Stuck in my Head for Days

Set to the tune of Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance"

Oh oh oh oh no no no no no
Gone in my underpants.
Oh oh oh oh no no no no no
Gone in my underpants

Ah Ah Oh my God
Ah Ah Oh my God
Ah Ah Oh my God
Went in my underpants

(Repeat)

It's really ugly, I have a disease
I want more than anything to just hold my pee
I want some Luvs.

Luvs Luvs Luvs
I need some Luvs

(grunt)

Unlike a Llama, who goes in the sand,
I try to take a simple piss in the can
But I need Luvs.

Luvs Luvs Luvs
I need some Luvs.

You know that I want to
You know that I need to
A really bad
Circumstance.

I want some Huggies, but I'll take some Depends,
When I drink, I always take a chance.
I want some Huggies, but I'll take some Depends,
I just went in my underpants.

Gone in my underpants.
Gone in my underpants.

(Repeat Pre-verses)


I feel the horror, I feel all the signs
I'm just a piddler who can't wait in line
I want some Luvs.

Luvs Luvs Luvs
I need some Luvs.

(grunt)

Wherever I go, I make it real quick
If there's no bathroom baby I'm in a fix
I need some Luvs.

Luvs Luvs Luvs
I need some Luvs.

You know that I want to
You know that I need to
(Cause I'm a wee bitch baby)
I do the pee
Pee Pee Pee Dance.

I want some Huggies, but I'll take some Depends
When I drink I always take a chance
I want some Huggies, but I'll take some Depends
I just went in my under pants

etc. etc.

Gone in my underpants.

Run Run slashin baby
Move it my shits getting crazy
Run Run Slashin baby
Fuck it I'll just go here, lady.

Who Farted?

No. Seriously. I couldn’t figure out whether it was him or me.

For the last three weeks I’ve been in rapturous bliss. Not only because I’ve been living inside a bottle (or two) of Montepulciano, but also because I’ve been hanging out with a really dope guy. (I know, I’m gushing).

Our interests include:

a) Make people sick by the way that we look at each other
b) Drinking
c) Cooking for each other (Well, he cooks for me…not my fault he went to culinary school)
d) Spending every night together
e) Drinking
f) Saying things that we possibly half mean and making promises we probably cannot keep.
g) Drinking and then saying things that we don't mean at all and making promises we DEFINITELY cannot keep.

So, as you can see, this is a fast train to “Dude shoots wad too early on in relationship, Cookieface ends up on stoop smoking and drinking wine like a pirate sobbing to the homeless person rummaging through her recyclables.”

It’s a pattern but I can’t seem to help myself.

Anyway, last night we brilliantly combined a-g during and after the first double date I’ve ever been on with my best friend. Conveniently, her boyfriend not only works with my New BF, but they are also pretty good friends.

We went to dinner at an old school Italian red sauce joint in our hood where copious amounts of alcohol, garlic, and gossip were consumed. I looked adorable. No really, I wish I had a picture before I started drinking because I sort of looked like this girl (less goth), before I turned into this girl. (Again, less goth).

We gratuitously went out for one more, but I needed to go home so I could tell him how I was sure he was going to break my heart accompanied by the old “I think I’m falling for you.” In other words, it was important that we go home so that I could humiliate myself because that’s my favorite side-effect of drinking.

This morning I sort of half woke up to him spooning me. We sort of kissed and said good morning. It was lovely. I started to drift back to sleep when all of a sudden there was a noise and a vibration.

Startled, I woke up fully. Oh God, I whispered in my head. Did I just fart on him???

I began to get very hot. I have no idea if he noticed or if he was even awake. I started to sweat.

Wait though, I thought. Mine are usually much more intense. Or they burn so I know they are going to smell. This really wasn’t like that. Maybe it was just my stomach (or his) making a noise.

Or maybe it was him.

Honestly, I don’t even know if it was a fart. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it all day.

And it’s not as if I can do detective work to get to the bottom of it. (No pun—no wait, always pun intended).

Emails I will Never Send #2

Dear Himbo:

How are you?/I don't care. I'm well/Fucking a lot.

So, it's no secret that you are the absolute last person on the planet that I would call if I needed something manly done, like mowing the lawn or shaving. However even i wasn't expecting such a shocking display of cowardice on your part.

