Forget Grilled Cheese Jesus, Behold Shower Penis

You will not believe what happened to me tonight. I was taking a shower and stuck some loose hair on the shower wall like girls tend to do, and when I was rinsing out my conditioner I glanced over and saw this:

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IT’S A FREAKING SHOWER PENIS!

It must be a phallic message from a powerful penile spirit.

I swear to penis this is exactly what I saw. For once, I can honestly say, I did not manipulate this penis in any way.

This is so much better than Jesus in a sandwich, or Elvis in a piece of wood, or Mary in a dog’s butt.

I was going to wash it away, but what if people want to come test its authenticity, or line up to take pictures with Shower Penis?

I was so excited that I dragged Calm-ass Husband out of bed to see it. He isn’t nearly as amused by it as I am.

I just wish I knew what it was trying to tell me. What does it mean???

Update:

As quickly as it came, Shower Penis went. By my shower this morning, all that remains is the tip. Just the tip.

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Shower Penis stays around long enough to inspire, but not be taken for granted.

How to Be Super Creepy with Your Doctor, Courtesy of Calm-Ass Husband

A lag in writing has been mostly due to my being ill. Like, SICK. Luckily, I’m feeling much better, but as if my body didn’t make it clear enough to me that it’s pissed off, I finished my illness off with a UTI.

Those of you who are longtime readers of my blog, in addition to clearly being raging perverts, probably remember that I am prone to UTIs. The last major one that I had ended up with Calm-ass Husband rushing me to the emergency room because it progressed so fast and furious that it turned into a kidney infection. That was when I had morphine for the first time, and immediately began a stream of verbal diarrhea that trumps any kind I’ve had after too many glasses of wine. It began with essentially hitting on my nurse (in my defense, she was insanely hot), and ended with mortifying Calm-ass Husband, who was then Calm-ass Boyfriend, in front of the doctor.

The doctor told Calm-ass Boyfriend that I had a urinary tract infection and began to list the reasons why I might have one, when I piped up,“It’s because we only see each other on the weekends and so we don’t get to do it during the week, so when he visits me we have a lot, a lot, a lot of sex. Like…a LOT.”

I’ve only seen CAH freeze with a smile on his face like that one other time, which was the first time he accompanied me to Colorado to visit my mom. She’d end up informing us that coconut oil is a fantastic natural lube. To her credit, she is totally right.

Sadly, this UTI is not bad enough to warrant more of the magical truth serum that removes the flimsy filter I have shoddily duct taped between my brain and my mouth. It did warrant my doctor stressing absolutely no sex until after my antibiotics are done. He said other things too, that were probably more important, but that is what I zeroed in on. I IM’d CAH as soon as I got off the phone.

Me: Bad news, no sex til after I’m done with my antibiotics.
CAH: Who said that??
Me: The doctor
CAH: Well….did he say what he defines as sex???
Me: Uh, no, and I didn’t ask
CAH: WHY NOT?

“Hey doc, when you say “no sex,” what do you define as sex? Are we talking p in the v specifically – or does hand and mouth stuff count, too?”

To be fair, it IS San Francisco, I’m sure he’s been asked worse.

How Not to Be a Jackass Maid of Honor or Bridesmaid

I don’t talk weddings often, God knows there’s plenty of stuff out there about weddings. I did post the review of my wedding photographer that I wasn’t allowed to put on Yelp, as well as the spoiler alert on life after your wedding. Hell, one time I even took a serious turn (shudder), and wrote my 5 Things Every New Husband Should Know article. I was on my 4th glass of merlot when that hit, I promise I won’t get serious too often.

But I feel compelled to talk about Maid of Honors and bridesmaids because my lovely Maid of Honor was recently featured in Brides.com’s article Maid of Honor Horror Stories; my story is the first one from “Sandra,” they changed my name. I honestly didn’t care if they used both of our real names, but Brides.com is clearly more classy than I.

