Is disgusting the new black? No? Oh. Darn.

I’ve totally lost any desire to put forth the effort to have good hygiene.

I have become a stinky, flaky skinned, hairy, brutally disgusting version of my former self.

I’ve gotten used to going for long periods of time without taking a shower, brushing my teeth, or shaving.

I took a shower the other day… but I couldn’t remember when the one before it had happened.

At some point, this is going to become so ridiculous that something is going to have  to change.

I mean, there’s only so long I can blame it on Braden or claim I’m saving water to protect the environment.

Eventually, I’ll be POLLUTING the environment.

Like, early next Thursday.

Or whenever that dirt-encrusted thing growing off the side of my body starts talking. (It already has a face.  I’m thinking of naming it Grubbo.)

To add to my new-found charm, I’ve gained quite a bit of weight.

Yes. Kevin & Leroy are back, and Pattie has become ginormous.  Once again, parts of my body are rolling over onto other parts of it, saying, “Oh, Hai!  I’m TOUCHING you and I’m SO NOT supposed to be touching you! Neener.”

I have a largish pile of clothes I can’t wear, but I’m rockin’ the maternity clothes.  And no, I’m not pregnant.

Unless we’re counting Grubbo.

It’s time for Operation Unfattenning and Destanking.

Hold on people, I’m about to step away from the fridge, onto the treadmill, and then into the shower.

This could get ugly.

I think Grubbo just hissed at me.

When toddlers pee in anger.

A poem for my living room carpet:

They said you were dirty
but what did they know
I’ve cared for you plenty
and boy does it show

You’re not even black yet
just a dingy grey
I swore that I’d steam you
one of these days

Then a cranky toddler
had fits he did throw
got time out, and got back
at Mom with Pee Shows.

Oh carpet, it soaked in
and I waited too long
I steamed you last night
now you smell like burnt schlong (??? sorry, it rhymed)

Another Mom Lesson
with answers you seek:
don’t let it soak in! when
you do clean, it REEKS.

Close Your Eyes and Think of England.

Editor’s Note: This is an anonymous guest post from someone who is looking for constructive comments and feedback. Comments are open on this post for your reflection and discussion, to communicate with the author, and to offer your own experiences. There will be ZERO tolerance for rude comments or ridicule. If you do that, I’ll delete your comment, and ban your IP.

You are encouraged to offer feedback. The author is interested in knowing what you have to say.

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I have a problem. It’s something I’ve struggled with all my life. I need help, and I also need to know I’m not the only one. Or am I?

I have no libido. I have no interest in sex at all. I guess a therapist would call me asexual, although somehow I’ve managed to conceive five wonderful children.

By the way, this is not Lotus of  Merry Crotchmas fame. I can’t speak for her but I’m pretty sure she likes sex. I am an anonymous guest writer. For a long time I’ve wanted to write about this issue, but my blog is very public and it doesn’t get much more personal than this.  In fact it borders on pornographic, so if you’re sensitive to that you may not want to read on.

It all started when I was a child. My family is very religious. In order to foster chastity in me, I was indoctrinated not just  to think of sex as something reserved for marriage, but something so disgusting it should be completely avoided. If there was a kissing scene on TV my mother made mock gagging noises, and my parents never kissed or hugged in front of me. I don’t want to sound like some self-involved whiner, but they never hugged me either or told me they loved me, though I know they did. When it was time for sex-ed, my parents had me pulled out of class so I wouldn’t be exposed to it. I learned about sex and periods later from my friends. When I did get my period I slipped a note under my parents’ door to let them know and maxi pads began to materialize in my bathroom. It was never discussed. As an only child I often wished for a sister that I could talk to about it.

At first this repression backfired. I discovered masturbation at an early age, though I didn’t know what it was. I just knew it felt good. Then when I was about ten a friend of mine showed me her stepfather’s dirty magazines, and I was far from repulsed, although in hindsight all that was shown was the female upper body. In junior high I discovered Harlequin Romances, which I had to hide under my mattress, and I marked all the sex scenes so I could reread them whenever I wanted. As I got older, I discovered Cosmopolitan Magazine and memorized every sex tip.

Somehow I made it through high school as the other kind of statistic: the odd kid that didn’t lose her virginity. I didn’t want to be a virgin, but I didn’t want to be a slut either. I’d decided that I wouldn’t go looking for sex, but if it came knocking I wouldn’t turn it down. I was a fairly popular and attractive girl, a cheerleader even, and I did manage to land a boyfriend my senior year. But I was so shy with him I could barely speak in his presence. I was saddened greatly but not at all surprised when he broke up with me after about a month of this.

