done Archives - That's Inappropriate

27May 2015

20 Tips To Becoming A Superhero To Your Spouse

It seems that there are superheroes everywhere you turn. New summer movies will be gracing the big screens any day now, and comic book television dramas are sure to be on the fall primetime lineup. I have sat through hours of Batman, Ironman, the Flash, Superman, Spiderman, and most recently Daredevil. I am at a loss to say the least. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good action flick as much as the next guy, but I just don’t get superheroes.

What is it about superheroes that make our husbands want to secretly be these men? Why do they dream about a meteor falling from the sky, causing intergalactic gel to ooze into the water system, thus giving them secret powers that they can use to fight crime???? I guess I am no fun. I don’t see the point in watching a movie or television series where people have magical powers. If you want me to watch a show with you, create a character that was hit by a bolt of lightning and woke up without her saggy tits, cellulite on her ass, and the absence of cross-continental baggage under her eyes. That show I will watch!

So men, let me tell you what will make you a Superhero to your significant other:

1. Scrub the toilet. The entire toilet, including the shit stains.

2. Wash the dishes….with soap.

3. Give the kids a bath….with soap.

4. Cook dinner, or get take-out. Either way she didn’t have to cook, so you win.

5. Take us shopping and smile the entire time. Don’t ask if the item is on sale.

6. Wake up at night with the kids….especially if someone pissed the bed. Don’t pretend you can’t hear them. The dead can hear them.

7. Hold your farts. If it is a dire emergency, pass gas next to the children, not your wife.

8. Don’t fart while in bed, and don’t even think about pulling the covers up over her head.

9. When we agree that a holiday or special occasion does not require gifts, get her one anyway. She wants a gift. She always wants a gift.

10. Snuggle up next to your wife while in bed and cuddle with no expectation of sex. Like legitimately no expectation of sex.

11. Don’t’ push your junk on her back and tell her you have a gift for her. It’s not really a gift. She has seen it before.

12. Vacuum, mop, wash the windows, repeat.

13. Ask her if she wants a mustache ride without expecting anything in return.

14. Get a babysitter without telling her and take her to dinner.

15. Wash the laundry, and put it away. Let me clarify, put it in the correct drawer. Don’t put your son’s underwear in your wife’s drawer.

16. Load the dishwasher, and then empty the dishwasher without being asked. I bet she drops to her knees later that evening.

17. Text her a sweet message during the day. Something like, “Babe, I can’t wait to get home and do a load of whites.”

18. Take the kids……ANYWHERE. For an extended period of time.

19. Bring her chocolate…….ANYTHING.

20. Bring her wine……..ANY KIND.

So as you can see, it is pretty simple to become a superhero. Your spouse will most definitely think that you can leap tall buildings in a single bound if you follow these 20 tips. They will call you the man of steel, or whatever ridiculous name you want them to scream while in the bedroom. These 20 tips are proven panty dropper’s, so get started today.

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18May 2015

5 Signs You Are a Flawed Friend

by Meredith Masony ⋅ 2 Comments

This past weekend I was sitting with friends, relaxing and enjoying a mid-day buzz. We were chatting about “Pet Peeves” our friends do that drive us crazy, and in the middle of the conversation I had an Oprah ” Ah-ha” moment. I am that flawed friend. I hadn’t always been that way, but I am at the point in my life where I can only retain so much information, and complete so many tasks on a daily basis. My flawed friendship status was never intentional, but the fact remains….. I am a flawed friend.

I had no idea how much I sucked until I took a look around my house and realized that I still have a ton of stuff that I “borrowed” and never returned. I am always asking for favors, and most of the time I am late to anything I am invited to. I sat searching my brain for redeeming qualities and found I was as empty as my Sangria glass. However, I do have a swimming pool and a liquor cabinet, So I have that going for me. At least my shallow friends will still visit, it is summer time.

The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I was envisioning being inducted into the Friendship Hall of Shame in my mind. I could see friends from the past, present, and future all giving speeches as to why I was the absolute worst friend ever.

Now that I have accepted my flawed friend status, I have decided to help others by writing about it. You too may also be a terrible friend, and not realize it. So here are the top 5 reasons that I am a sucky friend. Check the list and see if you too will be inducted into the Friendship Hall of Shame.

1. Always Late: I am constantly late. I always blame my children for my tardiness, but most of the time it is my fault. I am a habitual offender of losing track of time. I will start a task and get distracted, start another task, and then realize I was supposed to be at Starbucks to meet someone 15 minutes ago. Sometimes I will set a reminder, only to forget what the reminder was for. Then I sit and ask my dog what I am late for. It’s an exhausting process.

2. Finders Keepers: I borrow things from friends all the time. I currently have a coffee grinder and Laptop that has been in my possession for about six months. I called my bestie to ask him if he needed the coffee grinder back and he laughed, “Oh Sweetie, I bought another one a few months ago.” I was so embarrassed. I had basically confiscated several household items from my friends and never took the time to shop for my own item, or return their item. What a Schmuck!

