You've probably got to be smart about it. Like, really smart. Like, cunning smart, dastardly cunning, not like Dick Dastardly and Muttley, they are CLASSIC, not cunning. Though they thought they were... cunning.... Anyway, you've got to be a lot smarter than me.
Soo... like 2 months ago I started hiding something from Mr. Price. I had a secret. I started sneaking out, I started casually going places at odd times in the day, I would arrive at our humble abode in different clothes than I left in, I would return sans makeup and with my hair swept up, not down and curly as it was a few hours previous.
He started to notice a change. I was seeing a lot of my dear friend, Carmen, who is a dear friend, but you definitely wouldn't think that by the amount of times I actually see her or talk to her, or the lack there of, but to Mr. Price we had suddenly "reconnected" in a very, very strong way. We do have a lot to talk about and a lot to catch up on as always, mainly, I talk, I mean, bitch about my boss, and she listens. But I wasn't talking to Carmen, I wasn't seeing Carmen. I did, once, when this all started, but Carmen was just a name, was just a person I used as a label for the secret I was hiding.
It started to get tricky. After all, I already told you that I'm not smart about this stuff. I'm not dastardly, I'm not cunning, I'm not smart, I'm a SMART-ARSE, but that certainly doesn't help when you are out and about trying to remain in the D-L and fly under radar, while flying around with a certain....secret.
I feared Mr. Price. I feared what he would do should he find out. I went to extraordinary lengths, clutching my car keys deep in my fist when I was just going to go out for a "run". Who needs their car keys when they go out for a run? Well, if I'm going to meet Carmen at the Arboretum, I need a ride to get there... ugh. It was getting very exhausting. So I've already determined that in order to continue my secret affair I'm going to need to get smarter and definitely going to have to have a lot more energy.
This secret, this affair, was taking a lot out of me. It was exhausting. Trying to keep up with the lies, trying to keep up with the mileage, I mean, EVERY DAY I was seeing "Carmen", I was leaving my happy family of three adorable boys and coming home 2, sometimes 3 hours later, sweaty, exhausted and make up smeared off my face, too tired to lift a finger.
Mr. Price was suspicious. He had every right to be. I wasn't exactly "lying" to him, I was being truthful to an extent. I was going out, and "exercising" but not with Carmen. Certainly not with a girl. I would never do that with a girl, no matter how many fantasies he has, no matter how many drunken conversations we have at bars while he oogles that blonde I determine is much too chubby for my tastes as I declare it would take more than this world could offer for my blood alcohol level to tolerate it and at that point I would be sleeping through it, or it would be statutory rape.. anyhooo, I digress.. as always.
I tell all my friends not to tell him where I'm going. I tell all of them to not breathe a word about it. It's a non issue until I come up with a game plan. I'm going to tell him, I always was, but I just had to find the right time.. the right place... the place that didn't have throw-able projectiles....
I was having an affair.
Mr. Price surely suspected it, and at this point, it had only been a few weeks.
Again, dastardly and cunning I am not.
On this one fateful night I went to leave to see "Carmen"....again, the fifth time that week. We're friends, but she doesn't like me that much, even Mr. Price knows this. NO-ONE likes me THAT much, unless I'm carrying a hefty brown bag of alcoholic beverages.
Mr. Price: "So.. where are you going again?"
Me: "To exercise."
Mr. Price: "With Carmen?..."
Me:"ammm..yeah, that's it, you hit it on the head like a nail-a-roo, good one!"
Mr.Price: "Why do you need your car keys?"
Me: "Cuz we are going to walk at the arboretum, I'm not gonna ask her to drive all the way out here..duuuuh."
Shit.. he knows. I bet he's gonna follow me.
But in true format of our parental lifestyle, Mr. Price was detained to the household with two young kids. I was out, gallivanting around, to return in about 2.5 hours all sweaty and in no mood to talk until I had had, a shower.
