I have mentioned our smaller stupid dog.
Jack the terrier has many issues. Among them? A deep-seated hatred of all oven mitts.
I am not even kidding. I don’t know what went on in his early puppyhood, but he?
Is all kinds of fucked up.
The most hated oven mitts? A large rubber glove-like pair.
He goes insane. Leaping and growling and flipping and frothing and snarling and chomping at the air.
And so of course, we torture him a lot. For our own entertainment.
The other day? Each of the girls is wearing a rubber oven mitt held high above her head, both of them chasing the frenzied smaller stupid dog around the house.
Chasing him and threatening him with the “rubber fists of doom.”
“Jackie! Come here, Jackie! You know you want the rubber fists of doom! You know you do!”
Sometimes? I just think funny things, and that? Made me laugh hysterically.
Rubber fists of doom.
Snort!
A long time ago? Many many years ago? I had a friend.
Like many of my friendships with women, this one ended badly. There is something to female friendships that I don’t quite grasp. An expectation there that I don’t recognize, and then fail to meet.
Sigh.
But before I fucked up this particular friendship? There was a phone call. That I will now re-enact for you to the best of my recollection.
First there is talk of current events and politics and our plans for the weekend. I sip my morning coffee as I flip absent-mindedly through the newspaper.
“OK, so last night? It was our anniversary, and we went out to dinner.”
I am not really listening, “Yeah? Where’d you go?”
“That French place I was telling you about. Shut up and listen.”
“Don’t get all annoying. I was just holding up my end of the conversation.”
“OK, well shut the fuck up for once. I don’t want to talk about the restaurant.”
“You brought it up.”
“Would you shut the fuck up and listen?”
“Fine. This is me. All quiet.”
“OK, so we went out to dinner and it was lovely. Came home and had a few drinks. Played some music. Danced.”
“Seriously? I had to shut up for this way lame story of married romance?”
“I am not going to tell you again. Shut the fuck up.”
“Fine. I am shut the fucked up.”
“So we’re dancing and then we’re naked and then we’re having sex.”
My ears are immediately perky, newspaper forgotten, “Really? Do tell.”
“Seriously, Kris. Be quiet for a minute. OK, so then? During sex? My husband asked me to do something weird.”
“Please tell me you are going to share the weirdness with me.”
“Do you know how annoying it is that you are unable to stop talking?”
“Sorry.”
“OK, so I need you to tell me how weird this is. And you have to promise not to laugh.”
“Do you not know me at all? I’m not going to laugh. I can be serious and helpful.”
“Yeah, right. OK, so last night? During sex?”
“Yes?”
“Oh, shit. Never mind. I am not going to tell you. You’re going to think I’m a freak.”
“I am not going to think you are a freak. You can’t just leave me hanging this way. Talk, woman!”
“Nope. Never mind.”
“I am going to fucking kill you. I am going to get in my car, I am going to drive to your house, and I am going to kill you. Talk.”
Sweet-talk like that? That is the mark of best-friendness, right there.
There is silence on her end of the phone.
So I help her out, “OK, you guys are dancing, you are drinking, you are naked, you are in bed. You’re having sex, and then he asks you to . . . do what? Spit it out.”
“He asked me to insert a finger.”
Oooooh . . . so happy to have answered the phone this morning, “Are we talking about what I think we are talking about?”
“Yes, and so now? I am pretty sure he’s gay.”
A pause here while I giggle hysterically and snort into the phone and she gets pissed off at me.
“You fucking promised not to laugh. You are such a bitch.”
I gasp for breath, “OK, wait. Hold on. I am completely under control now. He’s not gay.”
“You weren’t here to see the happiness. There was way too much happiness.”
“He’s not gay. He’s just happy.”
“You don’t fucking know that. Now I’m going to be one of those idiot women in denial. I’ll be at the drugstore, all, ‘No, my husband’s not gay . . . now, if you could just ring up this extra-large tube of KY jelly and this box of rubber gloves? I will be on my way.’”
Oh my god, she made me laugh. I miss her.
She continues, “And I’m worried this is just the beginning. First it’s a finger, and then it’s some small object, and then a larger object, and before you know it? We go out to dinner on our 15th anniversary and the sex that night? Will look exactly like me fisting my gay-ass husband.”
And then we both laughed so fucking hard.
Happy sighs at that memory.
I am all annoyed now, typing this, that I ever let this woman escape from my life.
Although she is always with me, because every time I take something out of the oven with those rubber fists of doom?
I think of her and I wonder how things have progressed.
Snort!
In other news?
Mark was reading through some other people’s blogs the other night. Not naming names . . . some mommy bloggers. He never reads anybody else’s stuff. Ever.
After about a half hour of clicking and reading and clicking and reading?
He turned to me and he said, “Are you aware that you are quite a bit bolder and sluttier than these other bloggers?”
He makes me laugh.
And Mark?
He better hang on to his hat.
And his gloves.
Snort!
