Me: I'm tired but I don't want to go to sleep yet.
Matt: You can have one of my energy drinks if you want to.
Me: No cause if I drink three energy drinks my kidneys will shut down.
Matt: They won't shut down.
Me: Probably.
Matt: They might just explode.
Me: Just?!
Matt: Yeah.
Me: I don't want my kidneys to explode. I don't need pieces of kidney just floating around inside of me. I need my kidneys to work.
Matt: Technically they'd still be working.
Me: Not if they fucking exploded!
Matt: Technically since the action exploding takes energy, the kidneys would still be working until they completely exploded . . . they'd only stop working once they exploded because they wouldn't be there anymore . . . like if you walked into a factory and were like, "Hey, where the hell is Ken and why isn't he working!?" . . . . people would be all, "Who's Ken? Ken doesn't work here." Make sense?
Me: *brain collapse* . . . . Did . . . . did Ken explode?
(Okay so somewhere during Matt's explanation I stopped listening. I was more concerned that my kidneys would suddenly explode. Also it's hard to listen to Matt when he explains things, because if he's right in the end it's easier for me to NOT understand one word of what he said than to admit that he's smarter than I am and that maybe kidneys CAN in fact explode.) Matt: *laughs*
Me: I'm pretty sure kidneys can't explode and you're just being an ass.
Matt: How do you know that kidneys can't explode? You're not Jesus!
Me: How do you even know that it was Jesus who made the kidneys!?
Matt: Because 'K' comes after 'J'.
It was pretty much at this point of the argument that we both broke and I alerted Matt that I was laughing so hard that I had to pee. Then he got up and ran to the bathroom before I could. Which proves that he's both an asshole, and that he's trying to make my kidneys shut down. Or explode.
So if I die of kidney explosion, I want proof that somehow Matt knew about it and thus is premeditated murder. Or arson. Except Matt just told me that arson is only for fire and wouldn't count in the case of kidney explosion.
I think every blogger looks forward to the day when someone let's them review adult toys.
And if they don't, it's because they've never had really great sex toys.
Or really great sex.
Or they're totally lying.
Eden Fantasys has graciously allowed me to continue reviewing their products even though the last time I wrote a review for them, I ended up pairing a French Maid's Costume with a baguette and some fruit tarts that I bought from a bakery up the street.
I also used a really bad French accent.
Despite my many flaws, my Love and Lust Kit arrived in the mail intact.
The kit comes with a scented candle, a pair of handcuffs, strawberry lust warming lotion, a multi-speed vibrator and a pair of love dice. I have favorites in the kit, and some things just didn't get the chance to be used. (Seriously, who can light a candle while wearing handcuffs without burning themselves? Not me!)
Even though the kit is useful, it's something I'd probably buy for a bachelorette party, or even as a fun Christmas gift for an easily embarrassed friend. I would however buy some of the items individually on my own if given the chance (and when the strawberry warming lotion runs out, I'll be given the chance - seriously, I've yet to try it on ice cream.)
But because this is a review, and I'm totally a professional blogger, I thought I'd break down the pros and cons for you:
Scented Candle:
Pros - Smells awesome!
Cons - Quickly forgotten in the heat of the moment.
Handcuffs:
Pros: Plastic and easy to escape (no fear of being trapped in handcuffs)
Cons: Plastic and easy to escape (fear can be HOT).
Strawberry Warming Lotion:
Pros: Edible and I assume fat free.
Cons: Does not come with ice cream.
Love Dice:
Pros: Surprisingly fun.
Cons: Not fun when accidentally stepped on when you've forgotten to put them away.
Vibrator:
Pros: Small, multi-speed and water proof.
Cons: On a scale of "Vibrating Cell Phone to Unbalanced Washing Machine", it lands somewhere closer to "Electric Razor" when you're hoping for "Detachable Showerhead".
Pros: It still gets the job done.
Overall the items are fun for a night off the town!
Updated: I realise that sometimes, visuals are needed...
Disclaimer:
I received the above mentioned items to review. All opinions of the
above mentioned items are my own and were not influenced in any way. To
read my full disclosure policy, click here.
Last July, your ward organized a marathon run and you missed it. Not because it was too early (although it totally was) but because you knew you were completely out of shape. But you know what? That was the worst excuse ever. You could have still gone to the marathon. I watch Biggest Loser all the time and they always show those 5k runs and there are hugely obese people in them and they're all inspirational. So stop making excuses not to do marathons or at least go for a walk. I know you have bad knees and hips, but they aren't going to get any better if you don't get weight off of them.
July of last year you put together your bucket list. Cross something off this month.
