Now We Are Two

Babygirl has hit the terrible twos, finally, after months of actually being two. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she just now got moved into the two-year-old class at daycare. She's come into her own.

She spent a thirty-minute car ride last night alternately singing, "The driber on bus MOOB ON BACK! MOOB ON BACK! MOOB ON BACK! Driber on bus MOOB ON BACK! All fwoo toooooown!" and yelling at me, "DON'T TALK TO ME, MAMA!" To which I responded with a very motherly, "I didn't want to talk to you anyway!"

I swear, our mother-daughter relationship warms the heart...

Revolting Picture Ahead Alert!

I adore rollerskating. Even when my knee pad slips upon impact after I get sent to the floor by an opposing blocker.



Even when I pull down my knee sock after coming off the rink to discover that the skin that was formerly attached to my knee is now attached to the inside of my sock.

Good times, people. Good times.

It's Nice to Know the Bits Are All in Order

I went for my annual cootchie checkup this morning. You'll all be relieved to know that Dirty Girl's ownpersonalcootchie is alive and kicking. Well, not literally. I mean, what a fucking terrifying image!

I didn't see my normal gynecologist (which was too bad, because I had a question all ready for her about female ejaculation [aka "squirting"]) - instead, I saw the "other" gynecologist who was the one to deliver Baby Girl two years ago. Of course, she sees a lot of ladies' cookies in her line of work, so it wasn't a shocker to me that she didn't really seem to remember mine. In any case, she also looks like she's 12, so I didn't feel right about hitting her with a sexually subversive question, whether or not she'd been trained in Cootchie Doctor School to answer such queries.

Everyone who knew I was headed for this appointment this morning kept saying, "EEP! Sorry about that!" and I don't understand this. I would SO rather go to the LadyDoctor than to the dentist. I laugh in the face of a speculum, really. Assuming speculums (specula?) had faces.

Well, at least that's one thing off the to-do list for the year (picture Dirty Girl slapping her hands in the international gesture for self-satisfaction at a job well done).

Quarter to Four in the Morning, I Ain't Feeling Tired...

I know most people shower in the mornings. They need the shower to wake up. They like to think they are at their most presentable when they bathe immediately before seeing other people. They consider the shower a crucial component of their morning routine.

I'm a nighttime showerer. A nighttime bather in general, really. I mean, I have a limitless capacity to sit in a bathtub for hours, drinking martinis and reading. Occasionally, I go all out and bring my laptop in so I can watch movies while I take baths.

Obviously, all this doesn't work for a shower, but I still get scrubbing bubbly in the evenings...I could blame it on Roller Derby and say that honestly, after two hours on the rink, I would turn into one ginormous pimple if I didn't shower right after.

But the real reason is pure - well, if not vanity exactly, certainly a Narcissus-like trait.

I usually bring my iPod stereo dock into the bathroom with me (you know, to pass the time while I unsuccessfully attempt to make my hair look like something other than the insane yellow rat's nest it is), and when I get out of the shower, all smooth and wet and sleek, I feel sort of like a seal. A dancing seal.

I am a shitty dancer. But when I get out of the shower, anything seems possible. I usually only get halfway into jammies (putting on a pair of men's boxers) and I let my hair stay wet. And then I dance. Topless. In front of a mirror.



So it's not a Vegas showgirl moment for me, despite the on-display tits. Things...jiggle. I'm covered in bruises ranging from the size of a dime to the size of a bagel from roller derby and the occasional illicit encounter. I have a love/hate relationship with my nipples, more often on the hate side of the scale. My wet hair is undeniably electric canary yellow. But there's still a huge sense of satisfaction to be had from the freedom of admiring the stuff I do like - I like to watch my arms and shoulders and my back and occasionally, I get so pumped, I even have a rare spurt of affection for my little belly.

Really, I think if more women danced semi-nude on occasion just for theirownselves, they might go a long way towards fostering much-needed true body self-luv. Am I right?

Freaks Flock Together and Make All the B-Boys Scream

I've been going to the gym a lot more lately to both increase my endurance for Rollerderby and to tone my abs so that my bikini (only the second one I've ever owned in my life) isn't laughable.

Many of you who know me know that I have a strange relationship with the gym. I like working out, and I like checking myself out in the mirror. I also like when I notice other people checking me out, and frankly, I check other people out. For all that eyeballing, I don't want anyone to actually talk to me.