3. Forgetful: I try to write down, or schedule every aspect of my life. I can’t seem to remember important dates such as birthdays and anniversaries. I always miss my families and friend special days. I am not sure if it’s because I am not a big fans of holidays, or it’s simply because I have the emotional IQ of a rock. Either way, I never send cards, and I always end up looking like a complete Asshat. Once again, never intentional, but shameful just the same.

4. Non-Consoler: I am the WORST at consoling my friends. Any time they have an issue that brings them to tears, I turn straight to an awkward untimely joke. I become very uncomfortable with emotions and crying. I begin to sweat and make jokes about bodily functions or male genitalia. I am not even sure that I know how to properly hug someone. I never know if I am supposed to go in first, or wait and see. It is a nightmare.

5. Notorious Bad Movie Selector: I love to watch movies with friends. It seems that my movie choices aren’t as renowned as Siskel and Ebert review choices. I recently forced my friends into viewing the first two Sharknado movies. The summer of 2015 will be no different. I have full intentions of a viewing party for the third movie Sharknado 3; Oh Hell No, coming in July. I am really a bad friend if I am trying to share cinematic genius with them? The movies were brilliant!

So to all my friends, I apologize. Please know that I have deep feelings of like for you, and I would do anything for you. I would even give you the shirt off of my back, but most likely it was yours to begin with. Please accept me as I am, and I will do my best to uncomfortably sit with you in your time of need.

06May 2015

My Mother’s Day Wish

by Meredith Masony ⋅ Leave a Comment

I don’t want flowers.

Please don’t buy me a gift.

What do I want this year, several hours of quiet bliss.

Don’t knock on my door.

Don’t utter my name.

If a problem arises, call Daddy, he’s game.

I want to shower in silence.

I want to take a long nap.

I don’t want to see your fingers under the door while taking a crap.

Don’t tell me you’re hungry.

Don’t whimper or whine.

It’s Mother’s day rug rats, pass the wine while I dine.

The kitchen is closed.

No cooking today.

But I do want to binge watch episodes of Grey’s.

No cleaning or laundry.

No dishes will I do.

You crayon gobblers’ better think twice before throwing a coup.

I want to relax and read a book.

Eat a meal without sharing.

I’m sorry if this seems a bit uncaring.

Daddy, this goes for you too.

So tonight at bedtime…

I’ll take a pass on the screw.

I want to fall asleep untouched.

Please, no orifice invasion.

No groping or humping, I’m immune to persuasion.

Mommy needs a break.

But please don’t be sad.

The sperm donor’s here, you call him Dad.

21Apr 2015

The Day Mommy Lost Her SH#T

by Meredith Masony ⋅ 6 Comments

One of my biggest parenting fears has always been that I will royally screw up my kids. They are relatively defenseless, and I have always been concerned with sending them straight to the therapist couch. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200 dollars. About a month ago, I had the kind of day my kids will definitely, at some point, relive in a therapist’s office.

Spring break was upon our household like the Bubonic plaque. Kids were crawling all over the place and I had 14 days worth of maximum security lock up to look forward to. I work from home which has as many benefits as drawbacks. One major drawback being, I can’t get my work done when my kids are home. I tried to find camps to send them to, but that ship had sailed.

The week started out with the common daily issues we all face in our households. There was a ton of screaming, crying, fist fighting, food throwing, running, and tattle telling. I was doing my best to keep it together. I was stressed with work, the demands of the three tiny hemorrhoids, and I was getting ready to have my second surgery for the year. I was not in the best state of mind to say the least.

It was day seven of the break. That morning I got a letter in the mail from my home owners associations stating that we had violated our deed restrictions and owed a $100 fine. I was livid. I had been battling with these Napoleonic retirees for months and I was done. I loaded everyone into the car and drove to the management office to pay my association fees and address my recent violation. I jumped out of the van to discover that the office was closed. My blood began to boil. I automatically texted my husband a list of obscenities that I could not blurt out in front of the kids. I boldly and feverishly texted that I was on the verge of throat punching someone and buckled myself back into my seat.

On the drive home the kids continued to fight over who was going to watch what when we got home. One kid hit another kid with a book in the backseat and I swung around screaming, “If I have to pull this van over you will not be happy!” My idle threat fell on deaf ears as I continued home with the miniature tyrants screaming that they wanted to swim. I tried to text my husband to calm me down but he was in a meeting and couldn’t respond.

We entered the house and I ran into my office to check my voice-mails. Just as I had dialed a number I heard two of my kids screaming and crying as though they were being mauled by a grizzly bear. I ran from the office to find them fighting over a stuffed penguin.

