I Don't Like Christmas.

You heard me.

Sure, when I was a little girl, the anticipation was great, and the new toys were always fun for a few hours, but I never really got into it. My mom and sister were always into it big time. My mom decorated the whole house and we always had a real tree and homemade Christmas cookies. No shit. My sister LOVED the piles of presents and appointed herself the Grand High Duchess of Gift Appropriation every year. She'd sit at the foot of the pile and get all excited touching all the boxes and the shiny paper and bows, reading the names on the tags and graciously handing out packages like a celebrity doing charity work for needy children.

Don't get me wrong. I don't hate Christmas or anything. I just don't enjoy all the stuff involved. I don't like the music, the shitty TV programming, the same movies every year, the sweaters with pictures of cats in Santa hats on them. Stuff like that. Our culture is so saturated with these images and memes at this time of year. Santa. Jesus. Red and green. Lights. Pine trees. Reindeer. Jingle bells. It's just everywhere and after awhile I'm just tired of it.

I think in economics it's called the Law of Diminishing Returns. In regular people speak, it just gets old fast. I think I first started hearing Christmas music in retail stores this year in September. I almost passed out with anger, realizing that if it starts in September, I will be burned out before Halloween. Fuck.

This year actually wasn't too bad. I got to spend time with my sister and her family (I don't see them enough). My sister has twin 3 year old little girls who are quite insane. I'm imagining a bloody coup in another few years in which the Twinzillas will gain power over the Great Handing Out of Presents. It was just chaos at Grandma's house tonight. There were torn gift boxes lying in 2 foot drifts against the chairs. The sounds of ripping paper were punctuated by screams and cries of, "Sissy won't SHARE!" I was drinking Captain Morgan and Diet Coke. Ho, ho, ho.

So I'm home now. Scott is passed out snoring in the next room (also courtesy of the Captain), and my son is in his crib sleeping off his Christmas high (he got new stuffed animals -- woo hoo).

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night's sleep.

The Gateway Drug

I love getting high. I'm a thrill seeker. When I was a little girl, I would roll down hills and spin until I fell down, just to get the dizzy high. I loved roller coasters and tilt-a-ma-thingys. I rode bikes and horses as fast as they'd go just for that butterfly feeling in my stomach. I used to try to hold my breath until I passed out, but I never succeeded. I also never played the "choking game" that some kids played, but that was only because I never heard of it. I sniffed markers with my sister. I blew up balloons (major cool headrush). I picked fights with tough girls. And of course, once adolescence was in full swing, boys became a very precious high, one that was constantly sought and obsessed over.

So it should come as no real surprise to anyone that I would eventually turn to drugs to alter my consciousness.

When I was 17, I discovered my gateway drug. Mountain Dew.

At first, it was just one here and there, no big deal. But then they put a soda machine in the cafeteria. And then my drama class met in the cafeteria, too. I started drinking more and more. One before classes started. One at lunch. One after school. Then between classes. Then sneaking them IN classes. Before anyone knew it, I was doing at least a 6 pack a day. And loving every jittery, jumped up minute of it.

With all that caffeine and sugar racing through my heart, every cell vibrated. I could sit still and feel my body humming. My brain raced through thought and emotion, thrilling me and driving me to do, go, talk, laugh, shout! By the way, this is why I've never done cocaine. If this is how much I love the caffeine high, I would quite likely blow my brains out on coke, and manage to be a colossal annoying douche at the same time (which is what most cokeheads are).

But I digress. Drugs will do that to you, see?

It turns out that Mountain Dew was only the tip of the iceberg, though. Then I went to college and discovered coffee and Vivarin. Then alcohol. Cigarettes. Weed. Mushrooms. Acid. Ecstacy. The good Tylenol with codeine. Well, you get the idea.

