.

And, this item is so new and so hot, it’s currently sold out on the website.  This is your only chance to get it right now ( I mean, until they get more in, but dude, this is like, the Wii of vibrators)!

I mean, what better way to show appreciation on this gorgeous Memorial Day, than to exercise the freedoms provided to us all by those amazing men and women brave enough to fight for us to have them?

Freedom of speech?  Check.

Freedom to pursue happiness and stuff?  Check.

Freedom to buy stylish vibrators from one of the hottest sites to ever exist, ever?  Fucking check.

So here is deal.  This contest runs until Sunday, May 31st at 9pm, and to enter you have to leave a comment.

That’s it.

Leave as many comments as you like, the more you leave, the better your chances to get your hands on this wonderful piece of machinery, but make sure to include your email so that I can contact the winner.  At the conclusion of the contest, I will use a random number generator to select a winner, and post here.

Of course, visiting Eden Fantasys, oogling their goodies, and tweeting the crap out of this contest are all appreciated, and will totally reserve you a special spot in the very same hand basket yours truly will be traveling in one day!

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Yesterday I had to go to a wake for an older family member.  A great aunt, I think?

How horrid is that?

I guess I didn’t really know her as well as I probably should have.

But, that is one of the perks of having an agoraphobic father…free pass to skip all the family reunions.

Holla!

Anyways, I went sans toddlers, because, well, as a rule, I try not to take them places where it’s not ok to eat boogers and punch each other in the wieners…which pretty much limits us to Oma’s house and Outback Steakhouse.

But, I did take the baby.  She’s still basically a carry on accessory, and who doesn’t love to oogle a baby when faced with the awkward situation of not knowing who the fuck I am as I wander around a funeral home judging the flower arraignments and stealing the mints from the guest book pedestal?

Don’t mind me, look at the adorable baby!

So, aside from no one knowing who the hell I was…I also showed up looking like a homeless porn star.

It was hot.  And, my hair was all snarly and frizzy.  And, I had sweated off all my mascara so it pooled below my eyes.  And, I ran out of deodorant (side note: does $48374646 Secret Clinical make anybody else’s armpits itch like crazy?), so I had to use  my husband’s Old Spice.  It burned.

Oh, and the only thing I could fit into that wasn’t sweatpants, was a sundress that barely covered my nipples.

Best part?

Cranky baby.

With every fuss, my boobs became more engorged, more veiny looking.  I felt the milk leak through the breast pad and run down my (totally flat) stomach.  By the time I left, my underwear was soaked with breast milk, and when I got in my super hot car, I am pretty sure it curded the whole way home.

By the time I got home, I was drenched and smelled like day old yogurt.

So, in short…total hottie.

And speaking of not fitting into anything…

I am too fat for the zoo.

It was, like, 85 degrees Wednesday.

We were standing in the African area, looking at the hippos.

And, there was this hippo walking around, all chapped between her thighs and neck fat area.

I have never related to anyone so much in my life.

A fat chapped hippo.

That is how you know you are too fat for the zoo.

Other totally brilliant revelations?

Monkey foreplay?  More awkward.  Less hot.

You know it’s going to be a suck ass day when you pull into the parking lot to find eleventy billion (real number) school buses already there, which means, huge groan, way more hyperactive, unsupervised school children than you care to deal with on absolutely any occasion.  Ever.

Baby girl parts are like the levies that failed during Katrina.  I am used to having a working levy (read: little boy parts) that stop the onslaught of hurricane grade poop.  Without the balls there to stop things, it’s just, ugh, a shit storm, right up to her belly button…in the zoo bathroom…to the soundtrack of screeching birds and wild, horny monkeys.

People who go to the zoo and take pictures of the animals are assholes.  They block the whole viewing area so they can take pictures…of zoo animals.  Like they are fucking Dian Fossey?  When are you ever going to look at these pictures again?  I mean, aside from if you are going to leave the zoo to immediately go live in an underground bunker somewhere where you will never see a living thing ever again, and you spend your days eating astronaut food, jerking off and reminiscing over the blurry pictures of semi-exotic animals you took through the bars at the zoo?  Amateur zoo photographers…total tools.

I don’t care how hot it is, it is never hot enough to tuck your shirt up under your bra…when you are in a motorized scooter…due to obvious weight and mobility issues.

If me and the hippo can suck it up and waddle our sweaty chapped asses around without showing our fat rolls, so can you.

P.S. Check-ch-check-check-check-ch-check it out, hot and innapropriate giveaway starting Monday, woot!

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