At that moment I lost my SH#T. I couldn’t take another second of the screaming and fighting. I grabbed the stuffed penguin and said, “If you’re going to fight over it, you’re going to lose it!” I then proceeded to make the penguin a double amputee by ripping his arms off. I stuffed him in the garbage can and looked back at my kids. They stood there, in silence, mortified that I had maimed the penguin from Madagascar. I shoved his mangled body in the trash can and smacked his beaten head with the lid. He had made his way into an early grave. I stood there in shock, I was now a stuffed animal murderer.

The kids took one look at me and were off like a bat out of hell and ran for their rooms. I followed, screaming hysterically about their constant fighting, and continued my rant for about five more minutes. Nothing in my path was safe. I slammed chairs, threw toys, clothing, and shoes. As I walked past a mirror in the living room I caught a glimpse of myself and I stopped. I looked like a crazy lunatic.

I needed to find my SH#T and put it back together. I went to the bathroom and cried for a few minutes. I then walked back out to the living room and sat all of the kids on the couch. I apologized, I cried, they cried, and we all hugged. My son looked at me and quietly asked if he could have his penguin back. I explained that he was now in a better place and he said, “No, he is in a trash can.” I tried not to laugh, but I did. My oldest chimed in with, “Yeah buddy, it’s gone. Mom went crazy on that penguin.”

It is most definitely a day that I won’t forget. It was one of my worst parenting moments, but it taught me a very specific lesson. I simply can’t do it all. I can’t take care of three kids, work from home, take care of the house, and keep any kind of sanity. I called my boss that evening and asked her for a week off so that I could properly do my most vital job, be a Mom.

So the reason I am talking about my worst parenting moment, is to let you know that it too shall pass. I know that my limits are real and must be acknowledged. We all fall, it’s what happens next that matters most.

10Nov 2014

“I’m Done”

by Meredith Masony ⋅ 1 Comment

I remember being a kid and my Mom telling me that she was going to run away so she could be left alone. She also told us that she was going to change her name to a four letter word so we could no longer scream for her. She would say “My name is now shit, so if you call my name you will be smacked in the mouth for cursing.” I remember thinking how awful that was and why on earth she would say such horrible things to her loving children. 25 years later I now know why she said them and I find myself doing the same thing. My key phrase to my children is “I’m Done!” I find that I say this several times a day, and the frequency increases throughout the week. I was talking with a friend of mine in front of our kid’s school today and she is also a card carrying member of the I’m Done Club. I have a feeling that there are millions of us out there. Saturday, marked the 50^th time I said “I’m Done” this week.

I woke up to the television blaring an awful cartoon theme song and asked the kids to turn it down. After six requests I jumped up and went into the living room to turn it down myself. I found a blanket and pillow fort that could rival the pyramids. They had moved all of the kitchen chairs into the living room and gotten every piece of fabric we owned to build this monstrosity. It wasn’t even 8:00 A.M. and I was already done. “Are you guys serious?” I asked. “What? We didn’t want to wake you up to ask” was the response. I turned and walked back into my bedroom to try and center myself, as to avoid beginning the day with a series of flip flop beatings.

Later that afternoon we went out to run some errands. We went from Wal-Mart to Target where we made three separate stops to use the public restroom. We then proceeded to the grocery store to pick up something for dinner. I asked number two and number three to sit in the cart so I could move quickly through the store. They did not want to sit next to each other in the cart and as I went to pick up my daughter she pretended to be a limp noodle. If playing dead was an Olympic sport she would be wearing gold. She instantaneously becomes 65 lbs. of pure pain in the ass. As I was standing there cursing under my breath I quietly whispered to her, “I’m Done, get in the cart.”

We left Publix and stopped at Subway to pick up lunch. Once again I find myself in a public restroom with the kids. I asked each to wash their hands but the youngest one kept pushing the soap dispenser until there was a pool of soap on the floor. I grabbed his hand and rinsed it. I pulled a piece of paper towel and handed it to him so he could clean up the mess. Once he was finished I took the paper towel to throw it out. “I want to throw it out!” He shouted. My reply, “Let me do it please we need to go.” That was the beginning of the end. He threw himself to the floor, in the public bathroom mind you and began to scream as though I was poking him with scalding hot iron rods. I picked him up and walked him through Subway to order the sandwiches. He began to whale and moan like he was being scalped. I knelt down and whispered “You need to stop. I’m Done.”

We made it home and started the bed time routine. I sent all three kids into the shower at the same time because I was prepping for dinner. I heard the water turn on and for about five minutes it was relatively quiet, then the screaming began. I ran in to see who had been attacked by a bear and found all three covered in bubble bath spraying each other with the shower head. WTF! There were bubbles everywhere and the bathroom floor was soaked. This marked the 50^th time I WAS DONE this week. This event proved to me that my kids know that I am full of shit. They know by my current track record that even though I say “I’m Done”, I continue to live here and take care of them. They continue to be fed and clothed each day, and I continue to drive the Mom-mobile to school each morning.

So from this point on I think I’m going to leave when I’m done. I am going to walk out of the house, start the car, and drive away. I have no idea where I will go or what I will do, but when I’m done, I will be done. I am going to peace the fuck out and hit the bricks. It’s going to be an epic event.