Unfortunately, these types of stories are way too common. It’s the bride’s big day, and it is overshadowed by some narcissistic asshole Maid of Honor or bridesmaid (or sometimes even mother of the bride/groom) who seems to forget that the day is in no way about her. At all. No matter what. Ever.

So here it is ladies, how not to be a jackass Maid of Honor or Bridesmaid on her wedding day:

1. The word “I” (or any possessive noun) should not leave your mouth, unless “you” is a few words behind it, and the in-between words are positive. Example:

Do: I am so happy that you are finally having your beautiful day.
Don’t: I hooked up with your fiance’s father last night, so things are going to be super awkward today. Just an FYI.

2. No matter what’s going on that day, all the bride needs to be informed of are pertinent, positive things related to getting her down the aisle. I don’t care if you woke up the morning of the wedding and found out that your boyfriend was murdered by a gang of Nazi ninjas. In that scenario, you have two options:

a. Woman up, shut up, and carry on with the day as if everything is fine. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, utter a word about finding your boyfriend laying in bed with a katana still sticking out of his chest to the bride. She does not need to hear anything about it until she gets back from her honeymoon.

b. If you can’t carry on with the day as if everything is fine (and seriously, the only scenario where that is even acceptable is one comparable to finding your impaled boyfriend in bed), you quietly take aside the Maid of Honor, another bridesmaid, the mother of the bride, or the wedding planner, let them know that you have to deal with your murdered boyfriend and cannot pull yourself together, and then decide on the best course of action. DO NOT burden the bride with your drama, it is her day and she doesn’t need to deal with your shit. Period.

3. Don’t be a jealous dick. Don’t let your jealousy over wanting your own big day get in the way of her big day. Know that your day is coming, maybe, if you learn how to not act like a selfish dick. Even then, your big day is coming, but chances are good that you will marry another dick, like yourself. Dick begets dick. So make everyone happy and just stop being a dick.

4. Be nice to the rest of the wedding party, no matter how much you dislike/are annoyed by/are sick of any of them. My MOH had to be separated from one of my bridesmaids because she was being a downright bitch to her. And my bridesmaid, who any other day of the week would have told my MOH exactly where she could stick her bitchy comments, politely mentioned it to my mom, who wisely devised a way to keep the two separate. But seriously? Are we in fucking kindergarten? Be an adult, you classless asshole.

5. Know that, no matter how much you are making the day about yourself and pissing off the bride, she’s probably not going to tell you, so don’t take her silence, or her humoring you, as a sign that what you’re doing is OK. My MOH had managed to piss off most of my wedding party by about 11am on the day of my wedding. I didn’t say a word to her, not because I was ok with it, but because the last thing I wanted on such a busy day was to get into an argument. Most brides will let it go for the sake of not having a big conflict on their big day, but know that in their head, they’re secretly stabbing you. Repeatedly.

6. When all else fails, do not let any other phrases, but the following, escape your mouth for the entire day:

  • Oh my God, you look stunning.
  • I am so happy to see you so happy.
  • Can I get you anything at all?
  • Do you need me to hold your dress while you pee?
  • Thank you for inviting me to be such a big part of your day, I am so blessed to have you in my life.

Note: should you find yourself even THINKING about doing any of the above things I told you not to do, you should consider the fact that you are, in fact, a drama queen. Work on that shit. No one likes a drama queen. You ladies are exhausting.

Ladies, it’s not that difficult. Really, it can all be summed up with this:

This day is not about you.

Don’t be the jackass that the rest of the wedding party holds up as an example of what not to do for the rest of their lives.

How Not to Be a Jackass Maid of Honor or Bridesmaid

My Fear of Toilets, Toilet Snakes, and Porta Potty Perverts

I don’t remember a specific time that I didn’t have a small, underlying, perpetual fear of the toilet, but I know that there must have been one. After all, most of us had a period of time as small children where we were naive to all of the ill-fated things that could happen in the world.

Such as snakes in the toilet.

