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NFL Addict

Do you know what my favorite part of January is?!!!

My two fulfilled weeks of New Years Resolutions-NO

Tax refund time?-NO, but that is a wonderful thought.

My daughter’s birthday-NO, A close second for sure though.

Nearing the end of football season? Yes, thank fucking god, yes.

I didn’t mind football in the beginning before I met my husband. I even dabbled in it a few times (bought some pink jerseys, thoroughly enjoyed pre-game tailgate events and participated in discussions about which NFL players had a better looking ass in their spandex.

Now that’s what I am talking about!

Now, I hate it, it has ruined my life. Why you ask? Because I married a NFL-A-Holic.

So for me, January marks the end of football season. It means my husband is finally right around the bend to living a sober, healthy spring and summer. It also means I can finally start to hang pictures up in my new house, have my lawn mowed AND drag my husband along to dreaded weekend errands like grocery shopping. Ahhh the thought brings a tear to my eye.

When I first met my husband, I thought I could change this little habit. Don’t get me wrong, we have made some great progress. I have successfully eliminated the tantrums, one of which ended in a beer being thrown into a wall. I have also ended the excessive crying at the end of each loss, but people, I am no where near the point of ending the addiction entirely. Good thing for me, I am also not alone. There are millions of lonely girls out there who live with these kinds of addicts. To us, “Sunday-Funday” does not exist. Our Sundays are more like “Aw, fuck it’s Sunday”.

For those of you reading this blog wondering, “Could my significant other be a NFL-A-Holic, continue to read, we will find out together.

If you are a NFL-A-Holic, stop reading and get some goddamn help. For Christ sake you people need some serious medication.

Let’s explore the phases of a NFL-A-Holic…

Preseason (gateway behaviors)

The Real Fantasy

Ah, preseason. Perhaps one of the most crucial points in stopping a NFL-AHolic. These preseason behaviors start early in June/July with…I can’t even write it….

THE FANTASY FOOTBALL EXCEL SPREADSHEET.

The spreadsheet is a complied, complicated list of NFL players your addict will be drafting for his fantasy football team.

Ask yourselves these questions:

1. Does he spend hours watching NFL preseason highlights?

2. Would he rather watch men in tights 3x days a week than you in tights?

3. Does he have “Spreadsheet Orgies” with his friends? (discusses his picks for hours)

Yes?! Read on…

Be prepared. The fantasy draft excel spreadsheet will become the mistress in your relationship. In my life, my husband is always with the spreadsheet, rushing home to see it, edit it…to get his fix. If he goes more than 3 days without opening it on the computer, he sweats, gets shakes and becomes intolerable.

During this time, I usually say things to press his buttons:

Me: (sexy voice) Hun, would you mind taking a look at MY spreadsheet? I might be your MVP! (wink, wink)

Him: (doesn’t look up from the computer) Sure, when I am done, ill take a look.

Me: (Now in a very angry voice) You know what, you don’t need that stupid spreadsheet. I’ll just tell you what happens this season. Let’s see…You will loose your fantasy league, which is a total waste of money AND The Redskins will not win, disappointment just like every year….(PAUSE)….AND……RG3 Sucks!

Him: UHHHHH, How could you say such a terrible thing like that? I thought we were in this together…Hail To The Redskins…Remember?

Then comes…THE ACTUAL DRAFT (usually 1-2 months after spreadsheets are finalized). The draft IS a binge to an addict.

NO, NOT THE DRAFT. ANYTHING BUT THE DRAFT!

Take it from me, the actual draft is one of the worst experiences I have ever witnessed.

One time, I decided to sit with him during a draft to fully comprehend the addiction, you know, like try it out and see what all the fuss is about, but honestly, I’d rather give birth to an 80lb baby without medication than to ever do that again!

Call me mama, kid. I’m never sitting through another draft again.

Let me just give you a visual; the draft takes 3-4 hours in total. Each person tells the other which overpaid athlete they want on their team. Easy right? No, these idiots change there minds 50 times and take forever to make a god damn pick like their entire existence depended on. The only thing I thought was, “Seriously? After all the hours you spent with that damn excel spreadsheet why wouldn’t you have some type of “Plan B”.

And then the personality changes begin… You know how men claim they don’t like talking on the phone…WRONG. The addiction turns them into little gossiping housewives.

I received this text from my cousin one football night…”Ryan, John was on his phone for three hours discussing NFL. Some stuff about Brady’s numbers? and Peyton throwing across his body?- I dunno weird stuff-but anyway, the phone conversation ended, not because he was finished talking but because his phone died”. I told her this was getting serious.