I call my Mum in a panic. "Mum, I think he thinks I'm having an affair."
Mum: "How long have you been sneaking around like this?"
Me: "Three weeks."
Mum: "Well, I'm sure he thinks you are having an affair and I think you need to come clean."
shit.
Let's cut to the chase.
I arrive home, Mr. Price is calmly waiting for me, doors wide open (it was a lovely summer night)..
He's on the phone... PSHEW.. to my dad in Australia... I just bought a few extra minutes before my untimely demise.
Strategy: I'll grab the youngest or the most adorable of our two young boys and hold them in front of me as hostages. I'll cowardly hold them over my most damageable parts and dare him to come at him should he hurt a hair on our beautiful children.
He hangs up the phone.
"It was your Dad, the one from Australia."
Me: "Oh yeah, hmm, cool".
Shit, where's a child? I just had one in my arms, those little squirmy bastards, you blink and they're fucking gone in like two seconds..
Mr. Price.:"..."
Me: Fuck.. here it comes... I've been sold out. I'm wide open, I'm a target on a range 20 meters away and he's in a Sherman operating the turret at close range. I am SOOOO fucked.
Just remember: "I get the smart kids and a new sexy apartment, he gets the stupid dogs..."
....
Mr. Price: "You got a gym membership didn't you?"
Me: "Yup"
The jig is up.
Mr Price. "I wanna fucking kill you right now."
Me: "But I'm trying not to be a fat arse after birthing your second child that turned out not to be the 60 pounds that I put on..."
Mr. Price: "You lied to me."
Me: "Yeah, but at least I wasn't having an affair. I was only going to the gym... for you...., and lemme tell you, if anyone wants to knock my boots after grunting my way through 60 minutes on an elliptical they've got mental issues above and beyond the fetish for sweaty, stinky chicks, I mean who wants to hit on anyone after there's a massive wet patch in the "crotchal area" ...
Mr. Price: "Ok I get it... But when they start raping you of your money and you give up in 2 more weeks, don't come crying to me."
Me: "No worries. No crying to you." "See... I wasn't cheating on you... just going to the gym."
Mr. Price: " I think it's worse, it'll end up costing you more than a crappy hotel on the north side of town you could have been having an affair in.."
Shit. Dammit. He's probably right.
Bastard.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
And that's why you should never ask me how my day is.. unless you really mean it.
Why?
Because I won't hold back. I'll tell you how I really feel.
Dear Checkout person who would rather be doing anything other than checking out my groceries right now because there is obviously little to no job satisfaction dragging food items over a glass scanner and periodically stopping to look up a number to a fresh vegetable item you've obviously never seen before in your life (they're jalapenos FYI dumb-ass), so if you are going to ask me your customer service company protocol line of "How are you?/How's your day going?" I hope you really mean it.
REALLY. MEAN. IT.
Because, yesterday, the day that Joseph unplugged my iPhone from the computer while it was updating and ERASED ALL CONTENT ON MY iPhone, I was NOT having a good day.
But thanks for asking, I'll go on and tell you all about it.
Don't act surprised that I didn't answer "Fine, thanks" or "Just peachy and how's your day going?" Like we BOTH don't give a shit what each of our answers are but we just go through the motions before you give me my total.
It's also not like I usually say to the checkout person "Just fine, thanks". I usually go on and tell every single one of them, EXACTLY how my day is going, fabulously good or horribly, horribly wrong.
You asked.
Now you get to know.
Obviously, it starts out with my iPhone crashing, and a 4 year olds life that hangs in the balance. Never mind the 6 week old I have that is craving to be fed or needs attention or has poop exploding up his back, my iPhone has just been erased and there is an alien-to-me image on the screen that instructs me to connect it to my iTunes. Pressing buttons at random in a desperate feeble attempt to resuscitate life back into my device won't do any good, connect to iTunes so we can say that you need to RESTORE YOUR IPHONE. SHIT!!!!! Devastating, to say the least.
