Category Archives: Issues. We All Have Issues.
If you follow me on twitter (you all follow me on twitter, right?) you probably saw a lot of this fly by over the weekend, but I thought I would post a wrap up and give a shout out to a couple of my favorite things.
They are like Oprah’s favorite things, but generally with more strippers and booze. Which just so happens to be a couple of Portland’s favorite things, which is why we get along so splendidly.
And it’s not JUST a random stripper fest. This was a trip to celebrate our 15th anniversary, which we were told is the Crystal year. So, we had to go look for her. But we kept forgetting to ask their names. Which is pretty much means we just travelled around Portland breaking $20′s for $1′s and distributing them to all the pretty girls.
We did our best. I apologize if you did not get yours.
Or, if you got yours and you have no idea why some drunk chick stumbled up and stuck a dollar in your back pocket. That was why. She thought you were pretty.
Quick question here.
So, we are sitting down to dinner, and Monkey takes off down the hall towards the bathroom and insists one of us come along. The Mr goes with, leaving me to eat in peace.
The Mr is instructed by his 4yo dictator to wait outside the bathroom because he needs privacy.
Because those who can’t give, demand.
And soon I hear the adorable command of “WIPE MY BUTT” coming down the hall…. mutter mutter mutter… handwashing.
Apparently, the Mr decided to take this time to also use the facilities because the next thing I hear is “Wow! That’s a big pee-pee! Can I touch it?”
I know this is a fairly common situation. My Mr heard pretty much the same conversation once in a public bathroom stall. We had a good laugh over that.
We are not laughing now.
We aren’t really ones to celebrate traditional Valentines day. In fact I think we are going on double digits since the Mr bought me chocolates or anything else for Valentines Day. Going out is always a pain, more so when you toss in a bunch of couples with unrealistic expectations for the evening, so we tend to stay in, have a nice dinner together, a glass of wine and snuggle with our computers (and sometimes with each other) in front of the TV.
So romantic! I know!
Steak and a Blowjob is a holiday named after a food so I obviously have to play along. Especially since the Mr is rarely, if ever home for dinner these days and he, through a fluke of home improvement, was working from home.
And? I love steak.
The neighbor kids were going to be over for dinner and movie night while their parents packed for a trip to visit family, but I saw no reason this would be a problem. Usually it’s easier to deal with the three of them while I cook dinner, then just Monkey, because if Monkey is alone…. he’s booooooored.
I’m have certainly never been one to search out a discreet vibrator. I have explained the uses of more then my fair share of sex toys and bondage equipment to airport security personal.
In fact, I have opened my suitcase and had my rabbit pop out in more then my fair share of airports, shocking more then my fair share of fellow travelers.
It’s hard to be shy about these things when you just aren’t… smooth. I have a mad crazy skill for humiliating myself in public.
Flirting with my ungodly hot contortion instructor and went to pull up my yoga pants. Gave myself a g-string wedgie instead. #SexyFail
— Mona Darling (@DeadCowGirl) March 9, 2013
Notice that five of my “friends” liked the fact that I just gave myself a nearly fatal wedgie. I have the best friends!
But I digress.
I made the announcement on twitter that I was going to change my URL to something a little less… weird, and the response was so very sweet. You all seem to like my weird nickname. You said it was personal, quirky, fun and, memorable. As it turns out, you are all as weird as me.
And I love you for it!
Plus, the name is about reclaiming a horrible childhood nickname. I want to be the person who reacts and forms myself, not the person who is created under duress. Reclaiming that name reminds me that I am my reaction. Not someone else’s judgement or prejudice. Dead Cow Girl was my nickname for much of the 3rd grade. I hated it and everyone who said it. I cried a lot that year feeling I would never fit in. Now I know that fitting in is over rated. Plus, I have found my tribe of freaks, both here on line, and in real life.
One of the things I miss most when going gluten free is fried foods. How, dear lord, is a girl supposed to make it through PMSville without fried foods? We can not live on chocolate alone.
So yesterday, while standing in the door of the fridge, staring in and wondering what to cook for dinner, I spotted a tub of cheese that was nearing the end of it’s usability. You know what’s better then fried chicken? Fried cheese.
So I pulled some chicken breasts out of the freezer to defrost in some warm water in the sink just like every one tells you not to.
I mixed some milk, an egg and and two large spoonfuls of mustard in a large pan.
Then I pulled Monkey off the kitchen counter where he was certain he could cut up an apple for a snack since I was busy. And actually, I didn’t say I was busy. I said NO. I’m fixing dinner.
The dungeon is like a confessional. My clients place the same level of confidence in me as they place in their doctors or their priests. While I never want to betray that trust, I want to share their experiences to help others understand the drives and desires behind kink, and that many people, he, she or ze, have those desires.
Dead Cow Girl was supposed to be a sand box in which I could play and practice my writing. It was supposed to be an outlet to process my feeling about a horrible dental experience I was going through, my impending IVF cycle as well as my clients, and the weirdness that is a monogamous Martha Stewart wanna be housewife who is also a Dominatrix. I also just wanted an excuse to write more. My friends have always told me I should write more. Although that may have just been a polite way of asking me to shut up.
In the three weeks since I went gluten free my body has gone through some striking changes. First? I lost five pounds in a shockingly short period of time, in part because I was unable to snack on all the things I usually snacked on. Then I remembered that cheese and bacon are gluten free and gained most of it back.
But even after gaining most of it back, my waist was noticeably smaller. The bloat I have just always assumed everyone got as the day progressed is gone. Turns out, not everyone has a tummy ache by dinner time and not everyone goes to bed with a sexy bloaty belly.
Who knew?! Certainly not me!
So yes. Suddenly, my boobs look bigger.
Also? Who actually losses weight over the holidays?
Then there has been the increased energy. Morning is no longer a struggle and the afternoon sleepies are noticeably less intense.
My main question is, how did I not figure this out for so long? I’m forty*coughcoughcough* years old for fucks sake.
I went to the mall today. December 20th. It was hell, but not for any of the reasons you think.
I’m not really a mall person, but go occasionally because they have all the things a girl needs, like The Lego Store, The Apple Store, A giant Sephora, Fredrick’s of Hollywood and, for todays trip down the rabbit hole, a sprawling Victoria’s Secret. The Mall in December? That would usually be a Hell No. All that shit is available on line where I can shop in my underwear with a drink in one hand.
But unfortunately I had procrastinated myself into a corner. A client had brought me several bra’s from Vickey’s and had grossly miss-underestimated The Ladies needs. Today was about the last day I could exchange them with a straight face.
I use my iPhone for baby distracting while I shop. I admit it. I have spent much time and many dollars ensuring that he has access to the best educational apps, and he quickly scrolls passed them to launch youtube and watch Russian Tractor Videos.
It is with a heavy heart that I must tell you, that gluten and I are breaking up. I should have seen the signs ages ago, but, like any girl who finds kneeling bread and rolling out noodles therapeutic, I ignored the signs. Surely, everyone has daily upset tummies and who needs to poop more then a couple times a week? Bloating can be sexy. Right?! And…
Wait. What was I saying?
Oh yeah, a bad memory can be sort of fun. It’s like LOOK! Everyday can be Easter!
Now where’s my phone? And my keys? And my phone?
Realistically, we are just taking a break. I think we will get together for a therapeutic croissant the beginning of February and see if we can work things out, and I foresee a little late night breakup n(c)ookie over the holidays.
Truthfully though, I feel like gluten has been trying to tell me something for years, and I, like a bunny boiling stalker have just not taken the hint.