The savvy ladies' guide to making your car go vroom

The last time I brought White Lightning into the car service place, the man popped her hood, cleared the leaves and parking tickets out of the way to get a closer look at the gross parts, and yelled at me because somehow he could tell that I don't bring my car in as often as I should.

Man: You have NO oil. I'm surprised your car hasn't exploded. Wasn't your oil light on?

Me: Well, yeah, but ALL my lights are on. The magic genie bottle light, and the bright idea light, and exclamation mark, and there's one that looks like hot toast, and one that looks like Lee Iacocca crying... I can't believe EVERYTHING my car tells me, you know. She's kind of like the car who cried wolf.

Man: When was the last time you serviced this car?

Me: Um, a few months ago? They vacuumed the whole thing, put a little hangy banana on the rear view win...

Man: No. Serviced, as in maintenance.

Me: Serviced, yes. Spic and span. Maintained. Got the footprints off the windshield even. The plucked eyebrow hairs off the vanity mirror. The works. Yep.

Man: Everything under the hood is a mess. I can't believe what I'm seeing. This is just careless and I don't have time...

Me: Hey, is that a tank of Gatorade in there?

Man: What? No. That's antifreeze.

Me: No, I'm pretty sure that's Gatorade. Right there across from the slide projector, see?

Man: Does that make sense to you? A slide projector under the hood?

Me: Well, whatever. I don't know, man, pipes and tanks everywhere. Looks like a fucking Decepticon took a crap under the hood. I don't want any part of it. Just fix it.

Man: Ok, well, go to the service desk and fill out the forms in triplicate, and I'll...

Me: GAH! Boring!! Sorry, I zoned out for a sec. Go to the what? The...sandwich...duck? And fill out deformed tickletits?

Man: Listen to me. Go to the service...

Me: Boring!!

Man: Go to the...

Me: BORED!

Man: G...

Me: No! *squirt bottle* No!

White Lightning never got her tune-up. So when my friend Ani and I packed up the car this weekend to head off to the beach and White Lightning didn't start when I turned the key, I wasn't too surprised.

Me: Don't worry, I got this. *dials phone*

Ani: Nope, gimme the phone. Remember we talked about when it's okay to call 911 and when it's NOT okay to call 911? Remember? Medical emergency, yes...

Me: ...Injured hummingbird, no.

Ani: Home intruder?

Me: Yes.

Ani: Shredded the roof of your mouth eating Oh!s cereal?

Me: Maybe? If it like, REALLY fucked up your mouth? No? Ok, fine, no.

Ani: I'll pop the hood and find some jumper cables, you look for your car's instruction book.

Me: Kay. Probably in the glove box.

Ani: You find it?

Me: Nope! Still going through my papers in here, let's see...registration...insurance...

Me: Triple A card, maps, official vehicular documents...

Ani: You got it yet?

Me: Almost, yeah. I think I found it... lots of documents in here... s'where I keep my files, my paperwork...

Ani: Lemme help, I'll come help you find it.

Me: NO! Don't look. I mean, you just do your job and I'll do mine. I'm fine here, it's all very organized.

This is not counting the ticket I had to use as

an emergency panty liner on my last road trip.

Me: Hey, um, you know what? Screw it. We don't need that book. It's just jumper cables, easy peasy. Connect em up, clip em on to the things. Be careful though, there's something you need to remember. I think the rule goes something like, red touches black, get back jack. Red touches yellow, kill a fellow.

Ani: Great, these cables don't even have a yellow one. Just red and black.

Me: Red touches red, you be dead.

Ani: So... nothing can touch anything, is what you're saying?

Me: Black touches black, freak attack. Touch the wrong node, car explode.

Ani: I don't want any of those things to happen.

Me: Just hook those two up to your battery, and then gimme a sec because I need to hide behind the garage real quick, and then hook the other clamps to my battery. Just don't touch the clamps to each oth...

Ani: *FTTT!!* WAAAK! SPARKY!!

Me: WhatdidIjustsay! What. did. I. just. say.

Ani: Well YOU do it then!!

Me: I'm all the way over here, that doesn't make sense. You.

Ani: Fine...okay... let's see... aclippy here, and aclippy there, and I did it! All hooked up!!

Me: ...*happy clap!*...

Ani: ...*champion arms!*...

Me: Aw, look. It's cute.

Ani: What?

Me: Our cars! They're like best friends!

