I Read Banned Books

I have nothing to wear because the dryer shrunk all of my clothes, including my bras and panties.  I want to bathe in chocolate but Nutella would work in a pinch since I am out of chocolate chips.  Oh, yeah, I ate the entire 12 oz. bag last night.  I hate men.  All of them.  Including George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and Justin Timberlake. What is this thing called daylight?  Why does it feel like it is 125 fucking degrees when the thermostat says it is 78?  It took every fiber of my being not to crack Boog’s skull with the dirty dish he left in the sink “to soak because it had cheese on it.”  I put a white t-shirt on and took it right back off when I looked in the mirror and saw the Michelin Man staring right back at me.  I have a zit the size of a dime on the side of my nose, another one next to my ear, and a third one on my chin.  The men in white coats are coming to take me away any minute.  No one wants to tell me I am fucking fabulous today.  I told the cashier at the grocery store to fuck off because he commented on how many candy bars and cartons of ice cream I had on the belt.  He somehow overlooked the tampons, ibuprofen, kleenex, vodka, and ammunition though.  I swear every person has shit in their pants.  Seriously, what is that smell?  I ate three plates at a seafood buffet  (including the cake, cookies, and ice cream for dessert) and followed it with an extra large smoothie less than two hours later.  I cried when watching Gene Simmons’ Family Jewels, then I laughed at what a fucking trainwreck  Corey Haim is only ten minutes later.  I don’t snore, Boog.  When did you become an Ear Nose and Throat Specialist?  I have sinus problems.  You snore.  We bought his and hers humidifiers today, so I can prove that sucker wrong.  Should I stop drinking coffee?  I have had heartburn and been sick to my stomach with nausea and diarrhea for two solid days.  Slip on shoes are the best thing since sliced bread.  Spenser, if you lick my glasses one more time, I am going to throw you across the room.  Move.  Just move.  You are breathing on me.  I want to be alone.  I want a hug.  How loud does the TV have to be when you are six feet away from it?  Turn up the TV I cannot hear it now.  If I step on another half-eaten carrot when I am peeing for the hundredth time today in the middle of the night, someone is going to be helping me scour the house at the ass-crack of dawn.  I’m so tired, but I have not slept more than five hours in over a week.  Don’t even get me started on the promotion I am waiting to hear about.  The good luck charms, prayers, crossed fingers (and toes), Buddha belly words, gris-gris, and wishes on falling stars or at 11:11 are NOT working.  Maybe it is time to get the voodoo doll out.  Is it possible for your hair to hurt?  Don’t ask me if I am feeling better.  Ooh, I laughed and smiled at one of Boog’s jokes.  No, I am NOT feeling better.    No, I don’t want you to sleep on the couch.  I’ll be there when you start snoring again in ten minutes while I am making a mental list of all the chores I am going to do tomorrow.  I need to clean the blinds, organize the closet, alphabetize our 500 plus CDs, and rearrange the books on our shelves by color.  That reminds me of Skittles.  I want some sour skittles.  Will you go to 7-11 for me?  Nevermind.  Whatever.   I’ll just do it myself.  I missed you.  Do you want some?  No, not that kind of some.  Don’t touch my boobs; they hurt.  I have a headache.  I’m suddenly very tired again.  Did you swap out my pillow?  I need a vacation away from my vacation.  Yes, I am still waiting for Aunt Flo to arrive so we can ride the cotton pony over the rainbow where blue birds fly.

This PSA was brought to you by the Hormone Hostage.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.  This week is going to be ugly.  I’m really not kidding.  I feel this one in in my blood … literally.  This chick will be here all week.

If you have forgotten who she is, don’t forget she also wrote all the clickables in this entry.

Psst … the last clickable is my personal favorite.  Go read it again.  And, then I double dog dare you to cross this psycho hose beast for the next few days.

I have been feeling a little homesick the last few days.  It usually happens when I am bored.  I tend to get a little nostalgic and wax poetic about wanting to move back to Bum Fuck Egypt, Louisiana, going back to the classroom, raising some pigs or chickens, or farming crawfish or rice.  The truth is small town life has its moments.  And those moments are usually shared at the local beauty shop, over a lunch plate at the diner, across the trailer park, or in the local newspaper.

Sybil used to send me the weekly (or is it, weakly?) local newspaper.  She stopped several years back, claiming they were going online soon.  That did not happen until recently, and I was thrilled to see it pop up on The Dead Pelican.  I was in some serious withdrawals for the police reports.  Oh, yeah, they publish that shit in my redneck hometown’s newspaper.  And I will share some of the most recent activity here for your amusement.

