The Flu.

I got a flu shot this year, for the first time in eight years... so, CLEARLY, I got the flu. JUST MY LUCK.  I have the immune system of a 90 year old man, living in a shanty, on Antarctica, wearing off-brand Uggs, and a Burlington Coat Factory parka.. so I get sick a lot.  I haven't gotten the flu in like 15 years, and turns out it sucks harder than my Bissell Pet Hair Eraser.  The fevers make me feel like I'm living in the land of misfit f*cking toys one second, freezing my lady balls off, and then like I'm in Hades chilling with Donald Trump's ancestors the next.  It's too much for my super skinny body to handle.

Since this flu has hit my 30 year old body harder than my previous ailments, I thought I'd get a solid timeline together of what my week of sickness has felt like.

The Flu, Day One, 11:00am:  I feel gross.  Why am I so hot and sweaty?  **checks for coworkers, then secretively puts my paws in my armpits to evaluate the severity of the situation**  Maybe I'm pregnant... I always think I'm pregnant... but this could be the one. Turn my portable cubicle heater to cold and immediately direct it up my skirt... for preventive sweat measures.

7:31pm: Why does this cheese taste like sawdust?  Honestly, if pregnancy causes me to hate cheese, just tie my tubes now.

Flu, Day Two, 2:45am:  Wake up feeling like I've consumed three bottles of Andre $3.99 champagne sans any poor life choices or regrettable sexual experiences. Fall back asleep with my heating pad strapped to my head using a beanie with cat ears.  It feels nice on my sinuses.

8:12am: Email work.  I'm not sure of the severity of this illness yet, but it feels serious.  Could be Malaria.  Could be pregnancy.  Hard to distinguish between the two.   Try not to give too many details, except that I could be dying and if something happens to me, give my cat figurines to anyone but Kathy because she's the literal worst.

8:14am: Text my mom to ask if I can take Advil 11 hours after taking NyQuil. Also, ask how health insurance works, where Ohio is, what haggis is, and how to change the batteries in a smoke detector.

8:45am: Stumble into my kitchen wrapped up like a burrito in every blanket I could locate in my fever haze.  Make sure I'm completely naked underneath so all my fever sweat soaks into the material meaning I have 17 loads of laundry to do post-sickness.

9:01am: Spend 45 minutes sitting on the floor in front of the dishwasher going through the 19 gallon-sized plastic baggies that I keep expired/illegal medicine in.  Find some Dilaudid from 2008 that I was too big of a pussy to take or sell, four bottles of expired Tums, nine bottles of expired antibiotics that I refused to take, some suspiciously sticky Vagisil,  and two surgical nose tools that were given to me as party favors after various surgeries.

9:04am: Wrap up one of the surgical nose tools for the company White Elephant gift exchange. *physically high five myself for being sick but f*cking hilarious* Sneeze gross flu snot on seven of the 19 blankets.  Sniff snot blankets.  Sniff myself.  Shake pill bottles at the cats. Stay on the floor for another hour. Naked, but still wrapped in 19 blankets.

10:14am: Remove all five thermometers that I'm able to locate from the illegal narcotic hoard and set them on the table.  Sniff each one repeatedly to determine if it's ever been in a cat's ass.  Also, let the cats sniff each thermometer to see if they respond to any of them which will confirm that thermometer is, in fact, reserved for cat asses. Because... pheromones, or something.

10:20am: Decide that none of these thermometers are safe for human intra-oral temperature taking and will need to purchase a sixth $20 thermometer in order to avoid possible Hepatitis, or worms, or whatever you get from putting a cat's ass thermometer in your mouth.

11:18am:  Fall asleep half on/half off the couch chaise like a drunk toddler for five hours. Leave a
drool stain that no amount of scrubbing or Pinterest suggestions will remove.

5:16pm: Text my mom asking what a meningitis rash looks like and interrogate her on the general symptoms of dengue fever and pregnancy.

5:18pm: Text every nurse friend I have to ask if taking NyQuil and ibuprofen at the same time is going to kill me... just in case my mom and Google were wrong.

9:45pm: Bring absolutely every possible implement I could ever need for the next three days to bed.  Salt and Vinegar chips? Check. Case of Diet Coke? Check. Two boxes of tissues? Check.  Three gallon sized illegal narcotic medicine hoard baggies? Check. Cat toys? Check. Cat treats to make them like me?  Check. Extra pair of underwear? Check. Ass thermometer (in case I get desperate)? Check. Every remote control within a 40 foot radius?  Check. Hard copies of every Twilight novel (just in case)? Check. Vibrator? Check. Two phone chargers? Check.  Vibrator charger? Check. Extra batteries? Check. Long stick to turn on/off lights and twirl like a baton? Check.

