T.M.I.

I always spill the beans. I tell everyone too much. I have begun to embrace this problem of mine in the last few years, but it still kinda bothers me that I am unable to keep my mouth shut. It’s like I am always drunk. So when I actually am drunk, there is no stopping what will come out of my mouth. One glass of wine in, and I’ll tell you about all my mental hospital stays, my overdose in College, that time I had sex with a homeless albino guy with a lazy eye, or my stint as a Madame in Elementary school when I gathered together a group of busty girls in my grade and encouraged them to go behind the bushes and show their boobs to all the boys at the playground every day until I got busted by the principal and almost suspended.

My Parents tell a lot of stories, especially my Dad. But they are both very concerned with privacy when it comes to things they are insecure about. I think most people are that way. I just, for whatever reason, turned out different. I don’t reserve certain information for certain people. Well, I don’t generally open up to people I hate. But if a person, lets say a co-worker I hated gave me a half smile and an unenthusiastic “Good Morning”, I would probably suddenly believe that they love me and want to be my best friend, so I’d go up to them and say something like, “Good Morning to you too! Hey, did you know I was raped once? Did I ever tell you that? I don’t remember it very well, but my therapist brought it out of me during one session. Its no biggie though. It helped me to become a stronger person. My Dad and my Brothers really want me to press charges against the guy, but I don’t want to because I am afraid he will get loose from jail and kidnap me and ruin my life and hurt my children or slash my tires or something. Oh look at me going on and on, what about you? Were you ever raped? Oh shit. Sorry, I shouldn’t ask you that. But really, were you? Or maybe just like a date rape type of thing? You had a boyfriend that beat you didn’t you?  That is why you are so quiet. You know, they have really good recovery centers around here for that type of thing. I could get you the number to one of them, because I know those people well because I have a non-profit organization I started. Oh, its nothing big. It is mainly just a charity. It is actually a complete and total failure, and I put blood, sweat and tears into it only to go broke and realize later that you need a rich uncle to donate a shit load of money to help you run the organization because 501 C3’s don’t make any money at first. But its okay. I’m thinking about doing stand up now, so we’ll see how that goes, but wait..really, were you raped?”

That girl will never say “Good Morning” to me again.

Obviously this is not what I would really say to someone, but it is really really similar to what I do say to people I barely know all the time.

I used to be really insecure about it. Especially when I was in High School and College and I would get really drunk and tell a guy I was interested in a bunch of horrible crap that made him lose interest in me. A common occurrence would be that a friend of mine would tell me that a guy had the hots for me, and I would feel confused because I never talked to that person. I never get that. I can’t have the hots for someone that I haven’t gotten to know at least a little. There are so many guys that when you look at them you think, OHMIGOD HE IS SO HOT, but then they open their mouth and you are like OHMIGOD HE IS SO STUPID. But anyways, a friend would tell me about some secret admirer I had and I would get all excited about seeing him at a party. And in one situation, I flirted with this guy and did really well with him until I got too drunk, then I started telling him how many blow jobs I have given in public restrooms. Then I told him about my fear of retarded people and how they tackle me where ever I go and how I think they should be parented the same way dogs are. Then I asked him if queefs make your dick feel good during sex? All of my friends were laughing their asses off, but I noticed he was beginning to inch a bit away from me with every word that left my lips and he lost that sparkle in his eye. You may be thinking, WHAT? Bullshit. A guy losing interest when you talk about blow jobs and sex!!? Yes, its true. Because he was not interested in just screwing me. His eyes decided that I would be his future wife. He was so sure of it as he was getting ready to go out that night, but then I shattered his cute little retarded dreams with my mouth. And I am happy that happened, obviously, because I needed to be with someone who could handle my stories and antics and find it endearing, no matter how vulgar it gets. But at the time, I didn’t know who my future Husband would be, (luckily he totally gets me and can handle it better than anyone I know) so I felt worried, depressed, and alienated. I just didn’t understand why I had to blurt stuff out. I tried several times to act like the opposite of myself, and not say personal cringe-worthy stuff, but when I did that all my friends and family would badger me so bad saying, “What is wrong with you, you are being weird.” So I’d give in and get back to normal.

The nice thing about getting older is that you start embracing all of the stuff that you hated about your personality your whole life. I am not always 100% pleased with my TMI problem, but it seems to really entertain people, and I like entertaining people so I doubt I will ever have it under control.