In the grand scheme of things it isn't that horrible, like a flesh eating bacterial disease, but this was close enough for me.
So, with Joseph's existence dangling by, but a thread and by thread, I mean like dental floss thread, this is how my day went. And this is how I told my red headed Walmart grocery check out person:
"Just awful, my day has been traumatic this far, I'm not sleeping, the baby is back to wanting to eat every three hours and I can't seem to get my ass in bed before midnight, not sure why, my four year old ERASED my iphone and I have spent all of this morning trying to get it back, which was a total of 4 hours strapped to my home phone and my laptop and only at 2pm was able to get dressed and start my day, I had so much to do today and in a precise order which was kept as a notes feature on my iphone that got ERASED that I'm wondering around midlessly trying to remember what it was that I had to do today and what the hell I have to do everyday because I can't remember a damn thing these days, my house is a FEMA disaster and I get no government assistance, turns out George Bush also hates me, and I don't even know how much laundry I have to do, my iPhone still isn't loaded with all the songs that I had on it before the crash and I'm just ready to throw in the towel... We should probably stop talking, I'm on the verge of crying publicly....... again."
But thanks for asking. Jerk.
I got my total and sheepishly the checkout person said, as we parted:
"I hope your day gets better."
Me too, asshat, me too.
And that's why you should never ask me how my day is.. unless you really, I mean, REALLY mean it.
Because I won't hold back. I'll tell you how I really feel.
Dear Checkout person who would rather be doing anything other than checking out my groceries right now because there is obviously little to no job satisfaction dragging food items over a glass scanner and periodically stopping to look up a number to a fresh vegetable item you've obviously never seen before in your life (they're jalapenos FYI dumb-ass), so if you are going to ask me your customer service company protocol line of "How are you?/How's your day going?" I hope you really mean it.
REALLY. MEAN. IT.
Because, yesterday, the day that Joseph unplugged my iPhone from the computer while it was updating and ERASED ALL CONTENT ON MY iPhone, I was NOT having a good day.
But thanks for asking, I'll go on and tell you all about it.
Don't act surprised that I didn't answer "Fine, thanks" or "Just peachy and how's your day going?" Like we BOTH don't give a shit what each of our answers are but we just go through the motions before you give me my total.
It's also not like I usually say to the checkout person "Just fine, thanks". I usually go on and tell every single one of them, EXACTLY how my day is going, fabulously good or horribly, horribly wrong.
You asked.
Now you get to know.
Obviously, it starts out with my iPhone crashing, and a 4 year olds life that hangs in the balance. Never mind the 6 week old I have that is craving to be fed or needs attention or has poop exploding up his back, my iPhone has just been erased and there is an alien-to-me image on the screen that instructs me to connect it to my iTunes. Pressing buttons at random in a desperate feeble attempt to resuscitate life back into my device won't do any good, connect to iTunes so we can say that you need to RESTORE YOUR IPHONE. SHIT!!!!! Devastating, to say the least.
In the grand scheme of things it isn't that horrible, like a flesh eating bacterial disease, but this was close enough for me.
So, with Joseph's existence dangling by, but a thread and by thread, I mean like dental floss thread, this is how my day went. And this is how I told my red headed Walmart grocery check out person:
"Just awful, my day has been traumatic this far, I'm not sleeping, the baby is back to wanting to eat every three hours and I can't seem to get my ass in bed before midnight, not sure why, my four year old ERASED my iphone and I have spent all of this morning trying to get it back, which was a total of 4 hours strapped to my home phone and my laptop and only at 2pm was able to get dressed and start my day, I had so much to do today and in a precise order which was kept as a notes feature on my iphone that got ERASED that I'm wondering around midlessly trying to remember what it was that I had to do today and what the hell I have to do everyday because I can't remember a damn thing these days, my house is a FEMA disaster and I get no government assistance, turns out George Bush also hates me, and I don't even know how much laundry I have to do, my iPhone still isn't loaded with all the songs that I had on it before the crash and I'm just ready to throw in the towel... We should probably stop talking, I'm on the verge of crying publicly....... again."