Flu, Day Three, 3:18am:  Can't sleep so take 87,234 pictures of my throat with my phone trying to get the perfect angle of my red, blistery, throat and swollen half tonsil.  Luckily, I got my tonsils removed in Wyoming, so I still have half of one left. Wyoming doctors aren't the most thorough.  Wyoming doctors are only marginally better than Urgent Care doctors and those doctors behind the little cardboard cubicles at Walgreens.  Delete 873 throat pictures to make room for nose pictures.  It's redder up there than a GMO tomato.

10:43am: Track down flu patient zero by making diagram of who could've given this to me, Criminal Minds style.  Plan revenge and practice the bitchy, passive aggressive face I plan to give them in the office hallway.

10:58pm: Alternate brushing my hair and my cats' hair for the first time in a few days... with the same brush.

11:54am:  Take a DayQuil and get high AF for a solid 90 minutes. Push the horrific mess of laundry, tissues, and tears into a pile; like a giant, adult Hungry Hungry Hippo and proceed to cover everything with a blanket so I can't see the mess.  If I can't see it, it doesn't exist

2:35pm: Snapchat myself singing Smelly Cat like Phoebe Buffet and send to 17 people asking if I sound sexy with my sick, man voice.

7:45pm: Watch three cat documentaries in a row.  Cry for fifteen minutes when I learn that whiskers have nerves and blood vessels because Chunk has lost SO MANY WHISKERS.  Forcefully snug each cat against their will and cry into their fur for 3 minutes each while rocking back and forth in my emotional sickness fog.

9:14pm: Send SexyPants one of the 897298374 pictures of my inflamed blistery throat asking if he'd make out with me.   When he says no, ask for a Roomba as a sickness gift.

Day Four: 9:14am: After singing sad, gargly, shower songs while lying on my shower floor for 45 minutes...decide to forgo my Jewish doctor requirement for one day and head to Urgent Care. Choose to wear stained Ugg boots, no bra, and my two inch thick glasses so everyone understands how homeless I feel on the inside.

11:13am: Steal 20 long, fancy, q-tips from Urgent Care in repayment for my hour long wait.  They're great for cleaning out my cats' ears.

11:14am: Get caught stealing 20 long, fancy, q-tips.  Awkwardly explain that I wanted to feel how soft the little puff at the end is.

11:16am: Discover I don't actually have the flu, but have a horrific bacterial infection that could have been nipped in the bud three days ago.  Realize that I am not, in fact, an adult yet.

I used to get sick and like recover within a few days because I had drinking to do, people to sleep with, workouts to complete, engagements to engage at.  Now,  at 30, my recovery apparently requires antibiotics. In the next 48 hours, I hope to come out of my fever coma, dust the crumbs out of my sheets, shower for the first time in a fortnight, tackle that blanket fort filled with laundry,  and get my ass back to my super exciting cubicle filled with cat paraphernalia.   I hope no one else got a flu shot, but if you did, I hope you screamed when they gave it to you (like I did) just to freak out your coworkers. That makes it almost worth it.

XOXO,

K 

30 Things That Prove You're Almost 30.

I'm getting old as balls.  And old people keep telling me I'm not that old, but I feel old.  I need like 10 hours of sleep now and I feel like shit if I eat Smashburger more than three days in a row. The horror. I'm going to start putting sticky things on the bottom of my bathtub and installing toilet seat heaters in all my bathrooms.  I turn 30 in a mere six days, and I've started taking note of the 30 things I do that prove I'm almost 30.  Here's how you know if you're 29 9/10+...

- Your hangovers are worse than Norovirus.  I've never had Norovirus, but I've developed hangovers that make me want to admit myself for a short hospital stay.

- You can smell hangovers.  I purchase hairspray based solely on smell... "Does this one smell like Tito's?  PASS. Actually, I'll just let my hair air dry."

- You've napped in your car during a lunch break.

- You own an iron.  And have used it.

- You have obnoxiously asked about ingredients at a restaurant.  "Is this fried in peanut oil?  Sunflower oil is TOTES inflammatory and makes me gassy.  Diet Pepsi?  No.  I'll just have a seltzer water with four lemons if you don't have Diet Coke. <sigh>  Is your arugula organic?  It's not grown with wheat, is it? Does the quadruple fudge cake have gluten?  Can I just have a bowl of whipped cream?"

- You love fat babies on social media.  You used to tell yourself how much you hated assholes that posted their kids' pictures all over the place, but now you get joy out of a baby that has a body shaped like a droopy post-Halloween pumpkin with olive-garden-breadstick-shaped limbs.