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I don’t remember exactly when this fear began. The fear that I would sit down to pee and a snake would launch out of the toilet and bite my hoo-ha or, worse, slither right into it.

That might sound strange to men, or even some women who apparently have no fear about foreign objects entering their vagina. They’re probably pretty whore-ish and so have absolutely no sense of boundaries when it comes to vaginal intruders. I, on the other hand, do not like foreign objects in my vagina, especially when unexpectedly thrust into it while I’m just having an innocent pee.

To prove that my fear is not unfounded, I even did some research, which produced terrifying results. But Calmass Husband was unsympathetic.

Me: I just googled “snakes in toilet” and looked at images. Long story short, I’m going to have to start peeing elsewhere
CAH: We don’t live in the south where snakes swim
Me: I think they could swim anywhere
CAH: … we don’t have swimming snakes here
Me: prove it
CAH: I can’t
Me: exactly
CAH: :\
Me: I think it’s easy for you to be so cavalier about such things when you don’t have to live in fear of being violated every time you sit on the toilet. Plus, you men get to pee standing up, and it’s not like snakes are salmon who swim upstream.

How nice it must be to be a man and just whiz willy-nilly into the toilet, without giving a second thought to unwanted snakes in your penis.

As for me, I can’t remember the last time I sat on a toilet without a little fear in the back of my mind, and the need to peer into the toilet, mid-stream, to make sure that nothing reptilian was lurking below the surface.

And keep in mind, I don’t even have a fear of snakes in general. I actually quite like snakes and think they are often misunderstood and inappropriately villainized. I do, however, have a problem with them swimming up into my toilet, and potentially my vagina.

As of this writing, I found at least TWO incidences of people, one man and one woman, getting bit by a snake in the toilet. There could have been more, but I couldn’t bring myself to scroll any further down Google. The fact that it has happened to at least two people is enough for me, because it means that it is possible that I’ll be the third.

I discovered on my honeymoon that this fear is not specific to snakes.

We found a nice hotel in which to stay on the last night of our honeymoon that was fairly new and aiming to impress its guests. Not 5 minutes after we entered our room, we heard a knock on our hotel room door and found that the front desk, to whom we mentioned it was our honeymoon, sent us a complimentary bottle of champagne. Seriously, if you mention to people that you’re on your honeymoon, you get all kinds of free crap. Try it.

We were pretty tired by the time we arrived at our hotel, so off went our clothes, uncorked went the champagne, and on went the TV. It just so happened there was a marathon of the show “Ghost Hunters,” and so we hunkered in to watch a couple of men, who were probably past their prime in terms of starting a legitimate acting career, chase ghosts around allegedly haunted buildings. CAH and I snarkily made fun of these ridiculous men wasting their time chasing ghosts, and found the seriousness with which they took their missions hilarious.

A few hours of Ghost Hunters, and a half a bottle of champagne later, I had to pee. As I slid off the bed and headed into our hotel room bathroom, a thought began to creep into my mind, “What if a ghost is in the toilet??”. I quickly laughed off the idea as having had too much champagne and sat down. I couldn’t go.

Was the idea so silly? The episode of Ghost Hunters we’d just finished watching showed the hosts trying to chase down a little girl ghost, which we all know are the creepiest ghosts of all. Surely a little girl ghost could quietly hide in a toilet bowl with no trouble at all. What if I sat down to pee and she poked her little girl ghost fingers right into my lady business? Or worse, her tiny hands were probably nimble enough to full-on vagina punch me!

I sat there, frozen in fear at the thought of a tiny little fist furiously punching my vagina and feeling fairly certain that statutory rape laws would prevail since I was the adult and, even though there is little I could to stop a mad little girl ghost, I should have known better than to laugh at the idea that she existed in the first place, thus angering her to the point of hiding in a toilet and waiting for the complimentary champagne to overtake my bladder.

