It's That Time Again...

You guys know what today is, right?

Okay, yeah, sure, it's Groundhog Day. It's the day when we celebrate the prescient powers of Marmota monax, which is a mixture of Latin and Greek meaning "lonely fatass ground squirrel". In case you were curious (and I know that you weren't), if it ends in an -x, it's typically a Greek word.

Today is also Candlemas, which is traditionally viewed as the day that Christ was presented at the Temple. Mary also had to go to the Temple in order to perform rites associated with recovering from childbirth, a sort of purification, if you will. It is observed 40 days after Christmas. Hey, only 324 shopping days left, slackass!

Also, Candlemas is supposed to be the very last day that you're supposed to have your Christmas greenery up. If you happen to be my neighbor and reading this then...*hint*hint*

And how are the two related? I'm glad you asked! Now, sit down, shut up, and listen: back in the old countries, the English and Germans and other various northern European peoples used to believe that, on the 2nd of February (which is halfway between the Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox), bears, badgers, wolves, and weird uncle Lute would emerge from hibernation to inspect the weather and determine if they should go back to sleep or not--which is very curious, considering wolves don't hibernate...

While settling the New World, the tradition was carried over and, apparently, since black bears just didn't cut it, the settlers adopted...the groundhog...as the midwinter mascot. Isn't that...just...awe-inspiring?

In case your awe isn't inspired enough, one of the nicknames for the groundhog is the "whistle pig".

All of this shit is just filler. Most important of all, today is Betsy Hagar's Birthday!!!

Now, I've mentioned Betsy Hagar in the past on here. Several times. And usually it was with one hand in my lap and the other slowly tapping out words like "whipped cream" and "tall blonde goddess" over the keyboard. Hey, one-handed typing is not easy. I see some of you nodding. Don't think I'm not on to you. *mouths the words 'Call me'*

Some of you might not be up on the list of young women I lusted for during my high school days. Betsy Hagar was at the very top of that list. She is the one about whom I would write long, involved, erotic stories and then, being that I was so turned on by my own lustful creativity, I'd crank one out while still fantasizing about Betsy. Upon climax I would breathlessly begin to feel crushing guilt over my carnal tendencies and I'd take the paper on which I wrote the story and I'd burn it, supposedly (in my sick mind) as a way of burning the lust out of my mind for Betsy and all the other women on the list.

And it was quite an extensive list...

But, Betsy was different. As I mentioned here, there was a lot of crushes that came and went during my high school years, but the one constant throughout the time was my seething desire to part Betsy's thighs. Despite how badly I wanted her, my mind invariably forgets about her until Groundhog's Day/her birthday rolls around. She's kind of my portal to the "good old days", when things seemed a lot simpler, and I didn't have so many fucking bills to pay. Yep, less debt and long, sexy, gorgeous legs. That's what thinking of Betsy Hagar reminds me of.

So, Happy Groundhog's Day. Let's hope that lonely little Whistle Pig enjoys his day in the sun. And Happy Birthday, Betsy Hagar: you fill me full to the brim with lust and nostalgia.

Hello, Black Ice, My Old Friend...

For many people in the South, the thing they fear more than education and literacy is black ice. In case you're unaware, black ice is that phenomenon that occurs when you've had some melting of ice and snow on the roadways, but then the water refreezes. It's usually not a very thick layer of ice that refreezes, so it looks black on the surface of the road.

But really, we know that it's "Black Ice", because it's a killer.

It raises up from the surface of the road, axe in one hand, log chain in the other, and either cleaves you into kibble or smashes you into meat paste. Afterward, it hurtles your car into the nearest pine grove. Then, it's bloodlust sated for a few moments, it eases itself back down to the tarmac where it quietly awaits its next hapless victim.

So, for that reason, I'm home today. The kids have a day off school, and my wife had to go to work. But, it's not like I was too torn up over it. I think the conversation went like this:

Wife: The school call--
Me: Oh, I guess I'll have to take a day off work. Oh no!!!!

And then I went dancing running from the room giggling wailing and beating my breast and other things that you're supposed to do when you're so overcome with emotion that you have to express it through actions.

So, here I sit at home, pondering how I'm going to find enough energy to shower, wondering if I have clean unders upstairs, and wondering if it's a social faux pas for one to take a nap if one has slept in until 10:30.

I am hoping, however, that with this weekend's forecast of another round of snow and sleet and winter weather, that we won't have to deal with Jim Cantore anywhere in the Carolinas. The man actually reported that Charlotte was experiencing "Sneezle": that's snow, sleet and freezing drizzle.

Fuck you, Jim Cantore.

He then went on to explain the "dire situation" in the state where 45,000 customers reported power outages. "That's doubled in just the past hour". And...then it never went back up. And power was restored pretty quickly.

Hey, look at that...bitching about the Weather Channel two weeks in a row on Monday...what are the odds? Is that a faux pas, too? Or is that just an internet meme?

I know one thing that's definitely not a faux pas, and that is to hope that the forecasted sleet and freezing rain for tomorrow morning comes just in time to re-ice the roads. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go wail and beat my breast and plan on where my early afternoon nap is going to take place.

