Children Are Disgusting (TMI)

Yeah, yeah.  They're cute and all, but let's be totally honest: kids are disgusting.  I just need to vent about some of the more repulsive things my children have done recently.  Feel free to chime in with your own horror stories!

Yesterday as I was wiping the bum of my squirming three-year-old who had just unapologetically crapped his pants, I witnessed my oldest son do something so vile that it made the poop-filled diaper in front of me seem like small potatoes.  I glanced up just as D removed a huge chunk of snot from his nose... in one swift movement the quivering wad of gunk went into his mouth.

**puking**

Oysters, anyone?

Of course I read him the riot act about using tissues, washing his hands, how eating boogers transmits germs and causes illness, and so forth... but honestly, I don't think there's anything in the world that will stop a kid from picking his nose.  When I complained about it to Jim he said he remembers picking his nose and eating it when he was a kid too.  As he put it, "So you've picked your nose... the question then is, 'What do I do with it?'"

Fucking nasty!  Don't get me wrong, I was a nose-picking little shit when I was a kid too.  I have a vivid memory of sitting in my second grade classroom digging for gold when the teacher stopped her lesson, sighed heavily, and said, "Beverly, please get a tissue."

Certainly not my proudest moment.

IT WAS A SCRATCH!

So yeah, I get it, but let the record show that I never ATE my boogers. No way!  I just wiped and flicked them anywhere I felt like it.

Recently my little guy decided to stop being potty-trained, which means I've been cleaning up a lot of truly nauseating messes lately.  You wouldn't even believe the smell of some of the laundry I've been doing this morning! 

Adding to that fun is the fact that we're also working on housebreaking our five-month-old puppy, so twice now M has decided to take a big whiz on the hallway carpet alongside the peeing puppy.  Yes, you read that right. Someday soon, when both the dog and the boy are finally trustworthy, we're gonna have to bite the bullet and replace the carpeting upstairs.  It's that bad.

Last story: on New Year's Eve the herd of children (there were ten of them here) decided to write on the wall upstairs in INK and then "paint" a section of wall in the boys' room with meatballs.  So that was fun to clean up.  I also found a petrified fuzzy green chunk of something between the seat cushions of the sofa that looked like a science experiment gone very, very wrong. I suspect it was once a piece of String Cheese.  I won't even go into the things I've found rotting in my car.

Slobs!

Okay, I'm glad I got that off my chest.  Now tell me I'm not alone, please!  Misery loves company.  ;)

TMI Thursday: Not-So-Sweet Nothings

Wow, it has been ages since I've dipped a toe into TMI territory!  I'm not sure why I feel inclined to go there today, but I do feel the need to talk about S-E-X and share a few of the moments that still make me cringe to this day.  Why?  Because why the hell not, that's why.  You love it.

Anyway, today's topic is unsexy things that have been said to you while in the throes of passion.  As always, I'll go first, and then I'd love to hear about some of yours in the comment section!

When I think about the most unsexy thing that anyone has ever said to me, I'm instantly transported back in time to October of my freshman year of college.  My HS boyfriend, who went to a different school 9 hours away, was visiting me for the first time since we'd parted ways at the end of August.  I'd gone to great lengths to get my roommate out of the room for the night, had visited Victoria's Secret for a silky lil' number to surprise him with, and had stocked up on some of his favorite snacks.  It was late Friday night when he arrived and we quickly fell into bed and got it on.  After, as I pondered whether Woolite would take stains out of silk we lay tangled on my twin bed under a wall-sized poster of the nearly-naked Red Hot Chili Peppers, we chatted about our new lives at our respective schools.

It was during this lazy, breezy talk that he slipped up and dropped a game changer:

HE CALLED ME "LISA."

I don't know if you've noticed, but that's not my name.  "Who the fuck is Lisa?" I demanded.  He stuttered and stammered and insisted that she was just a friend.  I fled the room and cried in the bathroom.  We eventually made up and finished out the weekend, but it nagged at me.  Nag, nag, nag, nag, nag.  Who is Lisa?  Why was he thinking of her while we were naked?  WTF?

We made it though the rest of the school year and then he broke up with me the second we got home for summer break after admitting that he had plans to go see Lisa that summer.  Yadda yadda yadda, now they're married with a couple of kids.  It's no biggie - we've both moved on and are even FB friends, and every now and then he pops by the OOBH.  Wouldn't surprise me if he was reading this right now.