But thanks for asking. Jerk.
I got my total and sheepishly the checkout person said, as we parted:
"I hope your day gets better."
Me too, asshat, me too.
And that's why you should never ask me how my day is.. unless you really, I mean, REALLY mean it.
Friday, August 12, 2011
It's time for another game of Good Idea/Bad Idea.
Let's play a game of good idea/bad idea.
For $200: Cutting your own bangs in the midst of a self inflicted tizzy fit as an effort to feel better about ones self?
Alex, What is a BAD IDEA.
ALWAYS.
Shit.
I'm almost 6 weeks post baby, unable to exercise worth a damn, due to my skin cancer scars (and yet another reason why you shouldn't get skin cancer) and with my doctor recommendation:
What he said: "Due to your excessive breast weight, exacerbated by the fact that you are breastfeeding, exercising during this delicate time such as running or walking that would encourage strain on this sensitive area could re-open your scars, cause further damage and extend your healing time, not to mention make any scarring worse, should this happen."
What I heard: "Your boobs are are so enormously huge (embarrassingly so I don't even WANT to give you a size) and if you bounce them they will tear apart your scars and reopen a bloody mess on your chest, so you'll just have big tits on some big hips and look like you got attacked by a zombie/vampire and have to wait another 10 million years AGAIN before you can think about exercising to lose your fatness, fatty."
So I'm still (though no real effort such as trying to curb my excessive amounts of chocolate consumption -what? are you CRAAZY?), "over my ideal weight range."
Translation: I'm currently STILL (bloody hell) a fat, fat, fatty, McFat slobby fat arse.
Hence, the not feeling so good about myself and being trapped in a villa on nowhere island in the middle of a storm with the misdirected urgent need to boost my self esteem and thinking I can do this by either dying (Ahh Sarah, remember how many times I've tried to go from Brunette to Blonde with mere box dye and turning up Ginger Balls? Those were the days...) or cutting my hair, and since there is no dye within reach, but there are scissors...... I am subsequently chopping my locks off in the blind ignorance that this time, this time in my thirties, not my teens, it will turn out better. Yes my "I've lost count how many times I've convinced myself that doing this AGAIN it wil turn out right THIS time.. because I'm older and thus, much wiser", trick is going to work this time.
You'll notice that I said "this time it will turn out better" and not "I know better this time".
Sadly, I do not.
What's the definition of insantity again? Oh yeah... thats right.
SHUT UP.
So, I grab the scissors, but this time it's different. This time it's not going to look crooked or look like a one eyed with glaucoma axe wielding homicidal maniac has not chopped my locks off with his axe, during a homicidal rage. Not this time. This time, I'm going to do it right.
I'm going to You Tube how to do it first.
Genius.
It's O.K., I know you're in awe, take a step back, catch your breath and sit back down, I've got more to tell you.
Of all the horrible things that I'm SURE have been you tubed in the safety of one's home that has at LEAST ended up in the emergency room, this is by far, the most benign. I didn't you tube anything like "removing a large splinter and self stitching the wound." Just how to cut my own bangs. VERY BENIGN.
I you tubed the selection and I decide upon the most attractive looking fourteen year old (looking and sounding) white person with the least looking crooked bangs who has a self acclaimed aspiring career in hairdressing.
I pause, focus, rewind, pause and........ fatefully, attempt.
I cut off at least 2 inches and you know that feeling you got while walking halfway down the aisle and you start thinking differently, but you are wearing those killer gorgeous ivory pumps you bought on sale and you're pretty sure they make your calves look the sexiest they've ever looked it's a shame they're tucked under that spectacular dress, so I might as well get on with it/I've come too far now, feeling?
Yeah, that one.
I cut again.
