Accidental accidents

Predictably, the damp panties of a 15-year-old girl watching a Twilight marathon on a Friday night are generally seen as more desirable than those worn by a 5-year old girl who "had an accident" on the playground. Almost everyday. I know this because Tyler Durden knows this. According to my paperboy, he too was having accidents until he was in the 4th grade...granted I have a hard time accepting advice from a near-sighted 22-year old with a Def Leppard t-shirt and a perpetual hard-on whom I suspect may be secretly stealing my laundry and defiling it for his own nefarious purposes. Naturally this tells me that my grand approach to potty-training, while very effective with my 7-year old, clearly isn't working as well with my 5-year old.

(it also tells me I really need to find another paperboy) 

By rights, my 'lil 5-year should be kicking arse in this field. Compared to the others in her Kindergarten class, she's got a million more braincells, lots more personality, and two less testicles (well at least compared with the boys); and yet we're having "accidents" all the time. Its gotten so bad I've taken to sending her to school with one lunch and two changes of clothes. Oddly enough, it doesn't seem to phase her. One moment she'll be prancing along, playing with bubbles or Barbies, and the next she'll be wet. She'll smile sheepishly and claim she didn't mean to, but I'm at my wits end. We've tried incentives, regular bathroom breaks, reminders, and prizes for staying dry...nothing works. I've been to countless pediatricians, all of which gladly take my co-pay but can find nothing wrong with her. She just wets herself a lot.

I might as well be sticking my fingers in my ears and singing sea shanties for all the good its been doing. Either I've got myself one very stubborn child (rumor has it her mother might have a touch of stubborn in her too), or she honestly can't tell when she has to go. Either way, I'm getting tired of Niagara Falls on my car seats every time she gets in my car. Oddly enough, she's dry at nights, and thats what confuses the Hell out of me. She'll eventually grow out of it...granted this would be one infernal way of keeping the boys away when she gets older. I hope this phase passes soon, I've bought two packs of Hello Kitty underwear this week alone.

Did you have a lot of "accidents" growing up? How often?

Today's Positive: Discovered today that Netflix instant has over 100 episodes of Naruto! 

Today's Negative: Found a completely melted Krackel bar in my purse this afternoon. Yuck! 

How NOT to buy underwear for your girlfriend

The odds of buying a CLEAN pair of underwear off the 3-pair-for-$30 table in a middle of a crowded shopping mall is probably better than catching a venereal disease from an off-hours Brooklyn hooker. In all reality I don't honestly know, but it sounds about right considering the average pair "fashionable" knickers is handled by more people than a college freshman with beer-flavored nipples. At least this was my impression while redeeming a Vickie's card I'd had found stuffed down in the lowest depths of my purse this afternoon. Clearly its the best socially-acceptable naughtiness you'll experience this side of a girl's night out impromptu wet t-shirt contest at the Krispy Kreme (and they had the nerve not to turn on the "hot now" sign), but one takes small thrills where she can get them. Cordially deviant, sure, but last I checked well-behaved girls have less fun. Still while its all laughs and giggles buying expensive underwear at the mall if your a lassie, try and acquire a pair if your a un-escorted dude in Pantyland and watch the girls at the counter snigger at the smallness of your gentleman's sausage.

...and for the privilege of this humiliation, you'll still have to stand in a queue stretched back to Gap.

Anyone can buy underwear in bulk, but there is just something shamelessly charming when you pay out the nose for overpriced designer panties. Doubtless, you'll have no pride, self-respect, and failing underarm deodorant by the time you manage to flag down a fluffer and ask if a frilly tanga riddled with more holes than a termite mound comes in a larger size that might cover your girl's J-Lo booty, but fortunately there are a few simple steps that'll get you in and out without feeling the need to forfeit your man card instead of your Visa by the time you reach the cash register.

1). Its just underwear. Sure it seems like the holy grail while trying to find the "perfect pair", but acting like a kid in a candy shop not only gives you more attention than a single guy might care for in a lingerie shop, it also suggests than your last girlfriend had rosy palms and five-sisters. Ogle those knickers too much and I'd just assume your buying for yourself.

2). Know her size (hint - this is a usually a number between 2 and 20). Anything smaller and your dating a milk jug, anything larger and you'd be best to get yourself a hunting license and a rifle since your clearly trapping big game. A professional salesgirl will never admit it, but most hate being your personal skivvy mannequin. When in doubt, snoop her panty drawer (don't get caught).

3). Know what she likes. Generally speaking, "big-boned" girls don't like thongs, small girls don't like nun-derwear, and shy girls might not appreciate leather crotchless jockeys with spikes and built-in wrist restraints personally autographed by Quentin Tarantino. When in doubt, ask or sign up for a good old-fashioned campus panty-raid. Dorm room security guards completely understand.

4). Know your expectations. Wives, steady girlfriends, and Catholic priests generally appreciate the gift of lingerie (it goes great with the sacramental wine). Sunday school teachers generally don't. Nothing says "I'm a creep" like giving lacy tummy-tamers to the girl who won't let you steal 2nd base.

