Aug 3, 2010 Posted by mesina | 17 comments

Are you looking at my lady bits?

Don’t you dread it? The day the letter comes through the post or that phone call happens that says it’s time to make an appointment to see your gynecologist.

I mean there’s so much freakin’ drama involved.

All you ladies know the drama I’m talking about, I know you do. Because I don’t care how much YOU don’t care, I know you care. Just flat out tell me this isn’t how it goes down. You know this is how it goes down.

It’s two hours before your appointment time and you are running around like you’re prepping for a marathon. Your man is like what’s up? What’s all the panic about? You’re like I have an appointment with the gynecologist this morning. He’s all….Ah, what time is that? You’re like in like two hours. He’s suddenly got that dumbstruck look on his face that he always gets when he doesn’t actually understand what the hell you just said. He says Um, why are you rushing around then? You give that long blink, the one that telepathically says to him I totally don’t have time for this, but now I HAVE to explain. Like I said, I have a GY-NE-COL-OGIST APPOINTMENT. Now he’s like…Yeah, and? There is now a need for that deep breath you take before you give the fastest, most detailed explanation possible to make him understand that he clearly does not understand.  

I have to take a shower, shave, buff, lotion, make sure my lady bits are presentable, drag out that one pair of underwear that makes my ass look hot, wear those jeans that make my legs look skinny, but not the ones that ride up my butt crack cos I need room in my lady bits today and then do my hair and make up which is so going to take me at least half an hour. So clearly I need to be rushing around because that’s going to take a while.

After like putting all this shit together in his head, your man is like whoa time out. He’s just realised, he’s never actually met your gynecologist and umm, the shirt that you’ve laid out on the bed to wear is that one shirt that makes your boobs look smokin’ and actually you haven’t worn that shirt for him in like a year.  So now your man is like

And you’re like

Except that you are over explaining how much you are NOT attracted your gynecologist in any way shape or form and your guy is thinking that must be one of those times when you’re saying stuff you actually don’t mean again. Which is really fucking annoying actually because to be fair, when you want him to link stuff together he never does, but when you are being upfront he is totally making shit up. So you’re like this is not like when I say I don’t really want much for my birthday and you actually listen and get me something crappy and then I sulk for a month because I didn’t really mean what I said. Jeezus.

So while you are in the shower attempting to recall your best topiary skills on your lady region, your man is outside the shower with this concerned tone in his voice asking you so what does he actually do to you during these exams? Now you totally need to reassure him that there is nothing at all perverted about these appointments, so you’re like well I have to take off everything on the bottom half of me and like he gets out these ENORMOUS salad tongs and actually that jelly they use is freaking cold  and then he shoves…Now you realise your man is walking out hearing the words enormous salad tongs because honestly, he’s still recovering from the whole you had a baby down there experience. I mean he just got the sexy back about your entire lady region and you’ve just gone and killed it all over again. Plus with all this having to explain shit to him while you preformed artistic miracles on your whoo-ha you’ve just cut yourself twice. Awesome. Soap stings on cuts doesn’t it? Who the hell said you didn’t sing in the shower?

Now you scramble to get the rest of yourself looking good, while your man is lurking around the house popping in and out of the bedroom imagining that the ugly man doctor is actually not ugly at all and is totally going to swoon you during your mysterious lady check up shit. While all you can think about is making sure everything looks porn-tastic, with class (obviously) and seriously babe, I am not going to run off with the gynecologist, omg. By the time you are walking out the door, you think crap, it will have to do I’m gonna be late. Your man thinks

By the time you finally get there, with two coffee stains down your top and a beating red puffed out face from running, you stroll into the waiting room with like one or two other ladies who are now judging you but who also conveniently look perfectly groomed. Once you are actually called in, you take that massive deep breath before you lay down on the bed of doom and Que the stirrups of death.

You either have a doctor that makes you realise why you left your ex all those years ago because he too couldn’t stop making jokes at inappropriate moments, or a doctor with the world’s best poker face ever who makes this whole experience entirely uncomfortable by NOT talking.

