I’d like to think I’m a simple girl.

I mean, I grew up eating spam sandwiches and spaghetti out of a box for Christ’s sake. I’m not asking for a lot. (Shut up)

What I really want more than anything? A TV that turns on and off, has channel up and down, and volume control. I don’t need it to do my taxes or bring me to orgasm (that is what the blender is for–the orgasm, NOT the taxes).

Anyway, when we moved into this house five years ago, Tommy had absolutely no interest in the design, layout, color scheme or functionality of the house. It was my project and mine alone.

Except for the TV situation.

We have the most complicated television watching experience on the planet.

Period.

And even worse? No one knows how the fuck to work them–any of them. Not even Tommy.

True story.

It’s a complicated algorithm but basically you point the remote to your chin while pressing the ON button, hold your breath, lift your right leg, and in your head name as many fruit as you can in 30 seconds. That usually gets you to channel 2. Which is the Spanish channel. No offense to Spanish people, but I don’t understand what you’re saying or why you’re so dramatic. It might be Escamas Heladas to you, but it’s just Frosted Flakes to me.

Anyway, recently there’s been a problem with the entire “Televisioning System” which is code for “It’s totally FUCKED.” More importantly? It looked like I wouldn’t be able to watch Top Chef. Someone call 911.

I came home to find that the closet which houses the Broadcast Equipment was smoking and making guttural sounds that I first mistook as our cat being on fire.

If only the cat thing had been true. (Sorry Sadie, but we’re talking Top Chef! And The Daily Show! And PBS! You sit there on the couch, shaking your head and judging me–don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking–Yes, I showed my boobs on the Internet–So what)

Without hesitating, I reached in, unplugged everything, and stood there in anticipation of the Apocalypse.

The lights that once flickered green, red, and blue, went blank.

And just like that a little piece of me died inside.

Tommy came home then and I called him over to the closet.

*Before* the blackout

I pointed at the massive mass of mess and said, “Well? What are you going to do about THIS?”

He reached inside, grabbed the plug and jammed it in the outlet. “There. Fixed.”

It was hard to not stab him in the eye socket with my pointy heel of my shoe. For real.

“*I* unplugged it, you idiot. It was making these weird grindy noises. Like it was about to explode.”

“Did you call the TV programmers?”

*Only WE have TV programmers*

“Um, no.”

He loses interest then and starts to walk away.

“Hey, Hey, Hey, buddy. Whereya going?”

“I’m tired, Shauna. I don’t care if the TVs don’t work.”

“Yes. But do you want to have sex with me ever again?”

“I’ll call the TV programmers.”

Thank you.

By the way, the TVs totally work again.

That Tommy, he’s no dummy.

PS. Tommy says I’m using the word Apocalypse wrong. If that’s the case, how’d he know what word I was talking about?

WARNING: all you uptight people might want to stay away from the post today. grandmothers and children under the age of 25 need to leave the room immediately cuz we’re getting down and dirty.

how many times must we preach this?

are you not listening?

or maybe you don’t think we know what the hell we’re talking about?

ok, that’s true sometimes, but trust us, we’re right about this.

ask any woman.

what’s that? you don’t know many women? hmm.

there’s probably a reason for this.

and it most likely isn’t because you have a certain je ne sais quoi about you.

it’s because you’re a douchebag.

harsh? yeah, sorry about that. sometimes it’s best to just tell it like it is. pull the bandaid off really fast.

ooh, that open wound looks pretty bad.

it’s a good thing we’re here to help.

that’s just part of our service.

you’re welcome.

so here it is.

you really suck at convincing us to have sex with you.

not you, you. the general you. please, we’re not a whore. well, at least not one that gets paid or anything. in fact, if we were being paid for sex we wouldn’t be on here bitching about how sick we are of having you walk by, honk our boob, call that foreplay and then ask, “how bout me and you right now?”

bleck.

here’s the thing, fellas–and all you fellas with vaginas–we don’t want to leave anyone out–this here’s an equal opportunity bitch slap–we don’t NEED to have sex with you. we’ve got a vibrator and we’re not afraid to use it. in fact sometimes we prefer it over having 200 pounds of hairy flesh on top of us.

side note: you understand that it’s not ONE vibrator and we all share it right? that would be totally disgusting.

we need to WANT to have sex with you. period. end of story.

so to help you out, we’ve listed some things you can do that will surely have you headed in the other room with only your hand and a bottle of lotion and maybe some cheap porn that may or may not involve midgets.