I don’t know one talkative girl that can have that kind of stamina. I’m telling you, The NFL changes the addict’s normal personality structure.

Regular Season (Full Fledged Addiction)

Regular season, the worst. This is full-on addiction at its finest. Nothing gets done, the entire day is planned AROUND 1pm, 4pm or 8pm.

They even start making excuses, like, “I gotta run to the bathroom” or “I gotta go get my wallet from my car” But once you have lived with an addict, you know what they are really doing. I followed my addict one day and found out he was secretly logging on to YahooFantasy Sports “Changing His Picks”.

Eventually it gets so bad that my addict doesn’t even get dressed on Sundays. Iv’e taken picture evidence for you all to see…

9am on Sunday…

And…8pm that night

Sundays are filled with lots of cursing, yelling and of course tantrums. The tantrums are worse than my 3 years old, I finally know where she gets it from. I am a bit nervous as well because I am starting to believe that this behavior is making a lasting impression. Do you know any 3 year olds that have NEVER heard of Cinderella but can tell you RG3’s best vertical jump?

Monkey See…Monkey Do

ABC, CBS and Fox- YOU are all homewreckers!

I don’t even have a decent sex life in-season.

No, I don’t keep any kind of sex calendar, my dog documents that for me.

Quick side explanation….

You see about two years back, my addict received a Redskins blanket (like the man needs any reminders of his habit) and it slowly became Joba’s (my dog) blanket. In Joba’s mind, him and I are in a relationship (See: I am a cheater). To him, I am his girlfriend who is unhappily married to “Master” (Boy Ryan). Everytime Boy Ryan and I have sex, Joba chews on his blanket. I assume he thinks Boy Ryan is violating me and because Joba feels he is helpless against Master and can’t come to my rescue. So, he chews and takes out his frustrations on his blanket. Thus, creating the nickname, Joba’s Sex Blanket.

HOLEY-MOLEY

You see that hole in the top right? Yea, summer of 2012., aka Summer of Love.

The blanket is now missing a few months of holes, because from Sept-Jan, I am pretty much celibate (unless the Redskins get a great win, but we all know that’s a rare occurrence). In-Season, our nights are filled with Pre-game highlights and post-game reviews and I sit, waiting patiently, while my Sex drive screams, “NO! PLEASE NOT ANOTHER NIGHT OF FOOTBALL.”

How I can’t wait until February 4^th; I am truly looking forward to having Joba continue his nibbling rituals. I have no doubt that the return of my sex life will be well documented-thanks to Joba.

Post Season (Postpartum)

Post season for a NFL-a-holic is like postpartum for a new mother. These are the happiest times for me, but devastating for the addict. It’s a time for self reflect, especially if his fantasy team didn’t make the top three. Sometimes there is a remorseful period. He starts to apologize for his lude comments and outbursts while taking NFL. It can get very emotional in our house, but remains quiet, peaceful and productive. The withdrawal symptoms can be devastating and at times- scary. Sometimes, I notice a heightened interest in the NBA Fantasy Teams, but it usually doesn’t last long. It’s usually just turns out to be a temporary void that needs to be filled after Football Season is over. Phewww…

I have my sweetheart back but it never last long because he always re-lapses in June. The relapse is inevitable. It’s about as reliable as an obese person going through the drive thru at McDonald’s; you just know it’s bound to happen.

Being with an NFL addict is not an easy thing, but remember that Post season is right around the corner. WE are Almost There! Hang on to any braincells you still have left!

So with that, January, I welcome you with open arms and February 4^th, you can’t get here soon enough.

And Finally, my parting words to the NFL…

All I have to say to you is: GFY, HTTR (Go Fuck yourself “Hail To The Redskins”)

On a Positive Note…

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/07/11/daily-prompt-sports/

Tags: ABC, American, Blog, CBS, Football, FOX, Funny, Girl, Gossip, health, Humor, I hate Football, Joba, Laugh, Life, Love, NFL, Personal, RG3, Ryan, Season, Sex Life, Silly, Spandex, Sports, Thoughts, Women

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Author rynolexson

Who Is That Boy Ryan?

28 Dec

The man behind the crazy lady.

As I was watching Batman, The Dark Knight Rises the other night, I had an epiphany. Being married is like knowing who Bruce Wayne really is. All the citizens of Gotham think Bruce Wayne is just some hot billionaire but little do they know he enjoys dressing in tights, wearing a cape and hanging out with wack-jobs in his free time.

Before you get married, you have this glorified vision of what being married is like. Your positive you know who you are married to and will never be surprised by them. But when you get hitched, they surprise the shit out of you! Sometimes in a good way, and sometimes in ways that make your mouth drop. Therefore, in part two of this blog I want my readers to learn about Boy Ryan and to do this, I think its best to share the things I have learned about Boy Ryan since being married to him.