I wonder if they would be upset. I wonder if they would cry and call for me to come home. My guess is that they would sit and stare out the window calling my bluff as I drive around the neighborhood aimlessly cursing and crying. “You think the bitch is gonna come back?” One kid would ask to the other. “I hope so, Dad isn’t going to feed us or wipe our asses.” That conversation would go on for about five minutes until I returned home because as a Mom I don’t get to ever be done. Done is a mythical universe that only exists in books and movies. Done is like Disney World, most likely the happiest place on earth. Done is nowhere near my zip code. So from this point forward I am working on a new phrase. When I am at the edge and I can go no further I will quietly recite “Get over it Bitch, you don’t get to be done.”

07Nov 2014

Can I Ask You A Favor?

by Meredith Masony ⋅ Leave a Comment

How many times have you asked, or been asked the question, “Can I ask you a favor?” Sometimes it is a very small errand, other times it’s a life changer. You can tell the kind of favor by the way the person asks. If the person asks the favor quickly and does not change their tone, it is most likely an easy favor that will not put too much stress on your life. “Can you drop me off at the mechanics after work?” That is a simple favor. We are both already at the same place and I will in fact be passing the mechanic, so the answer is yes. If the person is slow to ask the favor, their voice gets higher, or they say can you sit down, we need to talk before they ask; it is most likely a rough one. “I don’t want to bother you but, are you using both kidneys? If not I could use one.” That in fact would be a big favor, a game changer.

I am guilty of asking for both easy and difficult favors. I hate asking people to help me out, but sometimes my hot mess express of a life requires an interventional response team. What makes me a bad person is that I will ask a favor, but I do not want to return that favor when it is requested. Last week a friend of mine watched two of my kids so my husband and I could spend the day together. It was so nice to be out in public and go to the places we wanted to go. We ate breakfast without taking anyone to the bathroom, we walked around an outdoor shopping center and I didn’t have to scream ‘Don’t run into the parking lot you’re going to get smashed by a car.” It was peaceful and more fun than I remembered. We shopped and bought items for ourselves, played grab-ass in the clothing racks, and I even giggled as my husband crop dusted fellow shoppers and then ran like a child. I was grateful for the time, but unaware that a return favor was coming quickly.

My friend called panicked the other day asking if I could help her out, her voice was seven octaves higher than normal. Alarm bells should have gone off in my head. “Warning! She wants something. Hang up before it’s too late.” She “forgot” that she was going out-of-town for the evening and needed me to watch her dog. I have three kids and a dog of my own. The last thing I want in my house is another thing that shits and pisses. I did not want to say yes. I very frankly wanted to say “Hell no, and go fuck yourself.” However, she is a good friend and had just done me a big favor. So I hesitantly said yes and she brought the dog over.

The dog was dropped with a kennel, food bag, and dish. As soon as she placed in the kennel the barking began. It was the kind of barking that makes nails on a chalk board seem like a welcoming sound. I was not able to keep her in the kennel, so I brought her inside. My dog was livid. She had that “Bitch you better get the fuck out my crib” look on her face. She began to follow around the other dog, sniffing and barking at her. Both dogs walked into the kitchen, circled the floor and shit simultaneously. Shit-fest 2014 had officially begun. After picking up the heaping pile of shit from both dogs, I took them outside and left them on the patio. As I was working in my office I look out to see them running across the patio to the corner and both squat to pee. Awesome. I love doing favors. Favors are the best!

That night I couldn’t lock the dog in the kennel because she barked as though she was being skinned. I figured she would sleep on the dog bed in our room, which is how the night started out. My dog was not happy with her being in the room but they both fell asleep and so did I. Unfortunately I woke up the next morning to my husband screaming at the dog who was mid-shit in our closet. There is nothing like jumping out of bed at 5:00 A.M. to clean up a hot pile of dog feces. Favors rock!

That morning I had to drop the kids at school so I mistakenly put the dog in the bathroom. I figured I could lock her in there since I do that with my dog. I was wrong. When I got home to let the dog out I found a river of urine, a pile of shredded towels, and the towel rack pulled off of the bathroom door. This 16 pound Terrier Mutt was like the ravenous beast “Cudjo” on steroids. I could not believe that this dog had survived for so long. If it were my animal I would have done the humane things years ago and “Driven it to the farm up-state.” Don’t get me wrong, I am a dog person, but what the fuck!!!! Favors are my favorite.

After cleaning up the bathroom mess, I gave the dog a bath. She was soaked in piss and I was not going to let her walk around my house with wet urine paws. I then put both dogs back on the patio where they played another round of “Who is going to shit on that first.” Later on I decided to go for a run and I was smart enough to put the dog in the crate. She was barking but I wasn’t going to be home so who cared. When I returned I opened the garage door and found the dog once again covered in urine in the cage with her dog bed torn up in a million pieces. I had to hose out the kennel, throw out the dog bed, and hose the dog down again. My friend called about 20 minutes later and said she was on her way. I had only had the dog for 24 hours but it seemed like a fucking week. I packed up her shit and sat it outside by the curb. Favors are the best when they are finished.