1. complain about there being nothing to eat in the house.

2. shove the credit card statement in our faces while yelling, “what the fuck happened here?”

3. bitch about watching the kids (the ones that are HALF YOURS) whilst we prepare something for his majesty to eat. (refer to number 1)

4. leave your dirty clothes all over the floor in the bedroom, bathroom and closet. what are you, 7? we are not the maid–or your mother. we might be a whore, but we’re certainly not the maid and we’re definitely NOT your mother.

5. stroll in the kitchen, let out the biggest, god awful smelliest fart and then slap us on the ass. that’s actually a good way to get stabbed. see, we’re holding a knife. (refer to number 3)

6. say things like, “wanna give me a blow job?” the answer is always no. no one wants to give a blow job. ever. (my friends who are freaks and actully enjoy giving blow jobs? you be quiet. i’m making a point. don’t ruin this. i’m on a roll. like i said, you’re freaks. there’s clearly something wrong with you. we’ll visit this in another post.)

7. lecture us on how we could do things better. like organizing the fridge, parking the car in the garage, parenting the children (the ones you bitch about “babysitting.” how many times must we say this–YOU’RE NOT BABYSITTING. YOU’RE THE DAD! watching them every once in a while is part of the job description. what’s that? you don’t want to watch them? well you should’ve thought about that before you coerced us into having sex with you. see the kind of trouble mr. magnificent penis can get you into?).

8. makes lots of noises. please. it’s like you’ve got the annoying version of tourette’s. but i’m pretty sure unlike people who really have tourette’s, you can control yourself. practice this immediately.

look, if you want to do the bow chicka wow wow with us, you have to be more clever about it. we can’t have sex with you if we’re mad at you and we definitely can’t if we wish you were dead. everyone knows that having sex with a corpse is just wrong. we will not be party to it.

think of sex with us as a challenge–or a video game–or a sport. ooh, look over there. is that a hooter’s girl!?

(psst, women. over here. i’ve got to dumb this way down to a level they understand. what do you think? 3rd grade? no? too advanced? how about 1st grade? ok, 1st grade level it is. oops, they’re looking at us)

what’s that you say? no hooter’s girl? aawww, my bad.

anyway, back to what i was saying. ok, so you want to have sex with us. well, pretend you’re in a candy store, but you don’t have any money. and you really really want that jawbreaker, but you don’t know how to get it. (you understand the jawbreaker in this scenario is us, right? you don’t really want a jawbreaker. who eats those anyway?) so you work really hard until you have enough money to buy the jawbreaker. yes, the jawbreaker can be bought. so technically we are being paid for sex and my whole theory just went up in smoke.

well, i tried.

look, the point of the story is this–we want to have sex. we just don’t always want to have sex WITH YOU. so do something to change our minds. be sweet to us. tell us we’re beautiful. tell us we’re a great mother. tell us you couldn’t live without us (and do it with a straight face). tell us we’re skinny (you might even get a blow job for this). tell us you appreciate the fact that we haven’t killed you yet. don’t give us that look when we go for the third cupcake. thank us for putting up with all your bodily functions/noises. and lastly, do something about all that pubic hair. we’re not saying wax it, but please, introduce it to a pair of scissors and a razor. too much hair equals no time with the jawbreaker.

we’re just sayin.

everyone knows i’m totally down with the gays. i have girlfriends who are gay and so far, not one of them has tried to have sex with me. but gay men on the other hand, well, i’m like a magnet. it’s like i hold some magical key to an imaginary candy store and they all want in. ok, let me translate that. gay men LOVE me. we get along splendidly. and i love their passion for…everything. the other day, however, i had a very unique and rather bizarre experience with a gay man. we’ll call him *zander*

i met zander and of course, it was immediately like i’d just found my long lost brother. we hit it off instantly. he even fluffed my hair. (no, that’s not code for something erotic, you sickos, he literally fluffed my hair–gay men do that. they will also touch your boobs to see if they’re real. it’s allowed, read the handbook)

anyway, after knowing him for about um…i’d say…2 hours, he turned to me, eyes all lit up, and asked, “do you want to see a picture of my penis? i have one on my cell phone.”

the man was giddy.

and i was speechless. on the one hand i wanted to run to the corner and curl up in the fetal position, and on the other i was fascinated and yes! i DID want to see a picture of his penis.