- You find non stainless steel appliances personally offensive.

- You appreciate getting hit on in absolutely any form (but you will still act repulsed and horrified by it).  A group of construction workers whistled at me the other day. I did this:

 Then, got in my car, gave myself a high five, and fist pumped to the Biebs on the way back to work.

- You would rather take a long relaxing walk through Target than visit a bar past 10:30pm, any day.

- You buy actual gifts for people.  Buying a blowjob shot covered in seven inches (which gave us unrealistic expectations at 21) of whipped cream for someone's birthday is no longer considered socially acceptable.  You've learned the art of gifting Anthropologie candles and Chili's gift cards.

- You HATE chain restaurants. CHAIN RESTAURANTS ARE SO 2003. We're FAR too fancy to eat at fucking Chili's anymore.  Can you believe that bitch gave us a gift card to CHILI'S!? WE SUPPORT SMALL BUSINESSES.  They probably use GMO sunflower oil.  Assholes.

- You take a probiotic.  And you can't shit for four days if you miss a dose.  And none of that King Soopers crap, either, you pay $50+ a month for Whole Foods organic, vegan, bazillion bacteria probiotics... because GUT HEALTH IS CRITICAL.

- You can no longer drive anywhere without a bra.  Because... gravity is painful when you hit a speed bump.

- You've actually tried to fold a fitted sheet.

- You either play Pokemon Go obsessively or have posted a social media hate rant about how much you despise it and the people playing it.

- You've spent more time than you'd like to admit watching those stupid fucking "TASTY" videos on social media.  I swear to God, those videos are sending us subliminal messages from the government to convince us to play Pokemon Go and watch The Celebrity Apprentice.

-  You've silently judged someone on their food choices, and then proceeded to go through a drive thru less than an hour later.

- Regardless of if you rent... you judge anyone over 30 who still rents.  (Even if your dad helped you put the down payment on your house... which I know nothing about.)

-  When you finally do buy a house, you refer to it as "property" like a hoity toity asshole.  "Oh yeah.  We bought property up north, because you just get so much more square footage for your dollar right now..."

- You've done kegels during a meeting.

- You've evaluated the state of your vagina in the mirror...

- You've stopped saying "OH MY GAWDDDDD, I CAN'T EVEN KEEP A PLANT ALIVE.  I'M LIKE THE WORST GARDENER" and have started talking about the specific kingdom, class, order, species, and genus of the plants growing in your garden.

- You call the cops for any SLIGHT inconvenience.  Downstairs neighbor playing that damn "Panda" song too loud at 9:04pm?  "IT'S QUIET HOURS.  WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS IS?  A COLLEGE DORMITORY?  I'M CALLING  911.  I SHOULD LOOK INTO BUYING PROPERTY TO GET AWAY FROM YOU HOODLUMS."

- You have learned the hard way that there is a difference between 911 and calling the police. And that calling 911 for hoodlums is frowned upon.

- You can no longer imbibe any liquid that originated in a plastic bottle or that contains with words "Key" or "Light" because... PTSD.

-  You've swept out your garage.

- You have legitimately wanted to get it on with yourself, but don't want to get out of bed to clean or retrieve your battery operated boyfriend.  I'm not saying this has happened to me... I'm just saying it's probably happened to a lot of you.  And then you've probably just laid in bed and looked at home decor on Pinterest as opposed to having an orgasm.... until you want a cookie.  Or a string cheese. You will get up for a cookie. #priorities

- You love Diet Coke more than beer, but are embarrassed to drink it in public or in front of friends because aspartame is SO TABOO and their judgment makes you wildly uncomfortable.

- You own bleach. Because if someone or something shits on the floor, you need bleach. Organic, plant based sanitizers just don't fucking cut it when it comes to poop or vom.  Including your own.

- You've had a hemorrhoid... and didn't know what it was, so you spent four hours googling it on WebMD and then, again, inspected it in the mirror.  You saw things you can never unsee.

Getting older is hard.  I hear that your 30s are the best years of your life, but it kind of feels like the beginning of the end.  

Either way, I am blessed to have all of  you who are reading this blog and so many people who love and support me!  

Cheers to not having an illegitimate pregnancy in my 20s!  I bet my parents are so proud.

Thanks, bitches.  Love you.

~k~

When Men Get a Cold, and other tales of horror....

A few weeks ago, Sexypants showed up at my place feeling a little (read: incredibly) whiny.  If you have a vagina, or you like weenies, you will know that this is par for the course.  There should be questions on the SAT regarding analogical representations of the sheer drama that is a man in mild pain.

Example:

Giving birth is to a woman, as a papercut is to a man.

Heart surgery is to a lady as the common cold is to a dude.