Ani: Oh! They are! The cables look like a friendship bracelet!

Me: SO CUTE!!

Ani: We should just drive like this, hooked up with cables, side by side, all the way to the beach.

Me: Yeah, it makes me sad to split them up now.

Ani: *wistful sigh*

Me: *contemplative melancholy head tilt*

Me: Do you think it's done transferring energy?

Ani: I think it works better if we start both the cars.

Chimp date. Also known as the time I stayed up super-late plucking my eyebrows just so they would look pretty through the eyeholes in a gas mask.

Dear Sir:

Listen. I'm not usually one to complain. I understand that things don't always turn out the way we expect them to, and that sometimes we just have to roll with the punches and move on. I want to move on, I really do. But I would be remiss if I didn't express my disappointment regarding our recent encounter. I don't know about you, sir, but when someone describes the baby chimp with whom I have a scheduled playdate as "charming" and "well-behaved," I expect my goddamned baby chimp playdate to be charming and well-behaved. Is that unrealistic of me? I don't know. You tell me.

Ok. Maybe put yourself in my shoes for a second. Say Christmas is approaching, and your friends and family are asking you what kind of gift you would like, and you're thinking, "Jesus Christ, what version of gift-herpes are they gonna come up with this year? I wish these people would take their Bath and Bodyworks candles and their Mary Engelbreit calendars and just go fuck themselves."

But because you are such a good person, you don't say any of that out loud. Instead you say "Oh, I really don't want anything," which you say with a slight air of passive aggressive resentment, because everyone knows full well that all you've ever wanted for Christmas was for somebody to learn the guy part of "Baby It's Cold Outside," so that once, just once, you might have a duet by the fire one cozy Christmas Eve, instead of it being just you, alone and drunk with a stupid sock on your hand who has no idea how to do that overlapping lyrics thing and sounds nothing at all like Louis Armstrong.

And you're hoping, at the very least, that none of your friends gives you photos of their kids set in a frame whose longest side is greater than the cross-diameter of your trash can, and you're already planning your annual December 26th Bath and Bodyworks scented candlelight vigil to commemorate the rest of the Bath and Bodyworks candles that you're burning in a bonfire ten feet away from the vigil, and wondering if this year will be the year that your family finally understands that your post-9/11 freak-out ended years ago and that you are no longer in need of any "defense against biochemical attack" themed gifts...

This is why they invented self-timer.

...particularly a gas mask in child's size small from your mom, because she really wants grandkids but "No pressure!!" she says. Right mom. No pressure. *eye roll*

But suddenly, you are inspired. You realize what it is that you want, what you've always wanted and were unable up until this very moment to articulate.

Me: I want a playdate with a chimp.

Mom: A playdate?

Me: Yes. With a chimpanzee.

Sister: Becky, that's ridiculous.

Me: Really? Ridiculous? Have you seen Jack's list? He wants an armored bear costume for his dog so they can play Golden Compass in the back yard, for Christ's sake.

Mom: Well. That's just silly. He's not getting a Golden Compass armored bear suit for the dog. That would truly be ridiculous.

Iorek Byrnison, ladies and gentlemen.

Mom: Alright, besides a date with a chimp, what would you like for Christmas? How about some more Ciprofloxacin? Maybe if you're a good girl Santa will bring you Cipro, huh?

Me: You guys, Cipro's nice and all, and it's true what they say, you can never have enough Ciprofloxacin, but... see, I've tried to explain this to you before, it's just that surviving an Anthrax attack just isn't as important to me as it once was.

Sister: Okay, yeah, I get that. People change. Priorities change. You grow.

Me: Exactly. Protecting myself from biochemical warfare just... I don't know... I guess I'm just over it, and don't get me wrong, hoarding antibiotics will always hold a special place in my heart, but a girl gets to a point in her life where she's like, enough. Enough with the antibiotics, and the blow darts, and the propane-fueled generators. This Christmas, I just want a hug from a hairy little primate.

Mom: Ooohhhh, sounds like someone's feeling maternal!!!

Me: Suck my dick, mom.

Mom: Well, you just better hope Santa didn't hear you tell your mom to suck your dick.

Me: Santa can take my load all over his fat old man tits.

Mom: Well, you just better hope Jesus didn't hear you tell Santa to take your load all over his...

Sister: Yeah, anyway, so the chimp thing. I really think we can make it happen.

And they do. Are you still with me, sir? It just so happens that somebody knows somebody who trains chimps for commercials. And your Christmas wish comes true.