What started my chemical romance was caffeine. And it is the one drug that I have never been able to stop. I've quit all the others (and cigarettes were a fucking BITCH -- twice!). I still drink now and then (shit, I live in Savannah), and I will definitely not pass on a doobie. But none of those matter. What I can't quit is the caffeine. Hell, I didn't even quit when I was pregnant and nursing. I just cut down to two cups of coffee a day and the occasional diet soda. I still have several cups of coffee every day. And green tea. And also black tea. And sometimes diet soda.

Sometimes I "dose myself down" (that is seriously how I put it) and get to where I'm just having one cup of green tea a day. But one day I'll pass a coffee shop and the smell will hit me and I'll find myself ordering the largest cup of coffee possible with a shot of espresso. And I'm back.

I'll probably never quit. No matter what other fun ways I try to get high and have fun in my life, I'll probably do caffeine every day until I die. Or my kidneys fall out. Do people need interventions for coffee?

I'm quitting here for now. It's getting late, and I've got to set up the coffee pot for tomorrow morning.

Sex, Drugs, and DJ Lance Rock

My favorite TV show is Yo Gabba Gabba. It's not because Yo Gabba Gabba is a colorful and entertaining way for your toddler to learn about life. It's because Yo Gabba Gabba is a show about a skinny man in an orange jumpsuit inviting your kid to play with the magical toys he has in his special box. It's fucking sick. And my son loves it, too.

First of all, this show is just perverted. One of the characters looks like a giant red studded dildo. He's even got one eye. His name is Muno, because Willy might have been too obvious. Or maybe not. The main character's name is DJ Lance Rock. Why not DJ Dick Hard? Too much?

DJ Lance is always dancing behind a puppet stage, with a dancing monster (usually Muno) right in front of him where his cock should be. Another character is Foofa, who is pink and shaped like a vagina. I am not making this up.

Whenever other creatures are introduced besides the main monsters, they aren't your usual kid's show menagerie of kittens and puppies. Oh, no. It always seems to be snakes or worms, looking like penises or sperm, depending on the puppet. One episode had Muno the giant dildo babysitting his friends, two little purple sperm worms. Another bit had him pretending to be a snake (yes, a one-eyed snake).

Besides all the sexual perversion, what I love most about Yo Gabba Gabba is that it's like a crazy fun drug trip. Not the fucked up kind of drug trip where you end up trapped all night long at a stranger's house talking to two guys named Matt about their band and wishing you had only done one hit of acid after all. No, Yo Gabba Gabba is just one colorful alteration of consciousness after another. Smoking pot before watching it doesn't hurt, either.

Just when you start getting used to seeing the bizarre colorful puppets, they cut to a close up shot of DJ Lance Rock, smiling into the camera. Everything about this guy is orange. His jumpsuit, his fluffy hat, his fucking skin. All of it orange. Just as you start to decide that he's more "Alien From Another Planet" than "Creepy Human," they cut to (a close up!) of Biz Markie mugging and beat boxin'. THEN, just to fuck with you, Elijah Wood or Tony Hawk shows up to dance with the monsters in front of DJ Lance Rock's cock.

And the MUSIC! Talk about altering consciousness! The characters will repeat simple phrases over and over again to a monotonous tune, chanting until our eyes glaze over and we intone with them, "Don't stop! Don't give up! Don't stop! Don't give up!" while Tootie sings to accompany us, "Keep trying! Keep trying!...." After two minutes of listening to it again and again, I am so high, my mouth open, drooling, all my thoughts completely stopped. It's awesome.

The best part is the end, where they "break it down" and recap what they did, while dancing and repeating the songs to a funky dance beat. Quick shots of monsters, real kids dancing, bright graphics, and DJ Lance Rock high kicking. It's like rolling on X at the club with the black lights, except my kid has the pacifier, not me.

Yes, sex, drugs, and DJ Lance Rock. Maybe I should take Liam to the park more...

Oh, and for those who don't know what I'm talking about: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ggrOcBWqHiU Puff, puff, pass and enjoy!

The Best Kiss Ever

I had my first real kiss when I was eight. It sounds awfully young, I know. The boy was only 9 and to this day I don't know where he learned to kiss like that. I remember thinking, "This is like in the movies."