I forgave you when you told me (to your credit, a bit sheepishly) that you gave yourself mango facials because I wanted to believe you when you said that it was to prevent breakouts due to your 3 hour gym sessions and I really didn't want you to stop going to the gym because your body was really all you had going for you in the looks department.

I forgave you when you refused to go into Trash & Vaudeville with me because "Baby, it looks scary," despite the fact that 75% of my wardrobe comes from there because hey, I knew you might feel a bit out of place in your lime green polo shirt (collar popped) and Khaki shorts amidst all the pleather.

I even forgave you for not responding to my text message a few weeks after we broke up that read "Hey, just checking in, nothing loaded, hope you are okay," because I figured that you were at a spa getting a paraffin wax treatment with your mama and friends trying to sort out whether you are precious like a baby lamb or precious like a golden angel, and that you probably just didn't get service there.

But REALLY. We were together for five months. You want to open up a line of communication? Send me a text. I'm a texter. Call me. I'll pick up and say hello. Email me. I'm at work all day in front of the computer. If you HAVE to (and I mean as your VERY last resort), send me a message through Face Book. I won't respond to the lameness right away, but I'll acknowledge it in my mind as a half-assed effort.

I am disgusted by what I saw on my Face Book page. Like, horrified, insulted...a little nauseated. We haven't spoken since August. And yet you thought it would be okay to "Poke" me? Like, "Hey friend, been thinkin' about ya!" Wrong kind of poke, asshole.

So FYI, I'm not going to remove you as a friend because I want you to be able to continue to access pictures of my exploits and me looking hot for as long as you like, but I am going to remove your "poke" and not return it. I'm stunned. Truly. Nut up or shut up.

Signed:

I Can't Believe It's not Butt-his Face Book

(Yes, I'm aware that probably doesn't make sense to you, but it made me laugh, Douche.)

Things that WILL make me Drop my Panties

9) Four words: "I have a job."

8) Skull tattoos. (evidently)

7) The phrase "The drinks are on me." (100% of the time, it works all the time)

6) Roofies. (But honestly, no need. See #8)

5) Joe Tex (look him up)

4) The phrase "Do you want to hear my old band?" (Accidentally, this falls under both the "Drop my panties" list and the "Never drop my panties list," because last week after I had written the latter list, I found myself in a situation where my panties were already halfway off when he asked me if I wanted to hear his death metal band from the early 2000s...perhaps this was planned? A clever ploy? Touche.)

3) Two words: "Health Insurance."

2) The phrase: "Here is my unlimited credit card. Go have fun." (No, I've never heard it and I probably never will, but I figure if I don't get fat, there's a chance).

1) Actually following through with the promised home repairs and improvements. I've had more than a dozen dudes come into my apartment, offer to fix my shelves, construct a bookcase that doubles as a bar, design a bed that solves mysteries and fights crime, and maybe ONE of them has actually followed through. And by this, I mean he changed a light bulb. Begrudgingly.

Phrases That Will Not Make Me Drop My Panties* **

10) "I'm an Actor."

9) "You just caught me in the middle of a burp. I'm just pounding it out."

8) "I've taken quite a few classes on women."

7) "Do you want to come back to my place and play Guitar Hero?"

6) "I hate condoms." (Yeah, Guy. We all hate them. But you sound like the Clap and you smell like Herpes).

5) "Do you want to listen to this song I just recorded with my band?" (God, no).

4) Imitating this soundbite every 5 minutes.

3) "I have a little gas."

2) "I live with my parents."

1) Guy: "You and I are going out after Labor Day."

Me: "Why? is that when your Olive Garden Coupons become valid?"

Guy: (Completely missing joke). "No. Because I have my kids until then."

*All of the above have been part of exchanges I've had in the past 3-5 months.

**I deeply apologize to anyone who is offended by the word "panties." I feel your pain, but "panties" just doesn't bother me for some reason. And yet "package" makes me want to stick a nail file in my ears.

Greeting Cards

If there's not one already, there should be a card like the following that I can send to people who suck at life:

On the front: A person of indeterminate sex (probably one of those black and white crude sketches) sitting on a toilet, clearly trying very hard to squeeze one out.

Then you open the card, and inside it reads:

"Have a Crappy Birthday."

I'm here all week.

EMAILS I will Never Send: #1

Dear Himbo:

I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for being such a douchestick in the last week of our relationship, forcing me to dump your ass over text message because it made it much easier than it would have been if you had actually been a legit citizen and ended it like a man.