Spread eagle and you’re sporting two shaving cuts, one patch of hair in the corner you missed shaving that you will notice later, an uneven trim because your man was distracting you in the shower with his you are not going to run off with the super sexy man doctor are you  fantasies and you smell like a mix of pheromones, soap, lotion and is that perfume? Of course you didn’t actually put perfume down there, that was a total accident. Uh huh, riiiight.

But you know what? It doesn’t actually matter. Because that jerkwad didn’t even notice all the effort you put into making your lady bits perfect. There was no Wow, great job! or even a single Whooo nice…out of that doctors mouth. Nope not a mutter of is that giorgio armani I smell?

One worried man, hours of stress, two cuts, a soap sting that hurt for ten fucking minutes and you’re not even the reason this jerk loves his job.

Asshole.

Jul 29, 2010 Posted by mesina | 15 comments

Ninja Mouse

Some body’s been screwing with my cosmic alignment.

I mean, there is no way this shit happens to other people.

It started with the freaking garbage men and ended with me hyperventilating. So when I say started with the garbage men, you know this is gonna end bad don’t you?

Some environmentalist freaks decided that in our neighborhood, we should have two garbage bins – recycling and non recycling. Which is pretty cool in theory, except that what bin gets collected alternates each week. That totally works when the garbage men actually empty out the bins. Yeah. They sorta of ”forgot” our bin one week. (I smell a conspiracy) So for two weeks I had to put up with excess garbage at my house – so I had like four extra bags outside when the idiots showed up to finally empty it out again. Until I remembered that actually, there was one last bag in the garage that needed to be taken and since it’s all their fault they are so gonna take it.

That’s when all this went really bad.

The next thing I know, a teenage girl is screaming her head off and I’m shouting that it’s not me that stinks it’s just a stupid garbage bag and could she please chill the hell out so I can focus on taking out all my emotional problems on the garbage men.

It’s not the smell, it’s a mouse! Great. He had jumped off the rubbish bag I had in my hands, having been all stealthed on it.

So after assaulting the garbage men with my last bag of rubbish and it’s actually your fault I have all this crap and uh no we are not freaking hillbilly’s whatever…I walk back in praying that the mouse has run out the front door. Apparently, he’s just run behind the curtain by the front door. Shit. So now, I have to look all big and brave in front of my kids, cos I’m the adult here (seriously who the hell gave me that job?). I pull the curtain back and see…. nothing. See? He’s gone. Let’s all move on now. I give the curtain a little shake to prove it and

that little ninja bastard jumped straight on top of my head! MY HEAD!

Can you fucking believe this?! That twat, climbed up the curtain, ambushed me and launched himself onto the floor laughing, only to run back behind the freaking curtain again!

So of course I screamed like a total wussy and ran so fast into my living room that I bashed my arm on the door running in. So now my fuckin’ arm hurts thanks a lot you little ninja twit as well as now being scarred for L-I-F-E. After like 15 minutes of me hyperventilating, I came up with a plan to get that karate chopping fur ball out of the house, which involved a mop and an ironing board – hey don’t judge me, you try thinking straight during the aftershock of a ninja ambush and it was all the shit I had handy… anyways….I decided to set up a road block to force him out the front door (Que ironing board) and use the mop to pull back the curtain with since there was no freaking way I was going too close to that again.

While setting this all up my daughter says Mom that is totally not gonna work, I mean there’s a massive gap on the end of that ironing board where he can just run out, omg. And I was like shut-up, who the hell is the adult here huh?  And that was when she said you know what, I don’t even know anymore. So I was all set to prove her wrong and show her who had the awesome planning skills here. After pulling back the curtain you know what?

That little jerk ran straight through that goddamn gap and into my living room and then I don’t even know where.

I am never going to live this down. Since my cosmic alignment is already  screwed beyond hope, I put Maurice in charge of catching the ninja mouse cos I obviously don’t need anymore bad Karma. I must have been a cat in my previous life.

I bet that little bastard is stealthed somewhere in the house. Breathe Mesina…just breathe.