When my friend arrived we sat and talked for a few minutes. I was blunt about the dog’s behavior and she apologized and explained that the dog has anxiety and separation issues. The anxiety the dog was feeling should be real, I wanted to kill it. I did my best to bite my tongue, because as I stated this is a fiend and she did take care of my kids last week. Although, I don’t think either of my kids shit on her floor repeatedly, or pissed on her bathroom towels. I will have to ask them what they did to her for her to repay me with this favor. Either way favors suck if they involve a breathing, shitting mammal.

So I urge you to be mindful when asking people to do favors. I really do want to be a good friend and help people out, but not if it requires that I pick up ten pounds of animal shit. I do not want to be a wildlife biologist or a veterinarian. I have plenty of organisms that shit at my house; I do not need another one. Here is a list of favors that you can ask me. Ask me for a small amount of money, or perhaps to pick you up a coffee. Ask me to iron a shirt or drop you at the doctors. Ask me to do your grocery shopping or even pick up your mail, but please do not ask me to watch your fucking dog.

05Nov 2014

Man Card

by Meredith Masony ⋅ Leave a Comment

My husband has a very close group of friends from college that he stays in daily communication with. I refer to them as his “girlfriends.” They have a sacred “Text chain” where they converse about all of life’s important topics, such as when they last had sex, which soccer or football team won last night, the last time they took a shit, etc. I have never seen this secret communication, but I am positive that they are constantly trying to as I say “Out Douche” each other. It goes without saying that they are “Man Card” carrying kind of men.

I will briefly describe his cohort. J is a self-proclaimed chubby play boy whose game is less like Michael Jordan’s and more like Screech from Saved by the bell. T, who we call the silver fox, is a fun-loving guy who my grandmother has repeatedly hit on at family events. D, was once a fresh faced young boy, but has morphed into a dirty old man who has a girlfriend 12 years his junior. She was his kid’s summer camp counselor. The last of his friends is Z; he is the holy grail of douchery. He once got mad because I chained his dog up outside after he shit in the house. He proceeded to tell me that he was going to tie my toddler to a tree because he also shits inside the house. The five of them together are a giant middle-aged cluster fuck.

Last week one member of the brain trust sent my husband an article about how semen has vital nutrients and minerals that women need to stay healthy and vibrant. My husband sent me the article with the caption “Read this, it may save your life.” Before opening the article I thought to myself; wow, my husband must have found an article about being safe in public, or something about food or childcare safety. I opened the article to find a recent “study” on why women should ingest semen on a daily basis. It outlined several of the benefits including, improved skin appearance, sleeping better, weight loss, and so much more.

I was floored at what a great piece of medical truth he had found. I asked him which medical journal he found this bit of world-changing wisdom in, and he simply stated “It’s a reputable source”. He sweetly continued with “I know that you would feel so much better after a good night’s sleep, which is a benefit that is clearly stated in this article.” What a thoughtful husband I have. “You’re right sweetie, but I know you need the sleep more than I do, since you work so hard, so I will save it for you in a Tupperware and you can drink it.” His reply was calm and clear, “It is only beneficial to women.” Oh yes, of course.

Since the publishing of this ground breaking research, women across the globe must be going crazy trying to find men who can give them this potion. Watch for headlines in your local papers and news stations, “Woman tackles co-worker and sucks him dry.” Ponce De Leon was right. There is a fountain of youth, and it has been inside of men’s pants for centuries. Women, we have an endless supply of magic juice at our fingertips. The cure for all our ails, right between your man’s legs. Now I know why when I tell my husband that I have a headache he always says, “I’ve got something for that” with pure confidence.

Now back to reality, the place where I live. I must ask, where do men find this shit, and why do they think that we will believe them when they send us this award-winning journalism? I am convinced that when men go to get “trained” to obtain their “Man Card” they go through a series of programs that teach them how to do the following; tailgating, snoring, fondling, crude humor, use of the infamous “C” word, never asking for directions, and of course educating women on the benefits of semen.

As soon as my husband can give me a copy of a report from the World Health Organization on the benefits of semen ingestion that clearly include; weight loss, better sleep, improved skin appearance, and growing bigger tits, I will happily pretend his junk is a Slurpee machine and go to town.

I understand that the “Man Card” is a very important piece of mythical paper, but come on guys, find articles that are a bit more believable to send your wives. Or try taking out the trash, doing the dishes, and folding some laundry. I bet your semen dispenser may look like a Slurpee when she comes home and you were the one who cleaned the house. Personally, nothing gets me hotter than seeing my man scrub a pot while I sit on the couch downing a bottle of wine.