I take in deep, sound advice, from my fourteen year old tutor. "Never cut straight across, always cut at an angle." My best Padawan self, complies.
Ok, Miley, I got this one in the bag. Sexy drop dead diva making-me-feel-like-a-brand-new-woman-how-Stella-got-her-groove-back gorgeous bangs are almost ready to make their debut.
I've cut so much, that there's enough to make an afgan receiving blanket and looking into the depths of my destruction that is laying in tufts in the sink I can't help but think:
I've made a horrible mistake.
Again.
Shit. Fuck, shit, fuck, shit.
I wonder what I'm going to make up when I see my hairdresser in a panic next week:
"Oh yeah, me and some girlfriends got really drunk and decided it was a good idea to try to cut each others hair.. you think this is bad, you should see what I did to the other girl, she's your NEXT appointment."
or
"I accidentally left my scissors out and took a nap on the couch at which time my four year old decided to give us matching his and hers hair trims and I tried to make it look better before coming to see you, only to make it worse."
or
"Sorry"
I work on my best apologetic tone and take a cautious look in the mirror.
Well, lookey here, it isn't so bad afterall.
I mean, a little lopsided, but for a home job, in the midst of a self esteem emotional break down, it's not so bad either. And when you put my haircut standards up to that kind of a shining pedestal, I don't think it's going to win me any hair style awards, but it did the job, I slightly feel better about myself.
At least, through way of distraction.
I show Mr. Price, sheepishly, as I KNOW he hates bangs. And not just bangs, but bangs on my face.
Mr. Price: Shit Bec, what did you do?
I cut my bangs you asshat -can't you tell?
Mr. Price: Yeah I can tell, you hacked off half of what was on your head and now it's all over your face covering your eyes. I mean, can you see me right now? How many fingers am I holding up?
You're an asshole.
Mr. Price: No, I'm not. You're the one that you tubed how to cut your own hair, you should know better, especially in the middle of a breakdown, which I KNEW you were having cuz your eyes were all red, but I ignored in the hopes that you would GROW UP, not go in and cut away at your hair.
Sniff, Sniff. (Trying to evoke some sympathy from my heartless husband.)
Mr. Price: Well, it doesnt' look THAT bad, when we get back home will you ... call Jenny (hairdresser) and have her.. armm... touch it up a bit? ...... I'll pay for it.
Now I know it's bad, Mr. Price is offering to pay for a service that doesn't directly end in a visit to Victoria's Secret and some very expensive lingere dressing up the bedroom floor.
But, aside from our continued "energetic discussion" that ends up with Mr. Price conceding that I have indeed done "not such a bad job and it looks kinda cute..", I decide that I did just a fine job on my newly renovated hairstyle and upgraded bangs. I mean, it could have been worse, WAAAY worse, but it wasn't and when you hold my haircutting skills to that standard, I'd say this is a WIN.
Let's be clear, it's NOT a GOOD IDEA, to you tube how to cut your own bangs at home and then do it, it's still a BAD IDEA, but I don't hate myself anymore, only slightly less so than before.
And that, my friends, is a win in my book.
For $200: Cutting your own bangs in the midst of a self inflicted tizzy fit as an effort to feel better about ones self?
Alex, What is a BAD IDEA.
ALWAYS.
Shit.
I'm almost 6 weeks post baby, unable to exercise worth a damn, due to my skin cancer scars (and yet another reason why you shouldn't get skin cancer) and with my doctor recommendation:
What he said: "Due to your excessive breast weight, exacerbated by the fact that you are breastfeeding, exercising during this delicate time such as running or walking that would encourage strain on this sensitive area could re-open your scars, cause further damage and extend your healing time, not to mention make any scarring worse, should this happen."
What I heard: "Your boobs are are so enormously huge (embarrassingly so I don't even WANT to give you a size) and if you bounce them they will tear apart your scars and reopen a bloody mess on your chest, so you'll just have big tits on some big hips and look like you got attacked by a zombie/vampire and have to wait another 10 million years AGAIN before you can think about exercising to lose your fatness, fatty."