Men have the lowest pain tolerance of all time.  They will take any mildly uncomfortable situation and turn it into the armageddon of health problems.  My mom assures me that I do this as well, but I like to think that I'm handling pain better with time... or with wine.

Listen, we've all been like "my throat hurts" and WebMD'd the shit out of our symptoms; only to discover that we have HPV of the throat and have less than two months to live.  I've started planning custody transfer of my cats after a "quick WebMD check" on a mole (which turns out is a freckle).  It's a slippery slope; googling.  Men in pain are like a walking WebMD site - all panic, all the time.  Or, just walking pussies...

Anyway, SP walks in rubbing his eyeball.  "I scratched my eyeball or something" while he rubs it back and forth like a big baby who's been refused naptime for three hours.  I immediately look at it and say "No, you just have pinkeye."

His immediate reaction:

"WHAT?  WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?  AM I GOING TO HAVE TO GET A SHOT?"

Good God.  No.  Did you get bit by a rabid attic bat?  Have you stepped on a rusty, used, needle as of late? You don't have rabies or Tetanus. You're not getting a shot.  Someone is going to shine their overpriced lightbulb into your eyeball, rob you of $150, and send you to get some eyedrops from the cranky old pharmacist at Walgreens.

Lucky for SP, I'm an incredibly responsible adult, and I hoard medicine like a zombie apocalypse is imminent. So I opened my medicine cabinets (plural) and started looking for eyedrops.  Unfortch, there is a very sickly little kitty in my house, so sometimes I can't differentiate the cat medicine from the human (aka: manchild) medicine. Regardless, I found some eyedrops and gave them to SP.  

"These may or may not be for cat eyeballs, but you can try them, if you're brave enough. You'll still need to go to the doctor tomorrow, though."

"WHAT?  A DOCTOR?  WHAT DO YOU MEAN?  LIKE THE EMERGENCY ROOM?'

"No.  Your eyeball is not dangling from its socket by a thread.  Good God.  Just go to Urgent Care."

"WHAT IS URGENT CARE?  DO THEY GIVE SHOTS?  WHO IS THERE?"

...Ryan Seacrest is there.  Running American Idol auditions.  The Oscar Meyer Weiner truck is there, giving away free weenies. THE F*CKING DOCTOR IS THERE.  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. 

I don't tell him that the doctors at urgent care are like the Van Wilders of med school and that one once asked me if I ever considered getting my tonsils out (they were removed in 1989)... but a damn monkey could diagnose pinkeye.  

The only thing worse than a man panicking about needles?  A man putting in eye drops.  It was more dramatic than when Ed Cullen is about to step into the sunlight in the second Twilight movie... and he looked just as pale.

There was lamaze breathing, huffing, puffing, and so much dramatic complaining.  "DON'T WATCH ME.  I HATE TOUCHING MY EYEBALLS"... while he is spread eagle on his back on the bed huffing and puffing louder than someone wearing a sleep apnea mask.  This is why God didn't give men a period... there is no way they could handle cramps or the sight/idea of a tampon.

I'm a terrible human and told him to ask for some muscle relaxers, for his sciatica, while he was there (we're old).  They ended up giving him a cortisone shot in his hip.... my bad, babe, I did not expect that it was ACTUAL sciatica, due to the level of drama surrounding the painless eye drops.  The boy who cried wolf and all...  He's never going to let me forget that cortisone shot.  Personally, I enjoy a good injection, as long as that syringe is filled with some potent botulinum toxin. Also, I'm not needle-phobic, but if I was, the Botox would hide my ability to show fear. #twobirdsonestone

Godspeed to all the ladies out there dealing with their big, fat, adult babies.

XOXO,

K

The 6 Stages of an Inevitable Pregnancy Scare.

In case any of you had even a shred of respect left for me, I'll go ahead and squash that now. Listen, if you have a vagina and don't wear magic underpants or believe in waiting til marriage (props to you if you have this level of self-control... I can't tell a french fry "no", let alone a dick), you've had a pregnancy scare.

Pregnancy scares really evolve as you age.  At 17 you're talking with your betches over bags of Cool Ranch Doritos whilst watching The Real World Vegas and you're like "OMG, we were totes dry humping for like 3 minutes and a little of 'it' got on my jeans... I really hope I can't get pregnant from that."  By 30, you're using the "pull and pray" method after a bottle of wine, with one leg still in your sweatpants; hoping that he can afford either Plan B or some decent child support.  Oh, how we mature.  At this point in my life, I'm like "I really hope my baby is fat enough that I have to clean its rolls with Q-tips and I hope that we have enough money for him/her to wear baby Burberry".   Sometimes I even think about what Mother's Day presents I will get.  Because motherhood is selfless, guys.