No hard feelings.  It was a teaching moment for La Bev, and trust me when I tell you that I am SO GLAD that I didn't have a steady boyfriend for the next couple of years because I would have missed out on a lot of good times and new... experiences. *WINK*  So yes, the worst of my "Not-So-Sweet Nothings" said in bed is simply, "Lisa."

The second still makes me laugh when I think of it.  Quite simply, once upon a time I was showering with a new boyfriend.  He was washing my back and derriere and I was starting to get a little turned on when he suddenly blurted out, "Have you had this mole checked out?"

No, not that kind of mole.

BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

It's a good thing he was cute & I loved him!  I've killed men for less.*


So, there you have it, now it's your turn!  I'm turning the mic over to you and asking:

What's the most unsexy thing someone has ever said to you before/during/after sexy times?

*By "killed" I mean "spanked."

Adventures in Chatroulette: What we've seen cannot be unseen.

Good morning!  Oh, do I have a post for you today! On Saturday night Mala and I were supposed to attend a friend's birthday party but neither of us could secure a sitter, so we did what any pair of mature 35-year-olds would do; we had a slumber party! The kids had a ball trashing Mala's house while we made and ate our favorite meal (Chicken Tikka Masala). We both ate so much of it that we were about 3 months along with "food babies" for the rest of the night, but it was worth it.

When we finally wrestled the kids into bed we opened a(nother) bottle of wine and that's when things got interesting! For reasons that will have to wait for another blog post on another day, Mala had unearthed a Halloween costume from her basement and was currently dressed as a kind of Grim Reaper slash Greek Chorus member.

Doesn't everyone don an outfit like this on Saturday night?

Since she was dressed like a scary freak, we decided to try something we'd never done but had heard about - Chatroulette. Just in case anyone is not familiar with Chatroulette, it's a website where you turn your webcam on and are linked up to random strangers' webcams. You can click "Next" to move on, or you can stay and type/chat to the person on the other end of the line.

The things I do for my BOOBHs, seriously. You can thank me later.

WARNING**NSFW**WARNING

This post contains raunchy NSFW subject matter; not the least of which are photos that we took during our session that are risque.  I did censor the worst ones and won't put them on the main page, and you can see them after the jump.

This warning most likely titillated most you (pervs) but if you're the prudish type, don't say I didn't warn you! 

So, here's Mala getting started. We got a lot of blank stares when they saw her ghostly image on the other end of the chat, but mostly she got "Nexted" fast and often.  She didn't even get to chat with anyone!

It took exactly 7 seconds before we saw our first naked wang. Let me tell you, if you love masturbating in front of strangers and/or watching strangers slapping their salamis, Chatroulette is for you.



At first we were shocked but by the third or fourth close-up of veiny man parts we almost got used to it. Almost. I've got to say, we were impressed by the variety of sizes, shapes, etc., but I'll get back to that in a moment.

After a while we decided to do a little social experiment.

Our hypothesis: visible cleavage = game-changer.

I took over chat duties and put on the mask, but not the cape.

<---- C'est moi.

The results were immediate. All of a sudden when people popped up on the screen, instead of their eyes bulging and the screen instantly shifting to the next one as they clicked "Next" as fast as they could, they'd hesitate for a second, taking in the mask and the boobs. You could actually witness the internal struggle as they pondered me; I'm turned on, but also freaked out. Which feeling is stronger?


My favorites were the wankers.  An erect penis would pop up and the owner's hand would pause mid-stroke, as if deciding. Then, it was as if you could hear him say, "Huh. Okay, I can work with that."

This guy was nice; he was the first one who did NOT consider "Let me see your titties!" to be an appropriate request after we'd just barely said hello, so we talked to him for a few minutes. He didn't get our jokes but he did like our mask so much that he even went and got one of his own, out of solidarity. We liked him, but he bored us, so we politely thanked him for his time and moved on.

We found a few like-minded folks out there. Both of these guys stayed on long enough to give our masks the thumbs up before asking to see my boobs, so we took that as a win.

And then we met Sven Olsson*.

*SWOON*

*Not his real name.

As soon as we found this guy we both mumbled, "Well, he's kind of cute," at the same time. Turns out, he's a 25-year old waiter/bartender in Sweden and he was... in a word... adorable. He was flirty but not pervy. He never once asked me to take my top off (our Chatroulette standards of what is pervy and what isn't were sufficiently low by that point), and we ended up talking to him for quite a while.

