Friday, May 19, 2006

Just Call Me "Rolly Polly"

I don't think I have a tummy anymore. At some point in time, I surpassed the tummy stage. Tummy implies a cute little area for gentelmen callers to worship. A little area that's all flat and cute. An area that has occassional "tummy aches" or "houses a bun in the oven". I don't have that area anymore.

Tummies usually have a cute little half-innie, half-outie belly button. In commercials, little balls of sweat delicately roll down the tummy into that tiny little crevice and a thousand schlongs stand at attention (Thank you Axe body spray for that image).

I don't so much have that. If the underboobie sweat makes it's way down the middle region, I can guarantee you that there is no one on earth that will find it sexy. However, in that statement, I'm excluding all East German porn fetish guys who I really can't say what exactly they're into. With my luck, there probably is a fat gut sweat fetish group out there and I'll be recieving an email from them at any minute. Side note - if you are emailing, I will accept no less than 1,000 euros for pictures of my sweaty gullet (I have no idead what 1,000 euros is equivalent to - I could be agreeing to do this for 5 bucks for all I know but hey, 5 bucks will get me a sandwhich).

Anyway, I digress.

I don't have one of those tummies. Not sure I've had one since I discovered that with my drivers license came the freedom to drive through McDonald's anytime I damn well pleased. I skipped right to belly. And I'm rapidly approaching gut. Not so sure I'm not already at gut level but a girl's gotta dream. And I'm sure you've noticed that I am posting exactly ZERO pictures to let you judge for yourself.

Of course with the loss of the tummy comes the lose of the cute belly button. A strong wind blows across my middle and you hear the low whistle that you get when blow across a half empty beer bottle. It's a little deep - an echo-like cavern really.

My point? I really don't know. Perhaps I just wanted to share the shock of realizing the my lower regions are now actively trying to grow to reach my upper regions. My belly is now a fleshy porch for the boobies and that can't be good. And hell, I'm thinking this summer we might have a potential chaffing situation and that friction could damn well start some type of fire problem and what with the dry grass situation in Georgia that could well lead to a forest fire. Do we see the ramifications? My gut will lead to the conflagration of an entire state yet I still don't seem to be able to drive past Krispy Kreme.

And now that I have a gut, the whole language changes. I "clear a room and make the dog wince" - I don't "pass gass". I have "I think I broke the plumbin" - I don't have an "upset tummy". I have a clear "I drink beer" middle - and not a "I'll have a wine spritzer" body.

Again, my point? I have no unearthly idea. But at least I'm not talking about Captain Nutty or the POD!

Small steps, people, small steps.

Next week, join for my discussion of back boobies and the desperately needed back bra.

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Happy Captain Nutty Day

So, I've moved.

On Wednesday, movers showed up and toted all my crap to new house.

On Thursday, Captain Nutty arrived to "help".

On Friday, Captain Nutty slammed finger in car door. Thus, the next 5 hours were spent in the emergency room to determine that "yes, the finger is broken".

On Saturday, Captain Nutty bought me paint and complained about how much money they've given me over the past year. The irony was apparently lost on her.

Today, I wished Captain Nutty a happy mother's day, shoved some Krispy Kremes down her throat and kicked her ass out of my new house.

Happy Captain Nutty Day to all! And to those who have whack job mothers like mine, take a stiff swig of Jack Daniels and plan a vacation over Father's Day.

Monday, May 01, 2006

A World of Confusion

I'm stymied. Stuck. Frozen. Shut down. My friends, the world is akimbo and I'm a standing still. Unable to decide what to worry about most.

I'm simply crazy but I can't decide whether I'm bat shit crazy or ape shit crazy. I mean - bat shit crazy has that exotic "my life is worse than your life" feel that I usually go for. But frankly, this particular time period in my life I think I'm more "crazy baboon ass monkey throwing its own feces" crazy.

What, pray tell, has me so wonky?

I'm moving. In about 9 days. Of course, I just figured this out so like all things in my life I'm doing this half-assed and in a hurry. No big shocker there.

I'm living with the POD. Can't decide whether to go all old school, fire and brimstone, you're gonna burn hell and take away the 20 condoms (TWENTY, PEOPLE! TWENNNNNNTEEEEE!) I found in her purse. And before anybody points it out, yes, I know she's having more sex than I am and yes, I will kick the ever-living snot out of the first jackass that feels it is necessary to point this out to me.

I'm living with the POD, part deux. I don't know whether to be disturbed at the fact that she is smoking or that I found a pack of Marlboro Reds in her purse. I mean, REDS? What is she - a fucking truck driver? Does she fancy herself a Marlboro man? The first person that points out that she probably enjoys herself a nice smoke after blowing through a 20 pack of condoms will be cursed to such an extent that all testicular hair will be releasing itself into your drawers in such a manner as to cause excessive itching and embarassing social situation (especially if you don't have testicles).

I'm still fielding phone calls from Captain Nutty. Captain keeps calling and practically begging to come down and help me pack. However, the little sane person that lives deep in the recesses of my brain keeps calling me telling me, "For the love of all that's holy, are you fucking nuts? Don't let that nutcase within 500 miles of this cluster fuck or I will pack up what little sanity you have left and head for the hills never to be seen from again." Frankly, I tend to side with the little sane voice in my head. If not for that little voice, I would already be in Montana doing my best Unabomber impression.

Those seem to be the major themes but they are often accompanied by one of the following worries:

1. The dimples on my ass are starting to dimple.
2. My skank ass cousin is abandoning me for the wilds of Alabama (whore's getting married and she all thinks she deserves her own life! How ridiculous!)
3. My clients are getting stupider (and yes, I see the irony in calling THEM "stupider") by the minute such that I'm concerned if I do not clear up their cases in a timely fashion, they will all be drooling, incoherent morons that are unable to figure out how to write me a check.
4. And seriously? Have you seen the commercial for the new Amazing bar? The one where M&M's and a chocolate bar are parked on lover's lane? And they're all cozy in the back of a station wagon? And then, bammo, you got yourself a chocolate bar with M&M's in it? I REALLY DON'T WANT TO THINK ABOUT MY CANDY HAVING SEX! THAT IS SO DISGUSTING.
5. I went to the old Law School Reunion where I was informed that the majority of my classmates have donated $1,000 a piece to the new development fund. When did the rest of my classmates start hitting the crack pipe?

Me must go drink now. Me have headache. Me see monkey with big steaming pile of poo heading this way.