So I beg of you men. Please go back to whatever organization gave you your precious “Man Card” and revisit the curriculum. Please tell whoever is in charge at “Man Card University” to change it up a bit. How about some professional learning on “Ten ways to properly eat a taco.” That might be an interesting session. Throw in bringing your wife flowers, emptying the dishwasher, perhaps getting the kids dressed for bed without screaming like a lunatic. Any or all of those would be greatly appreciated by all of woman kind. So until semen is marketed as a weight loss drug or sleep aid, please use the head on your shoulders to find a better way to entice your woman to sip on your Slurpee.

03Nov 2014

Are You A Public Pooper?

by Meredith Masony ⋅ Leave a Comment

I can safely say that I have gone number two in a public bathroom only a few times in my life. I hate public restrooms. They are filthy and riddled with germs and bacteria. I would always wait to go home and enjoy the safety of my porcelain throne, away from the amebic dysentery that could jump on your pant leg in the restroom at Burger King. I always had control over where and when I wanted to use the bathroom, that was until I had kids. If I had to go bad enough, I could leave and go home, or hold it and suffer the prairie-dogging effects and stomach pains. I understand that some people are public poopers, but that is not my choice. I choose to hold my load for private dumping. My views on public pooping have only gotten worse since having children.

I can vividly remember the first time I had to take my first-born to a public restroom to take a shit. He was only 15 months old. I was scared to death to take him to the restroom. Having a public restroom phobia I was a good first time Mom who was fully prepared with one of those portable potty seats that fits right into the toilet. I had time to sanitize the seat, the toilet, the grab bar, and I eagerly waited for him to go. We were at Target, and their bathrooms are usually very clean and of course I used the handicapped stall so I had room to stand in there with him. He went about his business and I was pleased with the results. Maybe my fears of public pooping were irrational. Public pooping wasn’t so bad. Target was a safe bathroom and I had all the proper equipment for an effective mission. Perhaps I had misjudged public poopers.

Now, let’s skip ahead a few years to having two children that need to use the bathroom at the same time. Number one and number two both needed to go number TWO. We were on a road trip to Lego Land and were in the middle of nowhere on a backwoods road. We came up to a Citgo station and quickly parked. Both kids were crying that they couldn’t hold the shit demons in any longer. I jumped out of the van and I ran into the gas station with both poop filled toddlers in my arms. We approach the bathroom door, and the smell hit you like a ton bricks. I opened the door and it was like a scene out of a horror movie. There was shit and piss on the floor, a condom machine on the wall, and only a roll of paper towels. I no longer had my nifty portable potty seat. I put down number one and asked him to hold onto my leg for dear life and not touch anything. I tried to clean off the toilet seat and line it with paper towel so number two could sit and do a number two. As soon as I put her on the toilet she reaches down and touched the seat! “STOP! DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!!” I screamed like a lunatic. Once she finished, I swapped out the paper towel and put number one on the toilet. As he was grunting and pushing number two decided to leave the safety of my leg and tried to put a penny she found on the floor into the condom machine. “Candy, Mommy?” she cries as she tried to place the filthy penny into the coin slot of the “raincoat” dispenser. I was right. Public pooping is like war. I almost didn’t survie this battle.

Moving on a few more years down the road…..We were out to dinner at a restaurant with the entire family. As usual we ordered the kids meals first so they could shove food in their pie holes and stay calm until our food got to the table. Just as my dinner was placed in front of me I hear those four awful words…..”I have to go” states my middle child, “Me too” chimes in number three. “Can you guys wait?” I asked hoping that a miracle would occur and we would make it home to avoid bathroom hell fire. No such luck and I get up from the table and escort these two shit bags into the restroom. I placed number two in the stall next to us as we occupied the handicap stall. I do my best to clean the seat and set him up so he doesn’t touch anything. He is a marathon pooper and can take in upwards of 10-15 minutes to finish the project. Once completed he jumps off the toilet and proceeds to tell me the names of the turds. He likes to name his feces, what can I say. So before I flush he says, “Bye Dad, bye Mom, and so on. As we exit the stall to wash our hands I see my daughter standing at the door. “Did you wash your hands?” I asked. “No” she states. “Well, did you poop?” I asked. “Yes I pooped, but I didn’t wipe, so I don’t have to wash my hands.” WTF, are you kidding me. I stood there in awe, speechless, but also hungry. “Wash your hands” I stated and we went back to the table. What is one more pair of shit stained underwear to wash. The war rages on.

It seems like every time we leave the house someone has to take a shit. I am not sure why anyone would want to use a public restroom. As I stated before, they are the epitome of nastiness and I do everything that I can to steer clear of them. All three of my kids are equipped with poop-dar, it is a radar like ability that can detect every public bathroom within a five-mile radius. Unfortunately for me my three kids think that a public restroom is a playground and want to stop at each one that we see. They swing from the doors, play with the locks, touch the toilet seat, and wrap toilet paper around their heads like Egyptian mummies. I have thousands of dollars’ worth of toys at my house, yet a public bathroom is more appealing to these rat bastards. I am looking forward to the day when I can return my frequent public-pooper card. I am a firm believer in private pooping and I will throw a fucking party when all of my kids can go to the bathroom on their own.