Before long we had exhausted everything we know about Sweden: it's cold, they had Vikings, good meatballs, the Swedish Chef, Ikea, and Alexander Skarsgard. At one point we tried to gracefully take our leave but he wanted to keep chatting. He liked us!



Before long he was teaching us handy Swedish expressions like, "knullruff," which means "bed head" but literally translates to "fuck mess." He taught us some other, dirtier expressions too. In exchange, we taught him what a pimp and a sex cartel was. What can I say? We are givers.

Sadly, before we could book our flights to Stockholm the Chatroulette program seized up and we lost him. SAD FACES! We didn't even get to say goodbye! Oh, Sven! We'll always wonder what could have been!

After Sven, the quality of the chatters deteriorated quite a bit, though we did see the biggest dong EVER (pic after the jump). The variety was astounding - we saw everything from huge to tiny, hairless to gorilla-pubes, fat, skinny - you name it. The one thing they all had in common (aside from impressive 1-handed typing skills) was that they seemed to be under the mistaken impression that we were dying to see them ejaculate.

Ew.

After a few moments they'd all ask to see the boobs as a trade, at which point we'd either do nothing or we'd say no, then they'd Next us.

There were some women on, too. One woman was straddling her webcam and giving herself a pretty thorough gynecological exam. Despite the fact that both Mala and I instantly groaned and shielded our eyes, she still paused and typed out a cheerful, "Hi!" to us.

NEXT.

We stayed up far too late. By the end it was nothing but pimply adolescent boys, giggling girls at sleep-overs, creepy old guys, and the ever-present wankers. Mala and I each decided to put security block upon security blocks on our future-teenager's computers! EEK!

We passed this guy repeatedly, which is funny because I didn't think Amish people even HAD computers. He Nexted us and we Nexted him about 5 times before we finally gave up and said hi. Then we called it a night.

SO, how'd we do?

Thirteen out of twenty-five? I'd say that's not bad for our first-ever session. Plus, we fell in love! Oh, Sven....

So, there you have it. Have you ever done Chatroulette? Have I scared you away from ever doing it? :)

If you want to see a couple (censored for your mental well-being) NSFW pics, they're after the "read more."

This pickle is actual size.  No, really!

He put the "wee" in weenie.  We nicknamed him "Buttons."

No hedgehogs were harmed in the making of this photo.

Cue the Facts of Life Theme Song

I'm a little bit grumpy today.

I'm not going to dwell. No wallowing here. Nope!

Well, not much, anyway.

Do you ever just have one of those days when you feel defeated before you even get out of bed? You know, like when all of life's little shitty details pile on top of you until you feel like you've been trapped beneath something really heavy. Say, a flatulent hippopotamus?

Maybe your kids come home filthy and crotchety from school, then refuse to go to bed until after 9.

Maybe tomorrow marks one year since your favorite person passed away.

Maybe you can't go one day at work without something breaking and it's your job to get it fixed, but not before you hear about the problem from every single person in the office.

Maybe the 7 day cleanse pills you are taking have caused some pretty unpredictable and unpleasant sprints to the bathroom.

Not that this is what I've got going on or anything. Oh nooooo, not me! I'm just cranky 'cuz it's Thursday and not Friday. ;) Thank GOODNESS it's a 3-day weekend!

Don't get me wrong - I'm very thankful today, too. I took my oldest for his annual physical yesterday and he is healthy both mentally and physically. As a mother I could never ask for more than that. My youngest boy is growing like a weed and making me smile every day, and the love I get from both of those little dudes eases the hurt from everything else life throws at me.

My husband is sweet, hard-working, and always lets me be me. I am glad that I was smart enough to put a ring on it back in my wild(er) days.

I'm thankful for my friends, who keep me young.

I'm thankful for all of you peeps, who read my shtuff and leave me hilarious and sweet comments.

And I'm thankful for humor in all shapes & forms & the people who recognize it when they see it.

There. See? Counting my blessings really does help. I feel better already!

Something else that makes me happy is this song by Mumford & Sons. It's NSFW because they drop the F bomb in the chorus.



Your turn! What's bumming you out and what are you thankful for? C'mon, spill - it really helps! Sharing is caring.

TMI Thursday: It helps you poop!

First of all, I've been a bad blogger lately, and I'm sorry. I just can't seem to keep up with everything that's going on (all good stuff, don't worry), and it's a bummer when I see my comments and traffic slowing down here at the OOBH. Twice this week I sat down and wrote out long-winded posts that I later deemed too boring or depressing to post. My mojo... it has been spotty, lately.