However, as grateful as I am to your ugly ass parents (and I do mean ugly...I've never seen a man with a nose that big or that purple or a woman with an ass that wide and that flat) for not having a cool gene in their bloated bodies to pass on to you, I do feel as if I never got to say a few things that were on my mind during and subsequent to the last days of our relationship, so I do hope you wouldn't mind if I bend your eyes for just a few moments.

a) When you began sobbing in my bed the Sunday of our third week of dating, and you divulged to me that you used to be bulimic and I hugged you and told you everything was going to be okay and that I thought you were strong for telling me, I was actually thinking "Jesus Christ, what a fucking pussy."

b) When you asked me if I thought you were a pussy for crying and I said "No," I was lying.

c) No matter how long you primped in front of the mirror like you were going to the fucking prom, your hair always looked like shit. And yes, it was fucking red, not blonde.

d) You aren't actually funny. At all. It's not really your fault that you don't know that, I suppose. I did make the unfortunate mistake of laughing at your one joke the first 50 times you told it.

e) It kind of grossed me out when you did your gay impression. I guess because you reminded me of my 88 year-old female cousin when she's fussing at the air-conditioner.

f) Honestly, I thought the fact that you did yoga was a little gay. I know I shouldn't have, but when we were doing the warrior pose during that Bikram Yoga class we took together, you looked pretty fucking gay.

g) Although i repeatedly assured you that you were, you weren't actually the best sex I had ever had. But thanks for playing.

h) That Member's Only jacket that you bought from the thrift store in my neighborhood was about 2 sizes to small for you. And looked pretty gay and douchey at the same time.

i) Only pussy's talk to Mommy and Daddy about whether or not they should be with their girlfriends anymore.

j) Come to think of it, I think that your ex-girlfriend's friends may have been right when your ex told you that they all thought you were gay.

Anyway, I think that's all I have to say to you besides good luck with future projects, whomever he may be. Oh, and that I wish you had choked on that cookie from the batch your mommy was making you when she told you I was "different" and that it would be wise to "get to know me better." Fuck you and Fuck her too.

Yours never,

Cookieface

:-)

Rectal Bleeding

My most recent ex stuck his finger down my pants, took a little survey, smelled his finger, and then presented me evidence that apparently I had been a tad hasty the last time I was decorating the toilet paper.

My Uncle George has often decided to visit when I’m passed out in the beds of men I barely know. Unlike water, apparently your period does not stop in other people’s beds.

I have snorted, farted, queefed (terrible thing, that), smelled myself (yes, twas the "black-out period," I remember fondly), and I have almost puked during sex.

As I'm sure you are inferring, my life is essentially one huge embarrassing moment. I am a perfect example for why you should never be too lazy to get a condom.

This tale I'm about to tell is more of what I would call humiliating rather than embarrassing, and, unbelievably, it also involves my ex-boyfriend and a brown finger.

About a month ago, all of a sudden my precious boyfriend decided that he needed to be single. I got the "I need some time to think about us," accompanied with the old favorite "It's not you, it's me" line, which at least made me laugh during an otherwise grueling, boring conversation.

So, being me, and me being “comfortable” with "change," I picked up a pack of smokes for the first time in a year, grabbed a bottle of wine and got to work.

For days the only thing I ingested was nicotine, alcohol, and water. Solid food held no interest to me, and the only real side effects of this diet seemed to be weight loss, bad breath, and bad circulation. Yes, hold onto your fellas, ladies. You wouldn’t want them to see what they are missing.

However, it was my sister's birthday, and since I'm only 99% selfish, I took her to dinner, so we could talk about me and my situation more, and I consumed my first real solid food of the week.

The next day, I woke up feeling good. I had a slight cramp in my liver, but otherwise, I had moved past the "picturing myself in a music video" phase into the "I'm so strong look what I'm going to do with my life to prove my self worth to the world" movie montage phase.

Now at work, I had my morning coffee, and about ten minutes later, like clockwork, it was number 2 time. I used to have a pretty big issue pooping in public places, but then I single-handedly destroyed the ladies room at the Waldorf Astoria. They considered evacuating the entire hotel. So. I’m over it, I guess.

I’m always curious to see what comes out of me. Sometimes, I’m proud of the length or the width or the color, and other times I’m ashamed by my performance. *Shakes Head* “Could have done better.”