without too much pause i shouted, “ok! show me your penis!”

the other people in the room turned and looked at me when i said this, but it didn’t stop zander from asking the rest of the room, “do YOU ALL want to see a picture of my penis? it’s magnificent!”

you’ve never seen more frightened looks on people’s faces.

it was classic. i think i even snorted.

so anyway, i’m standing there with zander while he’s scrolling through his phone, looking for a picture of his magnificent penis. he finally finds it and before showing it to me says, “ok, so it’s not totally erect in this photo, but you’ll get the idea.”

and then he hands the phone to me.

because in uncomfortable situations i tend to ‘go with the flow’ i held the phone up to my face and stared at the screen before me. yep. it was a penis all right. i gasped. it was pretty amazing.

i smiled and handed the phone back to zander. he jumped around and asked, “so? what’d you think? i mean you can’t get the full effect and all…” and then i interrupted with, “because you weren’t fully erect. you said that.”

then he stood there, waiting for me to share my thoughts.

“oh, you’re right. that’s impressive. bra-vo.” and then i started clapping like a fucking seal–minus the seal noises.

i was congratulating him on his semi erect penis?

this was getting weird.

but he was thrilled. he slipped his phone in his front pocket and then grabbed me around the neck and squeezed. all i could think while we were hugging was, please don’t let me feel your magnificent penis against my leg. please, please, please, please…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
not to get too political or anything, but i just want to say one thing about gay marriage. if you don’t agree with it, don’t marry a gay person. other than that, mind your own. you think gay people who are married will confuse/screw up your children? you don’t have to worry about that. you’re doing that just fine on your own. you don’t need other people’s help. besides, look how well marriage between straight people is working.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

please, show someone a picture of your private parts today. it’s officially “show me your goods” wednesday.

i should have known the week would go badly when we got home from our relaxing anniversary weekend to sick kids. ethan had fever and was generally pissy and harley woke up in the middle of the night and puked all over me. the worst part was i never saw it coming so i couldn’t move out of the way in time. without getting too graphic let’s just agree that sour, chunky, regurgitated spaghetti feels pretty gross between your toes–and smells bad too. it’s a good thing my gag reflexes are made of steel. tommy better hope nothing ever happens to me because who in the world would clean up vomit? he might have to resort to hiring one of those disaster crews who cleans up after a catastrophic event. yes, vomit would fit in that category to tommy. he’s not good with puke, diarrhea, or snot. that’s where i come in.

luckily e’s fever broke and he got less pissy and harley only vomited the one time. i scored it a victory since i was sure we were all going to get the stomach virus. monday came and went and everyone seemed to be on the mend, so life was manageable–well, as manageable as life gets with four kids and a husband who was going out of town.

tuesday afternoon, i began getting pains in my lower left side that i can only describe as ‘labor pains.’ i did some math on my calculator and figured out that i couldn’t be in labor since a. i wasn’t pregnant, b. if i was pregnant, i would have a lot of splainin to do, and c. i had the smallest pregnant belly in the history of pregnant bellies and on top of that had just had my period. too much information? so sorry. you know we do that here. we talk about periods and vaginas and the mystery of the penis, and so on. it’s a teaching program. and i’m trying to do my part for the public. you’re welcome.

anyhoo, i ignored the pain because well, frankly, i didn’t have time for such nonsense. i popped 4 advil and tried going about my day. later in the evening, the pain became more intense and more frequent. i would get a stabbing right hook to my left ovary that would last for 1 minute or so and then go away. the period between each “contraction” would be euphoric. when the pain would fire i would try and breathe through it and then relax when it would go away. i swear to god had i not known any better i would have thought i was in labor–about to have a baby. i woke up during the night and had to fight back tears. i gulped down 4 more advil and tried to sleep. tommy left at 6 the next morning for louisville and i didn’t want to tell him what was going on with me because i figured it would go away. i kept thinking maybe i had some bad chinese food–even though it had been WEEKS since i’d eaten any. after i took the kids to school the pain was excruciating and the space between each “contraction” was getting smaller. i called my gynecologist who informed me that their ultrasound tech was out that day and i should go to the emergency room. oy vey. the er. what a fucking nightmare. i called my mom and asked her to drive me there. we arrived 45 minutes later and walked in the double doors to find a sea of “sick” people. i gave my name, was sent to triage and evaluated. i tried to convey to the nurse inspecting me that i was dying. she nodded her head (i guess it wasn’t the first time she’d heard that today) and pointed to a row of green chairs and said, “it will be awhile.”