I'm obvs not promoting unsafe sex, so everyone just calm the f*ck down.  We all know I lie to my gynecologist about my level of responsibility; but, keep it classy you assholes. Regardless, whether you're 7 or 35... here are the general stages of any pregnancy scare.

1. Groping yourself in public: A little PMS leads to some boobage growth.... but apparently... so does carrying a babe.  Our boobs growing is the equivalent to a man growing an extra dick... we want to touch them all the time.  At first you're like... "YES.  Check out my awesome rack, world!" but then you're like... "Nooo.... are these going to feed babies with teeth?  Are they going to touch my belly button in two years?" It's hard for us to keep our paws off them, and this essentially starts the downward spiral from "ooh boobies!" to "Oh f*ck, am I with child?"

2. Binge eating/constant hunger:  I could honestly live my life like a cow and be completely happy; just grazing all day mindlessly out of a tub of french fries or with a bag of Tostitos and faux nacho cheese; napping whenever the desire strikes me.  If I had the body type of #gisele, I'd be shoveling processed, gmo-laden foods into my face every hour, on the hour  Unfortch, I have more of a "good for snugs" body type; more to hold onto and a little extra for calming squeezes.  WHICH, will obvs make me a great mom.  If you're in the throes of a pregnancy scare (or an irrational mentally fabricated pregnancy scare, which constitutes 98.7% of all pregnancy scares) you will convince yourself that your constant hunger means you're eating for two.... and I don't mean you and a tapeworm.

3. Buying the test: Cue scary horror movie music.  First of all... why the f*ck do pregnancy tests cost more than my mortgage?  I'm pretty sure the profit margin on preggo tests is over 90% because those f*ckers know that a woman in peril will pay anything for peace of mind.  I'm surprised they don't make you sign over your first born before they give you that piss stick, worth $.02.  At least I'm at the age now where when I buy pregnancy tests, the acne-ridden teenage cashier thinks I want it to be positive.  Back in the day, purchasing one was more embarrassing than spilling an entire Plan B display during rush hour pharmacy hours (which I did 3 months ago... ).  Also, you have to make additional purchases with the test.  Otherwise, you look desperate.  In 2004, it was Cool Ranch Doritos and a Cosmo for the sex tips.  Now, it's some cheap wrinkle cream and a bag of chocolate chips.

4. Taking the test: The test will inevitably sit on the counter for at least 36 hours.  It will just stare at you and judge you for your wildly whore-y irresponsibility. Finally, you will give in and pee all over yourself and that little stick. Those packages are harder to get open than Dayquil liqui-gels while wearing mittens. Once you get that f*cker out of its package and piss everywhere, you will sit and stare at it while you drip dry... because no one has enough self-control to put that shit down and let it marinate for three minutes.... (I would be lying if I said I hadn't taken a test in the King Soopers ghetto restroom while the potential father was waiting in the shitty, attached Starbucks drinking a strawberry frappuccino playing Candy Crush.  #lifegoals)

5.  Denial:  Refuse to believe that you either a) are or b) are not pregnant.  So you take four more of the tests that cost more than one of Gwyneth's morning smoothies. Pregnancy tests are like Lays potato chips... you can never take JUST one.

6.  Accept the Psycho: Realize that you are, in fact, batshit crazy which has only been augmented by hormones and the rapid drop of all of estrogen from your beefy, bloaty, PMS-y body.  Eat the bag of chocolate chips you purchased and embrace the cramps that are now ripping your body apart like Bella Swan's vampire baby in the 19th Twilight movie.  Apologize to everyone who has been in your general vicinity for the past 48 hours, drink a bottle of wine, and pop some Midol.   Refund your boyfriend for his $17 strawberry frappuccino. You will never get back your dignity, or the $119 you spent on your new "just in case" Plan B supply and seven boxes of pregnancy tests.

Keep it classy, betches.

XOXO,

K

Things That Can F*CK OFF This Week.

Just some things that make me want to punch babies this week...

Anything Less Than a Queen Sized Bed: You know how every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings? Well every time two people sleep in a queen size bed, those wings catch fire. Two cats, a large man, and a pissy-not-morning-blonde in a small bed ruins lives. There's that stage in a relationship where you go from "let's spoon all night and I'll pretend that dislodging our sweaty bodies in the morning doesn't remind me of peeling apart a two hour old grilled cheese" to "get off me, bitch; I'm sleeping and you're scrunching up my sweatpants and ruining the logistics of the sheet to blanket ratio."