...but what do I know, I'm just a girl. How do you buy your unmentionables?  

Today's Positive: Bought three Xbox360 games for under $20 today! 

Today's Negative: Got home and found that only one of them plays. Bugger! 

Your boobs are blocking my shot

Everything I learned about bowling can probably best be summed up from watching Uncle Ned rinse off his liver off with an entire bottle of Crown Royal while simultaneously trying to impress a number of bowling alley floozies at the same time. Occasionally he'd throw the ball down the lane. It should come with little epiphany, therefore, that I associate bowling with booze. Not surprisingly a good number of aspiring drunks do too! Apparently drinking and playing with ones balls goes hand-in-hand (go figure). Sure, you might be thinking, the more sloshed and juiced up the bowler, the entertaining the game...and you'd be quite. Bowling is unquestionably fun when your hooched, unfortunately, its only fun for you. The rest of us sober chicks just think your being an ass.

It goes with the territory. Bowling in America usually means spending the evening with horny drunk guys the next lane over that smell of Michelob and crotch sweat; not that I'm complaining of course. Nope. Canada is full of people pretending to be French, South Africa is too risky, Russia smells of fish and vodka and everywhere else is too full of snow, too full of flies or too full of people who want to cut your head off and provide the MPEG for download on the internet. The movie Kingpin aside, bowling in America is probably quite tame in comparison, except of course when (in a dark and smoke-filled bowling alley) you find it hard to differentiate a girl's boobs and the bowling balls themselves. 

Here's the deal. If your bazookas are seriously large enough that, in a black-light smoke-filled bowling alley, people find themselves pausing for a moment when they simply cannot tell the difference when your leaning over the bowling ball return; its probably time for a reduction. Of course I was in the minority. None of the "gentlemen" in our group seemed to mind her plus-sized pumpkins...and that got me thinking. Delaware-sized dirigibles sounds great when your flatter than an IHOP short-stack in the 5th grade, but in the real world, they seem about as useful as a condom machine in the Vatican. After all, we've all heard the old adage about "more-than-a-mouthful" cantaloupes as being wasted, right?

What do you think? How big is too big?  

Today's Positive: A friend of mine took me out for some sushi tonight. Yum! 

Today's Negative: Thought a spot was going out on our television tonight. Crap! This black spot suddenly appeared and I was already to call Samsung. Then it moved. Seems a moth somehow got INSIDE the television and was sitting just inside the screen and buzzing around occasionally. Weird.

An otherwise worthless test-drive

I've never agreed with the communists who claim buying a new car has the life-saving properties of penicillin, especially considering your average car salesman can (and will) pop like a bag of microwave popcorn within two-to-five minutes of stepping foot on the car lot, but today was different. Today I was actually getting PAID $50 to test drive a new car. Well, kinda. You see last month I found myself dragged, kicking and screaming mind you, to a a "red carpet event car show" downtown at the Civic Center. Of course it wasn't necessarily a car show but rather a (not-so) clever excuse for the major dealerships to charge Joe Q Customer good money for a "first look opportunity" of cars one otherwise normally could see for free on the lot. What sort of idiot actually pays to see cars he could otherwise see for free? Well seeing as they had bright colorful brochures (and girls in bikinis), the hubster was convinced this was a great "family" outing idea. Clearly this is almost as great an idea as a Nintendo Power Love glove...one wonders if the Contra 30-man trick would work with that? Better still, give the Joker-grin metro-sexual at the Ford booth in said show enough personal information to harass you 30 years after your dead and supposedly he'll email you a certificate for $50!

...if you jump through a few hoops. 

So let me get this straight. Ford is willing to "pay" me $50 to test drive a car I paid them to go see in a "car show"? I've seen pyramid schemes that were less confusing. Heck, explaining to my kids why their Hershey factory is located so close to their hot pocket, otherwise known as "the talk", had much less drama. Still, I say with just the right amount of Pillsbury doughboy giggle, the chance to earn my money back (along with the rare opportunity to screw with the mind of a lowly car salesman) is, if nothing else, blog worthy. I accept your challenge Mister Ford man! Unfortunately when I got to the dealership this morning and was pounced upon the moment my feet hit pavement, the portly salesman knew less about the car than I did.

"Hi! My name is Bob (not really). What can I sell you today?"
"I was actually looking to test drive a new 2012 Focus today."
"Really? I think they've discontinued the Focus line."
"Are you sure? Because you've got one sitting right up front."

Sadly it went downhill from there. After giving me a term of endearment that suddenly gave me an urge to "test drive" the size of the trunk (and him inside it), he began uttering nonsense about this particular automobile being the "car of the future", what with its aerodynamic wheels and paint sealer (isn't that wax?) and how I'd be a damn fool if I didn't trade in my paid-for 2008 for a $20k 2011. Suuuuuure. He proceeds to show "the little lady" how to adjust the seal and which petal is the gas & brake. Well golly, you mean I can drive this car while I'm barefoot and pregnant? I look down at the gas gauge and noticed it was indeed the car of the future...it had 0 miles before it was empty; this car ran on air! I point out that as I understand it, as a rule, cars - even shiny new cars being chaperoned by large salesman, generally require gas.