So I'm still (though no real effort such as trying to curb my excessive amounts of chocolate consumption -what? are you CRAAZY?), "over my ideal weight range."
Translation: I'm currently STILL (bloody hell) a fat, fat, fatty, McFat slobby fat arse.
Hence, the not feeling so good about myself and being trapped in a villa on nowhere island in the middle of a storm with the misdirected urgent need to boost my self esteem and thinking I can do this by either dying (Ahh Sarah, remember how many times I've tried to go from Brunette to Blonde with mere box dye and turning up Ginger Balls? Those were the days...) or cutting my hair, and since there is no dye within reach, but there are scissors...... I am subsequently chopping my locks off in the blind ignorance that this time, this time in my thirties, not my teens, it will turn out better. Yes my "I've lost count how many times I've convinced myself that doing this AGAIN it wil turn out right THIS time.. because I'm older and thus, much wiser", trick is going to work this time.
You'll notice that I said "this time it will turn out better" and not "I know better this time".
Sadly, I do not.
What's the definition of insantity again? Oh yeah... thats right.
SHUT UP.
So, I grab the scissors, but this time it's different. This time it's not going to look crooked or look like a one eyed with glaucoma axe wielding homicidal maniac has not chopped my locks off with his axe, during a homicidal rage. Not this time. This time, I'm going to do it right.
I'm going to You Tube how to do it first.
Genius.
It's O.K., I know you're in awe, take a step back, catch your breath and sit back down, I've got more to tell you.
Of all the horrible things that I'm SURE have been you tubed in the safety of one's home that has at LEAST ended up in the emergency room, this is by far, the most benign. I didn't you tube anything like "removing a large splinter and self stitching the wound." Just how to cut my own bangs. VERY BENIGN.
I you tubed the selection and I decide upon the most attractive looking fourteen year old (looking and sounding) white person with the least looking crooked bangs who has a self acclaimed aspiring career in hairdressing.
I pause, focus, rewind, pause and........ fatefully, attempt.
I cut off at least 2 inches and you know that feeling you got while walking halfway down the aisle and you start thinking differently, but you are wearing those killer gorgeous ivory pumps you bought on sale and you're pretty sure they make your calves look the sexiest they've ever looked it's a shame they're tucked under that spectacular dress, so I might as well get on with it/I've come too far now, feeling?
Yeah, that one.
I cut again.
I take in deep, sound advice, from my fourteen year old tutor. "Never cut straight across, always cut at an angle." My best Padawan self, complies.
Ok, Miley, I got this one in the bag. Sexy drop dead diva making-me-feel-like-a-brand-new-woman-how-Stella-got-her-groove-back gorgeous bangs are almost ready to make their debut.
I've cut so much, that there's enough to make an afgan receiving blanket and looking into the depths of my destruction that is laying in tufts in the sink I can't help but think:
I've made a horrible mistake.
Again.
Shit. Fuck, shit, fuck, shit.
I wonder what I'm going to make up when I see my hairdresser in a panic next week:
"Oh yeah, me and some girlfriends got really drunk and decided it was a good idea to try to cut each others hair.. you think this is bad, you should see what I did to the other girl, she's your NEXT appointment."
or
"I accidentally left my scissors out and took a nap on the couch at which time my four year old decided to give us matching his and hers hair trims and I tried to make it look better before coming to see you, only to make it worse."
or
"Sorry"
I work on my best apologetic tone and take a cautious look in the mirror.
Well, lookey here, it isn't so bad afterall.
I mean, a little lopsided, but for a home job, in the midst of a self esteem emotional break down, it's not so bad either. And when you put my haircut standards up to that kind of a shining pedestal, I don't think it's going to win me any hair style awards, but it did the job, I slightly feel better about myself.
At least, through way of distraction.