When I moved on to college, all my friends were having sex. But not me. My virginity was its own chastity belt, enclosing me in a protective bubble. Anyone with a penis dared not approach, however much I wanted them to, and I was too shy to put myself forward.

I reached the age of 20 without ever having been kissed, or even having any idea what a penis looked like. Finally I found another boyfriend. He was someone I worked with. I had my first kiss, and it quickly evolved into full-blown make-out marathons. But nothing more. Oddly enough, John had a small penis complex. I told him I’d never even seen a penis before, but he was afraid to let me see how small it was. I put myself forward as much as I could stand, determined to lose my virginity. One night I even snuck into his bed with a box of condoms, but he wouldn’t have it. A few days after that he broke up with me, he said he wanted a relationship that was about more than sex and that was all I seemed to be interested in. The other guys we worked with were incredulous and rather interested at this news, but I didn’t want to continue working with John after that, so I left that social sphere.

The phenomenon continued. I’d hopefully go on dates, wearing sexy underwear, armed with the knowledge of Cosmopolitan, but my dates seemed to be as shy as I was, waiting for me to take the initiative. And my very conservative upbringing prevented me from taking that initiative.

I finally resolved myself to being single. Of course as soon as I did that, my future husband came on the scene. I was 26 by this time and felt old. Jeff was a known player in my area, but also the only man that was still single. So when he made his move, I went for it. Because of his reputation I was certain it would be a short-lived, sex only relationship, and I was okay with that.

The experience of sex was not at all what Harlequin and Cosmopolitan Magazine had led me to expect. Sweat, hair, breath, sticky saliva, gross noises, after-smells, yuck. The greatest disappointment of all was oral sex. I knew it was supposed to be the greatest thing ever, but as Jeff’s head began to move down my body I became more and more appalled. And then seeing his head there between my thighs, I had never been more mortified in my life. He lifted his head and told me I had the most beautiful vagina he’d ever seen. That only made it worse. I was horrified.  My whole body was tense and I wished he’d just get it over with. As he worked at it my body responded, but my will was stronger. I didn’t like the physical sensations. I didn’t like the idea that I might lose control. I pushed him away.

And then it was my turn. I thought I knew exactly what I was supposed to do, but it was all theoretical. Remember, I’d never even seen a penis before. And there was hair, and smells, and strange alien movements. I gathered my bravado and went for it. But Jeff had also read Cosmopolitan, and had learned that you’re supposed to let your partner know exactly what you want them to do. He wouldn’t stop talking, asking me to do this or do that, use my hands more, go this way, stop this other thing, until I gave up.

I felt like an idiot and a failure. I was supposed to know how to do these things. Isn’t it instinctive? Why did I not find his penis attractive? Why did it, in truth, repulse me?

The logical assumption here is that maybe I was gay. Of course that did occur to me, and I gave the thought a good deal of consideration. But I found female genitalia even more repulsive.  I decided I’d simply placed to many expectations where they didn’t belong, and shouldn’t have assumed I’d be a sex goddess from the start, even though everyone seemed to think it was supposed to work that way.

While the sex was a disappointment to me, it wasn’t to Jeff, and what was supposed to be a physical relationship only developed into something more. We got married, and had a big wedding with all the pomp and frills. I spoke to Jeff about my inhibitions, and he promised to help me try to get past them. He understood that his attempted direction had put me off of oral sex, but I was afraid to tell him that it went beyond that. I didn’t like or want sexual pleasure. I didn’t mind trying to appease his libido, but that’s all it was for me, an appeasement. Because you can’t have a marriage without sex, can you?

When my first son was born, I saw a magazine with an article titled, “Get Your Sex Life Back.” I was thrilled, I thought it would have suggestions on how to increase my libido. Instead it was geared toward women with high libidos, explaining how to work more sex into your schedule. And ever since I have seen this as the general way of things. Women are expected to want to have sex, and to want it often. There’s no help or support for women who don’t fit this description. It makes me feel like a total freak, ashamed and afraid to ask for help.

And now the years have passed, and having five kids with busy schedules has made it all too easy to avoid sex.  I feel horrible about this. My husband deserves more and better.

I know I need help, but I don’t know where that help should come from. Jeff has not tried to help me get over my inhibitions as he said he would, but has been very understanding about my aversions, far more understanding than the majority of men probably would be. I don’t know if this is psychological, a result of my upbringing, or if it might be something as simple as a hormone imbalance. Some might even say that if my experience was broader I might feel differently. Maybe that’s true, but I doubt it.

I wonder if I’m really the only one on the planet that could happily live out my life without ever having sex again. Scientists seem a lot more interested in giving men erections than in making women receptive to them. Maybe there are others out there who are ashamed to come forward, as I certainly have been. But I want to like sex. I want to be that sex goddess I always thought I’d be. But for me, that’s like wanting to be a rock star and yet not even capable of speech.