It’s harder than it looks to write an awesome post every day, even when you are fucking fabulous like me. Today, I am delivering another freaking meme because I am not finished with the entry I would prefer to post. You are supposed to use the first letter of your last name to answer each question. This is brought to you by the letter “S,” and that is all you need to know.

1. Last name:

Snarkmeister

2. 4-letter word:

Shit

3. Vehicle:

Stagecoach

5. Boy Name:

Severus

6. Girl Name:

Samara

7. Occupation:

Sommelier

8. Something you wear:

Sunglasses

9. Food:

Sushi

10. Found in a bathroom:

Spenser (passed out on the tile from terrorizing)

11. Reason for being late:

Sex

12. Something you shout:

Shit Fuck Damn (Thanks, poppingbubbles)

13. Animal:

Skunk

14. Body part:

Shoulders

15. Word to describe yourself:

Sarcastic (“the lowest form of wit” according to the equally sarcastic, Oscar Wilde)

16. Movie:

Shawshank Redemption, The

17. Relative:

Sybil or Sanford

18. Toy:

Sit ‘n Spin

19. Flower:

Saintseester’s Dead-Daddy Day Lilies

20. Something found at a school:

Specials

Thursdays at I Read Banned Books may never be the same.  Today I will either lose a few prudish readers or gain a few sick and depraved ones.  I love the twisties the most anyway.  I won’t apologize because my body = my choice.  Besides I am on staycation until August, and there is nothing work-worthy to share.  Last week was my annual feel up and fingering from the twat doc, and it inspired this post.

13 Things I Heard from the Twat Doc And His Assistant During My Annual Gynecological Exam (in no particular order)

1. Scoooooooooot. Scoot again. Stop. Perfect.
2. When was your last period? Are you sure you aren’t pregnant?
3. Here are your orders for blood work and a mammogram … which are both way past due.
4. You have a small cervix … a really small cervix.
5. 37, huh? You know, you’re not getting any younger.
6. Relax.
7. Open your legs a little wider.
8. This might be a little cold. You’ll feel a little pinch.
9. So, how often do you have sex?
10. Why are you here today?
11. Everything off. Gown opens from the front.
12. Don’t you want children?
13. Did you empty your bladder? There are cleansing wipes in the restroom. Remember to wipe from front to back.

Look, Ma, No Profanity! Twat is not profanity, nor is it a filthy word.    

This is the first in an ongoing series of my 40-year-old husband’s experiences as a first-time college freshman.

Boog is a n00b.  Yes, he sure is.  He is a part-time first-time college freshman in addition to being a full-time casino floor supervisor, all-around geekdorknerd, father to Monkey Boy, and husband to the one and only CajunVegan.  He is pretty busy these days taking a online psychology class and a site-based English 101 class.  As an educator and a former teacher of English, I am witnessing his love-hate relationship with being a student again.

Boog was welcomed to English 101 about three weeks ago.  This composition class is required of almost every American college freshman. It should be one of the most enjoyable and rewarding courses in a person’s college experience.  For Boog, it has been downright frustrating.  His love of reading, and his voracious appetite for the written word is clearly evidenced in his writing.  However, his professor has made it clear that her opinion is the correct interpretation of all texts he is asked to read critically and to write analytically about for his discussion questions and essays.  Furthermore, she has chosen pieces authored by largely African American (okay, Boog, black) authors, and Boog is as homeslice as they come.

Last night, he was reading James Baldwin’s “Stranger in the Village.”  The second of the three discussion questions was as follows:

Baldwin relates the white man’s language and legends about black men to the “laws” of the white man’s personality.  What conviction about the source and the nature of language does this reveal?

Boog’s initial response was:

Yes, it says:

“I don’t have a fucking clue what this questions means.  I am a fucking 40 year old retard.”

I paraphrased the question as I understood it (not having read the selection and being a crazy ass white girl myself), and Boog was able to answer it eventually.  One thing I do know for sure is that for Boog to succeed in anything, it helps to be prepared.  So, speaking as a former middle and high school English teacher, I am going to let Boog in on one secret to surviving freshman-level courses:  Be prepared to be overwhelmed, and know that I am here for you.  If worse comes to worse, you can always take the Soul Man approach like C. Thomas Howell did and re-enter next semester as the 40-year-old Black Man Virgin.