31Oct 2014

#stanktona

by Meredith Masony ⋅ Leave a Comment

Every year millions of hard body hot co-eds flock to the beaches of Florida for one reason…..Spring Break. Spring Break is a time of fun in the sun and drunken debauchery. When you discuss spring break most people think of one place, Daytona Beach, the holy grail of inebriated one night stands. When I was in college I never made a spring break trip to Daytona Beach. I have lived in Florida my entire life and had never once been there, that was until this past summer.

I was so excited to have a weekend getaway with friends this past June. I was leaving my kids and husband for two days to go to a Cross fit competition, and have some kid-free fun. I had high hopes for Daytona Beach. Picture it, cool ocean breeze with a drink in my hand, my stress melting away, it would be epic.

The drive into Daytona quickly changed my view on what the weekend would become. To say that the area was shady was a galactic understatement. We drove past “Frank’s Caskets, Caskets, and more.” Which prompted me to ask my friend where our hotel was located? I was hoping we would be staying closer to the beach and further from the cemetery. We must have passed five police cars while driving towards the strip. I was more than nervous about where we would end up. We did book our hotel on a bargain travel website for 50% off. I began to reconsider my policy on travel frugality.

We eventually ended up out front of our hotel. It didn’t have a parking lot next to the building so we had to run across the highway with our luggage, playing “Frogger” with our lives. We walked up to the check-in desk to obtain our keys. We were given coupon books for local retailers including “Diamond Dolls” where you could cash in a 2 for 1 lap dance voucher; you better believe I held onto that precious piece of paper. We barely made it past the counter when my friend was what I could only call accosted by the gay concierge. He was more “handsy” then Pee-Wee Herman at an Adult film festival.

We made our way up to our rooms and found that the air conditioning was broken on our floor. No big deal, its only June. My friends were staying down the hall from me and my roommate had yet to arrive. I walked with them into their room to check it out. It was a pretty standard hotel room. Bit musty, plain white walls, cliché hotel art above the bed, and a mini fridge. They set down their luggage and walked me to my room. We opened the door to what became known as the “Red room” for the weekend. The walls were painted red, the furniture was new, Ikea brad I could tell. Carpet was a bit wet and mushy, and the Crème de la Crème, a murder stain. Yes, what I believed to be a full-on blood pool in the carpet. The room had been redone minus the death stain. I am pretty sure it is common practice to pull up and remove the carpet from a crime scene. What the fuck happened in this room? I turned to my friends and asked, “Can I stay with you until my roommate gets here?”

We eventually headed out to grab a bite to eat. We walked down the beach for what seemed like miles. We ended up in a nicer area of the strip. People who could afford rooms without murder-stains I supposed. After dinner it was dark so we decided to walk back to the hotel on the street. It was as close to the Bronx’s as I could have imagined. Don’t get upset New Yorker’s, I am Florida born and have no frame of reference for a really rough neighborhood. I can only envision it is like what I see on TV, I watch a lot of “Law and Order.” Bars on every window, neon signs flashing like a disco, and security alarm signs and stickers pasted on every surface.

We passed a hotel with a sign that plainly stated “No Crime Here!” I wasn’t sure if the sign was advertising that crime wasn’t allowed or they hadn’t recently had any. It was alarming none the less. It was the longest, scariest walk I had ever made. I now completely understood why this place was so appealing to college kids, and not Disney movie watching mothers. I was scared to death.

We made it back to the hotel and found that my roommate had arrived, along with some of the other members of our party. I walked my roommate up to the room. She was less than impressed with our accommodations; her first question was “Do you think we will get bed bugs?” I hadn’t even thought of that. WTF, now I am going to go home with bed bugs and potentially an STD from our toilet bowl.

We decided to head out to a bar to have a drink. We weren’t two minutes down the road when we hit a section with yellow caution tape and six police cars lined up along the street. Suspects on the ground, sirens blaring and I am pretty sure the “Cops” camera crew filming while the “Bad Boys” theme song filling the air. This is not the Daytona Beach I had heard about. It was not swaying palms and endless margaritas. At that point in the vacation, which was only about 6 hours in, I decided to name this awful place #stanktona. I had never actually hash tagged anything in my life. To be honest I didn’t know what hash-tagging did. But I went around town like the Queen fucking bee of hashtags. It went something like this; #bumonthestreet, #stayclassydaytona, #prostituteoncorner, #WTFisonthisbench?

We ended up making it through the night, but left the next day after our competition. I quickly found out that I am not nearly as hardcore as I once thought I was. I took my bed bug filled laundry and new hash-tagging ability home with me. I had never been so happy to go home to my bed. Daytona, I shall not return unless I wish to get tetanus and Chlamydia. So I bid you farewell and I promise to always pay triple digit minimums for my hotel rooms from this point forward.

