Want a laugh?

Hey gang guess what?!  I am officially a freelance writer over at Boozey.com!

My first post is up today and features some of my all time favorite things, Beer, Bacon and Blowjobs.  Click on through for a laugh and to show support!  The more traffic I get, the more they let me write, and I’ve got some great poop and sex stories that I want to share with the world.

Thanks kittens!

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Directory of lady bits doctors: Who to choose who to choose?

Finding the right woman to dive between your legs and tell you that you’re good to go in the nether bit region for another year is really quite the process.

See, since I’ve retired we changed our insurance from my employer provided to a new one.  While the insurance is great, it doesn’t have any of my usual doctors in the plan.  So the lovely woman who has been checking under my hood for the past few years will now cost me four times as much, and really, I would rather spend that money on shoes.

So I’m shopping around.

When I first started researching other providers in my area, I thought it would be really easy.  I figured I would just pick another lady and we would be good to go.  Unfortunately, I’m apparently way more neurotic than I realized.

Turns out, the doctor HAS to be a woman.  Every time I was doing research on a website on a male doctor I either decided he was too attractive or too unattractive and either way it would skeeve me out.  No offense to any dude OBGYN’s out there, but I apparently just can’t handle that.

Then I found myself looking at credentials.  My crazy parts informed me am only interested in someone who graduated from college between the years of 1970 and 1990.  Any younger and I felt like they wouldn’t know what the heck they were doing.  Um, really Nicole?  1990 was almost 25 years ago.  I would think someone who graduated in 2000 with 15 years of experience would be just fine.  But no.  Not in my brain.

Once I had it narrowed down (mind you, there were only 20 female providers in a 20 mile radius to choose from to begin with) I started looking at photos.  I then learned that anyone with a unibrow, facial piercings, or too much make up in their photos went in the “no” pile as well.

What the hell?  I guess I’m more judgmental than even I realized.

Then again, this is the person who is going to be examining my most prized possession and telling me that I’m perfect for another 12 months.

Oh, and filling my birth control.  Because really, we can’t have any more totally nutso judgmental people like me in the world.

Stick it in me hard please… uh, that’s what I said

After a super eventful 24 hours I can now say there are worst things than being sick for three weeks.

Like getting a call from your doctor at 8 o’clock at night telling you to go to the ER IMMEDIATELY because your blood test came back wonky and there’s a strong possibility you have blood clots in your lungs, and could end up with a pulmonary embolism, stroke out, and die at any second.

Thank goodness the above didn’t happen, but I’m now significantly poorer, stabbed more times than I can count with needles, and badly in need of a shower and a pep talk.

I shall live to snark another day.

There was some hilarity in the whole experience though.  When I got to the hospital I was whisked back to a room pretty much immediately (how often does THAT happen?) and was paired with the coolest dude nurse I ever could have asked for.

Our interaction started with him telling me that he needed to draw blood and my responding “ok stick it in me.  But do it hard, I don’t want you to have to do it more than once to get what you want.”

When he looked shocked and befuddled and then promptly responded, “well then shut your mouth and stop distracting me” I knew we would get along just fine.

We proceed to talk guns, boobs and tell each other to shut up regularly for the next several hours, cracking up hubs in the process.

I’m not sure what I would have done with some sweet little old lady nurse who winced when I dropped f-bombs.  Thank goodness I got the dude who knew how to handle someone as cranky as me.

That dream just turned drier than the Sahara

Creeeppyyyyyyy
Creeeppyyyyyyy

You know what’s not awesome?  When you’re having a really REALY great sex dream, and then half way through the dream the person you’re knockin’ boots with suddenly transforms into someone you would never EVER have sex with in a hundred million years.

No Mr. Rodgers, no please.  There’s no need to take your shoes off.  I’ll just put my leather chaps and cowboy boots back on and be going now…

Man hands and handjobs don’t mix

feel safe

It’s probably not surprising that hubs and I, we have some sex.  Heck, I would go so far as to say we have some downright athletic romps thanks to my “ass to grass” squat capabilities.

Since adding Crossfit into my fitness routine, I’ve received nothing but compliments from the man.  From the changes to my body, to my stamina, to my strength in various er… positions, he’s a big fan.

And frankly, so am I.  It’s super awesome to be able to do it and not end up focused on how much my thighs are burning or how sore my lower back is because the muscles are weak and out of shape.

But, there has been one thing that has changed for the worse.  Lately, it’s been so bad that I’ve heard more than one “ow!” in the bedroom.  Since we’re not into the S&M stuff, ow is never a good word.