I must have stood up and sat back down at least a dozen times as I went back and forth between “This is ridiculous, there is no such thing as angry fisting little girl ghosts” and the fear of feeling that tiny cold fist violating my lady bits. I didn’t know where her little ghost hands had been and, let’s be honest, kids NEVER wash their hands.

I briefly thought about calling my new husband into the bathroom because I thought I might feel better if someone was in there with me, but I didn’t want to let my crazy peak out so early on in our marriage.

I carefully laid towels down in front of the toilet in anticipation for the possibility of having to bolt off the toilet and run away mid-stream (it wouldn’t be fair for housekeeping to have to clean up my pee stream) and half-squatted over the toilet so I could watch for a tiny girl ghost while I peed.

Thankfully, I was able to complete my pee into the toilet without any signs of a ghost.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t long after that several stories surfaced about men being caught inside of port-a-potties, spying on women as they did their business.

Yes. Men like to watch women do their business in a port-a-potty and have no issue with standing in a huge hole of waste to do it.

For me, it was yet another toilet intruder to worry about. Granted, I don’t pee in port-a-potties often, and even when port-a-potties are all that is available, I will try to hold it if I can. I take serious issue with the fact that port-a-potties are nothing but huge shit holes, disguised as bathrooms.

So I’ve done a fairly admirable job of avoiding port-a-potties, but sometimes, you have got to go and there are no other options. Recently, when my husband surprised me with a road trip to go wine tasting, I had to make that awful choice.

We stopped off in the middle of nowhere because CAH had heard of this little Mom and Pop shop that allegedly sold the best beef jerky in the world. I was thankful because the Venti Iced Latte I sucked down at the start of the trip had my bladder in a death grip. I followed my husband into the store and asked the burly woman behind the counter where the bathroom was.

“Outside” she answered in a husky voice, pointing outside as if I would somehow be confused as to where outside was, relative to where we were standing inside. My stomach dropped. I had to pee, badly, but something told me that port-a-potties in the middle of Deliverance Town would be a house of horrors, best-case-scenario. My ever-cheerful husband cheerfully told me he’d be out after he bought the beef jerky because he also had to go.

Of course he was cheerful, he could just saunter into the port-a-potty like the King of the Jungle, and pee standing up without worry of a creeper dude appearing out of nowhere. He had the advantage of standing and always being aware of the depths below.

I slowly and timidly walked out to the port-a-potties, and entered the first one.

I immediately noticed the plastic paper toilet-cover dispenser, on which some comedic individual had carved “Obama’s Policies”, which only served to confirm my suspicion that I was amongst the type of people who would wait for unsuspecting women in port-a-potties. Not because they hated Obama, but because they felt a port-a-potty was the most effective forum to ensure that their political views were heard.

I took a deep breath and began to pull down my pants. I heard CAH cheerfully enter the port-a-potty next to mine and manage to pee and exit the port-a-potty before I even had the nerve to gingerly squat over the toilet. I took another breath and slowly squatted over, silently praying that I could pee quickly, and that it wasn’t the kind that started strong and, just when you think it’s about to end, is drawn out for an extra 30 seconds with the tiniest trickle of a stream. Those are the WORST for avoiding port-a-potty creeps.

As I began to relieve myself, CAH, now standing right outside the port-a-potty, began talking to me:

“Awwwwww honey, there’s cows out here! They’re coming right up to the gate!” he said, oblivious to the fact that his wife was potentially squatting over the face of a pervert.

He continued,

“Babe! One is eating right from my hand! You’ve got to see this!” he exclaimed, as if I was taking so long in the port-a-potty because I was enjoying myself in there.

I finished up and walked outside, where CAH turned to me with a sweet, blissful look on his face, obviously unaware that I had narrowly escaped the potential of giving an unintended golden shower to some political port-a-pottie graffiti vandal. I decided he was totally selfish for not standing outside, readying himself to rush in and defend my honor should I let out a terrified squeal at spying a face staring back up at me from inside the potty.