Today I wasn't gonna write a TMI post because I just didn't feel like I had it in me, but then as I was eating my lunch I remembered an SNL clip that made me laugh, and it definitely qualifies as TMI. Win!

Yes, I was eating yogurt. Whether or not it was Activia yogurt is classified*, since we all know that La Bev does NOT admit to poop ing. Ever.

*ahem*

* Okay, I totally eat Activia. I like it, and I am trying to lose weight. Shoot me.

Without further a-DOO (see what I did there?), I give you the fantastic Kristin Wiig as Jamie Lee Curtis:



Of course, that clip reminded me of one that aired at least a decade ago. I remember when it was on SNL because the next day, it was all we talked about at work. To this day you can ask any of my old TV station coworkers about this spot and they will reply with, "Because I'm wearing them, and I just did." Good times!



Makes me wish I still worked with cool people. Sigh.

Anywho, there's your TMI for today. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta run... the yogurt is kickin' in.

Allegedly!

TMI Thursday: PMS = I will keel you

Another one for da' ladies. Sorry, fellas. ;)

So, since I clearly have no shame on TMI Thursdays, I'm gonna come clean about something that happens to me for about two days every month that I can't seem to control or avoid despite the fact that I'm painfully aware that it's happening. You see, sometime in my early thirties I started to experience the delightful hormonal surge known as Pre-Menstrual Syndrome.

I'd never really noticed it during the first, oh, twenty or so years I'd been having monthly periods, but now it's undeniable and unmistakable.

So, 98% of the time, I'm just going along, doing my bevtastic thang, thinking, "La la la! Life is pretty cool. I'm just chillin', smelling the flowers, soaking up the sun. All is well with the world...."

Then, without warning, this happens:

AAAAAAAAAHHH!!!


(Cue Psycho theme)

I wake up one morning with a scowl on my face. I am annoyed, but I don't know why. I'm quick to anger. I'm irrational and insecure. I want to be told I'm loved, but by god if you touch me too much I might just snap your neck, so watch it.

Being self-aware, I always confess to my husband (like he doesn't know already) in an effort to buffer any nastiness I might inadvertently hurl his way. Thank goodness he's an easy-going guy who knows when to lay low.

The other night I was making dinner and had just discovered that our dishwasher, which is just over a year old, wasn't working. I felt myself becoming increasingly irate about the broken piece of Whirlpool garbage, so I was angrily stirring sauce & aggressively shaking salt into it when my husband wandered into the kitchen. Moments before, I had pushed the "Cancel & Drain" button on the dishwasher and had restarted it to see if that would help. After all, my days in video production taught me one rule of electronics that is simple and finite: turning it off and then turning it back on fixes anything.

But it hadn't worked, and that made me even madder. Jim leaned over me and speared a piece of chicken from the sauce I was stirring, which pissed me off for some reason. "Back off, buddy!" My brain screamed, but I kept quiet and started to tell him about the broken dishwasher.

Me: "So the dishwasher isn't working."
Him: "What's wrong with it?"
Me: "It's not starting the wash cycle. It says it is, but it never starts. I pushed the--"

Before I could continue, he reached over and pushed the "Cancel/Drain" button again, and for some reason... that infuriated me. I went from "moderately peeved" to "OMG I WILL RIP OFF THE SKIN FROM YOUR SKULL AND WEAR IT AS A HAT" angry.

Me: "Why did you do that? I was trying to tell you that I just did that! Now it has to drain and start all over! You never listen to me!"

Even as the words came out of my mouth, I knew I was overreacting. Of course I knew it. But PMS is crazy, yo - it's like Rational Bev gets put in a little cage in my brain for a few days, so she can see what's going on but can't intervene.

Jim did his typical, "Whoa whoa whoa, calm down, Uncle Leo," thing, which normally would make me laugh, but this time all it did was take the wind out of my sails long enough for me to mutter a parting shot about him never shutting up long enough for me to finish a sentence and turn back to my cooking.

Sigh.

Thank goodness, it doesn't last long and it goes away as suddenly as it came on. This is why men get it wrong when they say someone is "on the rag" when she is cranky; by the time the period starts, we feel fine. By then, I'm great, aside from dealing with... well, you know. But mood-wise? Even Steven!

It's those two days sometime in the week BEFORE the period... that's what'll git' ya. Oh, and you'll never know exactly which two days, so have fun with that.