Now, let's back up a little. This is not your first chimp experience. You know what to expect. Years earlier, you had met a baby chimp.

She had held you by the hand and walked with you, climbed into your arms and hugged you around your neck, unzipped her purse to show you the contents (chapstick), applied it to her lips, applied it to your lips (no thank you), applied it to her lips again, and back to yours (no thanks I'm good), tried once more (well okay *puckers up*) and by the time you said goodbye you wanted to carry her everywhere and buy her a whole carton of chapstick for her sad empty purse and make her your baby and your best friend all at once, kind of like the way you feel now about Kurt from Glee.

And now, years later, you get your very own chimp playdate, and you're bursting with anticipation.

The morning finally arrives, and the doorbell rings. You've waited so long for another chimp hug. Those extra-long hairy arms draped around your neck, those tiny legs resting comfortably on your hips. Those agile, almost prehensile lips reaching out for a kiss.

You open the front door and reach your arms out. Come to me, my new chimp baby-friend. I will love you with everything I have to give, unconditionally and with abandon!

But from the moment you open the door, you know something's different. You think back to your old pal from years ago...

...and compare her to this new chimp friend. You can't quite put your finger on it, but you have excellent intuition and there's something unnerving about the expression on his face.

You can't see his other hand because he's taking a crap in it.

Hmm. Let's compare.

This chimp doesn't so much wear his diaper as he does rip it off and dip his hands into his own shit and proceed to cop a feel on every woman and fat man in the room. It's pretty hard to deny having just been felt up by a chimp when you're wearing his shit handprints on your boobs.

This chimp doesn't so much wrap you in a warm primate embrace as he does climb to the tops of bookshelves and perch on curtain rods and then dive-bomb onto the heads of passersby, attacking...

-Nana as she rolls by in her wheelchair: Ooof! Mercy me, be careful, little boy!

-Nana's Nigerian Nurse: Dat monkeh has de devil een hees haht! You stay ay-way from me, demon creachuh!!

-8 year-old nephew: He's trying to steal my eyeballs! Get him off my face!! YOU CAN'T HAVE THEM!!

-Sister: Oh my god, he's got my ponytail. Let go my ponytail, GOD why are is this chimp such a DICK!!

-Nigerian Nurse: Yes, I ay-gree. Dees monkeh is a toe-tal esshole.

Now, am I being unreasonable here? I don't know about you, sir, but where I come from, baby chimps carry purses and share their chapstick and keep their diapers fastened. They don't dip their shitstained fingers into people's iced blended mochas and they don't try to eat people's Nanas' wheelchair seat cushions and they don't try to strangle people's Nanas' Nigerian nurses by their braided leather bolo necklaces. It's positively animalistic and I won't stand for it.

You'll be hearing from my lawyers.

Good day sir.

In which my mom brings it like an animal

Me: What the hell is going on in there?

Jack: That's mom. She's doing your P90X workout DVDs in the next room.

Me: Holy shit! Is she okay?

Jack: I know. It sounds like a cat in a room full of tall lamps.

(From behind the door, CRASH!)

Mom: I'm okay! It was the chair! The chair fell over!

Jack: She keeps kicking the chairs over. She won't wear her glasses while she's exercising, is the problem. I went in there to check on her and she kicked me in the hamstring.

Me: What's that swooshing noise?

Jack: That? Why, funny you should ask. That...is a hula hoop.

Me: Um... There's no hula hoop in P90X.

Jack: Yes I know. She's made some interesting substitutions.

(From behind the closed door, the sound of hula hoop skidding across the wood floor)

Mom: Whoop! Yikes!

(Bare feet plod plod plodding across the floor, hula hoop is recovered, whoosh-whoosh-whoosh resumes)

P90X guy: Yes! You are an animal! When I said BRING IT, you BROUGHT IT! And you made it YOUR BITCH!

Mom: Wooo!! YEA!! *whoosh, whoosh, whoosh*

Me: Well, hula hoop is good for your abs anyhow... strengthens your... core...

Jack: *shaking head*

Me: What? No?

Jack: *sigh*

Me: She's hula hooping around her neck again, isn't she? She's gonna crush her trachea, I swear.

Jack: It's the only way she can keep the hoop up.

Me: So... when the P90X gang starts in with the pull ups, you're telling me mom participates by spinning a hula hoop on her NECK? Does this make any sense to you?