Once I had a taste for it, that was it. I spent the next 10 years kissing as many boys as I possibly could (after that I discovered sex, but until then, it was all about the making out). I kissed boys in games of Truth or Dare and Spin the Bottle. Sometimes I made out with a guy once and neither of us spoke of it again. I once kissed an American boy in Cairo, Egypt. I kissed German boys. I kissed jocks, rebels and nerds. I made out with a man 20 years older than me. I kissed boys when I already had a boyfriend. One time I kissed a boy who was so Baptist, he cried afterward because French kissing to him was like sex before marriage, and I, Jezebel, had driven him to sin. I even kissed a girl once.

So last week, my 16 month old son kissed me for the first time. I totally cried. I've been asking for kisses for weeks now, but he'd only kiss his stuffed animals or my mom. Little Shit. But when I asked yesterday and expected the usual head shake and brush off, I was surprised by his sweet little face moving forward! His wet, drooly toddler lips pooched out in a pucker that would cause most adult humans to react with appropriate disgust. But this was my child. A human being that I pushed out of my body, covered in blood and shit. This real little person, related to me in a way no other man on this earth has been, reached out to kiss me.

And that was the best one. I don't see how it could be topped.

Unless I have grandkids someday...

Rude Awakening

I was at work the other day. The store had closed for the day and I was picking up a few hours for a little extra cash. I was working at the scale by the window, staring off into space.

I noticed a man crossing the street coming towards the sidewalk in front of the window. He's a middle aged black man, wearing workout clothes and an iPod. He's fucking staring at me.

Goddammit. Mind your fucking business dude. What an asshole. He's just walking towards me, staring like I'm not really human. Jesus Christ. I have feelings, dickhead.

He approaches the window, walks by slowly, then backs up to "talk" to me through the window. What fucking balls this guy has. Backing the fuck up just to get a better look at my tits. Eat shit, buddy. I hope you rot in hell, pervert.

Then he mouths the question, "Are y'all still open?"

Oh. My. God.

I was so embarrassed that I couldn't even look at him anymore. He must have thought I was retarded because I just slowly looked away from him, ignoring him completely. I had been giving Stink Eye to a jogger who just wanted to know if we were still open to sell him a bottle of water.


I am not 23 anymore.

Handy Girl

I just reconnected with a friend from college. Her name is Samantha, and she is completely awesome. So many memories came flooding back, some you'd have to have been there, some we shall never speak of again (I swear to god I had no idea she was in Mike's bunk!), but the Handy Girl memories were bright and clear and simply must be shared.

Sam has cerebral palsy. It's integral to the story. In college she was skinny as a reed, with long, straight dark hair and big bedroom eyes. Her cerebral palsy affected her motor control, mostly her walk.

Her range of motion in her limbs was slightly limited, so she walked with her knees together, and her ass would sway from side to side as she walked. I called it her "sexy swish." It would occasionally throw her off balance, so it got automatic with everyone that whoever was walking with Sam held an arm out for her to hang on to so she wouldn't have to worry about it.

Sam held interesting conversations. I think she was an Education major and a Theatre minor (which is how she wound up slumming with the Theatre rats). Her mind was sharp and her sense of humor quirky. This is one of the many reasons we got along so well. I love sharp, quirky women.

One of the things we talked about was people's perceptions of the handicapped (disabled, differently abled, crippled, shit -- pick your PC label). We both thought it was funny that people often saw Sam's physical disability and assumed that she had limited mental capacity as well. She said she couldn't count the times some asshole spoke slowly and with small words without even bothering to listen to her first. We decided it was either ignorant, condescending, or just plain rude.

So why not have some fun and fuck with some people?

This is how Handy Girl was born. In retrospect, I wish we'd come up with a snappier or more clever name for our little game, like Cerebral Ballsy or Bowling for Fucktards. But Handy Girl is the name that stuck.