Anywho. I'm better now, thanks for asking. All of this PMS talk reminds me of one of my very favorite SNL clips of all time, so here it is:



"Hold on to your F*CKING HATS!"

Ladies, back me up here, please? I'm not the only one... right?

TMI Thursday: The Accidental Brazilian

As promised, I'm continuing to put the "T" in TMI here at the OOBH! This one's a doozy, and it goes out to aaaaaaaaaall the ladies.

I've mentioned that I'm leaving tomorrow for a family vacation to America's Wang, yes? I've been running around like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off this week, trying to get all of my work done and get everything purchased and ready for the trip. Yesterday was no different; I crammed some work into the morning hours and then scooted up to Concord to meet Mala for what was supposed to be a little pre-vacay pampering. By that, I mean I had to get my hooves sanded and painted and have a little wax on/wax off action.



We went to a Vietnamese nail/waxing place that we've been to many times before, and Mala has had the waxing done there but I had not. I've only been to the chi-chi American spas.

Since I've been so rushed I didn't have time to do my homework for my writing class, so instead of enjoying the vibrating chair and leg massage I was scribbling on my notepad. After the mani/pedi they whisked me out back to the broom closet torture chamber, and a tiny woman arrived shortly after and rolled up her sleeves, assessing my rolled-up pant legs and still-tacky nail polish.

Muttering in Vietnamese, she tsked over my nails and began unbuttoning my shirt before she'd even said hello. Before I knew what was happening, she had me lying down and she was leaning her full tiny bod over me, peering at my armpits. She was quick and I have to say, the underarms didn't hurt much at all! I was mentally patting myself on the back for having such a high thresh hold for pain when she went for the button of my jeans faster than a prom date.

As I mentioned earlier, I've only been to the salons for this procedure, and here in the States we maintain some sort of modesty at all times. They give you the white terry cloth wrap and a pair of little paper panties to wear, they wear rubber gloves, and they provide a soothing, aromatic environment.

Not so much here at Princess Nails. My nails were still not quite dry so she peeled off my jeans AND underwear in one swift movement, leaving me lying on the table wearing nothing but my bra. I stifled a giggle; I mean, this is absurd, already! I'm no prude but still - lying there mostly naked while a woman examined my lady bits is not something I do everyday.

She stood over me, a tongue depressor dripping with molten yellow wax poised above my crotch, and I stopped her with a wave of my hand and said, "Not all off, okay? Leave this much." I gestured with my hands, indicating which part of my muff I'd like to preserve.

"Ah yes, okay!" She said cheerfully, and I lay back as she started smearing the wax on me.

RRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPPPP!

I winced, but this wasn't my first time at the rodeo so I kept silent. I'm tough. I can handle a bikini wax!

RRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPP!

Wait a minute. That felt like a lot, and it felt like it was right across the top. I glanced down and confirmed it - she had removed everything on the right side and middle. Inside I started to panic. What if she misunderstood me? What if she gave me a Hitler 'stache? What the hell was going on down there?!

I didn't say anything because hey, you don't piss off the woman wielding hot wax, now do you? She started on the other side and I thought, well, I have to be even, so maybe it's not as bad as I thought.

It was worse. When I finally ventured another look, I realized I was heading straight into Brazilian territory whether I liked it or not, but it was far too late to go back now. However, if I'd known that she was just getting warmed up, I would have put on the brakes....




I don't think I'm being overly-dramatic when I say that the next 30 minutes or so were probably the most embarrassing and painful of my life, and I say this after having gone through cancer treatment and having two babies. This woman got ALL up in my bidness. She was literally pulling me apart and smearing wax in all the nooks & crannies, then ripping it off. Twice, I actually yelped involuntarily ("AAAHHHH, KELLY CLARKSON!") and teared up. It hurt like a mofo!

I've been having annual gyno exams since my teens and this was WAY more embarrassing. She put her face right down there and muttered in Vietnamese while she hunted down every stray follicle. She instructed me to hold my own skin taut (not unusual) and had me spread eagle.

Twice, someone tried to enter the room while I was prostrate and exposed. TWICE.

Finally she was satisfied and I was near tears. After all of that, the leg waxing felt like a walk in the park! I've never felt more relieved than when she was finished. As I swung my legs over the side of the table and started peeling the paper table cover off of my sticky self, she held up a tiny hand and indicated in her broken English that I should assume the position.

Are you fucking kidding me?!!

Yes, one final insult before she would let me leave - she had me bend over the table and hold my bum cheeks. You can imagine what happened next.