It’s my freaking hands.

They are a disaster.  So bad in fact, I’m banned from giving handjobs and really shouldn’t use them at all when touching the delicate bits.

This is such a shame because my grip strength kittens, it’s out of the darn world.

But my razor sharp callouses and man hand type texture just kills the mood.  Apparently no amount of callous shaving in the world is going to make them feel any less like sandpaper.

What’s a Crossfit girl to do?

Since I’m not having children, you get my 30 years of wisdom

alcohol

Hey mom guess what?  I actually made it to 30!  I know, right?  I didn’t think I would do it either.  At least, not with all my limbs attached anyway.

Not only that, my teeth never rotted out of my head from all the candy.

My face didn’t ever freeze that way.

And I totally jumped off the bridge after my friends, and lived to tell the tale.

So really, I’ve had a pretty great time living these past 30 years.

Now I’m not saying all your advice was bunk, mom.  Lots of your pearls of wisdom helped me along the way.   And while you did bestow upon me the mothers curse of hoping I have a daughter exactly like me, I’m not going to give you a chance to spoil my potential little puke rotten and don’t plan to have one.

It’s a shame really, because I could totally be the cool mom who passes along the knowledge that will actually get you to 30.  Rather than let it go to waste, I’ll dispense the most important lessons and advice here to be immortalized in the interwebs.

Be warned, I’m going to give it to you straight, kittens.   Here’s the top 10 pieces of advice that got me to 30 relatively sane and unscathed… hey, I said relatively.  Stop laughing.

  1.  Wear a skirt to keg parties at frat houses.  You have a built in excuse NOT to do a keg stand.
  2. If something on their man bits looks or smells funny, do not put it in your mouth.  Under any circumstances.
  3. Wearing two condoms does not give you more protection.  It gives you chaffage and a rubber band burn inside your hoo hoo.
  4. Never, EVER play “never have I ever” in a room with more than one ex boyfriend.  Double bad if the ex boyfriends have their new girlfriends with them.  Triple bad if their new girlfriends are boring and easily made jealous.
  5. Make a few close friends that you can count on and who can count on you.  It’s not cool to have to call your mom for bail money because you got caught peeing on a wall in New Orleans when you were supposed to be volunteering to build a home for Habitat for Humanity in Pensacola for the weekend.
  6. Oh and don’t pee anywhere publicly.  That’s a big no no.  Boys too.  Whipping it out where other people can see it will go on your permanent record if you get caught.
  7. Go to Mardi Gras at least once.  Preferably when you’re old enough to drink legally but not so old that you’re the old skeezer just there to see perky young boobs.
  8. Find something classy you like to drink.  “Natty Light” might sound cool in college, but in the real world someone who knows their tequila or scotch seems just a tiny bit classier.
  9. Make decisions sober and don’t allow yourself to go back on them once you’re drunk.  I have no idea how many bad situations I’ve avoided by writing down on the palm of my hand “sleep in your own bed tonight you asshole” before leaving for the party, and actually taking my own advice.
  10. Find someone who gets your crazy and put them in your pocket and keep them forever.  I’m not saying go out and get married or fall in love or any of that crap.  But find someone who really GETS you, who vindicates and validates you, and supports you through it all.  Hell that person can be YOU if you’re super duper awesome, or it can be someone you find in someone else.  Either way, find it.  Having someone to make it to 30 and beyond with really does make all the difference in the world.

So what about you readers?  Any advice for how to make you first 30 years great?  What about the next 30?  Somehow I think the fun has just begun for this girl.

Mastering the Kama… eh, whatever

Weekly Writing Challenge:  Dialogue

Find the full challenge here: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/09/16/writing-challenge-dialogue/

Summary: Nothing draws me into a post like an opening scene with dialogue. It doesn’t matter if you’re writing fiction, nonfiction, memoir, or even journalism: Drop me in the middle of the action. Make me a fly on the wall. I guarantee I’ll be instantly engaged, wondering who these people are. Or write as if you’re a character in your own story, and you’ve pulled me along for the adventure.

“Where is my leg supposed to go again?”  I said, balancing precariously on the edge of the mattress.  It was spectacularly difficult to try to appear sexy and graceful while also trying to do what felt like advanced yoga while naked, sweaty, and attempting to keep his penis inside me.

“Um, I think it goes on this side,” he replied, gesturing as he studied the drawing in the book.