Jack: She changes it up, though. Like when they do deep lunge kicks she does the "She's a Maniac" run in place thing from Flashdance instead. And when they start doing those pike sit-ups, she sings "Louie Louie" and does that hitchhiker thumbs-over-the-shoulder move. And sometimes when she gets confused she just shrugs and does that dance from the 20's where you put your hands on your knees and then touch your knees together and send your hands off to the opposite knees.

Me: Oh, yeah, that's a classic. You know what? We should make her a new workout DVD. We can be all YEAH, YOU ANIMAL! GRRR!! WORK IT! MAKE THE CHARLESTON YOUR BITCH!

Jack: Heh. YEAH, DIVAS! WE'RE GONNA PAUSE HERE AND GIVE YOU 30 SECONDS TO GO FIND YOUR GLASSES, BECAUSE WE'RE ABOUT TO DEMONSTRATE A BRAND NEW MOVE CALLED WAGGLING YOUR FINGER IN THE AIR TO BIG BAND MUSIC!

Me: ALRIGHT YOU ANIMALS, YOU'RE GONNA PUT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING RIGHT LEG IN, AND THEN YOU'RE GONNA PUT IT RIGHT BACK OUT, LIKE THE DIVA THAT YOU ARE!! 20 REPS, IN AND OUT, GOGOGOGOGO!!!

Jack: HAHAHA!!

Me: Heehee! Oh, we should stop. We're mean.

Jack: We are. She's 65 and she's doing most of P90x for God's sake. That's pretty cool.

(From behind the door, hula hoop skitters across the floor and crashes)

Mom: YOW! Oof! Dang butterfingers!!

Jack: You did P90X a while ago, right?

Me: Pff. Yeah, for maybe a week. I got bored.

Jack: It's repetitive, huh.

Me: Same thing over and over.

Jack: Yeah, I don't know how she keeps up with it.

(The door to the next room opens and mom peeks through.)

Mom: Hey guys, could one of you grab the blue painter's tape for me?

Me: Painter's tape?

Jack: Ab Ripper X.

Me: ...??...

Jack: You know... for the hopscotch part.

April hath put a spirit of youth in everything. --William Shakespeare

Yes, spring certainly is revitalizing. The sun is out but there's a chill in the air, and it makes you just want to run outside to play and come back hours later smelling of dirt. Makes you feel like a kid again. Let's all take a deep breath together. Ready?

iiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnn...and ouuuuuuuttttttt. That felt good. Do you feel good? I do. I feel great. I'm glad we took that moment together. Happy spring, you guys. Thanks for sharing that with me.

Now, what was I going to write about? Oh yeah. Let's draw some dicks.

I, myself, do not recall ever attempting to draw a penis. I'm not very artistic, although I will, on occasion, admire someone else's drawing of a penis. Am I an expert? Far from it. I'm not here to instruct, but rather to explore, analyze, and hopefully...(humble face)...inspire.

The first thing you must consider when delving into the topic of dick art is how your post title will look on your blog friends' sidebars. It's hard to believe, but there are bloggers out there who might not appreciate your artistic spirit livening up their blogrolls:

Roseann's Musings, Ramblings, Ponderings, and Thoughts

Health Care Reform? Oh, brother...

Confessions of a Loling Blogger

Teh unicorns are made of win!

Getting Snarky with God

Rest in Peace, Mr. Fluffyknickers

Photos from Heaven

Raindrops dangling from flower petals, part 7

Steam Me Up, Kid

I draw dicks and balls real good

I know, you're thinking, "That penis at the bottom really spruces up the joint! I'd be honored to promote that blog post on my sidebar!" and I would second that sentiment, and that, my friendish, is why we're both here right now. Exploding fistbump.

But, out of respect, consider hiding your dick post behind a "title beard", such as a googled quote about springtime by some dead pretentious schmo. Bonus points if it includes the word "hath".

I would be remiss if I didn't give credit to Sarah P at Naked Cupcakes, who if you aren't reading yet, you should be, because she's fucking hilarious. She sent me a lovely card in the mail recently which was the inspiration for this post. She writes:

Dear Becky,

I love dicks. I draw them all day and all night. Dicks dicks dicks. Eat em up yum. Dicks on the brain. Can't get enough. But recently, I've developed doubts about my dicks. I need your help. Tell me honestly, do my balls look right? Love, Sarah P

Sarah P, I completely understand your artistic choices with regard to balls. We are all well aware that balls don't come individually wrapped in separate little cherry-like scrotums. But what choice do we have, as artists, and as women who love our men. Sometimes, the truth hurts.