When I left I was a sticky, injured mess. As soon as I got back to where Mala was waiting I told her, wide-eyed, what horrors I had endured. She immediately took me to lunch where I had two giant alcoholic beverages, but as we ran errands that afternoon I was a bit of a wreck! The worst part was that we had our class that evening and I wasn't able to get home to slather myself with baby oil and then take a hot shower until after 9 PM.

No, actually, the worst part is that now I'm rocking the porn star/pre-adolescent look, and I am not a fan.

The moral of this story: make sure your waxer speaks ENGLISH before turning her loose on your nether regions!!

TMI Thursday: When my boobs were not sexy

Mornin', folks! You know what time it is.

LiLu announced earlier this week that today will be her LAST TMI THURSDAY.

*Frowny Face*

I know I got in on this action late, but I have really enjoyed participating in this meme and getting to know the amazing LiLu through her uber-amusing posts. I've also met lots of very cool people through her site, so I'm thankful to her and to all of you for coming by & commenting! I'm sure I'll still do the occasional TMI post, so don't you worry your purty little heads over it, ok? Raunchy Bev lives on, and I still have many a story to tell.

Speaking of, today I'm going to talk about one of my favorite subjects, my ta-tas. Now don't get too excited, because this isn't a titillating tale (heh heh - see what I did there?), but it definitely qualifies as TMI.

You see, after my two sons were born my beloved rack took on a very utilitarian function:



Yes, I breastfed, and my kids were huge and loved to eat. Therefore, my already-large jubblies reached epic proportions and caused all sorts of embarrassing incidents before I, ahem... got a handle on 'em.

Let's start right after my first baby was born. I left the hospital feeling pretty good; D had taken to nursing well and I felt confident in my ability to nourish him. For those who don't know, for the first few days after birth your body does not produce milk, it produces a thin golden liquid called colostrum that is high in calories and nutrients.

Side note: when I told my dad (who used to be a dairy farmer) that little factoid he said, "Oh, just like in pigs."

Um, thanks, Dad.

Anywho! A few days after birth the mom's milk comes in, and when it does, it hurts like a MOFO. Now, my sister had her baby exactly seven days after my son was born, so I remember very vividly the moment when I knew my milk had come in. We had piled our newborn into his carseat to drive two hours north to visit my sister and her new family in the hospital, and on the way up I noticed that things felt... kind of hard.

Like, rock hard. And lumpy. And hurty. When we got to the hospital I gave my parents a hug and they were both taken aback and risked furtive glances to my chest when they didn't think I was looking. But I saw.

I ignored it as best I could and we spent time meeting my baby niece and chatting. At some point I took D to another room to nurse him and that's when I saw that things were... well, things were getting out of hand in the breastal region.

First of all, they were ENORMOUS. Bigger than my head, both of 'em, hard as bricks, and leaking milk. Nursing made it much, much worse. I was completely unprepared and suddenly realized that I wasn't nearly as much of an Earth Mother as I thought I was. I started to panic and searched through my diaper back looking for something to stop the flow, which had saturated my nursing bra and left two large wet splotches on my shirt. I tried TP, but it was drenched immediately. I finally found some panty liners in my purse and cobbled together a sort of semi-absorbent blockage just to get me home.

We said our goodbyes and left in a hurry. All the way home they hurt like bloody hell and by the time I got home I was desperate for relief. I'd read that hot showers help engorgement, so I stripped down and was preparing to shower when it happened.

Did you know that milk can shoot from a lactating woman's breasts with the force of a fire hose? Did you know that it can go pretty far, like, all the way across the room?

Well, now you do. You're welcome.

This went on for days until supply was regulated to fit demand. I discovered the wonders of nursing pads, thank goodness, so eventually I was able to leave the house again, though anyone who has ever nursed will tell you that being out in public with those things is like walking around with a loaded squirt gun and an itchy trigger finger. The potential for embarrassment is omnipresent.

My sister was also nursing at the time, and she once said that the feeling of your milk suddenly letting down in public reminded her of one of our favorite childhood movies, Top Secret!. There's a scene in which Hillary ("she whose bosoms defy gravity") arrives on a motorcycle and sees Nick (played by a pre-bloat Val Kilmer) and her breasts just glow. That's exactly how it feels when you're in a store and your milk decides to let down. Maybe you hear a baby cry, maybe you just think about your baby, or maybe you're even feeling a little frisky. Suddenly, your nipples tingle almost painfully and your shirt is drenched.