This month you weighed 258 pounds, and you stopped trying to take care of yourself. Not sure what happened, but we went lazy in July. And we spent a lot of days lounging around in sweat pants and t-shirts.
This is what you looked like in July 2010. This is a screen capture from a video where Josh let you play with fire. We hate this picture. It is not flattering. Stop letting yourself be photographed from that angle. Also, if you've been losing weight, try on that pair of skinny jeans Matt bought you last Valentine's Day when he thought you were a size 16 instead of a size 24W. Just see if they fit.
So take a picture of yourself today, July 2011 and post it tomorrow along with the progress you have made.
Love,
Yourself
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Alright sexy readers! Since there are only a few days left in the month, I need to scratch something off my bucket list, and be quick about it! Leave your suggestions in the comments!
When I was seven years old one of my cousins got pregnant. I overheard the conversation from the other room and was only able to make out the words "pregnant", "sex", and "the pill". Since I didn't know what sex was, I immediately conjured up the notion that people got pregnant by taking pills.
That was the day I stopped taking my Flintstones vitamins.
Later that same year I did in fact learn about sex.
But not before using my best friends sisters condoms as a extreme water balloon, flooding their kitchen and then stumbling onto her father's porn collection while looking for towels to clean up the water with.
The truth was, I had an all access pass to the library, and even though I didn't know what a uterus was, the diagrams in various books insisted that I had one.
The one and only time my Dad and I have ever talked about sex (for which I was grateful) was when I was a teenager and he admitted the circumstances surrounding my conception which may or may not have included the term "jungle juice party".
I never got "the talk" from any member of my family. I think being raised by multiple parents throughout my life was the cause behind it all. One parent naturally assumed that the one who came before had already given me the need to know knowledge so there really wasn't anything left to do but wait until I came of age so I could be put on the pill.
When that time came, I was fifteen and Motherly made me swear on a Bible that I wasn't having sex. Then regardless of the answer, she took Kristine and I both to the doctors and put us on the pill. Just in case.
Sex wasn't something we talked about in a serious nature. But we did talk about it. Like when Kristine and I would come home from school and Motherly would say, "Oh you just missed it, we were having sex on the recliner." And we'd gag, threaten to vomit, and she'd laugh her ass off.
Once Motherly asked me if anyone ever gave me "the talk" and I replied with, "No need, we had HBO. I kinda figured out the details on my own." Which was actually true for the most part. Everything else came through books, internet, and friends.
Although when I was sixteen Matt's mother took it upon herself to give me "the talk". Scared to death of my boyfriends mother (who already had caught me sneaking out of Matt's bedroom window a year earlier), I played as innocent as I possibly could while I tried not to pass out. It made it all the worse that we were driving, so my means of escape would have actually been life threatening.
At our wedding reception, Matt's brother took him aside to have a one on one man talk. I've been spared most of the details of the conversation, but I gathered that the subject was in preparation for the wedding night. Touched by the bond of brothers, I sought out a table where my aunts and cousins had all gathered together.
Me: How come no one has taken the time to give me the wedding night talk? Cousin: Because we all assumed you knew more about sex than we do!
Hilarity ensued.
Pretty much anytime you put two or more females of my family together, the subject of conversation ultimately leads to sex. Whether it's the old maids insisting that spider webs have not been spun in their nether regions, or the younger generations complaining about their overly-interested husbands, the conversation always comes back home to the gutter.
Earlier this year while visiting Motherly she asked me, "You and Matt never had sex on my bed, did you?" Gasping at the very thought of doing such a disrespectful act, I insisted, "No! Never! I promise you, anytime we came to visit - we'd always wait for Kristine to leave and then have sex on her bed."
The best sex talk I ever received was from my Grandmother. I'd been married for about 6 months and had gone to her home for a visit. While she and I sat around the table playing Monopoly, she looked up and with her 'sweet as southern ice tea' Texan drawl said:
"Jessi, I'm gonna tell you exactly what my Momma told me when I got married to your Grandpa Gerry. She said that when your man comes home after working hard all day, he better come home to a hot meal and a hot body. Even if you don't feel like it, don't tell him no cause eventually you'll end up enjoying yourself too. Besides, even if you don't, it ain't gonna take very long."
My therapist is moving and therefore we sat and shared our last session on Friday.
I've come a long way. We both agreed.
And while I still have OCD, anxiety and depression . . . I have a clearer view of what I want out of life, but more importantly . . . how I want to live.
And I vented to my therapist in a fit of anger, frustration and then I said, "Sometimes I wish I'd never even started this process of dealing with my mental illness. It's caused so much stress, change, and horrible domino effects that just keep falling down."
And then before she was even able to say another word, I sighed and admitted, "But I know it's for the best. Because even on the bad days, I know who I am."