What would you have us do, men??

WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE US DO??

See what I mean? You done good, Sarah. Long live cherryballs.

But you got me to thinking, Sarah. How important are balls in penis art? I believe inclusion of balls should be examined on a case-by-case basis. For example, I came upon this chalk illustration on the playground recently:

See? No balls. But what does "Happy Birthday Giant Cock Friend" (chalk on asphalt, 2009) have that most other dick drawings don't have? Friendship. And cake. How important are balls when we have friendship and cake? That's a question for the ages, my friends.

Now that we've opened the door to various media, I realize that what I said before about not having much dick drawing experience, while true, did not take into account my expertise in the Pancake Arts.

In my experience, the best thing about pancake dicks is pretending you didn't intend to fashion the pancake in the shape of a dick at all. When my friends come to visit with their kids, I serve up my giant phallic flapjacks that are so obscenely long (thank you, 20" skillet) that half the shaft hangs off the side of the plate, syrup dribbling suggestively off the tip, and their kids go YUM!! and other appreciative words that are muffled on account of their mouths being crammed with buttery testicles, and my friends make angry faces at me and I go

Me: What? What's the problem?

Friend: You know what's the problem. Stop feeding my kids dick-shaped breakfast foods.

Me: Dick-shaped? What's wrong with you? For your information, these are elephant heads, sicko.

I'm sorry, I'm still not seeing it.

Kid 1: I love elephant pancakes!!

Kid 2: Mommy, his trunk is longer than my trunk! I want a longer trunk!

Me: Oh, you know what though? Yours is thicker. That's what counts.

Friend: I think maybe Auntie Becky needs to see a special doctor.

Kid 1: Look at me! I'm a sword swallower! *dangles wangcake above mouth*

Friend: I just died a little in my heart.

Me: Your kids sure do love elephants, huh. Where's my camera?

My point is, when considering dick art, free your mind. The age of the pen-on-spiral doodling horny virgin teen has come to an end. We are entering a renaissance of dick art, with the introduction of photoshop and paint programs. But before we look ahead, we must look back, because those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it, and I think we can all agree that human civilization has endured enough of those nubby little cherubic wangs. I'm looking at you, Baroque period. Never again.

So here we go, a look back. I've worked really hard on this. It was difficult, because as you can probably guess by now I have trouble staying focused sometimes, especially when it comes to stuff like history, but I think I did a good job. I hope it's not too cerebral. I really want you to like it. So nervous!!! Squeee!!

And now, I humbly present, my blog thesis...

The Complete World History of Dicks in Art

Part 1

Early Dick Art: Stuff in Europe

The DaVinci Choad

Quick side note:

Something I won't eat because it looks like Marilyn Manson's penis.

Oh my God, this one's even worse.

It looks like a zombie rising from the grave, boner first.

Hahaha!! Epic ham fail lol!!

Intermission:

Storm Troopers riding dogs!

Conclusion: Modern Dick Art

The Birth of Photoshop

Totally brought it full circle.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, why. Why write about dick art? It's vulgar and pointless, and adds nothing to the blogosphere. And maybe you're right.

I will admit, I had my doubts too. But yesterday morning, as I sat in bed thinking about whether this topic was worth the time and effort, I received a sign from God on my closet door.

Yes, that's right. It's a pregnant woman with a giant dangly cock. Now, I'm not saying this shadow is something akin to a visit from the angel Gabriel or that I am some kind of modern-day Mary chosen by God to bring forth unto you the gift of the penii, but I do happen to be a mother of dog, and I am a virgin (airways frequent flyer) so, I mean, come on.

Or I guess it could have been the pregnant naked tranny standing over by my window when I took this photo. But I like the chosen by God thing better. Let's go with that.

We're not calling it brain surgery. We're calling it semi-permanent tampon hat. Just go with it.

Me: How was your playdate, pup?

Farley: Bullshit. Seriously. That was a bullshit playdate. Don't ever take me back there.

Me: Why? You didn't have fun?

Farley: No, no fun at all. I don't even remember most of it, that's how bullshit is was.

Me: Seems like you made lots of nice friends there, though. Lots of nice ladies came to say goodbye when you left.

Farley: Yeah, that's true. I got plenty of kisses, but still. Zero playtime. That place sucks.