it didn’t take long to figure out that the green chairs were for the losers. there was one woman moaning–she got taken back almost immediately. damn. why didn’t i think of that. i thought about moaning myself, but a dude sitting across from me (who was wearing the biggest diamond stud earrings i’d ever seen) started moaning and was taken away next. he totally stole my idea. it wasn’t fair. i wanted to be taken away. i was in pain. just because i wasn’t vocal about it didn’t mean i wasn’t just as pitiful. i thought quickly about falling down on the ground and making my body shake–you know, like i was convulsing or something, but i was afraid that my acting would be too convincing and i would be whisked off to surgery and have parts removed. maybe even parts that i wanted to keep but i wouldn’t be able to do anything since i’d started this whole mess by throwing myself down on the ground and acting crazy, so i decided against it. the couple next to me had their little boy with them and apparently he was the patient. my first thought was, why didn’t they take him to the children’s hospital across the street? why bring him here to this scary, nasty, crowded place? just then it was clear. i knew what i had to do. i stood up (and then almost fell to my knees when the pain struck again), called my mom who had conveniently dropped me off at the door, told her to turn around and pick me up, ripped the plastic bracelets off my wrists (i wasn’t sure if what i was doing was against the law or not–i mean i was technically in the system) and waited outside for my mom to get me while trying not to look suspicious. every few minutes i would have to put my hands on my knees to keep from falling to the ground in pain.

finally, she pulled in the emergency parking lot and picked me up. i phoned my doctor again (who if i haven’t mentioned before is a total rock star) and she sent me to get an ultrasound at a less crowded/depressing place. the sonogramologist studied my insides and made lots of ooh, ah, yep that’s a doozy kind of sounds and i became worried that something was wrong with me. i left after 30 minutes, drove home, and was met at the door by patricia (my nanny) who said, “the doctor just called and wants you to come to her office right away.”

oh my god. this was it. i was officially dying. i called my sister in law and asked her to go with me. i didn’t want to get bad news by myself. i’ve always felt it best to get other people involved in your misery. poor tommy. i didn’t have the heart to call him and tell him he’d have to call in the catastrophe squad the next time ethan had diarrhea. he’d learn that soon enough when i hired that plane to write “i won’t be around to smell your farts anymore, but hey that sure was fun, love shauna” in white smoke above our house. all the way to the doctor’s office i apologized to the universe for being a bitch. all of the sudden i was sorry. i was sorry for being mean to people i didn’t know, i was sorry that i’d been so hard on tommy (even though he never knew it since i always did it behind his back–or on here), i was sorry that i didn’t eat all the chocolate cupcakes or the rest of the key lime pie that was in the fridge. what did calories mean now–with me dying and all. i just hoped i would go fast. but the universe, she’s one cruel bitch. maybe she would drag it out. one fingernail at a time–or something dramatic like that.

we pulled in the parking lot where i was to meet my fate. i took a deep breath and walked inside. i was called back shortly after that and i grabbed my sister in law by the hand and said, “c’mon. i can’t do this alone.”

my doctor came in the room with my chart and said, “your sonogram looked perfectly normal.”

huh?

i was stunned. “are you sure?”

she read over the report. “no significant findings,” she read.

i was baffled. and a little disappointed. “but what about all the oohs and ahs and oh my god sounds that the sonogramologist made? and why did you want to see me ‘immediately?’”

my doctor put her hand on my knee and said, “i wanted you to come because you never call me unless something is wrong. so i need to figure out what is going on with you.”

just then the pain stabbed me in my left ovary.

“there. right there,” i screamed. “that’s where it hurts.”

she examined me–thoroughly–i might add–with metal tools and gels and cotton covered spatulas.

when she finished she said, “you have two options. and neither of them are good. and both require surgery.”

“surgery? when?”