It was then that I realized the fact that, when it comes to the dangers of having a vagina and needing to use a toilet, chivalry is dead.

Happy National Fetish Day!

I just found out that it is National Fetish Day, what???? I don’t have time to bang out an article this morning (hee hee, pun intended) so I thought I’d reprint one of my most popular posts: 5 Things I Learned While Reading Victorian Porn. Not quite a fetish, but I’m unfortunately pretty boring so don’t have anything resembling an actual fetish. Unless cheese counts.

5 Things I Learned While Reading Victorian Porn

Why am I looking at Victorian porn, you ask? Perfectly reasonable question.

victorian porn

Well, aside from my curiosity over the assertion of others that women used to have pubic hair, I’ve been quietly writing a book. The book is a historical fiction, and even though it is fiction, it is still historical. Therefore, the book should probably be somewhat accurate so that when it gets published and becomes wildly successful, the history snobs can’t sit there and be like, “Well Worthington (historical snob name), she would have a perfectly fine book on her hands were it not for the fact that she described the house’s study as having a copy of Emile Gallé’s Écrits Pour l’art 1884-89, which is preposterous since her story takes place in 1907, and we know that Galle’s book was not published until 1908.” And then Worthington would be like, “Mmmmm, quite right Alexander. Perhaps in her next book she will claim the lady of the house was using a tea bag in 1902.”

Fucking Worthington and Alexander. Judgemental bastards.

Because there are seedy elements in this book, I am doing major research on the seedy life of the Victorian era. Those were some kinky mo fos.

Thanks vintagelovelies.com!

Thanks vintagelovelies.com!

I won’t even touch the rampant incest that is lacing Victorian porn, but I will say that incest was seriously no big deal. I guess the sex-pool was scant back then? I don’t know – that is a question for Worthington and Alexander – but there were a lot of siblings getting busy.

Ew.

victorian porn

But brother-lovin’ aside, here are five things I learned while reading a lot of Victorian porn:

1. They were really into hair. Like, not just in the normal spots it grows, but a girl with hairy nipples, or hair on her back, was considered a serious sex pot. The hairier, the merrier.

2. Casual sex often meant addressing the person formally, like, “Oh Mrs. Rose, do let me kiss your thighs.” I find it charming – when did booty calls become so informal?

3. Instead of turning out the lights, they shut off the gas. Of course, naughty Victorian girls left the gas on.

4. They often referred to the man’s penis as “the little gentleman.” How cute is that? It makes me picture a dignified penis, wearing a top hat and a monocle. I’m kind of thinking of renaming CAH’s to “the little gentleman.” I’m not sure if he will be up for that. He is definitely not up for the tiny top hat and monocle. I already asked.

5. The vagina is referred to as “Lady Jane.” Some may know this euphemism from the book Lady Chatterly’s Lover, but turns out that D.H. Lawrence was not the originator of this formal style of vaginal address. Of course, I do not know if “Lady Jane” was used across all classes. Lower class women’s vaginas were probably called, “Mrs. Jane,” like how servants were addressed. Or if it were an unmarried vagina, “Miss Jane.” Of course, it would have been “Ms. Jane” if it was a progressive vagina.

“But referring to a vagina as ‘Ms.’ does not denote a feminist vagina. The term Ms. was actually first proposed in 1901 to save people embarassment from improperly addressing a woman whose marital status was unknown.”

Shut up, Worthington.

victorian porn

A Public Service Announcement for Parents

Parents: we need to have a quick chat.

Look, we get that you love your kids. Really, we do. That’s why we read your umpteen updates on Facebook that alert us to your daily agendas, which include ballet lessons, karate lessons, bible school, and that “healthy” dinner of Hamburger Helper made with light sour cream.

And we love your kids because we love you. So, we’re kind of obligated.

Know that, despite our not being inclined towards kids, hearing your story about them FINALLY having a firm bowel movement after a week of diarrhea, or that their first words was “This,” even though we’re pretty sure that you just heard one of their gibberish words and glommed on to whatever word it most sounded like, there are limits.