I show Mr. Price, sheepishly, as I KNOW he hates bangs. And not just bangs, but bangs on my face.
Mr. Price: Shit Bec, what did you do?
I cut my bangs you asshat -can't you tell?
Mr. Price: Yeah I can tell, you hacked off half of what was on your head and now it's all over your face covering your eyes. I mean, can you see me right now? How many fingers am I holding up?
You're an asshole.
Mr. Price: No, I'm not. You're the one that you tubed how to cut your own hair, you should know better, especially in the middle of a breakdown, which I KNEW you were having cuz your eyes were all red, but I ignored in the hopes that you would GROW UP, not go in and cut away at your hair.
Sniff, Sniff. (Trying to evoke some sympathy from my heartless husband.)
Mr. Price: Well, it doesnt' look THAT bad, when we get back home will you ... call Jenny (hairdresser) and have her.. armm... touch it up a bit? ...... I'll pay for it.
Now I know it's bad, Mr. Price is offering to pay for a service that doesn't directly end in a visit to Victoria's Secret and some very expensive lingere dressing up the bedroom floor.
But, aside from our continued "energetic discussion" that ends up with Mr. Price conceding that I have indeed done "not such a bad job and it looks kinda cute..", I decide that I did just a fine job on my newly renovated hairstyle and upgraded bangs. I mean, it could have been worse, WAAAY worse, but it wasn't and when you hold my haircutting skills to that standard, I'd say this is a WIN.
Let's be clear, it's NOT a GOOD IDEA, to you tube how to cut your own bangs at home and then do it, it's still a BAD IDEA, but I don't hate myself anymore, only slightly less so than before.
And that, my friends, is a win in my book.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
The Cancer club, sunscreen and condoms.
I got cancer, and hopefully the plastic surgeon got it all out.
Ok, ok,
I've got skin cancer.
I'm a part of the Cancer club now, but not a legitimate high priestess member, see, I feel like I've got the decorative fake kind of cancer and it's not as serious as real people who get real forms of cancer. So I'm not going to take it serious, either. Except for the sunscreen and condoms part. SO... if you're looking for a "educational " post on cancer, or a "rational and uniquely personal account of cancer" (except the unique = making fun of my cancer part) you're not going to get it here.
I'm also not going to go into some diatribe about how long I've had the spots for, or how now everyone I know should wear sunscreen, because now that I've been affected, I should share my knowledge with the world and influence and push new behaviors on people, it's not about that. For all I care, you could read this post, go on and book yourself into a 20 minute cooking session at your local tanning bed. This is me, NOT caring and NOT judging you, just don't call me looking for an empathetic conversation when you've got melanoma and you want to sue the tanning place because you're too stupid to to look out for your own well being. I'll hang up on you.
Now, back to the sunscreen and condoms.
Unlike condoms, more application of the same, at regular intervals or all at once, is a good thing. 2 or 3 applications of sunscreen before hitting the pool is a good thing. Two or three applications of condoms before "hitting that", is not a good thing.
More sunscreen applications = less failure rate.
More condoms = higher failure rate.
Everyone remembers that conversation you had in high school, during sex education class and some smart ass always says, every year, well, if condoms protect, "I'll just wear more." No, you idiot. It doesn't work that way. And no, Milky Way wrappers are ALSO not an effective method of birth control. If I needed to tell you that, please skip to section "F" where you receive a FAIL and you've been asked to kindly step, slowly (so you don't hurt yourself you moron), out of the gene pool and move to Canada.
The above paragraphs were just a really long winded way of saying that if I smell of sunscreen when you see me next, it's because I'm applying it every 1 hour instead of every 2 hours and my new eu de toilette el natur-al body odor will involve some level of SPF. Hope that turns you on.