“today.”

i was speechless. and then the pain struck. “yow. ok. i give.”

she started writing in my chart, describing what she thought was going on with me (torsion) and then spouted off instructions. “i’ll meet you at the hospital in a little while. go on over and get checked in. i’ll tell them to start an iv and give you something for the pain.”

now she was speaking my language.

as i hobbled back to my sister in law’s car, i was stunned. surgery? in a little while? wow. this was happening so fast. and then i started panicking. who would take care of my kids? who would take e-man to gymnastics? who would pick up the big girls–and get them to soccer practice? oh my god, what would they eat for dinner? nothing had been planned. this was a monkey wrench in my day and i was not sure what to do. how can the family possibly function without the glue (the glue is me in case you’re wondering)?

thank god was sister in law was driving because i might have ended up wrapped around a tree. my brain was working overtime and i was feeling overwhelmed–and was apparently in labor with a twisted ovary. we both got on our cell phones and made arrangements for the kids. then i figured it was probably best that i call tommy and tell him the news. was it too late to hire a plane to write in the sky over louisville? something light like “hey tommy, hope your meeting is going great, by the way, i’m having surgery in an hour.” what do you think? a little too impersonal? maybe i should call him myself. he might need to hear it from the horse herself.

she pulled up to the hospital and dropped me off. suddenly i was scared. i was going to have surgery and i was alone.

after 30 minutes of filling out paper work at the same time trying to explain to edna, the hundred year old deaf woman who typed with one finger, that i was in excruciating pain and could we do this later, i was in the system and now on my way to the surgery floor. i was poked, prodded, and asked questions like, do i do recreational drugs for recreation or am i an addict? did i engage in dangerous activities like sky diving or driving without my seat belt? how many sexual partners was i presently engaged with and did my husband know?

my head was spinning. i just wanted this whole thing to end. and i really wanted a chocolate cupcake in the worst way.

finally, a familiar face popped her head in the room. she’s a friend of mine and a crna at the hospital. i almost jumped in her arms when i saw her. i said, “how’d you know i was here?” and she told me that she saw my name on the board. she introduced me to the crna that would be handling “my case” (all the sudden i felt very important–i was “a case”–how cool was that?) and then i was like the most popular girl in the hospital. when they wheeled me up to surgery, 7 or 8 nurses surrounded my bed and stood over me, staring at me. all of them had huge smiles on their faces and i was like, ‘what gives?’ my friend said, “i told them how funny you are.”

i smiled and said, “oh.” and then laughter ensued. man, i AM funny.

and then i felt obligated to entertain them. it’s like they were waiting for some hilarious epitaphs to fly out of my mouth. i certainly didn’t want to disappoint them. so i tried to focus but the room began to spin. one of them put a hair net on me then and i tried to form words, but all i could do was babble like a one year old. my tongue was thick and i felt sleepy then and…

i woke up to find people standing over me. i remember asking, “can i see my mangled ovary? is it a boy or a girl? does it look like tommy or my side of the family?”

there was laughter. apparently when i’m on drugs i’m hilarious. i closed my eyes again and when i woke up i was in a room. a depressing, puddy colored room. it appeared i was staying in the hospital. before the surgery my doctor had said that if all went well i’d get to go home a few hours after, but by the looks of things, it hadn’t gone well. i tried placing my hands on my belly, but they were heavy and uncooperative. i was sore and i was tired and i was confused. i closed my eyes again and the next time i woke up monika was standing over me. i was able to get out the words this time. “what happened? am i going home?” she nodded her head and said, “it wasn’t what the doctor thought it was. you got to keep your ovary. she’s going to run some more tests so you’re not going home.”

great.

and then, “what about my kids?”

“they’re fine. everyone is taken care of. don’t worry.”

and so i didn’t. i closed my eyes again and cursed the blasted universe. why couldn’t this be easy? you know, cut and dry. bum ovary? yank it out and be done with it. but no. nothing was ever easy with me. it’s always vague and requires investigative coverage.

damn those chocolatey cupcakes sitting on the kitchen counter. what i wouldn’t give for 3 or 4 of them now.

~stay tuned for part 2 of the story tomorrow~

the picture you’re about to see is not only disturbing, but also sad and pathetic.

here is my dad, sitting alone in his house, watching the tcu football game WITH HIS IMAGINARY FELLOW FANS.

how sad/bizarre/humiliating/downright weird is that?

when i asked him about this obvious cry for help, he merely said, “i do this for every game. that way when tcu makes a good play i have someone to high five.”

really dad? because i see a whole lotta nothin goin on on that sofa.

anyone know anybody in kauai who wouldn’t mind being an ACTUAL football watching fan with my dad? no? well, anyone know a good therapist in hawaii?