Here's how it went. We'd go to Albertson's or Winn Dixie and start cruising the aisles, me wearing my best expression of the hatred born of obligation. Totally ignoring Sam, who would clutch my arm and stagger after me, drooling and making baby talk noises. She'd occasionally stop to caress the onions or to reach out for something shiny. The conversation would then go something like this:

Me: "Jesus, what now?"

Sam: "Agaaah ahhh!" She bobs up and down, jerking my arm and pointing to something brightly colored.

Me: "Come ON! We can't stop for everything, Retard!" Flashing eyes and angry looks from me.

Sam: "I sorry..." Very slurred. She reaches up to drag her fingers down my face.

Me: "Quit it! Jesus Christ you're retarded! I fucking HATE it when Mom makes me bring you!" I jerk my arm, throwing her off balance. She falls to the floor.

Sam: "I love you! I love you!" Lispy and slurred as she grabs at me, scrambling to get up.

Me: "Shut UP! GodDAMN it! We're going!"

We never had the nerve to do it long. And I got the worst Stink Eye from people. I have never gotten dirtier looks than when playing Handy Girl. Sam and I would race as fast as she could swish back to the car, laughing our asses off.

Thinking about it now, it's a pretty fucked up thing to do. But shit, I was young and really full of myself at the time. I wonder if any of the people who saw us still remember it.

I'm so glad I'm back in touch with Sam. My favorite people have always been the ones who are creative and committed enough to match me, and unafraid to be my partner in crime.

Judge me if you will for playing mind games with people, but I take nothing back and I make nothing up.

What do you mean, "What was that noise?"

Seriously, I thought it would be the queefing.

Of all the things that have changed about my body since having a baby, I was positive that the thing that would be guaranteed to embarrass the shit out of me in public at some point in the future would be the queefing.

You see, delivering a human through the vaginal canal changes its shape. This I knew, but it wasn't until doing yoga in my living room after Liam was born that I discovered how this would affect my life. When I executed a forward straddle fold, I felt a curious fhooping sensation in my vagina.

What the fuck was that?

I slowly rolled up from the pose, and air was pushed out my twat in a great honking queef. I collapsed in a pile of horrified laughter.

I composed myself and continued, and it didn't happen every time, but it would happen often enough and without warning. I was terrified of ever going to a public yoga class ever again. How could I? It's bad enough when people fall asleep and snore at the end when you're supposed to be meditating, but how about breathing deeply and then hearing a nice flapping queef from 2 feet away? Namaste!

But it wasn't the queefing.

My friends Jenny and Colleen have been bugging me to go to their yoga class with them, and finally, I caved in. Jenny promised that if we did straddle forward fold, she would develop a sudden coughing fit. I have such great friends.

The class went great. No queefing at all. So I went again yesterday.

We did the shoulder stand pose, which I was totally surprised that I could still do. I hoisted my big, cheesy ass up and propped it on my elbows. So far, so good. I lifted my legs slowly until I was practically upside down. That's when my belly slid down onto my tits. Which were already resting on my chin.

This rather surprised me, since I've mostly lost the baby weight, and my belly didn't look like this in the shoulder stand pose BEFORE Liam was born. But, hey, wow, I guess this is how my body has changed.

Just as I begin to make peace with my new (upside down) belly, the instructor tells us to take it from the shoulder stand to the plough, meaning: now that you're upside down, throw your legs back over your head until your feet touch the ground. Seriously.

And as I lower my feet and scrunch my body further into a ball, my boobs and belly roll clear up over my nose and mouth and suddenly, I'm being suffocated by my own giant tits.

I had to roll back up rather quickly just to take a breath. I tried to be cool, but the instructor saw me and became concerned that perhaps I was overdoing it and got dizzy. Then I had to explain what it really was to the class. It was pretty fucked up embarrassing to tell a roomful of limber women that I just choked on one of my enormous breasts.

I swear I thought it would be the queefing.

(PS I'm going back next week. Shit, why not?)