Stand-up Comedy Virgin

I haven’t been blogging much because for the past month whenever I have gotten some time to myself, I’ve been working on a stand up comedy act (and I recently started working at Starbucks). Stand up is not something I have always dreamed of doing.  Not because I didn’t want to, but mainly because it never crossed my mind as a possibility. I just never thought of myself as someone who does that professionally. But when I look back at my life, I realize that I have been doing comedy in one way or another since I was little.  I am always telling a story in front of a large group that is laughing at what I am saying. It feels good, I’ve always enjoyed being a silly little asshole. People have suggested I pursue acting or comedy before. My reaction to that was usually, YEAHFUCKINGRIGHT. I would never get on stage. I guess if I had more confidence growing up, or if I wasn’t always so self-absorbed and stuck in my head, maybe I would have thought about taking my talent for being a complete jack-ass clown onto a stage and see if it got the same kinds of laughs that I do in real life. Well, better late than never, just as I always say when I get my period.

The real reason I even thought of this as something I seriously wanted to try is because of twitter. I am pretty sure I have discussed my feelings about twitter on this blog in previous posts, but just in case I haven’t…basically, it gave me validation that not only my friends want to listen to my ridiculous shit. Which is what I always assumed before. But of course, twitter is not a stage. And computer keys are not a microphone. But my curiosity is officially sparked, and I want to find out if I could take my twitter persona that I created 5 months ago, and say it out loud in front of a bunch of drunk people looking for a laugh. If It goes well, I’m positive I will become a junkie and want to do stand up all the time from that moment forward, because I am a middle child, a redhead, a rape victim, a former fatty, and a reformed slut, therefore I am a complete and total attention whore.

I’m debating allowing any of my friends or family to come to my first show. I have read mixed opinions about this online. I think I only want my Husband there for the first time. Because he has heard me fart at least 2500 times. He has rubbed oil on my pregnant belly stretch marks. He has seen my postpartum hemorrhoids. He has cleaned the puke off my face countless times from legitimate sickness, or hangovers. He has heard me singing when I didn’t know anyone was around. You get it. Basically, I can’t get really embarrassed in front of him at this point. A little embarrassed, sure..but nothing traumatic. But friends, that is a whole different story. So yeah. Maybe the friends will have to wait until the second or third show.

I secretly (well, not so secretly because I’m writing this online, idiot) hope that absolutely horrible comedians go on before and after me so that I feel like the shit, and I leave convinced I am a star in the making rather than feel enraged with jealousy and doubt because the other stand ups were way better than me. Am I getting ahead of myself, yes?  I am thinking too much, yes?  Am I psyching myself out, yes? Have we met? My name is Tara. I am the female version of Woody Allen, only I have no interest in sleeping with my Asian orphan stepchild.

Apparently the place I am going to do my first ever set at is a comedy club/hair salon.  Yeah, that’s right. Hair salon. WTF? I don’t know. But it sounds like a safe bet for a virgin like me.

So I’m scared. But at the same time, I have this cocky, balls of steel woman inside of me that is like, “You got this, Tara. This is the only thing you don’t fuck up at, being a total jack ass. This is where you shine.” So hopefully that strong internal dyke of mine will pin my inner Woody Allen down and cover his mouth with duct tape on the big night so that I can make people laugh rather than cringe for me.

I hope I break both my legs on the way to the show to make sure I do well.

In conclusion, this video of Dave Chappelle discussing this topic to James Lipton is really encouraging, and helped make me feel more at ease about all this. But since Dave Chappelle ended up losing his shit, and quitting the business at the top of his game, maybe he shouldn’t be my go-to guy for inspirational speeches. Oh well, too late. I’m inspired.

Mompocalypse Now

The usual sounds in my house while I am trying to take a shower:

BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.  “stop that, sir.”  BANG BANG BANG BANG.  “griiifffitth, stop, please”.  “MOMMY??  Where are you Mommy?  WAAAAH.  Mommmmmmyyy”  “Mommy is in the shower, Griffith.  Come here and help me with baby sister.”  CRASH! BANG! CRASH!  “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh wah wah wah wah wah WAAAAAAAHHH!”  “GRIFFITH!  WHAT HAPPENED??!”  “Ouch, Daddy, OOUCH!”  “Oh, NO Griffith, Don’t do that.  That’s a No-No-no!  You have to be more careful.  Here, now it is all better”  WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAH WAAAAAAhhhh.  “Baby girl, its gonna be okay.  Its okay girl.  NO GRIFFITH!  NO SIR! NOOO SIR!  Baby girl, its okay.  Griffith, put that down and lets play with Savannah.  Come here, lets make her laugh.”  “Okay, Daddy.  Juck a minute!….OWWWW!  OUCH!  WAH WAH, Mommy kiss it!  Mommy Kiss it!”  “No, Mommy is in the shower, Griff.  Just come here and help me make baby sister laugh.”  “No!  Playground!  Lets Go on a special trip.”  “We will in just a minute, Griff.  Be patient. We have to wait for Mommy to finish her shower.”  Mommy!?  Mommy?  Mooommmmmyyyy???  Wheerrreee arrrreee yooouuuuu??”  BANG BANG BANG BANG.

        

Basically it sounds like a war zone outside the door.

By this point I am usually leaning against the shower wall letting the water run over my head, and trying to hum the background sounds away.  Reminiscent of a scene from any movie that involves a mental hospital or a mental patient or a woman in mourning.

I yell out, “I will be right there, Griff”.  I get out of the shower.  It is suddenly eerily quiet.  I get out of the bathroom to see all three of my family members quietly giggling on the couch, calm, having a blast together.  The calm after the storm.  Seems like the storm is just more convenient to take place at the exact time that Mommy is trying to relax in the shower, or bath, or when I am trying to get work done, or trying to take a nap.  Its just the way it is.

Weird thing is, if it went away, I would miss it terribly.  If the house was totally quiet while I was in the shower, I would probably be depressed.  Strange how I have grown to really love chaos.

Shit Baby

Your body is weird right after having a baby.  At least mine is.  You have lots of giant blood balls coming out of your vagina for the first 6 weeks, all day.  They look like you are giving birth to a miniature, bloody alien.  Your boobs are enormous boulders leaking and spraying dairy product all over everyone.  You are a homicidal maniac who wants to divorce your husband if he even looks at you wrong or coughs too loud.  And your shitting routine is all over the place for a while.  Right when I left the hospital, I was not shitting at all.  Then it turned into light shitting every two hours for a month.  Now I am, as we like to say in my house, “Filling The Bowl”.  Which means exactly what it sounds like, the shit is coming out ferociously like thick throw up out of my asshole, and it is filling up the toilet so much that it has surpassed the water line.  I am very excited that I am now in the enema stage, because my figure is getting back to normal pretty fast.

                                                              

But the problem is, this type of pooping is a bit stressful, because it is pretty much like giving birth through your butt.  And just like when you are in labor, you don’t want to be touched, you want silence, and you are overall in an agitated state.  So the beginning of the enema pooping began Saturday night.  Luckily my newborn was asleep, but my 2.5 year old just finished his dinner and was ready for his nighttime routine.  He was pretty pissed that we hadn’t gotten the bubble bath started, so while I was giving butt-birth, I had to turn the bath on and get the bubbles going.  Then he became impatient with seeing the fun bath there, and not being able to get in.  It didn’t matter that I was in ass labor,  I had to undress him, take his shoes off, etc. and put him in the bath.  Now remember, this is all DURING me sitting on the toilet, sweating profusely, feeling faint, and throwing up out of my butt.  After about 5 minutes in the bath, my son got bored, and demanded I get in there with him.  Which, I do every night.  That’s right.  I bathe with my son. Naked. Every night.  I really look forward to it too.  And I will miss it when he gets to the age where it is too weird, like around 13.  (j/k).  Anyways, I felt bad that I could not get in there with him yet, and he began to whine, “Mooommmy, Get In!!”, so I told him to grab one of the bathy books we have in the toy corner of the bath.  I proceeded to read him an Elmo book, a counting numbers book, and a color naming book, during the birthing shit process.  I was moaning in between sentences, grunting, wiping the sweat off, hanging my head down in pain, frantically bearing down on the shit baby, and talking in an Elmo voice for my son.  Elmo has never sounded more pitiful and horrifying.  After the books got boring, he wanted me to play with the toys and make a toy baby pretend to dive into a toy boat.  That got boring, so we had to give his froggie a bath by shampooing his plastic froggie head. This went on for 15 more minutes.  At the end of the laboring and delivery process, I estimate I gave birth to 10 pound quadruplet shit babies.  After using half the toilet paper roll, I got off the toilet feeling slightly faint and sick like I had just finished running a marathon.  I was glad I could help my son have fun throughout the process, but I was really just looking out for myself. Because if he had cried and yelled in anger from me ignoring him, it would have woken up the infant in the other room, and who the hell knows what would have happened then.  I probably would have ended up tracking shit all through the house trying to calm everyone down.  But the real person to feel bad for in this situation is my son, Griffith; I sat in the bathtub, naked, with him after I was done.