We talked a little more and I told her about a blog post I had written over a year ago. A blog post that ultimately started me on the road to recovery through mental illness. I told her that I had decided to no longer wear shoes. I explained my metaphor in the same way that I did in my blog post:
I spend a lot of time putting on different shoes in different situations. I have my Church shoes (otherwise known as my Good Mormon Girl shoes), I have my In-laws shoes (don't drop the F bomb shoes), my family shoes (you need to be happy shoes), my work shoes (don't show them you hate it here shoes), my friend shoes (you can;t be weak shoes), and on occasion with very few people . . . I can run around in my bare feet.
She loved the metaphor and even insisted that she was going to have to use it with future patients. I insisted that I needed to follow her and become her assistant. She's moving to Colorado though, and even though Motherly lives there, it's too damn cold for my taste.
I told my therapist that even though I had declared that I would go barefoot from that post forward, I hadn't. I'd taken steps, sure enough, but I still held myself back due to my worry of what other people thought of me. I made a decision to be myself with people, but instead of doing that, I was myself - but often alone. I hid away thinking of the day that perhaps I could just be happy with who I was, flaws and all - and no one would judge me for it.
"And that day has come," I told her.
I was tired of living my life with the rules of everyone else. I was tired of being so damn unhappy. I was tired of having to pretend I was something that I wasn't, even sometimes here on my blog. And most importantly, I was tired of being reminded that I couldn't be whatever I wanted to be.
I can't be a housewife because I don't have kids.
I couldn't possibly be a Mormon because I curse and have tattoos.
I wouldn't be a good mother because I'm mentally ill.
I can't be beautiful because I'm fat.
But everyone else is wrong! I can be whoever and whatever I want to be!
My infertility does not affect my ability to clean my house!
My sailor tongue does not change how much I love God!
My mental illness does not limit my LOVE!
My rolls, stretch marks and dimpled thighs are all kinds of sexy!
My happiness shouldn't be based on the limits others give me.
Even though I'd spent my therapy sessions (on and offline) working this all out in my head, I had it reaffirmed by the woman who'd first inspired me to truly be myself.
The Bloggess - one of my personal heroes - recently attended a conference in my home state of Utah where she declared on Twitter, "SLC looks like a postcard. They should have sent a poet. Or someone less drunk."
In a room full of conservative mommy-blogging Mormons, she dropped the F-bomb, dressed like the "whore of babylon" and declared an immediate zombie apocalypse drill. And the room was filled with laughter, love and cheers. If anyone sat in the corner thinking, "How could she do something this absurd and offensive?!" you couldn't tell if The Bloggess gave a damn. Because she was doing what made her happy.
Furiously Happy.
I was so moved by her speech that I actually left a comment, telling her how much it meant to me:
I told my therapist everything and she smiled, happy about my conclusion. Then she asked me, "What prescription would you write for yourself?"
And without another moment of my life passing un-seized, I grinned and said, "To be furiously happy."
She smiled, hugged me and we both cried a little over the goals I'd reached, the choices I'd made, and the sadness in saying goodbye to a cherished friend.
And then on the way home Matt and I stopped at Hastings to browse and I took it upon myself to take the first pill of my new prescription.
I want to do so much with my life and I've been so limited in the past. As long as I bring no true hurt to another person I shouldn't limit my happiness for anyone! I should laugh loudly in public. I should be able to be silly, strange, awkward and beautiful all at the same time. And I shouldn't be afraid of being myself in my own skin, in my own home, on my own blog.
So I've been trying to write a post about how I went to the doctor yesterday for my yearly physical, and I'm having trouble because ... did you know that it's actually hard to find a picture of an obgyn's stirrups without physically cringing.
I think I have PTSD.
Every year it has to happen.
No woman likes it. Seriously, is it ever actually pleasant? The answer is no.
It may just be me but I actually prefer it when my doctor is a male. I think that's because since they don't know how it feels they're actually more gentle. They look at the tray of tools and think, "Man . . . I would never want this in my penis." And suddenly they are blessed with a smidgen of sympathy.
Female doctors have this attitude of, "Guess what? My last pap hurt like a bitch, why should you be special?" Or they've already gone through the miracle of birthing a human so they think, "If you think this hurts . . ."
But we'll get to that in a moment. Let me update you on my health.
So last year I was instructed on how to NOT give myself a breast exam, and then a few months ago I found out that I have fibro cystic breasts. Well it turns out, I still have fibro cystic breasts. I also have a ganglion cyst in my right wrist. I'm a breeding ground for cysts apparently. I actually may have to have surgery on my hand.