Whole Foods Judgment: No, I didn't bring my own bag, you f*ckers.  Because I just spent my life savings (and the $3 in quarters that I found behind my dryer) on some fancy ass cheese, designer non-GMO kale, and some supplements to cure my ass cellulite.  JK, guys... I don't eat kale or have life savings...but I do have ass cellulite. One time after spending $160 on moldy cheeses I said "I'm probably going to have to stop over at the plasma donation place for gas money to get home." Whole Foods Hippie #24 just stared at me; then I realized he was judging because I was using gas and not like recycled vegetable oil from Panda Express or whatever. I prefer to eat my Panda Express oil rather than burn it for fuel. Just give me my f*cking paper bag to hold my 19 french cheeses, asshole.

Dermatologists (and other asshole doctors who tell me to stop picking my face):  I had a real flattering moment recently.  I went to get my vag prodded (see recent post for extensive unnecessary details) and before even looking at my sweet beav, my doctor says "do you want me to prescribe something for your acne?"  Listen betch, I know I'm ug right now.  I don't focus on freshening up my face before someone's about to be elbows deep in my twat... EYES DOWN THERE.  Also, ignoring a zit is like ignoring a stray cat... both need immediate attention and lots of unsolicited squeezes.  And as for the dermatologist, JUST GIVE ME MY BOTOX.  I pay for you to swallow your judgment and inject me with dangerous toxins... and your face should be so thoroughly botoxed that I shouldn't be able to see judgment, anyway.

Solicitors:  So recently, my neighborhood has developed a small gang of solicitors selling shit products with incredible sales tactics.  They do this thing where you open the door, because you think they're selling girl scout cookies (show me a PMSing woman who turns away thin mints and I will show you a liar), and they immediately shove this little booklet into your hand.  AND THEN YOU ARE TRAPPED.  You may as well be standing there with their dick in your hands, because you are wildly uncomfortable, are awkwardly holding something that doesn't belong to you, and can't help but wonder how many other people have touched it. What kind of sorcery is this?!  Who taught them this trick? Billy Mays?  If you try and give it back to them, they act like they have nubs for hands or no opposable thumbs. What happened to the friendly Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses coming door to door?  At least they don't trap you with their pamphlets, they just leave them in your doorknob. And the Mormons usually bring baked goods.  #thankgod

Phone Case Judgment:  Listen, I'm profesh as f*ck. If I have to number two at work, I wait silently on the toilet until everyone leaves the bathroom (If you're female, you have done this).

I never microwave leftover fish for lunch.  I've only burned popcorn in the work microwave twice; but have obvs blamed other people.  I'm an EXCELLENT coworker; if I want to have a phone case with cat ears on my cellular device that I don't pay for, I will.

What drives you guys crazy?

XOXO,

K

The Shmear.

It's that time of year again, the joyous annual physical checkup. Listen, I have a great bagina... the Elizabeth Taylor of vaginas (like 1970s Elizabeth Taylor to be clear).  Real clean, shorn, pretty-ish. But, it's safe to say that I would rather swim with bloody ham hocks tied to my thunder thighs off the coast of Florida than get a shmear. Sorry men, if you're still reading, you can go ahead and just close this window.

The morning of a pap, I shower like I just survived 9 weeks in the wild with a volleyball as my only friend.  A lot of vag scrubbing happens.  A LOT. That shit needs to be ON POINT for my doctor so she thinks I take better care of myself than I actually do. I know they give you a bunch of "it's a self cleaning oven" bullshit, but I guarantee you she (or he, if he's Jewish - only trust Jews with your vagina) prefers my chemically scrubbed vag over the hippie with dreadlocks' beav that's sitting in the waiting room.  You're welcome, doctor. I chose a minty eucalyptus body wash from Aveda this year; so in right now.

The worst thing about your annual?  Not the actual shmear.  Not the super sexual gown you get to wear.  Not worrying about whether or not your feet smell when they're in the stirrups because your Steve Madden flats are 9 years old.  Nope.  The worst part?  Peeing in a cup.

How is it 2016 and we cannot create something a little easier to f*cking pee in?  Do I look like a damn ninja?  SOMEONE GET ME A DAMN MIXING BOWL. My sweet potato doesn't have muscles; it's not like how some people can move their ears - no vag can move on its own as a party trick.

NO WOMAN HAS EVER SUCCESSFULLY PEED IN A CUP ON THE FIRST TRY.  I clearly pissed all over myself and promptly ruined my freshly scrubbed eucalyptus-scented vagina.  So then I had to wipe my ass down (LITERALLY) in those alcohol wipes.  I had to use three to clean up the damage that had been done.

Urine sample 2016, we will rebuild.  