There's this one guy there who must be 100 years old who hits on me every time I'm there. Okay, so he's not 100, but he's got to be at least 54, and 54 is damn close to 100, am I right? This particular fellow is annoying largely because he always indicates that I should remove my earbuds (usually when I'm listening to The Coup and I'm in the middle of breaking the rap down in my head [I sound so GOOD when I rap in my mind]) to listen to him yammer while I'm trying to get my sweat on. Being frosty hasn't worked, ignoring him hasn't worked (he simply taps my arm to get my attention).

I have a friend who has begun to go to the gym with me, and while I'm happy about this for many, many reasons, one of the biggest is that he's helpful in keeping the riffraff away. The friend has Okay to Touch Dirty Girl priveleges, as well as an impressive command of very deliberate eye-rolling. This means that if someone (like Annoying 100-Year-Old) is trying to talk to me, one touch on the the back from my friend sends all kinds of confusing signals about my availability. Then I get the added bonus of openly laughing at eye-rolling immediately after.

If you think this is cruel of me, don't blame me. I recently got "Dangerous Liasons" via Netflix, and it might be bringing out my inner demons. Okay, so the inner demons might have already been "out" but I'm sure the charming horror that is John Malkovich as Vicomte Sébastien de Valmont isn't helping my niceness...

Sadly, You Can't See My Girly Bits

Photo (c) Ann T. Pathic

I'm fairly certain this occasion marked the beginning and end of my high-powered modelling career...

Smashin' Fashion

Okay, I don't have pictures yet. But I should say that the fashion show went swimmingly. I only had two dresses to model (some girls had 5 or 6), but neither was a dress I tried on in my fitting.

This wouldn't have necessarily been a problem except that one dress was completely see-through. It looked nice on the hanger - when I looked at it, I could see through both the front and the back of the dress to the back of the of the dressing room. When I put it on and showed one of my fellow rollergirls, she said, "Oh, it looks great! I really like the flowers on your panties!"

So I had to go out in direct sunlight and just let people look at my tits and my panties and, when I turned around, my ass. Good thing I have a cute heinie.

I'll share pictures when I have them. Hopefully, at least one will truly highlight my brief stint as a peep-show nudie girl...

It's Stanky Stuff

Babygirl has a stuffed monkey that used to be mine that I only found in a box a few days ago. Since she is obsessed with "Curious George," her head nearly exploded with the excitement of this stuffed animal. She promptly named him Dorj. Dorj has velcro hands you can use to clasp him around your neck so that you can carry him without using your hands (and you know, when you're a toddler, it's useful to have a monkey doll who hangs onto you, thereby leaving your hands free for important things like clinging to your mother's legs and begging to be picked up and held while she's cooking your dinner on a very hot stove). Dorj's felt eyes are also permanently closed and he has a satisfied grin on his face, making him look oddly postcoital for a stuffed monkey.

Last night, we had to drive around doing errands, and Babygirl brought Dorj along. I was listening to my music - and I'm a bad parent because I don't censor what I listen to when she's within earshot - and the Black-Eyed Peas "Smells Like Funk" came up on iPod shuffle. Now, this song is killer and nasty. It's seriously bumping. I have to give you the lyrics here so you know just how nasty it is:

Yeah, that's Funky (Funky)
Yeah, that's Funky (Funky)
Yeah, that's Funky (Funky)

If it smells like Funk it must be us
The Funk Funk full foul stinky it's stanky stuff
If it smells like Funk it must be us
The Funk Funk full foul stinky it's stanky stuff
If it smells like Funk it must be us
The Funk Funk full foul stinky it's stanky stuff
If it smells like Funk it must be us
Cause nobody's Funky as us, Cause we keep it Stinky (Stinky)
We keep it Stinky, (Stinky)
We keep it Stinky, (Stinky)
We keep it Stinky, (Stinky)
Stinky, Stinky, Stinky,

The Funk phenomenon, we Funk you on n' on
There's no need to hold your nose,
Cause this pong sing like a rouge

Big booty Funk, Toe jam Funk,
Underarm Funk, like you headlocking a Skunk'
Reeking like diseased athletes' feet,
The stench didn't come till after this beat
Smellin' like drawers no weezin no pause
Put your hand up on the speakers get smelly ass paws
You know we was coming before we entered the door
Cause you could smell the rhyme when we was walking down the hall
We bring the Funk worse then a wet dog
Stinkin' like fat ladies shittin' out Logs
We drop enough shit and keep them toilets clogged
Keep the people jumpin' like them Bullfrogs
The first one who smelt it ain't the one who dealt it
Black Eyed Peas keep the scent blind like delta
Funky like onions you fryin' (Sure is Funky) girl you ain't lyin'

Yo' you Funkin' with the Funk family
The non fabricated factual faculty'
We formulatin' up in a factory
Focusin' on the energy' of fluid flow free'
We flawless, everything is for free
We flourish and we flaunt our flavour freshly, huh'
Can you believe we flip the frequencies and
Freak MCs they leave all frantically but
Our intent is ought to be friendly but
They fightin' when we start the freestylin' frenzy
I conk up ya' flat till your girlfriend beef
Fillin all anatomy, bringin' me flattery, huh'
She'll be diggin' these rhymes that ease beats
Like cellulite lyrics so flabby
We bring the funk to your festivities
If you think something stank then it must be the Peas!