So we ask you, a quid pro quo. We will continue to listen to your endless tales about the size of the corn kernels in their crap, if you understand a few things on our end:

1. Your kid’s growth percentile: First of all, we don’t give a shit that you have a fat baby. You may not realize this, but like, literally all kids that we hear about are above the 80% growth percentage, and you’re not somehow fooling us into thinking that you have this unusual baby who’s showing early signs of a competitive edge. To be clear, that doesn’t mean that all kids are above your kid’s percentile, it means that we are apparently not friends with deadbeats who starve their kids. And it seems that stupid percentile chart don’t mean much anyways.

2. If you want us to be even slightly interested in your kid’s progress, stop giving us your kid’s age in months after the first year. We do not care enough about your baby to do math in our heads. Especially if we’ve been drinking. Which, in order to listen to an hour-long discussion on baby poop, we probably have been.

3. EVERYONE’S FUCKING KID IS WEARING A BIGGER SIZE THAN DESIGNATED ON THE CLOTHING LABEL. Can we agree that, like, every 3 month old is probably wearing clothing for a 6 month old? And seriously, how fucked up is it that we place such value on fat babies, and stick thin teens/young adults. Warped.

4. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT, start a sentence with, “Tell Jess about your trip to the __________________”. End it with whichever trip you’d like: zoo, park, San Diego, France, a bukkake house. I have several friends who tell their kids, “Tell Jess about your trip to the zoo.” and then I have to sit there while their kid, who is barely fluent in our language, takes 15 minutes to tell me about a trip to an establishment with which I disagree anyways. Put it this way: I give more of a shit about the welfare of those caged polar bears than your kid and his misguided learnings about how it is perfectly ok to make a mockery of wild animals who are being forced to live in a fake habitat for human amusement. Do not make us sit through your kid’s shitty, garbled, grammatically incorrect stories about trips and adventures.

We all know that, with the fact that he’s in the 90th percentile and wearing clothing for kids 6 months his senior, he’s destined for a sad future on “The Biggest Loser” anyways. Let’s not operate under the pretense that he’s remotely interesting.

I Got a New Muff and Gave My Husband Herpes, How Were Your Holidays?

I was all prepared to come back from my winter holidays to talk about the amazing little gem dropped on us while we were all celebrating:

Kim Jong Un threatened “merciless war” on South Korea by a fucking fax. Which, on one hand, is hilarious because I picture him typing it out on a 6-year-old Dell computer, on which he’s still making reasonable monthly payments of $120/month. He probably used Microsoft Office, and was even kind enough to use a cover page.

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Kim Jong Un’s Weapon of Mass Destruction: Clippy

But on the other hand, it is INFURIATING. Aren’t these the same guys who claim to have unicorns? If you have unicorns, why the fuck are you sending faxes? Strap one of those winged-bitches up with a majestic scroll, and point his horn south-ward. I’ve never had anyone wage war on me before, but I can guarantee that if I were put on notice by a majestic unicorn, I’d take it a hell of a lot more seriously than a fax.

Alas, I can not rail on our favorite tiny little Korean fella quite as much as I was hoping, because so much happened during my holidays, that I felt these little gems deserved just as much as attention. Here are my top 3 moments from my winter holidays:

3. I took alcoholism to its classiest level yet: I got a drinking muff. A drinking muff is just a regular muff, but I have a flask hidden in it (shhhh). Not to be outdone, Calm-Ass Husband turned his jacket into a “beer jacket.”

faux fur muff

Don’t worry, the muff is faux!

We went and looked at Christmas lights, and it was our best Christmas light trip, yet. Look how drunk happy we look!