Obvs I stuck some of those suckers in my purse for one of those nights when I've had like a bottle of wine, haven't showered in a few days, and am feeling a little pervy. Or those nights when I eat Chili's babybackbabybackbabybackribs in bed.  #alwaysbeprepared

Also, can we just talk about the pee wizard on the other side of the curtain? Who hired the Wizard of f*cking Oz to collect pee?  How is it that I put the pee cup in and someone on the other side always opens it at the same time?  EXCUSE ME, CAN I HAVE A LITTLE PRIVACY?  I know you're about to be elbows deep in my vaginal canal, but have some damn decency.  My cat underwear are around my ankles and I'm covered in my own urine.

Also, I experience real pee shame.  I want to like exit the bathroom and make a quick PSA for all the nurses in the facility.

"LISTEN, I HAD LIKE TWO GLASSES OF CHARDONNAY LAST NIGHT SO MY PEE IS A LITTLE ON THE YELLOW SIDE.  #HYDRATIONISIMPORTANT  

DOES ANYONE HAVE A GATORADE OR ONE OF THOSE SMART WATERS THAT JENNY ANISTON IS ALWAYS DRINKING?  I'M TOTES PARCHED."

I don't think I've ever peed at the doctor's office when my pee isn't the color of dead grass.  Such a health fail.  The dreadlock hippie probably has a bush that looks like a brillow pad shoved in a toilet paper tube ... but I guarantee you her pee is clear as f*ck.  That bitch. She probs hydrates.

After the traumatic urine test to rule out a slutty unplanned pregnancy (... in the clear, btw.  #WIN) then the questioning begins... aka: the lying.  Listen, ladies, I'm not telling you to lie to your doctors.  Don't do that, it's totes bad...

But, obvs I do it because I want my doctor to think I'm more of a Princess Diana as opposed to like a Kim Kardashian.  Just tell them what they wanna hear and ask for all tests because your "insurance covers it".... My doctor still thinks I'm classy as f*ck and she's had the pleasure of prodding my vagina for 15 years.  She clearly doesn't know about this blog.

Lastly, I want to know where I sign up for a doctor that uses inappropriate words.

"Please scoot your bottom down.  You're going to feel my hand on your behind, now."

Can someone please be like...

"SCOOT DOWN, BETCH.  YOU SMELL LIKE PISS.  WHAT HAPPENED OUT THERE?  YOU'LL GET 'EM NEXT TIME, SCOUT. OK... READY?  I'M GOIN' IN."

I'd also like an ass slap on the way out; where do I sign up for that?

Til next year.

XOXO,

K

A Literal Pissing Contest.

I'm tired today, guys.  Real tired.

Why is it that men feel the primal need to mark their territory?  I mean, that's essentially what an engagement ring is; the marking of a territory. This is seen in all levels of the animal kingdom.  I recently read that male hippos will pee and poop aggressively at the same time (not that impressive, I do this all the time) in front of a female to woo her.  This is just my luck.  If I was a female hippo (which I am like two days out of the month), I would probably end up picking the man with the weak flow and constipation.  Probably not the best choice for procreation, but hey, at least things won't get too messy.

Also (I've been watching a lot of Animal Planet), male Tilapia piss in the water and use those delicious potty pheromones to attract the ladies. Fingers crossed that Tilapia didn't eat asparagus for dinner.

Exhibit C: Male giraffes will sample a female giraffe's urine, like a fine wine, to determine whether or not she's fertile. Generally, you can tell I'm fertile by my level of road rage and bloat.

It's all about pissing contests and dominance in the animal kingdom.  In my bedroom, it's less about sexual dominance (unfortch) and more about cat pee.

My cat, Chunk, hates Sexypants so f*cking hard.  And Sexypants, in turn, isn't a huge fan of Chunk. Chunk is my numba one stunna.  He's the Kanye to my Kanye.  We've been through a lot together.  But, Chunk doesn't understand that he can't be the only man in my life.  Cause momma needs to get laid. Similarly, SP doesn't understand that I would sell both of my boobs, a kidney, my left hand, and at least half of my toes on the black market for Chunk.

When I first started dating Sexypants, I kind of assumed it wouldn't last, so I didn't put too much effort into forcing the two of them to be BFFs.  But, as time went on, it became pretty clear that they weren't loving each other. So, now, Chunk pees right by the door every time SP is over.  It's becoming an issue.  I feel like it's becoming a Pavlovian experience and soon I'm going to start associating sex with cleaning up cat pee.  That isn't good for anyone.

Chunk refused to sleep with us for the first few months.  Now, following his indiscreet urination on my floor, he will come back to bed and smush himself against my face as hard as he can.  This puts me in a testosterone sammich.  Snoring on one side, purring on the other.  Again, I'm real tired.