If it smells like Funk it must be us
The Funk Funk full foul stinky it's stanky stuff
If it smells like Funk it must be us
The Funk Funk full foul stinky it's stanky stuff
If it smells like Funk it must be us
The Funk Funk full foul stinky it's stanky stuff
If it smells like Funk it must be us
Cause nobody's Funky as us, cause we keep it Stinky
(Funky, Funky, Funky, Funky)

Cellulite overweight stankin' MCs
Stench smells so strong it's unsanitary
Cause you can sense me a mile away so Chanky
With the jungle Funk sound from Serengeti
Meaty, Fat, Nasty like miss Fat booty's tights
Gettin' dirty like mudfights and dirtbikes
Turning these drawers black they used to be white
And we shitin' on these tracks that you gonna' need to wipe
The odor's so contagious that it shows up in your dream
Man you could pick me out like food in between
Your two front teeth cause you be lackin' the streets
We got beefy ass beats that we bumpin' in the streets
We so nice n' sweet like steak box n' feet
Sour underarm Funk you ain't washed in a week
And man we be reekin' every day or weekend
We could all bounce to the Funk and the season

Haha haha
Yeah that's Funky,
Yeah that's Funky

Every smell is of a porker
then you know it got to be nobody other than Apl, Will n' Taboo
Cause if you know that if it smells like Funk then it must be us
If you smellin' Fat Funk then it must be us
If you smellin' something Funky
then you know it got to be nobody other than Apl, Will n' Taboo
Cause you know that if it smells like Funk than it must be us
If you smellin' elephants than it must be us
If you smellin' somethin Funky
then you know it got to be nobody other than Apl, Will n' Taboo
Cause you know that if it smells like Funk then it must be us
If you smellin' elephant shit then it must be us.

Go give it a listen, kids, it's worthwhile. Anyway, the point is, I was playing this in the car, and all of a sudden, I see monkey arms in the rearview mirror. At the next stoplight, I turned around and saw Babygirl flinging Dorj around madly and yelling, "Dorj dancing!" I started laughing and said, "Hey, can Dorj raise the roof?" and showed her how - I'll be damned if she didn't make that monkey dance better than your most painted-up club kid. Then she screamed "DORJ CRAZY!" I had to agree. That monkey has mad dancing skillz.

Dr. Teeth

I am late posting today because I hit the dentist for my 6-month-checkup. My dignity was wildly insulted when the hygienist made me watch a video about the best way to brush with an electric toothbrush.

On the plus side, I got my standard dose of nitrous oxide, which I dig because then I can fantasize about getting laid while my teeth are being scraped. And, oddly, this doesn't turn me off of sex at all...

So I have no cavities and am a little hornier now than when I started out the day. I figure the universe is balanced.

Setting the Women's Movement Back About 8,000 Years

I know that the first rule of blogging is not to talk about work. And I won't. Really. I promise.

But I can talk about the basic fact that today, I am going to ask for a promotion. The timing is right and the person is the right person to ask. (By the way, get-a-raise juju is most appreciated).

Anyway, because the person I have to ask is a smarmy feller who takes every opportunity to look down my dress he has, I had to dress carefully this morning. I had to plan to look good but not distracting good. So the boobilicious dress stayed in the closet (not because I have any ethical problem with using my tits for myownpurposes, but because I want the guy to at least be able to comprehend my question) and a stylish but not whoreish dress came out.

I personally feel like God gave me tits to use - they're like my superpower. Of course, I have to have some help from Victoria's Secret to use them most effectively. And strapless dresses are my kryptonite. Seriously, they've done some impressive work for me. It remains to be seen, though, if the boob power extends to getting a raise. I suppose the quality of my work will help things out, if they fail me, huh?

Perpetual Wedgie

I have a strange problem. I am in between pants sizes. I blame roller derby and an increase in buttage, which has meant that my formerly slightly loose pants now are...snug. Really, my pants are way too intimate with my ass - instead of a friendly hug between friends, my pants-ass relationship is more of a outright nasty, dirty fucking of a lifetime.

All this is to say that maybe I should invest in new pants.