Al Bundy’s Vagina

As a kid, I got in trouble even when I was sleeping.  My Mom would come in to wake me up for school (age 7-10) and take my hand out of my pants.  I felt that Al Bundy and I were kindred spirits, but my interest in Married With Children led my mom to place the show off limits.

I found a glass cigar tube in my dads’ trash can one day.  It stayed under my mattress for 4 years.  i didn’t clean it much or store any cigars in it.  #BIOHAZZARD.

Almost every night, I struggle with whether I should read the bible or masturbate.  I usually choose masturbation, but when I choose both, things just get weird, and all I think about is that I will go to hell. (former catholic).  The most sad time that I masturbate is when I am sick.  I have been so sick that I shit my pants, puked 100 times, looked like I had been dead for a week, barely any energy to take a sip of water, and I still masturbate.  Sometimes when I go to masturbate, I accidentally fart.  It will smell really horrible, and I fight through the smell so that I can get my masturbating out of the way before bed.  If I don’t have sex with my Husband, or masturbate before bed, I have weird dreams and I don’t sleep well.  Maybe this is an illness.  But who cares.  I am not hurting anyone.  Well, I may be hurting my vagina.  My vagina does hurt a lot when it gets a little out of hand.  Was that a pun?

Scandinavian Kiss

My son is 2.5 years old.  I kiss my son’s boo-boo’s.  Except we call them “ouchies”, because we nicknamed my tits (for reasons I cannot recall) “boo-boo’s” while I was breast-feeding him as a baby.  My husband made up a song that he would sing whenever Griffith was hungry and it was time for a feeding.  He sang, “Griffith Samuel Brown Needs his Boo Boo Juice, Mr. Samuel Brown needs his Boo-Boo Juice, Griffith Samuel Brown needs his Boo Boo Juice, Ahhhhh, Give Me. My. Boo. Boo. Juice!”  It is actually pretty catchy, I wish I could sing it for you.  I breast-fed him until he was 16 months old (creepy me), so he remembers that tits are called “boo-boo’s” in our family.  So it is pretty confusing for him to hear people refer to injuries as “boo-boo’s”, cuz ya know, he thinks that means that my tits are the same as painful abrasions you receive after doing something clumsy.  So anyways, when he gets an ouchie, he needs a kiss.  He is now entirely dependent on a kiss to heal the ouchie.  This is my fault, I kissed an ouchie once, and said “All better now!”, and now he thinks he cannot be all better unless an injury is kissed.  It is usually cute and enjoyable to kiss his ouchie, but he often stubs his toe in our house, and then points to his foot and says, “Kiss it, Mommy.  Make it all better.”  While he is pouting.  I cannot deny that little pout, so I bend over, pick up his dirty, clammy little toe, and kiss it, while I say, “ALL BETTER!”  This routine happens on average about 10 times a day.  The usual kisses are given on his foot, his elbow, and his head.

This morning, however, the ouchie was in a new place.  He bit his tongue.  And he must have bit it hard, because he was crying pretty bad.  While crying, with his tongue out, he desperately gasped “Kiss it Mommy!”  But it sounded more like “Tith thit Thommthy!”, since he had his tongue out and all.  So here I am, with a hysterical child, requiring a disgusting French, more like, German or Scandinavian kiss from his own Mother, because I accidentally trained him to need this.  So, with my Husband standing nearby, laughing, I winced and went ahead and kissed his tongue.  He immediately smiled through his tears and said, “Thanks, Mommy.  I’m all better.”  To be honest, seeing his relief was so satisfying, I would do it again.  Even if we were in public, I probably would do it again.  Which would probably be reasonably acceptable  here, and is most likely a common occurrence round these parts, since we live in Cowtown.  But I informed my son that I draw the line at butt holes and penises.  If he has a butt hole or penis injury, I am not doing it.  I would never.  He will just have to tough those ouchies out on his own.  But I can almost guarantee that he will injure his butthole or penis soon, and ask me to kiss it.  I will do a lot for the sake of Motherhood, but I draw the line at incestual activities.

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