Sunscreen is now available in the "you have no more excuses" and "non gay" application method. Or, also known as the "sorry guys, now you don't get a quarter chubb watching your female friends lather sunscreen on each other as you drift off into fantasy land that has slow motion larger breasts in "too-small and too-tight" bras, pillow fights and girly cheeky laughter".. ... The SPRAY application.
Yes, as a friend so eloquently put it.... Spray sunscreen allows one male to apply sunscreen to another male, without being, and without, looking gay. Spraying it on is the lazy way to help you avoid getting skin cancer, and avoiding your self loathing closeted homophobic fears, see, no excuses.
So, in summary, protect yourself:
Wear condoms, just don't wear 2 or 3 at a time.
Wear sunscreen, and DO apply two or three times.
Because we all know that :
1. Cancer sucks and that shit will KILL YOU, KILL YOU DEAD,
and,
2. if Cancer won't, a car wreck probably will,
3. or at least the cure for Cancer will turn you into a zombie.
Avoid all, at all costs. That is all.
Ok, ok,
I've got skin cancer.
 |
| Chicks Dig Scars. Oh wait, how's that going to benefit me? shit... |
I'm a part of the Cancer club now, but not a legitimate high priestess member, see, I feel like I've got the decorative fake kind of cancer and it's not as serious as real people who get real forms of cancer. So I'm not going to take it serious, either. Except for the sunscreen and condoms part. SO... if you're looking for a "educational " post on cancer, or a "rational and uniquely personal account of cancer" (except the unique = making fun of my cancer part) you're not going to get it here.
I'm also not going to go into some diatribe about how long I've had the spots for, or how now everyone I know should wear sunscreen, because now that I've been affected, I should share my knowledge with the world and influence and push new behaviors on people, it's not about that. For all I care, you could read this post, go on and book yourself into a 20 minute cooking session at your local tanning bed. This is me, NOT caring and NOT judging you, just don't call me looking for an empathetic conversation when you've got melanoma and you want to sue the tanning place because you're too stupid to to look out for your own well being. I'll hang up on you.
Now, back to the sunscreen and condoms.
Unlike condoms, more application of the same, at regular intervals or all at once, is a good thing. 2 or 3 applications of sunscreen before hitting the pool is a good thing. Two or three applications of condoms before "hitting that", is not a good thing.
More sunscreen applications = less failure rate.
More condoms = higher failure rate.
Everyone remembers that conversation you had in high school, during sex education class and some smart ass always says, every year, well, if condoms protect, "I'll just wear more." No, you idiot. It doesn't work that way. And no, Milky Way wrappers are ALSO not an effective method of birth control. If I needed to tell you that, please skip to section "F" where you receive a FAIL and you've been asked to kindly step, slowly (so you don't hurt yourself you moron), out of the gene pool and move to Canada.
The above paragraphs were just a really long winded way of saying that if I smell of sunscreen when you see me next, it's because I'm applying it every 1 hour instead of every 2 hours and my new eu de toilette el natur-al body odor will involve some level of SPF. Hope that turns you on.
Sunscreen is now available in the "you have no more excuses" and "non gay" application method. Or, also known as the "sorry guys, now you don't get a quarter chubb watching your female friends lather sunscreen on each other as you drift off into fantasy land that has slow motion larger breasts in "too-small and too-tight" bras, pillow fights and girly cheeky laughter".. ... The SPRAY application.
Yes, as a friend so eloquently put it.... Spray sunscreen allows one male to apply sunscreen to another male, without being, and without, looking gay. Spraying it on is the lazy way to help you avoid getting skin cancer, and avoiding your self loathing closeted homophobic fears, see, no excuses.
So, in summary, protect yourself:
Wear condoms, just don't wear 2 or 3 at a time.
Wear sunscreen, and DO apply two or three times.
Because we all know that :
1. Cancer sucks and that shit will KILL YOU, KILL YOU DEAD,
and,
2. if Cancer won't, a car wreck probably will,
3. or at least the cure for Cancer will turn you into a zombie.
Avoid all, at all costs. That is all.
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