Oh, Hell Snow!

In case you hadn't heard, the Apocalypse big snow storm hit yesterday evening and into the day today. And by "into the day today" I mean, "there was a bit of snow during the morning and some sleet up until 11:00, and after that it was pretty much a major fucking disappointment and nothing like what the weather forecasters were calling for at all." Which is a very long way of saying "they were wrong, again".

However, unlike in times past when the weather forecasters would call for six to ten inches of snow and we'd get "a dusting", we did pick up a goodly amount. Nothing like the 10 - 15 inches that they were calling for in the "northern sections of the viewing area", but it was respectable.

We got eight inches around here. So, the greater northern Durham area of North Carolina now knows what it's like to be my wife: a good eight inches and then coated in white.

...

...

...

Maybe I need to borrow Steamy's Awkward Cricket.

Anyway, the wife and I took the kids outside to play in the snow--twice!!! We managed to finally get enough snow, and a decent place to do it, to where we could go sledding. And by "sledding", I mean "using a Tupperware storage bin lid for purposes it was never engineered or intended for". Feel the awesome wrath of my body flopping on top of you, Tupperware lid!!!

Enough of that. The only reason I'm writing this is to make fun of the local forecasters (again, and as usual), and to post this picture:

That ought to teach you to not read blogs on the weekends.

TMI Thursday: Hair Soap

Does this not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories? Then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!

So, when I was a teenager, I didn't have the greatest complexion. In fact, it's still not what you'd call "alabaster" or "angellic" or "a non-greasy, sticky, white hot mess", but my skin isn't as riddled with blemishes as it was when I was, oh, say, 15.

Now, unfortunately, at age 15 (or, well, way before age 15), guys start noticing girls. More specifically, guys want to start putting parts of their bodies into parts of the girls bodies. And, in order to do this, one must start dating. And, in order to start dating, one usually has to be somewhat and relatively zit free.

Alas, this was not my situation. For the dating or the zit-free existence that would help to remedy the lack of dating. This then leads to prolonged bouts of furious masturbation, which--according to my mother--led to more acne. But, that's a story for another day.

However, that was pretty much my mother's solution to how to clear up my blemish issues: don't touch yourself, don't eat fudge, wash your hair, and you'll be acne free. Well, I washed my hair, I didn't eat fudge, and I hated myself shortly after I touched myself. Apparently, my mother's the Know-It-All didn't know dick.

Now, despite the fact that there were a myriad of products on the market that one could purchase for their child in order for him to secure dates keep a clear complexion, my mother relied on "home remedies".

"Here," she'd say, passing me a newspaper clipping, "I read this is hints from Heloise. You should try it."

I would look up with a heady of mixture of revulsion and disbelief on my face after reading it. "It says to smear the yolk of a raw egg on my face," I reported, as if she hadn't read it, clipped it, and then handed it to me.

"Yep, your father bought you some eggs. They're in the refrigerator. I'll show you how to separate the yolks from the whites." And off we went. As we were in the kitchen, my mother reminded me that this was a valuable tool for cooking, and that I could surprise some nice girl someday by making a recipe that called for just egg yolks. That recipe, of course, was atherosclerosis, and pretty much every girl to whom I've ever offered that has politely declined.

So, there I would sit in the evenings, splitting open an egg and carefully separating the yolk from the albumen, and then I'd take the mass of raw, yellow goo and smear it over my face. I would sit there until it dried. Oh, what a grand time I had, staring into the mirror, the face of Grigg or The Thing looking back at me. Oh, and all the clever puns I made to myself in the bathroom. "Wow, if [insert current crush's name here] could see you now, you'd certainly have egg on your face!" And, "Oh, if [insert teacher's name here] could see you now, you'd sure have egg on your face!" And then I would peel the hideous, flaky yellow mask off.

Predictably, things didn't get much better. Well, I think the yolk helped to rip the heads off the zits, but that was about it. Plus, after a while, I began to pick up a faint sulfury smell.

Now the ladies were flocking to me!

When I turned 16, I knew I had to do something. When I got my license, I started driving to Target (where my high school girlfriend would end up working) where I discovered that there was a whole panoply of anti-acne medications, creams, wipes, soaps and any other kind of hygienic product you could imagine. Giddy, I bought some Oxyclean wipes, some cream to place upon the zits I already had, and some special soap to use on my face. I went home, I washed my face with the soap, wiped with the pad, and put the cream on the egregious pustules of pus hanging from my forehead and cheeks.

I put the soap in the shower, thinking that I would use it when I took my showers.

Bear in mind, I had used the soap once. Remember that.

The next day, I got up and was getting ready for school. My father had already been up and showered, made his coffee and was reading the paper. I acknowledged him as I trudged toward the bathroom. We had two bathrooms in the house, but the shower upstairs only had a basin that was about three inches high, so if I took *ahem* long showers *innocent whistles* I'd flood the bathroom and my mom would bitch at me. Plus, the water in that shower smelled slightly fetid. Mmm...fetid water and sulfur.