Next Top Model

In a week, yours truly is going to be a model in a local fundraiser fashion show being put on by my rollerderby league. The proceeds are going to a local charity and it seems like a good cause, so I - oh, fuck, who am I kidding? I get to prance around on stage in a spotlight in cute clothes I didn't have to pay for after a professional has done my hair and makeup. Really, I don't think I need another reason to participate.

So yesterday, I went to the boutique that I'll be modelling for a fitting. This involved a gay man with hips smaller than mine asking me my size (and I decided not to lie since it would just drag everything out that much longer and make me look stupid) and loading up a fitting room with all kinds of hopeful things. I confess that I took a weird pleasure in being sort of catered to like this while "normal" shoppers were all around.

"We're just getting a sense of your size and the styles that look best on you, hon!" the salesboy called as he threw pairs of impossibly tiny jeans and flimsy blouses over the door of the dressing room.

And the amazing thing? Almost everything looked great. The exception was this strapless dress that, now that I've looked at a picture of it online, I feel better about since it looks just as much like shit in that picture as it did on me.

I guess, too, it's a bad sign when you exit the dressing room and two salespeople immediately start giggling at just how hard your poor little tits are working to keep your damn dress up.

Everything else seems good, though at least one dress necessitates wearing that v-string panty I've already told you all way too much about on here (maybe it's time to invest in more than one pair of these?)(I can get them as a Mother's Day gift for myself since nothing says "Mama" like a half-ounce of fabric that doesn't do much to cover your girly bits). There's no room for a slip with it (thank God, as I hate slips), but I wonder if this will be problematic with lighting. Good thing I'm not modest and, really, if I didn't want people to check out my ass through a dress, why the hell would I do this in the first place?

It's Not That Interesting, And Yet I Can't Be Disinterested

Every morning, I pull into the parking lot at work between 7 and 7:45 am. No matter what time I get there, there is ALWAYS a woman (the same one) in her car talking on her cell phone.

Every. single. morning.

This woman looks like she's in her early sixties - she wears slacks and sweaters with little cutesy things on them. The car is turned off and she's always sitting there with her seatbelt undone, though sometimes she looks like she's having a heated discussion.

What the hell? I swear, I have seen her doing this every single morning for months now.

Who is she talking to? Why every morning? Why so early? Why do I care?

Sometimes You Have No One To Blame But Yourownself

Yesterday afternoon, I was sitting in the main office, waiting for the day to be over, when Male Receptionist revealed to me that he had an entire bag of miniature Reese's Cups hidden in his desk drawer. Incensed at candy being withheld from me, I immediately filled my pockets, and went back to my own office (from which I am able to yell at the Main Office).

"I'm gonna eat all 13 of these!" I hollered.

I halfheartedly began working and eating a Reese's Cup every now and then. I kept Male Receptionist updated on my progress. "I'm on number 6 now!" I'd yell.

When I hit number 12, I loudly informed the main office that I was on number 12 around a mouthful of peanut butter and chocolate.

"Gross, Dirty Girl!" Male Receptionist said, "That is disgusting!"

And such words would normally be blasphemy. Unfortunately, as soon as he said it, it became disgusting and I felt really sick.

I stumbled out to the main office in a sugar daze, holding Reese's Cup #13 in my hand. "Here," I said, depositing it on Male Receptionist's desk, "You can have this one back. I'm...um...not hungry anymore."

And you know what? This morning, for the first time in my life, I think I can do without Reese's Cups. I hope this isn't a permanent thing.

The Graduate

In a recent spring clean of my apartment (said apartment looks just as messy/dirty as it did the week before I cleaned, by the way), I cleaned out some major items. I donated out-of-style clothes to Goodwill because surely poor people don't want to be in style. I sold the marginally cool clothes to a secondhand store. I threw out broken toys and things that BabyGirl had been using as toys that really weren't.

In the upheaval, I came across my undergraduate diploma, which had been handsomely framed as a graduation gift many years ago and then promptly stuck in a closet, where it stayed until I divorced and then I moved it to my new bachelorette closet.

When I found it, it dawned on me that perhaps I could be proud of my diploma. Hell, I could hang it in my actual office! That might lend an air of professionalism to offset the pink walls and overload of crayon drawings (not necessarily created by my daughter, either).

But this morning, as I hauled the thing up here, I remembered that undergraduate diplomas are a dime a dozen these days, especially in my field. I have no idea where my Master's degree is, though I suspect it's tucked in a closet somewhere, probably still back at my ex-husband's apartment. But even if I had that one framed nicely and hung up next to the undergraduate one, it's still nothing special. I mean, the only degree that confers a title on you is the doctorate. I still haven't figured out how to get people to call me Mistress Dirty Girl in honor of my education and not my proclivity for all things sexually subversive.