So that morning, I turned to rate my work before I flushed and *SCREAM.*

Everything in the toilet was red.

My heart started beating, my armpits started sweating, and I was swallowing uncontrollably.

I ran back to my desk, told my boss I was going to the clinic and flew out of the building across the street to the Medical Center.

I took a deep breath and walked into the clinic. I approached the front desk.

“Good morning,” I whispered.

“Hi, honey, what’s the problem?” the short little woman paper clipping files asked me.

In my head I said “My liver is bleeding out of my asshole and I’m going to die,” but aloud I whisper-stuttered “I-I-I-I went to the bathroom and there was blood in my stool.”

“Okay, honey,” she said. “Have a seat, I’ll get the Doctor.”

I sat down on the sterile blue-grey couch-chairs that they have in all Doctor’s offices, and in my head began delegating my belongings to my friends and family.

Just as I had decided who was going to get my state quarter collection, a woman who looks exactly like this appeared in the doorway. Not looking up from her clipboard, she called out my name. If I hadn’t thought I had anal cancer, I would have found this humorous because there really wasn’t a need to call as I was the only one in the waiting room at the time.

I followed her back to a typical examining room. At this point, she looks at my file and asks me what was wrong.

I repeated my issue, and without looking at me, she took off her glasses, sighed, rolled her eyes to the ceiling and said “Oh, God.”

I paused. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.

“Umm…” I was a bit bewildered.

“You probably have hemorrhoids,” she said matter-of-factly.

“But I’m going to have to perform a rectal exam to be certain. Are you giving me permission to give you a rectal exam?”

“Umm…” I wasn’t sure what to respond to, especially considering I think I’d rather have brain cancer than have this woman stick her finger up my ass. She continued:

“Listen, I don’t want to give you one either, but we have to check to make sure. I repeat: Are you giving me permission to give you a rectal examination?”

“Yes,” I squeaked.

“Okay.”

She got up and started opening cabinets, slamming them, opening drawers, slamming them.

“I don’t know where anything is in this place,” she muttered as she exited the room.

The Doctor’s bedside manner was probably not what got her hired. I hope it was her rectal exam proficiency.

She came back a few moments later with some drops and slides.

“My hands are shaking,” she said. “I hope they don’t shake when I’m inside of you.”

Pause.

“That’s comforting,” I said.

She sort of snorted which I suppose is how she expresses laughter.

“It’s because it’s so cold in here. Don’t worry, I’ve performed this procedure a million times. Lie down.” She slapped on her rubber gloves.

Now, I have had many colonics before, and I did go to college, so I’m not exactly new to things going up the exit ramp. However, there was something about having a finger rummaging around up there that made me…squeamish.

“Pull up your dress, she ordered.

What, no robe, I thought?

“Now, roll over on your side.”

Christ, in another situation, I might enjoy this.

“I’m just looking right now, and I don’t see any hemorrhoids.”

Good to know.

“But they could be internal.”

Great.

“Now, take a deep breath, and, don’t worry, my fingers are small.”

As I stared at the stark-white walls, I felt a little intruder moving back and forth.

After a few moments, it was over.

She presented her gloved finger to me, (sort of how my ex had) and said,

“Looks brown.”

(Sort of how my ex had).

She then proceeded to do a little test with the drops and the slides.

“Yes, there is no blood…maybe it’s NOT hemorrhoids.”

Wow. Did you get your Medical Degree from Toys R US?

“Well….then what could it be???” I asked.

“Do you have your period?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure the toilet was red?”

“YES.”

“Did you eat anything strange yesterday? Perhaps something that had food coloring?”

I wracked my brain while having the mild thought that these were all questions that could have been asked before the rectal exam.

All of a sudden, something dawned on me.

The night I had taken out my sister, I had eaten an enormous beet salad.

“BEETS!” I squealed.

“Beets?”

“Yes, BEETS!”

She gave me a disgusted look, and sighed heavily.

“That’s probably it, then. Come back if your problem persists.”

I did a fist pump and practically cha-cha’ed out the door I was so relieved.

Now, yes, the experience itself was a tad humiliating, but the truly humiliating part came when I decided to share this story with the guy I was about to get under to get over my ex.

He laughed, but I noted that we didn’t do it doggy-style that night. Hmmm.

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