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Remember, comments are encouraged on this post, and the author is very interested in receiving reader feedback, experience, and insight.
But ridicule her or say anything rude and your comment will be deleted.

They’re Out to Get Me.

I swear they are. I’m only nervous around maybe 3 things and they probably rank 2 on that list. I don’t believe in fear, unless it’s of completely irrational things like bridges. I believe that they are plotting to attack me by the tens of thousands, when I least expect it, and carry me off to their underground lair to be tortured and lampooned for the rest of my days. Their kind has mastered the scientific method of prolonging life as well, so I may be subjected to their belligerence forever.

They run from most people. They are afraid and attempt to flee, hiding high and low to prevent being seen. But me? They run straight at me. It’s as if they know that my heart leaps into my throat at the sight of them. They enjoy it. They enjoy my terror. Maybe they mistake my fear for respect. Or maybe they are so excited by my blatant discomposure that they want to see just how bad it can get. How far they can push me before I literally pass out and die from it.

I’m afraid to get out of bed @ night. I always have been, no matter where I’ve lived because the bastards always find me. They follow me. Or they search me out. Or they keep track of me through complicated methods of pygmy correspondence and thus are able to alert their brethren of my imminent arrival. As soon as I turn the light on, I look around and make sure I’m alone. And as soon as I let my guard down, I realize that I’m not. That their super stealth force ninja agent was waiting just behind the threshold: unseen and silent, but deadly nonetheless.

They are outside. Inside. In doorways. In hallways. In bedrooms. In closets. In alleys. Under cars. Behind trashcans. On the back porch. Everywhere. And they are coming for me. I just know it.

Those six legged little bastards called “waterbugs.”
They will attack soon.

What’s out to get you?

(I’m Maria by the way. I’ll bet Lotus thought I was going to go all batshit crazy on her readers and make them be like “Holy hell, why the FUCK did you let this bitch guest post?” but I totally didn’t. Ha. I showed her. And you. And you don’t even know me. Heh.)

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When she’s not loosing creepy crawlies onto the internet via guest post, Maria writes over at her own website, Immoral Matriarch, in the style of someone you would expect to go batshit crazy at any given moment. Therein lies the attraction. *wink*

The shoes are still sitting in the garage, being avoided. *sigh*

Dear Exceeding Disgusting Degenerate Who Frequented the Mens Room At Cracker Barrel:

I am really appreciative of the fact that my loving husband takes on diaper duties for our son when he comes home.  It offers me a chance to relax a little.

Unfortunately, he entered the restroom to change a wet diaper on Monday at some point after you were there.  And he occupied much of the same space that you clearly “used” during your time in the facility.

For future reference: That round, shiny porcelain thing that you were in a stall with?  THAT was your primary target.  Notice how it was just about the same size as your ass (not your face, but I understand your confusion, as you are clearly an Assfacian).  It must have seemed like such a coincidence, I know, but trust me – it is purposeful.  You are actually supposed to place your “dumping mechanism” over that lovely collection bowl and THAT is where you are intended to make your “deposit.”  This is the acceptable way of doing things in our part of the world.

In other words? Shit goes in the toilet. NOT ON THE FLOOR.

The scent of “shit shoe-sole”, even after it has been furiously rubbed on dirt and leaves in the parking area, is not a pleasant thing to a pregnant lady in a car on the ride home.

Please note that your anonymity is the only thing saving your life today.

Sincerely,

One of the MANY people who understand how this whole Public Sanitation thing works.

On the serious? Stop it, Braden.

I know that Braden
really loves me when he makes
the special effort

to work up a crap
in the middle of the night.
Then he screams for me.

Have you ever crapped
just because you missed someone?
I am so fla-turd.

(insert eye roll here)

Project Support Beauty in Nature

The response to my last post was great.  So many of you spoke up and agreed that befowling the earth with filth is poor behavior! 

Just a sample of thoughts:

“Arghhh, rubbish drives me mad.”
-Veronica

“It makes me mad too when I see how people just think it is ok to throw trash on the ground.”
-Jennifer

“Litter is pretty disgusting – people are a bunch of pigs.”
-Beck

“This is the stuff that gets under my skin because it is only getting worse…”
-Kim

And I can only imagine that several more of you agreed, but just didn’t comment.  Did anyone get inspired to do a cleanup project of their own?

I am going to document our own little trash pickup/recycling project of later this week and report back to you guys with pictures and words.  I’d like to issue you all a challenge to do something similar.  Are you up to it?  Put on your thinking cap.  Have you seen something similar in your neighborhood that disgusts you? 