So now I'm left wondering if I should just not hang either until I get that Ph.D. I'll never actually get.

Went to a Party, I Danced All Night, Drank 16 Beers and I Started Up a Fight

I heart roller derby.

Killing Time

Well, even I take a day off now and then!

But I am currently sitting in the service department of my Toyota dealership, waiting for them to balance my tires, replace a hubcap, and do the standard 10,000-mile service.

I thought smart to bring my laptop with me, since it seems a lot of places have free wireless these days. Of course, many don't. I can't tell you the level of my disappointment when I discovered about a year ago for the first time that Starbucks doesn't let you get wireless for free. In my opinion, paying $5 for a cup of overroasted coffee + $10 for a day of free wireless that you couldn't possibly get your money's worth of unless you bought eight or nine $5 cups of coffee = getting fucked up the ass, big-time.

But my Toyota dealership seems to know that the way to ease the pain of what might end up turning into some sort of wildly-expensive axle problem (can you all tell from the preceeding paragraphs that I might have hydroplaned the other day and might have slid into a curb and might have done some damage to my brand-new car that causes it to shudder orgasmically when I go over 60 miles an hour?).

There's no point to this post other than to say a)waiting sucks, b)Babygirl is cracking me up because she's wearing a construction paper hat she made at daycare that has tissue paper roses and horseshoes all over it to celebrate the derby, and c)you might get really excited when you see that a business has free wireless until you realize you've already investigated the entire internet.

Every Day I Get a Little Older

In our office this week, we have a huge variety of free food for reasons I won't go into. But every morning, there's everything from every kind of Little Debbie you can imagine to bananas to nacho cheese and Fritos. Of course, I steer clear of anything even remotely resembling healthy.

We do this twice and year, and every time I've said that I have limitations, at least in the morning, as to what I'll eat. In my mind, I just can't eat honey mustard pretzel bits while I drink my Javanilla coffee - it seems wrong, somehow.

Today, though, I broke through that barrier. I have eaten not only my body weight in miniature Reese's cups this morning, I have also enjoyed some barbeque potato chips and more hummus than anyone should really eat before 10 am. And I did it all while chugging my coffee.

I'm worried that this is just one step away from drinking decaf while eating a cheeseburger at 4 pm as part of the early-bird special at Friday's. Next thing you know I'll be lamenting liver spots on my hands and comparison shopping adult undergarments.

I Can't Decide If This Makes Me Old or Smart or Both

In spite of my recent slate of gay-themed Netflix choices, I also recently got "Meet the Fockers."

Two nights ago, I watched about 45 minutes of it and turned it off. Last night,I briefly contemplated finishing it and thought, "Nah, not interested," and opted instead for a "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" episode I've probably seen 15 times. I sent "Meet the Fockers" back to Netflixland today without having finished it, which is honestly a rare thing for me. There have only been two other times I've not finished a movie I've started. One was "Rushmore" which I rented in 1999 and was too blitzed out of my mind on shots of Southern Comfort to appreciate the snark. The other was "In the Bedroom" which I sat through the first 30 minutes of in the theater and then left because I was so bored I thought I was going to die and I could anticipate every single thing that was about to go down.

But "Meet the Fockers" makes more sense for me to dislike. In fact, I'm not really sure why I put it on my list in the first place. I hate movies where the humor is all based around situations that go from bad to worse. Train-wreck comedies, I guess I could call them. And I don't find anything funny about train-wrecks, even if the train has a name that sounds remarkably like a profanity.

I appreciate juvenile humor, sex humor, fart jokes, and even a good kick in the nuts now and then in my movies. I just can't find the humor in Ben Stiller looking uncomfortable for two hours solid.

Sick of Myself

Cough, cough, cough.

Still sick. Because of this, I have finally decided to actually skip a derby practice tomorrow night AND not work out today at the gym. Of course, if I was really committed to getting better, I would be eating the apples and oranges we have in the office this week instead of the oatmeal creme pies we also have.

To be fair, I ate a raisin creme pie, too, which I feel is damn close to a fruit. Hell, the raisins in it are so healthy it's practically medicine. Am I right here?

Anyway, I wanted to come here and talk about how I'm the kind of person who can, when she's sick, still be inexplicably horny. As a matter of fact, if anything, I get more horny when I'm sick. I have no scientific way of explaining this except to propose that maybe when I'm sick, I get distilled down to the very essence of myself. But there wasn't really much to say beyond that basic fact.

To help describe this, I've thoughtfully rendered what I imagine my brain looks like today:



Honestly, this might be my brain every day.