Thursday, May 15, 2014

Clean It Up: A Happy Blog Entry

Conversation with a co-worker who (surprisingly) reads my blog:

"What you wrote about your hoo-ha was gross? Why don't you write about anything nice?"
"Ha. Like what?"
"Like about vacations, and your new apartment, and happy things."
"That's no fun at all. Who wants to read about happy things?"
"I do. I don't know." [Shaking her head.]

Now you tell me, are you more or less satisfied after reading this entry?

(I feel clean but very unsatisfied.)

To my coworker: write your own blog. Make it clean or dirty. Write it for you. I will write this one for me. Thank you for your interest and I hope to keep you as a reader. I do welcome feedback, but please don't be too offend if I ignore or laugh at your feedback. If you can't hang, read someone else's blog. I won't be offend (or really care at all.)

[Can you see my permanent Bitch-Face?--you know the one, the one that is always on my face when I'm not smiling.]

The truth is mine. This truth is mine to write, here in this blog. Sometimes it's sweet. Always sassy. Sometimes it's nasty, hurtful, self-loathing, mean, shitty, bitchy, sad, lonely, lovely, loving, unsure, guilty, remorseful, boastful--I am very happy with and comfortable with being a human and feeling all the things that us humans feel. That's why I write. I need to say it. Whatever "it" is. This blog is my record. It's a way of recording myself, of accountability, of freedom. I don't owe anyone here any thing.  This is about me. I get to be selfish here.

[Can you see my big smiling face?--the one with the crinkly, squinty eyes, and full-mouth smile?]

I am happy here even when I am spouting hate and anger and fear. Spouting is happy for me. Spouting is sanity.

Bunnies. Flowers. Sunshine. Chocolate. Wine. Puppies. Rainbows. Happy now?

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

Vagazzle: My Vagina Rant (Rated R)

Dear Vagina,

Why do you look so old? What happened? Wait, wait, don't tell me…I don't want to know.

Is there anything wrong with wanting a new vagina?  I think it's time we break it off. You are too old and wrinkly and have too many flaps and folds. I've outgrown you. Your lips look like a turkey's gizzard or maybe like a big-mouth bass with gray whiskers. I am all done with you. It's you, not me.

Sorry for the public (and private) humiliation. I owe you one.

Yours always,

HD


Note to Readers: I dare you to go get a mirror and give your old girl a long look.

What does your old bag look like? In my head she's pink, and plump, and pretty--all things that girls are told to be. The reality is gruesome and depressing. Does every girly part of my body have to decline into ugliness? Can't my vagina stay pretty and young?

Age is cruel to all of us, but no one ever told me that even my most private, (usually) protected, womanly part would also suffer the ravages of Father Time--that mean, old, swinging-dick, bastard--STAY away from my box, Mother Fucker!

Maybe it's my fault entirely…all the abuse that I've subjected her to. Poor dear. All those tampons, yeast infections, thong underwear, and GYN exams, dildos, vibrators, and that pink machine with the attachments. Don't forget the ugly cocks: young and old, clean and (oh god) dirty, crooked and straight, big and small. Dicks are always ugly. So there's that. At least my pussy was pretty once.

Maybe it is time for a Ginaplasty, or a Vagiotomy. Can I get a new cunt? Mine is too wrinkly. Can I get a cuntectomy? I will go in for a tummy tuck and have the doctor lift the whole back (and front) 9. This fuzzbox needs more than an "extra-stitch."  I'm talking the full works: lift, tuck, cut and fold, dye, bleach, wax, pluck and Botox that glory hole back to her former and pinkest, most virginal look. Let's Joan Rivers this bitch.


Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Just Recording a Moment: From a Tea Party Not So Long Ago

Remember, or reread, back in the day when my daughter took over my every thought and when I could only write when she was asleep or away? She's building a big party for her friends (all stuffed) one foot away from me while I'm sitting here typing. She's not talking to me--she is talking nonstop to her friends, who are, thankfully, pretty quiet.

In attendance, Yoda sitting in a car seat (the seat donated from a friend to use when our family comes in a few weeks), a big bulldog (that I bought before she was born from Ikea), a zebra (who has been repaired twice now, losing stuffing, from Kohls), a giant turtle from Aunt Melynnda, a mini Pillow Pet monkey from Susan & Leah, a lamb that has been with her since day one that my cousin Angy gave us at the baby shower, Snoopy, a monkey from Kelly or Karen?, a bunny won at the Easter egg hunt, a Peter Rabbit from Grandma Karen (stripped of his clothes long ago), and a pet cat that meows and purrs from Grandma Beth last Christmas. The gang is all here.

Additionally there are blankets and two tea sets: one enameled metal that I picked up for her at a yard sale, the other a fancy porcelain set from Auntie Margaret.

She is a good hostess. Telling them all where to sit and what to eat and when to eat.  There is a rucus about the sugar spoon, since there is only one, and they all have to share. Her leadership skills are quite developed. She just dropped a plate and said, "Damn it!", picked it up, and continued on with the party. She introduced Yoda to the zebra because they had not met yet (I thought everyone from S Land was acquainted, but obviously not.) And her friends are also required to clean up when the clock says. She has been very clear about those rules all along.

A little singing of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" ensues before the clock demands that her friends clean up. Back go the plates and forks, spoons and cups, saucers and string cheese. She is taking all her friends back up to their places in her room, on her bed, in her backpack. She moved back the chairs and blankets.

Oh, what a swell party this is.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

How to Be an Awesome Person

This is our story, the story of our family, and it's the only story that I will ever tell.




I Want a Perfect Body, I Want a Perfect Soul

The light. It's the light that brings her back. The light, soft, warm, the sun's light, and the air. She can feel the air on her bare arms and legs, and the light that makes her eyelids fire pink on the inside.

"Wake up, Love, wake up." It's James. "How is it that you are so beautiful when you sleep?  God is unfair," with a gentle nudge of his sneaker.

Lydia smiles before she opens her eyes. "Where are the dogs?"

"On a walk with the Misses, I suppose." [nudging again] "Did you sleep here all night?" [Motions to the pool and deck.]

"Not all night, Jamie, just this morning--there were birds. Dale with his stories and dancing and all the kissing." [Lydia pushes herself to elbows, and then seated, sighs. She stretches, smiling and yawning.] "It might be love. And if we're married, will I still sleep in the yard?"

"Well, my dear, that all depends on if Dale will let you. Once you're his wife, he's the boss, not me. Now get up."