I haul my ass into the shower and I turn on the water, get in, go about my usual routine: arms, chest, shoulders, stomach, groin, legs, groin, knees, groin, shins, groin, feet, groin, rinse. I then wash my hair and rinse and I go to wash my face, and the excitement is building within me. I was going to use the soap I specifically purchased to help me clear up my acne problem and now I'd get a girlfriend and I'd see some tits and--JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, WHY IS MY ANTI-ACNE SOAP COVERED IN SHORT, DARK, CURLY HAIRS???

As I brought the soap up toward my face, I could clearly see at least a dozen short-and-curlies decorating the otherwise pristine surface of my soap. The soap I specifically bought for me. To go on my face. Not on my father's ballsack.

I held the soap in the stream of the water from the showerhead and rinsed the pubes away. I also hoped to get the latent ballsweatfunk off the surface of my soap. And then, just to be safe, I used the same soap I had washed my body with.

The next day, I returned to Target and bought myself a soap carrier, so I could hide the soap away from my father's nefarious nether regions.

A Midwinter's Night Tale

Fire up the coffee grinders, Ma, 'cause we're gonna have us a long day.

It all started last night. Partially because I'm too stupid to go to bed at a decent hour, and partially because I was trying really hard to muster the inspiration to finish another chapter in my current manuscript.

Down the hall, the Little Boy was coughing. And coughing some more. He's just getting over a cold, so we didn't think too much of it. But when he coughed and it sounded like product was behind it, then we panicked. Coupled with the crying, we knew we were in for some trouble.

As I went running into his bedroom, urging him to find a toilet into which he should deposit expectorate, I was punched in the face by an odor that came from the very bowels of...well...my son...but it smelled more like Satan himself had been eating kimchi and guacamole before going out on an all-night bender of vodka, everclear and souls. And then he pooped. Satan, not my son.

Well, I dunno. My son could have pooped. After he was done puking, that is. I wouldn't know because I went into action, wherein I started washing his puke-soiled bedclothes and pajamas. Using a plastic bag and a spatula, my wife mucked up the splatter and then scrubbed up the stain.

Let us pause here to remember one Han Solo, who, though he may have been made of plastic, suffered immensely during the Revolution of My Son's Stomach. He's in a better place now...which would be my kitchen sink, where I tossed him AND the spatula on my way past while running puke-sodden fabric articles to the washing machine.

As this was perhaps the foulest smelling thing that I had experienced since my last kimchi-vodka-souls bender, I decided to run the puke-filled bag out to the garbage can where some unknowing sap kind-hearted custodian would cart it away to the town dump in the wee hours of the morning. Hopefully, for his sake, it would have frozen by then.

However, as I was trotting, in my all fatherly glory, to the trash can at the end of the driveway, the herd of deer that live near my house decided to stampede run through my yard. You might remember my Seven Awesome Ways to Die, in which I am terrified of being attacked by a deer caught in mid-coitus. You can imagine that this noise, coupled with the large, bounding creatures in my vicinity, caused my heart to shiver and leap from my chest, abandoning me so that it could run back to the house. Deer: one; me: zero.

Finally, we settled back down, I went back to avoiding hammering away at my manuscript, and finally called it a night around 12:30. I tucked myself into bed and laid there, drifting off to sleep. I was ripped from my restfulness just as sleep was beginning to settle itself onto me by the sound of my wife's my guts churning. Quieting myself over the very normal sound of her my body, I began to drift off again, when I was ripped once more from the clutches of Lord Morpheus by the sound of the shower expunging a few drops of water that had finally slipped down to the faucet. Again, calming myself, I was beginning to slip into the dream world when I heard the boy berfing once more.

Another cycle of getting him to the bathroom, changing his pajamas, washing his covers. Finally, once everything had been settled down and he wasn't erupting forth into fountains of vomit, I settled my brain for another night's worth of nap. Except, now, I had a hard time sleeping because I kept hearing the dryer (you know, the new one), tossing the clothes and such around, and every so often something with a zipper would smack against the side of the drum. *sigh* I finally managed to find some fitful rest. I had maybe slept fifteen minutes when he was up again.

I'm often glad I have a penis. I love you, little guy. I mean, uh, I love you, long, thick, girthy guy! Yeah, that's more like it. I was very glad when the boy was calling for "Mommy" to come and help him. Of course, my wife had to ruin it by asking me if I would go get him some water to help wash the puke taste from his mouth.

Know your role, woman!

That just bought me two months of forced abstinence.

He puked at least two more times, but aside from the first two, he got to the bathroom and made his deposit in the bowl. And who says you get prepared for college only at school? Not my children! Puke in the toilet, or the sink, or in your almost girlfriend's trash basket! Not on yourself or in your own bed!!! All valuable lessons for maximizing your secondary-educational experience!

So finally, with a sum total of four hours sleep (maybe), I'm here. I'm upright. I'm thinking about being productive. As in, "Hey, wouldn't that be nice? To be productive? Right after this short catnap...Zzzzzzzz..."

However, if someone has a cot or a couch or a warm, pillowy bosom I may rest my head upon for fifteen, twenty minutes (or more, depending on how pillowy that bosom is...), let me know. I'll be right over.

Just, please forgive me if I smell a little bit like puke.