It's... it's... okay, it totally sucks.

Just one of the many sacrifices we mothers make to care for our ungrateful spawn little angels!

The good news is that once you stop nursing things do return to normal. Sure, eventually they might resemble two oranges in a pair of sweat socks dangling from my chest, but I am not above seeing someone for a little lift & tuck action at that point. Until then, they're still real and spectacular, thankyouverymuch.

Anyone else have embarrassing lactation stories to share?

No? Just me then? Alrighty then.

See ya!

TMI Thursday: The time I lacked Poise.

Well, look at us: 101 Followers!! Thanks for comin' through for me, peeps! We will celebrate tomorrow with a special party post, so everybody make sure to hydrate tonight and bring your beer goggles with you read tomorrow. It's gonna be a fiesta up in hurr!

Today, however, it's TMI Thursday sponsored by the lovely LiLu. I'm going to keep this one brief, but I'll make it up to you by sharing actual photos taken on the evening during which this tale is based.

This was about five years ago, I believe. My oldest son had just turned two and I had been working out like a fiend to drop the baby weight. I was especially motivated because my dear friend K was due to get married that June in Vegas, and I wanted to look decent for the bachelorette party and wedding festivities. I had finally pried myself into my "skinny" jeans (don't be too impressed, they're not size 6's) and was feeling pretty put-together, body-wise.

Please note that my son was just over 10 lbs. at birth, so things didn't exactly snap right back into place without lots of kegals some working out.

By the time the bachelorette party rolled around in May I was as buff as I get, which admittedly isn't all that buff. It was 25 months post-baby, I was wearing a smaller clothing size than I'd been wearing when I got pregnant, and I was definitely ready to blow off some serious steam with my old college friends.

And blow off steam we did. Friday was pretty tame, but Saturday started with a picnic by Lake Champlain and lots and lots of chilled white wine. We were drunk by noon, so I don't remember too much about what we did that afternoon. I think we shopped, which explains why I have a lime green tank dress in my closet that I don't remember purchasing.

Anywho, that night we went to what used to be our favorite club. In college we'd always hit this club for a college band called Jusagroove; they played disco and funk and dressed up in classic 70's garb. The lead singer wore a massive afro, which I always thought was groovy.

Sadly Jusagroove is no more, but they still had disco night so we proceeded to turn that mutha out! We danced and drank and flirted with jail bait and generally had a fantastic night. We closed the bar down, just like old times, and began the slow stumble in uncomfortable shoes back to our hotel.

Somewhere along our route the bride to be wound up climbing around in a fountain for some reason, and I don't think I've ever laughed so hard in my life.

It was at this point that I realized that I really had to pee. I mean, really had to pee. Like, I should have gone yesterday. My soggy brain sent a signal to all body parts: Red Alert: Find a bathroom, or a shrub, or some sort of receptacle, immediately! Go! Go! Go!



I confided in one of the girls that things were getting urgent on the bathroom front, but she just said something to make me laugh harder. I was bent in half, legs crossed, trying to stop laughing when it happened.

I wet my pants.

Not a lot, at first; I managed to stop the flow after the first little spurt came out. But still... my undies were definitely wet, and I was mortified.

The next 10 minutes became a mad dash towards our hotel with everyone laughing and trying to make me laugh. The more I laughed the more tinkle came out, and before I knew it my jeans were wet and I knew my goose was cooked. Finally we found an alley way and I copped a squat with another girl and let 'er loose.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Sweet, sweet relief!

Somebody lent me her cardigan and I wrapped it around my waist like an apron to get back up to our room at the Crowne Plaza, and after I was clean and in my jammies we all had a good laugh over it. All's well that ends well, I guess. But still - not my finest moment. Nothing says classy like bringing your balled-up jeans and panties home from a party in a plastic bag.

That's all I got! See you tomorrow. Bring your party hats!

TMI Thursday: Why I Don't Drink Gin

Hey there, bloggy buddies! It's that time of week again, the time in which I will bare pieces of my tawdry past and share some of the moments that have made me least proud of myself. As always if you'd like in on this action or if you crave more TMI goodness, head on over to LiLu's blog for more TMI Thursday fun.

Today I will tell you a story about my first time. No, not that first time, but if you're nice maybe I'll tell you that story someday too. No, I'm talking about the beginning of a very different love affair, one that remains a part of my life to this very day despite a rather rocky start. Yup, I'm talking about booze.