29Oct 2014

Is Your Merkin Smirkin?

by Meredith Masony ⋅ 1 Comment

With the current divorce rate over 50% in the United States, couples often look for ways to keep their marriage fresh and exciting. It’s kind of like professional development for your love life, a constant continuing educational program to keep you out of divorce court. I have been married for 11 years, and have been in a relationship with my husband for over 18 years. I also recently heard that the seven-year itch has been replaced with the five-year itch, and more and more couples are dabbling in the world of swinging. Yes, swinging! You know 1970’s keys in the fishbowl kind of parties. I find all of this very interesting. In fact I also started doing some of my own research to see what types of marital aids and activities keep couples together, obviously I need to do this because I am now a writer, Duh.

Let’s talk about some of my research. A few years back I was introduced to smut novels. I had never read one and I wasn’t sure what to expect. A good friend of mine lent me a copy of 50 Shades of Grey. Holy Shit! That book could have jump started the engine in a 1908 Model T Ford. It was a page turner to say the least. I had never gotten my kids ready for bed so quickly in my life. “You have to go to bed and stay in bed. Mommy has to have a long hard talk with Daddy tonight.” It was all the rage across the county. I did place my copy of the book inside of a magazine at the dentist’s office so no one knew I was reading it. My fear was the old woman next to me would think, “Look at that dirty bird reading that filth, what a slut.” Let me close by saying that I had never read a series of books so quickly, and my husband definitively stated that it was the best summer of his life. So I give a green light on smut novels.

I next took a look at the vast plethora of internet pornography. It in no way interests me, but I do understand that it a multi-billion dollar industry so there must be some allure there. If you ask me, the acting is dreadful and the plot lacking. “I’m here to fix your plumbing ma ’me.” “Oh yes, I need a big strong man to bring his long stiff pipe in here now!” When I need a plumber it is mostly likely due to the fact that my 4-year-old stuck an action figure, or my keys down the toilet. I would only call that plumber after I failed several time trying to plunge it out myself, which would lead to pools of shit water on the floor. I am not paying anyone to do a job that I might be able to tackle. And I can guarantee that the plumber I hire will look less like Taylor Lautner, and more like Homer Simpson.

Lingerie, another billion dollar industry can be as classy or trashy as you like. You might be a Fredericks of Hollywood type of lady, or spend your money on purchasing Victoria’s Secret. Either way the idea is to excite your lover with lace, gems, and jewels that play hide and seek with your nipples. My poor husband hasn’t seen lingerie in several years. My nipples need an optometrist; they are cross-eyed from numerous years of breastfeeding. I know it’s best for baby, but WTF I use to have cute perky breasts that looked in the same direction. Now, my husband tilts his head and looks confused, like he doesn’t know which one to look at.

Swinging is happening all around us. Don’t think for a second that it isn’t happening in your town. You can join Swinglife.com or download the Random Naughty hook up dating app to meet naughty couples in your area. I haven’t figured out how swinging saves marriages. “Hey Honie, how about we spice it up with the neighbors? I have wanted to tap that ass for a few years now.” I am sure this works for some people, variety is the spice of life they say. However, my husband would have to have my foot surgically removed from his ass if he asked me to swing. Although all of my neighbors are in their 70’s, so unless he has an old person fetish I might be safe.

Moving on to the last zesty tidbit I have for you. A few years back I was introduced to the Merkin. If you are interested in seeing a variety of images, just search #Merkin, you will get lost for hours. I apologize in advance for this. I was having lunch with a group of colleagues at work when someone was discussing the infamous Merkin. So of course I asked, “What is a Merkin?” I can’t take that question back now, but I wish I had. My friend graciously Google imaged that shit and I became all too aware of the mysterious Merkin. A Merkin is a pubic wig. Yes, it is a modern-day codpiece of hair that replaces your own pubic hair.

I began to read about the Merkin and was shocked to learn that you need to first wax off all of your pubic hair to attach the pubic wig. Why on God’s green earth would I wax off all of my pubic hair to replace it with a wig? How on earth is this a hot commodity? Why are people buying these? I continued to search through the thousands of pictures of Merkins and found that your Merkin could resemble a variety of items. It could be a bedazzled Peacock feather, several pieces of bacon, a long wizard beard, bow tie, kitten face, and so much more. Merkins are not only for women. Watch out ladies, your man may show up with a Merkin shaped like a hot dog. This could create a problem however. Now you’re not only horney but you are also hungry. “Hold on Babe, I gotta grab a sandwich before we bang.”

So as you can see, there are several options for keeping your love life in full bloom. You can try one or try all. Getting married is easy, staying married is a shit ton of work. What works for one, may not work for the other. The moral of the story is to do what you have to do to keep your Merkin Smirkin J

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