I love your blog and envy you your bold sluttiness (hey, I just taught my droid a new word) and sometimes wish I could /would be more wild and raucous on my blog. I guess I set my tone by beginning it as my father was dying and there’s so much intense shit in there about death, grief and then my autistic son, too. Although if I decide to go that way, the name of my blog does hold many opportunities for double entendres. Squashed Bologna indeed. Snort.
But guess what, you?
You get to call the shots. If you are no longer who you once were? Make that announcement and step forward!
I am all for writers being all of who they are.
Figure out who you are NOW. And own that.
And then move forward.
Don’t be ruled by your past.
Find your voice? And then speak.
Love you.
Guess what… my relationships with women also always end badly!
Teehehe
You?
With your teehehes?
You crack me up.
There are so many different things I could say, and so many ways that I relate to this post, which is now my all time fave as you know, but that would take a lot of time and witty-ness which is not abundant at the moment. I’m about to go get some gloves though and scare the shit out of sleeping Tim. I’m feeling evil and in a re-enactment sort of mood. Let’s just leave it at that. YAY!
Love you, doppleganger babe.
Let me know how that re-enactment goes!
Hee hee!
I am instantly reminded of Charlotte from Sex and the City…and how she didn’t want to be the “up the butt” girl. I suppose she should have been worrying that her date du jour was gay or not. And I’m pretty sure the anniversary gift for 15 years is a gerbil.
You, Lanita?
You sometimes surprise me.
In a good way.
Snort!
Are you thinking about a book? Because your writing, it is unbelievable gobs of funniness.
Think about it. You should be getting laid.
You have made me LAUGH!
Do you really mean that I should be getting laid?
Because I am all good on that front.
Or paid?
Snort!
So funny.
OMG “PAID” dang, I meant PAID
…………..but I guess laid and paid is still good.
Although that?
Makes you sound even more supah slutty.
Love it
Amy, I thought for sure you were suggesting that Kris would be so famous for her writing she’d be going on book tours and getting laid by random hot fans. “Paid” makes more sense.
Oh, and do I know you, Miss AmyLynn?
Gwen
I do so like your suggestion better than my typo!
Do I know you? I don’t know—maybe?
I have an old friend with the same name… Just wondering if you happened to be her, reading the same blog. Wouldn’t that be funny when half this post was about female friendships and how hard they can be?
Don’t think I am her, but we CAN pretend!
Oh Gwen Dhaling, how ARE you?
tell me every little thing that has been happening……
He asked you to do WHAT?
teeee heee
SUPAH SLUTTEE— the book
Getting laid and paid, blogging can fufill your life’s dreams
title? No?
Isn’t there an Elton John song in here somewhere?
1. I think it is g r e a t that you let him read your shit. I could never let the sportsman read mine. I am pretty bold and honest and I just think it might hurts his feelings.
2. I also have had a break up (over something fucking stupid) of what I thought was a great friendship. Went several years without speaking. Then re connected on that damn FB. Now I remember why I we quit talking.
Some ppl just fucking piss me off.
1) I could never write if I was worried about hurting Mark’s feelings. We’ve been together for a long time, and I would never write something to hurt him. I know my boundaries. That said? He has a pretty high tolerance, and he loves my writing.
2) Some people just fucking piss me off as well.
We love you and your boldness. And your slutiness.
And your funny friend and her “gay” husband.
Thanks, you!
Very much.
Love, me
The bold slutty one.
Yeah, Mark, I know you were talking about my squeaky clean blog. But, hey, if it weren’t for how we had to keep it clean, we wouldn’t be coming here to get our slutness thang on….Your badass mama gives us the way, the means, and the place……
As Cookie Monster says, “win win situation…”
smooch.
Slutness thang?
Definite win-win.
Swoon!
All this sluttiness and boldness and (imaginary) eye flashing and no NIGEL??
Kris I love the blog.
And? go the fists of doom!, any candy stealing dog needs to be kept in line with fists of doom (and a few stinky cats too)
Nigel?
He is lovely.
But he is not required.
Love you.
Oh.My.Gawd.!!! I was laughing so hard I had tears. Love your blog. No hugs but definete appreciative kudos. Sometimes you are the only thing that makes me laugh in a day.
That?
Is the best compliment I have heard in a long while.
Thanks, you!
Thanks much! (especially since that is my first comment to you and I have been reading for quite a while now!)
Yay!
A lurker who finally steps from the shadows!
So happy.
Hi, you!
Fisting? Finger insertion? and no Nigel comment???
And I just see Bex stole my thunder on THAT joke.
pouting.
2 stinkin days off from your blog and I miss being punctually snarky about a fisting post. Damnit. Balls.
I also seem unable to keep female friends…they are so much work. anonymous bloggy peeps who dont require you to give a shit about dumb details are SO much easier.
Nigel took a few days off.
I am too much for him, sometimes.
Hee hee!
besides the obvious fisting references and hilarities I could throw around here I will say this…
I don’t maintain IRL female relationships well either. And i am sad for it. But at the same time? I just don’t have the energy. Is that bad?
And? I hate getting behind on your blog. Yes, pun intended.
Female friendships in real life require more energy than male friendships.
They just do.
And I hate when you get behind on me.
Snort!