I was 15 and had been invited over to my friend Cath's* house for a sleep-over with another girl, Donna*. At this age I was firmly in my inexplicably angsty "I hate my mother" phase, so of course she and I had a big fight at dinner before I went to Cath's. My mom is not the easiest person to get along with, but at that age I'm sure I was no treat either. I don't remember what our fight was about that night, but I do remember her driving me to Cath's house in stony silence and me slamming the door hard behind me when I got out.

Once at Cath's place I was determined to move past the fight, so we went to her room and hung out. I remember watching Madonna's oh-so-scandalous Justify My Love video many times; Donna had confiscated a VHS copy of it from her older sister and we were sufficiently titillated by it.

Back in Cath's room Donna produced a pilfered bottle of gin from her backpack, and we proceeded to get smashed. I don't even recall if we mixed it with anything, but something tells me that we didn't. As is always the case with Young Bev I pushed past the revulsion I felt for the taste and downed a whole helluva lot of it.

The rest of the night is a blur; what remains in my memory is like a movie directed by Darren Aronofsky: repetitive flashes and blurry snippets of some rather horrifying images. I remember hearing The Doors playing somewhere in the background. Laughing. Flopping on the floor with the other girls, laughing. Not being able to get back up. The ceiling. A yellow plastic bucket. The return of that night's meatloaf dinner into said bucket. The concerned face of Cath's mother hovering. Me crying. Me saying I hate my mother, again and again and again. Me in the shower with my clothes on. And then nothing.

The next morning I awoke to my very first hangover. I was dressed in Cath's too-short sweatpants and shirt, my hair smelled horrible (cigarettes, gin, and puke, or Eau De Lohan as I've come to think of it), my head was splitting, and there was a stinky yellow bucket sitting next to me on the floor. I had never felt so sick or worried or embarrassed in my life, but it was about to get even worse.

Cath's parents had gotten divorced a few years earlier and her mother had a new live-in boyfriend named Ron. Ron had one of those lazy eyes that makes it difficult to tell which one to look at when you're speaking to him, and when we shuffled into the kitchen that morning he seemed to be looking at all three of us at once... but mostly at me.

The empty bottle of gin sat on the counter in front of us. He settled himself on a stool on the other side of the counter, leaned onto his elbows and peered at my puffy face before saying quietly, "Tell me about your mother."

I stammered and swallowed hard. Clearly they thought I was living in some sort of abusive home thanks to my drunken whining, and I suddenly had visions of Ron calling my mother and telling her about all of the horrid things I'd said about her in my drunken stupor. I mumbled something about just having had a fight the night before, she's not that bad, we just don't get along sometimes, and no... she doesn't hit me. Eeeeeeesh.

Thank goodness I was saved by the sound of my sister's car in the driveway. Grabbing my things and apologizing my way out the door, I dashed for the safety of her car. My sister is 6 years older than I am and had recently graduated from college and purchased her very first brand new car. She had to buy a new car because of yours truly, but that's another story for another day; suffice to say that her last car lead me to my first near-death experience and ended up a hunk of twisted metal in a junkyard. Because I'm awesome like that.

Come to think of it, it's really a miracle that she still speaks to me at all.

I confessed immediately, and true to form she was kind but took great delight in teasing me about it. "Oh, Pookie," (SHUT UP) she murmured, shifting her new car as we accelerated away from the house of shame. Her car was a blue Ford Probe and we were both a little bit in love with it.

She did what any good sister would do and coached me on what to say to mom: that I was sick, that I had thrown up, that I just needed to be left alone for a while. I was too inexperienced to know that alcohol has a way of making its presence known the next day - its acrid stench seeps from your pores and offends anyone who gets too close. I know that now. Debbie took me through the McDonald's drive-thru and bought me a small orange soda, which I sipped gratefully and gingerly.

Four minutes later I repaid her for her kindness by opening my mouth and spewing the orange soda all over the windshield and dashboard of her new car. It was thin vomit, pure orange soda, really, but it went everywhere and was a sticky drippy mess.

My darling sainted sister said nothing, but her mouth hung open in a wounded way that still haunts me, even though thankfully we laugh about this incident now. Mostly.

I started to cry and she took me home and escorted me past my suspicious mother to my room, where I stayed for the rest of the day. To this day, I can't even stand the smell of gin. Or orange soda. Thankfully my mother has never once mentioned this incident, but her face at dinner that night told me that she knew. Oh yes, she knew.

So that's that. Tell me about the first time you drank, won't you? Misery does love company!

*Names changed to hide their shame.