"Well its more of a guideline, persay, than an actual rule."

Okay Captain Barbossa. So we leave the lot and, like a good little chauffer, I follow his directions. Turn left. Turn right. Speed up. Listen to his bullshit. Stop. Change lanes. Naturally I can't stop looking at the BRIGHT RED light on the fuel gauge (reminding me of a certain episode of Seinfeld) as the salesman is prattling along. The whole Gilligan's Island 5-minute tour seemed to last forever, all the while he's shaking a self-winding fake Rolex that is supposed to wind automatically when you shake your wrist about. Like a lot of pompous asshats, he wore his on his right hand. I jump to no conclusions here but you can feel free. Thankfully the trip ended on a high note. Just as we exited the expressway, the car lurched twice and died about 60 feet away from the dealership.

Absolutely wonderful timing. 

Today's Positive: Scored myself $50, plus the entertainment of watching three salesman trying to push a brand-new car back into their dealership parking lot during lunch-hour traffic.

Today's Negative: Spent the better part of my lunch doing it.

Size evidently DOES matter

Whore. I can read the word on my mother's lips as we stood in the checkout line behind this 17-year old tart showing slightly more skin than your average Brazilian waxer sees "down there" before lunchtime. The nerve! Clearly this young temptress shook her fist (and possible her nipples) at society by provocatively not covering up the visible bra straps riding sidecar next to the spaghetti straps of a barely-there sundress...or so mother's big book on tramping said. I'd look up the page number for reference, but clearly I can't be bothered. Twenty boner-enraged men standing nearby mentally undressed her, my mother alone mentally decked her out in the latest fashion-conscious Mennonite-wear. Personally I don't see the complication. Hell, after squeezing out two bundles of joy out howitzer-style from underneath my skirt, if I could fit into that size-4 drape (and still have it cover up the carpets); you can believe I'd be signed up and strutting off. Mother would have a coronary, but it might be totally worth it...a girl "my age" and all.

That's right, I'm officially over-the-hill; a ripe old 30-year old granny. Whatevah. 

To the rest of the world of course, this is merely my 5th anniversary of my 25th birthday, but the fact remains accord to the gospel of Mom - by the time a full third of my life is over; I must voluntarily surrender my sexy card and lock my unmentionables away in a safe-deposit box somewhere in Toledo. If they're supremely lucky, my boobs might get paroled time off for good behavior on second honeymoons or whenever Uncle Ned accidentally leaves a half-bottle of Château Mouton Rothschild in the refrigerator. So while I don't subscribe to mother's Puritan podcast, I am forced to occasionally listen to her tyrannosaurus commentary on what a complete moll the chick ahead of me is. Truth is I don't mind throwing a stranger under the "mother knows best" bus so long as Mom isn't riding my ass like a San Francisco trolley car. Unfortunately there's another thing even Mum can stomach and/or tolerate even less than modeling off one's vag for the good folks of peopleofwalmart.com to see and rate on the internet.

Zits. 

Yes, its terrible. Disgusting. Low-brow and possibly more hick than bedazzling your own panties on a trailer park porch, but you see, my mother was born without a shame bone. Put me in the middle of church on Easter Sunday with low-rent porn involving girls with DD-cups and ejaculate spurting out like fire hose water on the jumbotron and I shall be less embarrassed. Call it a compulsion. Thankfully this is the bottom rung of her dirty habits and, seeing as she doesn't smoke or drag her butt on the carpet when she comes over for dinner, I should think that you might overlook this one. Unfortunately compulsions rear their ugly head (pun fully intended) at the worst of times...such as when one's mother has beat a dead horse for the past two hours straight only to turn around and find the scantily dressed chick ahead of us had the BIGGEST back pimple I've ever seen. State of Rhode Island huge.

Oh God, no. Please don't. At least let me fake a heart attack or at least lets roofie the poor girl first? I mean, squeezing a complete stranger's back zit in the middle of the checkout aisle is like riding a brontosaurus bareback; there are reasons things like this are simply not done! Good job Mom, now lets top that by indulging in a fart fetish down at the Taco Bell...maybe we'll both score ourselves a free burrito. I mean, seriously? Sadly all I can do is buckle up while my mother drives us both off the cliff. She pops, the girl screams, and I die a little inside. The way I see it, you pick your man. You pick your car. You even pick a new soft rubber computer mouse that somehow reminds you of fondling a silicone breast every time you check your mail, but you can't pick your mother...not even when she embarrasses the shit out of you.

Today's Positive: I've finally gotten a new computer (and its a Mac)! 

Today's Negative: Xanga has been blocked at work. So, yeah, I need to get off my duff and work blogging back into my non-paid schedule. Cross your fingers and wish me luck.