Me: What did you do while you were there?

Farley: You know what's weird? I don't even know. I took a nap, and then I was tired so I took another nap, and ...*sigh*... I'm sorry, I can't even focus right now because I have the WORST fucking headache. Like, splitting headache.

Me: Oh, really? That's weird.

Farley: Do I look okay? Look at me, do I look different to you? Do I look sick? Because my head is just pounding like you wouldn't believe.

Me: You look fine to me. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

Farley: You sure? Look closer. Something just feels...off. 

Me: Hmmm.

Farley: I look the same as I did when I went in there?

Me: Actually, I think you're even more handsome now.

Farley: Heh. I am pretty handsome.

Me: *covers all the mirrors*

Farley: What are you doing? 

Me: Nothing.

Been spendin' most my life, ridin' on a gangsta's motorized stair seat

I woke up in my bed last Saturday morning, shivering and wondering why my lips felt like a tempurpedic neck pillow, wearing a short black dress and one high heel. I had been dreaming about a life as a Russian acrobat, which I knew without even checking meant I had fallen asleep wearing a thong.

I limped unevenly to the bathroom, 5'7" on one side and 5'3" on the other.

High heel, bare foot...

Click, plop... click, plop... click, plop...

tall, short... svelte, dwarf... queen of the world, troll doll...

I pulled Hoodie and pj bottoms out of my pile of laundry limbo, redressed, and sat on the toilet in my thinking position--pajama pants down around ankles, chest on thighs, arms dangling, face in panties like a little head hammock. So comfy.

I remembered a marachino cherry.

There was another cherry, later. An orange slice too.

Sugar on the rim.

Lime wedge in the bottle. Like in Mexico. Damn, that gets me every time. I love Mexico.

I will drink anything if it has a cherry or some kind of fruit or accessory in/hanging off the glass. You know those plastic monkeys that hang by their tails off the rim? Done. You could fill a martini glass up with phlegm and kitty litter and hang a monkey off the glass and maybe an umbrella, and I'd be all, "Holy crap is this a party or what? This drink sure tastes like vacation!"

I remembered my drink order at dinner: "I want that foamy drink with the round thing bobbing around in it. I want to say frankenberry, but that's not right. Dingleberry? Help me out. Floaty thing."

(If you're interested, it was a CRANberry.

*smug Trebek pause*

CRAN. berry.

*taps answer cards*)

I love festivities. I'm like a 15-year old boy who ejaculates in his jeans before his girlfriend has even begun to fiddle with his zipper. I'm like him, only with fun. Or even the suggestion of fun. Those floating cranberries and plastic monkeys dry hump my brain until I ejaculate seratonin in my metaphorical jeans. Yeah, I just wrote that.

My funjaculation condition doesn't apply to just drinks though. I'm not a big drinker. Now I realize I can't keep posting about drunk bachelorette trips and lessons in how to be photographed drunk and continue to be all "Heavens above, I can't even remember the last time I consumed liquah, I wouldn't even know what to order." *coy eyes over Southern belle fan*

I sound like a hypocrite, but I'm not. I'm not a big drinker, but I'm a master celebrator, is what I am. A master 'brator. Okay, yes, I forced that. It's embarrassing. Let's move on.

It's not just the drinks. It's carnivals (Oh my God, get off the highway NOW, I see a ferris wheel I WANT A CHURRO GOGOGO!!) or elaborately decorated cakes (I want the piece with the Superman, but I also want a rose and a balloon and a corner piece, so maybe Gerrymander it around a bit when you're cutting, m'kay? I don't care if my piece looks like Tajikistan, just make it happen) or any Journey song (*air punch, air punch, air punch, scary rock n' roll face*) or Jai Ho (*delicate Bollywood turny wrists, serious multicultural face*) I just get too excited sometimes.

Yesterday I went over to visit my Nana at my mom's house, dressed in my workout clothes because really I was there to use the treadmill, not to visit Nana, but I like to pretend I'm just killing time on the treadmill until Nana wakes up, but Nana never wakes up. If she were a goldfish she'd be the kind who's been resting on the rocks at the bottom of the tank with the same delicate tendril of poop hanging from her ass for so long that you decide to flush her and all of a sudden just as you've said your goodbyes to your Nanafish laying there in the net scooper, she opens one eye and you're like WAIWAIWAIT SHE'S ALIVE and everyone feels super bad for almost flushing Nana and you never talk about it again. Man, I am KILLING with the metaphors today.