I shifted my weight.  The arm that had kept me delicately dangling on the edge of the bed gave out.  He caught me as I collapsed, falling off the edge of the bed into a fit of giggles.  His hand under my head braced my fall and he landed gently on top of me just where he belonged.

“That was a close call,” he whispered, voice husky.  My giggles disappeared and I became suddenly, beautifully aware of how perfect this moment was.

“Not close enough,” I replied.

The conversation ended there, replaced instead with the most beautiful, inarticulate symphony I could ever hope to be a part of.

Rub it riiiiigghhhtttt there

foot massage

Moaning loudly while getting a pedicure at a swanky spa is, apparently, frowned upon.

Granted, I know this on some level. I’m not a total idiot.

But after a great week of training that left my calves and ankles feeling like I had auditioned for Swan Lake or something, I absolutely could not control myself when Olga got in there for the massage portion of this weekend’s primping festivities.

I suppose the three mimosas made me a bit more relaxed than usual, but the staff and guests seemed to be in agreement that my reaction was a bit over the top.

I’ll remember that for next time. As for this time, at least I held back from whimpering “don’t stop, don’t stop” right when she got to the good part.

Taking applications. Sex faces required.

I’m used to getting strange looks from people.  Clearly, I have a tendency to speak my mind.  I also have the uncanny ability to fall up the stairs, knock myself unconscious when sitting down, twist my ankle while riding a roller coaster, or get attacked by wild dogs while crapping in a cornfield.

So yeah, I get a lot of “what the hell?” looks from people, and with good reason.  They don’t bother me.

However, one thing that does burn my biscuit a little is getting  judgmental “what in God’s name is that girl doing” looks when I’m doing something that maybe isn’t all that unusual.

Say for instance, a Crossfit style workout in a non-Crossfit gym.

Husband and I are traveling this weekend, and I have at least two workouts planned where we’re staying.  We’ve stayed at this resort before, and I know that is has one of the most fabulous fitness centers I’ve ever seen.  It most certainly rivals that of some of the Globo Gyms in my area.

During past trips I’ve done Crossfit style workouts in this gym involving burpees, double unders, dumbbell snatches and dumbbell squat cleans, push presses and more, and have always had a full audience of gawkers staring at me open mouthed and breathing heavy trying to figure out if I’m having a seizure or a really great workout.

Sometimes it irks me.

This time, I’m going to be prepared.

First off, I’m going to wear my favorite new workout T that says “Squats are like sex.  They only count when you go deep enough.”  I figure, it sets the stage for what’s to come.

I will begin by foam rolling my inner thighs while moaning and making sex faces, as after that nothing I do will be any weirder.

Beyond that, I don’t have anything truly special planned.

It might sound insane, but I really want to do 100 burpees for time.  The last time we did it there was a 10 minute cut off and I had only made it to 86 reps.  I want to know what my time is for the full 100 and then work on getting it under 10 minutes from there, as one of the Open WOD’s this year will inevitably have some sort of burpee madness that I want to be prepared for.

I also missed a really awesome “death by power cleans” WOD on my 1 year anniversary at the box, and really want a chance to take on that workout, so that is planned WOD #2.  I can’t remember if they have a bar there or if I will be doing them with dumbells, but either way, bring it on.

Stay tuned for the update on Monday, but methinks I might have to recruit a partner in crime to take pictures of my audience during this performance.

Any takers for the job?

Yup, I said it

foam roller

The foam roller at Crossfit saw more action than my husband did last night.  Then again, when I think about it, that foam roller was probably jammed firmly into at least 6 different peoples crotches throughout the course of the day, so I guess I’m really grateful that my husband doesn’t see THAT much action ever.

I love the foam roller.  It’s one of those things that, when you use it, it’s totally acceptable to make both sex noises and faces and no one judges you.  In fact, they’re probably making them too.

Last night we foam rolled our inner thighs.  Being the super freak that I am, it seems the only place on my inner thighs that ever get tight or sore is right up near my… ahem… where my thigh connects to my pelvis.

Looking around at the group of 10 or so of us who were sweating and panting and splayed out on the floor, it seemed I wasn’t alone.

Never mind the thoughts of just how sanitary, or not, this whole thing was.  The one thing I was trying desperately NOT to think was:

“I think this is as close to an orgy as I’ll ever get.”

But of course I thought it.

And then pretty much fell apart in a fit of giggles with everyone around me wondering what the hell was going on.

I didn’t admit it then, it was too bad even for me to say out loud in the moment.

But there it is kids, one of the many things I think but (thank God) do not say at Crossfit.