I need a bigger bed, Jackson Galaxy, an industrial grade steam cleaner, and a refill on my Xanax prescription.

I forced SP to give me a real gross dirty shirt for Chunk to sleep on... you know, for pheromones.  I also force him to give Chunk cookies and feed him. It's a good thing I roped him in with my fabulous vagina, because my cat lady status has escalated pretty hard.

Have a fabulous weekend, my lovelies - and don't pee on anyone.  That only works for Giraffes and jellyfish stings.

XOXO,

K

The Honeymoon Phase

All women know what the honeymoon phase is... it's that time in your relationship when you continue to shave your legs and your crotch diligently, appear to have your shit fully together, and pretend to like giving BJs on the reg.  The honeymoon phase can last anywhere from one month to six months, depending on how hardcore you're trying to convince your partner (and yourself) that you're not batshit crazy.  Eventually, however, the truth must come out.  Below is the list that details the slow but steady decline from being perma-pretty and witty to having your sig other bring you toilet paper when you accidentally go #2 without grabbing a new roll.

1. The radio.  In the beginning of the relationship, it's all "let's hold hands whilst driving because I love touching you" while pretending to be into whatever he's playing on the radio because you're totes "low maintenance" and "chill".  Those two traits don't exist in anyone with two X chromosomes, so stop fooling yourselves.  After a solid two weeks of dating, I will throw myself out of the passenger side window going 65 mph before listening to house music. Which, for the record isn't music... it's noise. Forget holding hands, I won't hold your dick again if you make me listen to something that plays after 2am in every hostel across Europe.  HARD PASS.  Britney or bust.  You want a BJ?  I want J Biebs.

2. Wearing makeup to bed.  Obviously, I'm blonde.  Which translates to: I look like something out of a horror film without makeup on.  Dead and sad.  So when I first start dating someone it's all 19 coats of mascara, lash tinting, and false lashes.  That ends pretty quickly because that routine is harder than Kanye staring at himself in a mirror.

3.  Pretending you're not crazy.  This one is almost fun.  It's like a game seeing how long you can hide your desire to snoop through everything he owns, get ridiculously jealous when he looks at a female server while ordering a burger, or not go batshit when you **think** he said another girl's name in his sleep.  Eventually, we all just embrace it and it comes pouring out.  The fun thing about this one is that the longer you hold out, the more crazy you are when you eventually crack.

4. Snugging all night.  Awww... because EVERYONE loves two naked bodies sticking together all night long while he breathes in your ear like some creeper.  And I'm sure he loves all my hair going up his nose and in his mouth.  Once you hit a couple of months or like 10+ times of sleeping together (if you're not the relationship type - side note, if you identify as one of these, you're the craziest of them all) you need a solid 5 foot bubble of personal space to sleep.  Also, I need to get ready for bed because I like my routine. So, I'll come back to bed wearing my glasses that are a solid inch thick (I'm real blind), with a nightguard in (I grind my teeth), and a cat in each hand. Nothing screams sex like someone who just developed four eyes, a lisp, and grew two new pussies.

5. Lingerie.  Oh my gosh.  This one is the best.  I have SO MUCH LINGERIE that has been worn for a total of maybe 15 minutes, cumulatively.  Relationships go from lace and leather to some holey white Victoria's Secret boyshorts you got in college that somehow have a popsicle (or spaghetti... hard to say) stain on them and are slightly too small for your no-longer-college-sized ass. And forget about just the boyshorts, I also like to throw on some sweatpants, fuzzy mismatching socks, a tank with a built-in bra (read: zero sexual access), and a sweatshirt with a hood.  Because I get cold and so do my ears.  Probably because I have so little body fat.

6. Eating.  This is pretty basic.  This goes from "I'll have a salad, dressing on the side" to "Can you please smother my fries in nacho cheese and mayonnaise?"

7. Paying.  This one works in the female's favor, usually.  But at some point (usually once he's seen your unshorn crotch, holey underwear, and has caught you picking your nose at least once) you have to pay for something. If #6 is getting out of control, try and avoid paying for food at all costs.  But really, you should have a job because we're FEMINISTS, dammit! #equality

8. Pretending you're way more cultured and badass than you really are.  Eventually, you have to admit that your favorite tv show is the Real Housewives of every city and that you watch Hoarders and listen to Justin Bieber when you're sad. It's all literature, philosophy, and the History Channel for the first month.  But, eventually you're going to have to tell him you'll need to break up with him if he doesn't start paying for Bravo.

Comfort is a beautiful thing, ladies.  Let that crazy flag fly... but maybe wait until you sink your claws in.

XOXO,

K