Facetune

2. I started a new pilates class, and dropped it the same day:

First of all, let’s get this out of the way right now: I don’t say the “f” word. No, not “fuck.” If you’ve read literally any other article I’ve written, you know I dole out f-bombs like little positive reinforcement treats to keep you all coming back. I don’t say the “f” word as pertains to breaking wind, passing gas, etc. I don’t care if others say it, I just don’t. In fact, it’s become a big joke among my friends and family as they all try to get me to slip and say it. My big plan is, on my death bed, to make it my last word. Actually, I will just whisper out a faint, “Faaaaa….” and then die right in the middle. Kind of like the last episode of Sopranos. Those surrounding my death bed will think they’re finally going to hear me say it, then be frustrated forever more, using all their spare time to rant about it in chat rooms and online forums.

So I started a new pilates class, and I ended up with an elderly woman, who apparently had a serious case of gas, right above my head when we were on the mat. I’m not talking little slips here and there; it got fucking awkward. And silent in the class. I seriously began to worry that she crapped herself. And I was trying not to vomit. And the entire time, I just kept subtly slipping further and further down my mat in an attempt to escape the immediate area, without being obvious. I’ve drawn a stick-figure recreation of how I looked by the end of the class:

It's like my mat was my pillow. I wish it were a force field :(

It’s like my mat was my pillow. I wish it were a force field :(

But that isn’t even why I dropped the class. Do you know who was in that class? FUCKING CUNT FUNGUS, YOU GUYS! What are the chances? Of all the pilates classes in all the town, she had to fester her way into mine. By the time I walked out of the class, I was pissed off, sore, and in desperate need of shower to wash away what I was certain was an invisible field of stranger-gas, surrounding me like Pig-pen’s dirt clouds in the Peanuts cartoons.

Needless to say, I dropped that class.

1. I gave Calm-Ass Husband Herpes :-/

Well, probably not. I am already on his shit list for giving him MRSA a few years ago. For those of you who don’t know, MRSA, per WebMD, is:

“Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA) is a bacterium that causes infections in different parts of the body. It’s tougher to treat than most strains of staphylococcus aureus — or staph — because it’s resistant to some commonly used antibiotics. Those who are infected will get cancer and die.*”

* Ok, I made up that last line. But, I mean….WebMD, right? It’s always all “cancer and death” with those guys.

So I got him a mean case of MRSA when I pestered him to come get a pedicure with me and those fucking nail salon bitches didn’t properly clean out the foot bath. I’d been going to that salon for 5 years. The one day I bring my husband, then boyfriend, for a pedicure, he gets MRSA. So my track record was already bad.

Well, for New Year’s Eve, we got invited to a 70s-themed party, and I insisted he dress up. Like the pedicure situation, he wasn’t thrilled with the idea. Like the pedicure situation, I persisted. And like every “guy hoping to get some action later” situation, he finally gave in to me. So off to Goodwill we went, and we got him some totally groovy corduroy pants, and a bitchin’ button-down. And all was right in the world.

Lookin' groovy, baby

Lookin’ groovy, baby (again, the fur is faux)

Until a few hours later, while at the party, CAH randomly reached into his pocket and pulled out a little blue pill. No…not that little blue pill.

valtrex

A pill for herpes. My husband was wearing herps pants. By the way, how ironic is it that both the pill to get an erection, and the pill to treat a disease obtained by your erection, are little blue pills? Very funny, Big Pharma.

I saw a panic wash over his face unlike any panic I’ve seen on his face before. Actually, I’ve only seen it one time before. It was April Fool’s Day in 2012, and I told him that I changed my mind about having kids, and I wanted to get started right away. Hahaha.

Luckily, he was wearing underpants. And I’m pretty sure you can’t get herpes from pants. Otherwise, think of all the herpes that would be rampant in junior high from the sheer volume of dry humping (do kids in junior high still dry hump?). And he still got action, because his herpes are my herpes. And that’s love.

I am working on a holiday song for him. Something like,

“Last Christmas, I gave you MRSA,
and the very next day, antibiotics made it go away.
This year, to save me the tears,
I’ll give you something more infectious.”

Eh, I’m still working on it. I hope you all had a great holiday season!