Me: Can't I just smack it with a dictionary like they did in the old times? Doctor: Actually you're supposed to use a Bible. That's why they called them "Bible bumps". Me: Oh, okay. Doctor: No, don't do that.
Then I got my antidepressants changed. Because I'm not as creative with my insomnia as The Bloggess is, and the side effects have been not so lucrative. So new meds (which will be changed to a similar one in two months because these new pills are apparently putting Octomom's children through college), a referral to a hand surgeon, a diagnostic on my breast cyst and then I heard the dreaded words, "Put your feet in these stirrups and scoot down."
Did you know that you should NEVER google "pap smear"? It will only make everything in your life worse.
Seriously, I can't believe that happened to me yesterday. All these years I've just closed my eyes and thought of England. I've never wondered what has actually gone on down there. I've seen the tools and they've never looked (or felt) pleasant, but good gravy . . . the images . . . I can never un-see them. Kind of like how I always assumed what childbirth was like, and then watched my little sister do it up close and personal and I immediately scheduled a C-section for the children I will have in whatever foreseeable future.
So after dropping the F-bomb in the doctors office, Matt and I headed home where I took to Twitter to ease my pain.
Eventually I took my pills and let the warmth of chemical medication wash over me.
Me: My bajingo hurts. Matt: I'm sorry baby. Me: Ouch. Matt: Does this mean we're not having sex tonight? Me: Dude, don't even like . . . touch my face right now. It feels like Wolverine crawled into my cervix and went 'Snikt!' 'Snikt!' and then drank a beer. Matt: Wow. Me: And then he smoked a cigar. Matt: You're weird. Me: Do you have an angry X-Man in your vagina!? Matt: I don't have a vagina. Me: Then you don't know what real pain is.
And then I emailed my friend Steph the following message:
"I have the X-Men cartoon theme stuck in my head. Or my uterus. There could be an echo."
Matt and I have created a secret marriage handshake.
I tweeted about it the other night.
I told him I wanted to video tape the handshake and post it on my blog and he refused saying that if the rest of the world knew about it, then it wouldn't be a secret anymore.
Then he pointed out that I have an injured wrist and he can only do the shake right handed.
I held up my braced wrist and said, "Don't worry honey . . . I'm wearing protection. And it's ribbed, for your pleasure."
Then he ignored me and continued watching Transformers.
I bet he'd videotape himself doing the secret handshake with Megan Fox.
Or even Non-Megan Fox who's in the new Transformers.
Or maybe neither of them because really, he's got a thing for redheads.
And it is a secret marriage handshake.
So I guess what happens in the marital handshake, stays in the marital handshake.
I differ from the majority of my sex who can sit around a television in mass groupings watching the latest episode of The Bachelor and American Idol. And though I tear up every week watching the beauty that comes from So You Think You Can Dance . . . my addiction is the nitty and gritty.
Dirty Jobs, Deadliest Catch and my latest treasure on Netflix: Ice Road Truckers.
"At the top of the world, there's an outpost like no other - and a job only a few would dare."
Every season, trucks carry needed supplies to mines in Canada. And they do this while driving on hundreds of miles of frozen lakes. When the lake freezes, the ice is measured, leveled and certain parts flooded to help maintain the durability of the structure so giant trucks can carry equipment to the mines. It's deadly, it's dangerous, and it strangely hits close to home.
The roads are measured often by high tech equipment and the situation is monitored so as to protect the drivers as best that can be done. The ice thickness can differ each day and every mile, and if the ice is too thin, the road is shut down.
And while I can do what I can to prevent accidents when it comes to my mental health, there're very few ways I can measure the ice.
I can follow the instructions of my therapist and doctor - much like the truckers follow the regulations of the road. I can take my anti-depressants which help to strengthen my foundation, fill in the pot holes and level the road for me.
But sometimes there's a storm.
Sometimes I drive too fast.
Sometimes the weight of my load is too heavy.
And the ice begins to crack.
If I'm paying attention, I can catch it in time and prevent disasters.
Even if I manage to repair the cracks in the road, I'm often reminded that beneath the surface of ice, is a giant, ice cold lake.
Hopefully, the season won't last long.
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PS: I know this was kind of a serious post. I promise soon I will figure out how to turn Toddlers and Tiaras into a metaphor about my weight loss. That or I'm sure I can get something out of Pawn Stars and my sex life.
PPS: I could title the post "Porn Stars". No . . . that's too easy.
PPPS: I actually had to go back in and update this post by adding the tag "Probably Offensive" because of that last bit. PPPPS: Worth it.
Disclaimer: This is a sponsored post. The post was written by me and all opinions are
my own and were not influenced in any way. To read my full disclosure
policy, click here.