Frankly, I wouldn't know what to say to her if she did ever wake up. Maybe I could talk about our common interests, like breathing:

Me: Breathe any good air lately?

Nana: *breathe*

Me: Oh, dang girl, save some for me!

Nana: *wink* *breathe* *sleep*

Me: You crazy, Nana.

So anyway, I showed up in my workout gear at around noon and discovered a half-empty frozen margarita machine sitting in the patio from a party the night before, promptly funjaculated, removed my sports bra and running shoes and began to gather beautiful flowers with which to decorate my drink.

And you know the saying, "Where there's a half-empty margarita machine, there's leftover fish tacos," right? So true.

And you know the saying, "I'd rather drink alone for the right reasons then drink with other people for the wrong ones?" Also true. It was hard, but I think I did the right thing.

And you know the saying, "It's better to have had a few drinks by yourself on a lovely spring day and then taken a ride on Nana's motorized stair-seat and broken the motor from over-enthusiastic make-believe gangsta hydraulics than it is to have never taken a ride on Nana's motorized stair seat at all?" No? Well, write it down. Words to live by.

Seeking the answers, part 1: Open up for the choo-choo!

I've stumbled upon an Internet goldmine. At first glance, it appeared to be some kind of "Yahoo! Answers" for refined, cultured types. A site where erudite, sophisticated people come together to seek the answers to life's most meaningful questions.

Questions like, "WHAT IS A CERVIX AGEEN I CRNT BELIEVE I FORGOT LOOL"

Looling indeed, m'lady! You forgot ageen? I daresay, you'd lose your head if it weren't attached.

After thoroughly perusing this treasury of queries and responses, I feel I have come away enlightened and with a greater sense of self-awareness and inner peace. Allow me to share with you some of the finer points of this site...

One inquisitive young woman wonders:

"How to stop queefing?"

and a young gentleman comes to her aid with a prompt reply:

"Making a girl queef, to a guy, is just a sign that you're really hiding it up good. If you've never made a girl queef, you're not doing it right. Also, the more aroused a girl gets, the more predictable she is to queef, so it's only a bad point if you don't know what it is."

If you've never made a girl queef, you're not doing it right. Are you taking notes, men?

Another young woman wonders:

"What chemicals could be put within panties to tighten up loose flaps?"

and receives her answer: "Aluminum."

Aluminum! Who knew! There is no reason to ever visit a doctor again! What use is medicine and science when we've got all the answers we need right here at this virtual oracle of sound advice? Get lost, physicians, we've got it covered!

Another woman is desperate for help:

"God, i need some good comebacks for those boobless attacks.? people r constantly teasing me and my friend about being flatcheasted (she's more flat that me so she get's tham more often. this is 4 her. well...sorta lol, me 2) I don;t kknow weather to laugh or be angry or... idk. COMEBACKS?"

Well, young lady, you have come to the right place. Let's see what cutting witticisms your fellow scholars have devised for your retorts.

"like, at lease my boobs arent so big that I can;t see my toes!" 

Zing!

"do you need a life jacket when you have one attached?" 

Oooh, count it!

"who needs a car with air bags?" 

Absolutely nobody, that's who.

"when you run do you smack yourself in the face?" 

Lool!

"at least i can find bathing suits in my size" 

Up top, girlfriend!

"less fun on top equals more fun on the bottom" 

It's true, do the math!

"at least they dont flat in the wind when i run" 

No flatting in the wind for you!

"If its a guy, just say, they are probably bigger than your dick!" 

Um...*confused face*...yes.

"At least i wont have back pains from those two tvs on your chest" 

TVs! How creative! Televisions are indeed large and bulky, like breasts, it's true.

So clever! I can't just stand back as a participant. I must step in and humbly propose my submissions for boobless comebacks:

"I'm rubber you're glue, your TV breasts flat in the wind like big floppy dicks."

Oh, heavens. This is harder than it looks. How about:

"Your large breasts are garbage breasts!"

Well, lesson learned. Leave the advice-giving to the experts.

Lastly, it appears even the most refined intellectuals seek sexual advice from time to time. It's quite possible they're more like us than we realize:

"Is it bleak to put a toy up your Virgina?"

"Depends, probably not if the toy is a train set or something big with a lot of moving metal parts."

Are you in need of some good advice? Start here: Go, learn, grow.