Some of you clearly have:

“I was just thinking the same thing yesterday while watching a group of people flick their cigarette butts all over the ground….”
-Sandy (Momisodes)

 “I think I will have to do the same thing b/c on our walk, just through our neighborhood, I saw a lot of junk on the ground.”
- Secret Agent Mama

“…I still cringe when I see the amount of garbage thrown into some parts of the streets and sidewalks….”
-Lilacspecs

“I carry a trash bag while hiking so I can pick up other people’s garbage.”
-Amy

“My kids and I go once a month, trash bags in hand and collect the litter along the roadside in our area. It never ceases to sicken and amaze me that people are this damn lazy and spoiled to toss their trash where ever they choose.”
-Redneck Mommy

And how about you?  Have you seen something similar where you are?  What can you do about it? 

*What will you do about it?*

So many of you are awesome bloggers, and I would LOVE to see your answer to this challenge in my comments section, and then your follow-up post about your own project of kindness and love, on your site.  Is two weeks enough time for everyone to come up with something, complete the task, and then document it on their website?

Or maybe you live a very green lifestyle, and you’d love to share your advice and opinions with others, in the hopes that something you do hasn’t yet occurred to someone else, and they will adopt a change for the better when they read your post.  Educating others is a great way to help – and with your own website you can do just that!

This is a call to action -let’s name it Project Support Beauty in Nature. 

If you like, please grab any of these buttons and put them on your sidebar, linking to this page, to call attention to this project.  Who knows how many people we can get on Mother Earth’s side?

                  

                  
On February 11th, I will publish my post about The Carroll Community Cleanup (gotta love the alliteration!).  I will put a “Mr. Linky” on that post – which means that when you publish YOUR “Support Beauty in Nature” post that day (Feb 11), you can hop over here and leave your link on my post for everyone else to see.  Then you can visit the posts of other Beautifiers and we can all learn a little, together.

“People overlook the power of one. They think since they can’t fix the whole problem, their piddly little contribution won’t make a difference, so they don’t act. They are correct – if most people have that attitude.”
-SuzanneSays

Let’s make a difference. 

Let’s stand together, and grow the number of us that are changing the world for the better, one step at a time.

Support Beauty in Nature!

Seeing Clearly.

A few days ago I was feeling rather icky.  You know what I mean.  My heart was sticky with the tar of depression, my head was cloudier than a room full of Milton Berles, and my muscles were aching like I had just run a marathon with Sally Struthers strapped to my back.

So, I did the thing that generally makes me feel happier, no matter what else is going on: I kicked the dog put on my jacket, grabbed my camera, and went for a walk.  Movement in Sunshine.

It was about 3:30 and very brisk.  Clouds were milling around in the sky, crowding the sun as it begain to trail its path to oblivion for the night… As I strolled along, my muscles stretched and yawned.  They woke up a little, and endorphins lifted the corners of my mouth, and my mind.

Usually during such a stroll, and basically as a general rule in life, I am intensely drawn towards visions of Beauty in Nature.  I always capitalize when I refer to the concept in this way.  It is as if it is its own entity, starkly standing out from the muddle that is everything else.  My soul seeks out this type of beauty.  My heart beats faster, my breathing slows, and my eyes seem to focus more sharply when I bear witness to Beauty in Nature.  I feel… well, alive.

During this stroll, it started off that way, and I got a nice shot of the sun caressing these naked, shivering trees one last time before she turned and went to bed.

But then, I was continually drawn to something else.

This revolts me.

It makes my heart beat faster.  I am angry.

It makes my breathing slow… as I grit my teeth.  I am trying not to lose my cool.

It makes my eyes focus more sharply, as my brows furrow deeply. 

What do I really see?

I see a people who are too spoiled and pampered, careless, thoughtless and oblivious to true beauty, to be kind.  I see a disgusting swarm of cretins sauntering across the earth, leaving their filth behind them to rot and lay peril to the beauty that battles to live on amidst the muck.

I see a people who don’t deserve so much of what is here for them, obviously just in their periphery, because they certainly can’t be seeing it clearly.  There’s no way you could do THIS if you’re seeing the Beauty in Nature clearly. Could you? 

What can I do?  My heart beats faster.

Just me? How can I stop this?  I ponder.  My breathing slows.

Even in small numbers, we can make a difference.  Later this week, John, Braden and I will walk along the same way I did last Friday, but we will be armed with garbage bags.  We’re going to pick up every piece of this dreck that we come across.

My eyes have focused more sharply.

UPDATED: The response to this post was so wonderful, that I posted this follow-up to it.

We’ve started a movement:

Would love any and all of you out there to join in, any way you can.  If you can’t get out and do an actual project, you can post about past projects, or just “Green” tips and advice.  Thanks!  We really can make the world a liveable place.