Now, before I embarrass the shit out of him and reveal the things that he told me strictly not to talk about, let me tell you the stuff he would want to me to say about him.

Boy Ryan is from Virginia, grew up in a decently well off family with good morals and values. He had a typical catholic upbringing, was a super-star jock and is ridiculously good looking. He is a sensitive, quiet guy that is incredibly intelligent. He is very traditional, but bends over backwards for Addison and I. Boy Ryan is very private about his life, let me repeat that, he is VERY private about his life, feelings and accomplishments which makes him a humble person. He is exactly what we would call, an All-American Boy.

So, WHO IS THAT BOY RYAN-REALLY?

A Hypocrite Germ-A-Phobe . BRyan is a self proclaimed germ-a-phobe. He constantly overcooks his meat (for fear of food poisoning) will not touch the dogs without washing his hands (because dogs are dirty) and is a “clean-car” Nazi (if you leave a gum wrapper in his car, you will hear about it). However, Boy Ryan missed in important lesson in being a germ-a-phobe; your personal hygiene must be part of your rituals. It was about a year into our marriage I started to notice that he would wear the same pair of underwear 2-4 days in a row. Now, I assume he was trying to save me some extra loads of laundry (very sweet) but because I sleep in the same bed as him, I found this a bit disgusting. I explained to him that you can’t be a germ-a-phobe and re-wear your underwear. It completely contradicts the point and he must pick one personality; Anti-Germ Gerry or Dirty Boy Bob.

A-Don’t Rush Me-Pooper. Boy Ryan is a shitter (excuse my blunt statement). When he has to go, he HAS to go. Just to put this in perspective, at one point during our relationship, I caught him shitting in the backyard (all the bathrooms in the house were occupied). Have you ever looked out of your window to find your boyfriend crouched like a dog doing his business in someone else’s backyard? I’m guessing no. But the important lesson that I learned is from the “Dinner Party Incident”. Ryan of course, decides he has to go to the bathroom, promising that he will be quick. I waited patiently for 2 minutes and knocked on the door to tell him to hurry up. The next thing I know I hear a loud bang and open the door to find him, pants around the ankles, passed out on the bathroom floor. I panicked and woke him up to tell him I was going to call 911. I even offered to wipe his ass before the ambulance came. (sometimes you say things in the moment). He said he was ok and that it was unnecessary to call the ambulance, this sort of thing happens all the time.

Elvis Says, “Only Fools Rush In”

Now, I’m sure if Elvis Presley were present at that moment, he would of disagreed. After all, the man died on the toilet, but I still thought it was important that he should go to the ER. Till this day I feel responsible for rushing him but it was a lesson learned; Never Rush a Shitter or you might be offering to wipe their ass.

A Man Who Fears Balding. There comes a time in every male’s life in which they must face the truth that their hair is diminishing. I think it’s an anxiety similar to women’s fear of getting fat. Ryan has started to realize this and has dealt with the issue head-on. He has started to purchase mass amounts of hair spray so he can “style” his bald spot. He is very particular about his hair and won’t let me within 2 inches of his head (god forbid I mess it up). He even hides his hairspray bottles and goes into a different bathroom to style it, as if he is trying to hide the fact he is going bald. I try and suggest things like buying Rogaine or getting hair plugs, but he gets defensive and says, “O, so you DO think I am going bald?”. I assume this is how guys feel when girls pull out the “I am so fat” card. I feel your pain boys, I get it now. The best advice I can give him now came from a shirt, “Keep Calm and Bald On”.

A Man With A Secret Alter-Ego. My husband has an alter ego when he hangs out with Jack Daniels. When he drinks with Jim Beam or Johnny Walker, it’s fine, but Jack is the worst. Let me explain a little further; he always takes off his shirt, pees on everything and has even spent an entire concert in “concert jail”. But the best example of Boy Ryan’s alter ego was the night after our rehearsal dinner. There had been quite a party with all of our friends and when we had gotten home, Boy Ryan realized he had forgotten the keys to our apartment. My friend and I suggested calling the cab and getting a ride back to my parents place to spend the night, but Boy Ryan’s alter ego

A picture of the
Alter-Ego

insisted he would find a way in because after all, he starts to believe, “He is the Most Interesting Man in the World”. I waited by the door hoping that he would realize there was no way into the apartment but was shocked to see him open the front door smiling (that “I am so smart” smile). That night I went right to sleep and didn’t think anything of it. I woke up the next morning to two people chatting, LOUDLY, outside:

Nosy person #1: “Wow, we should call the cops. It looks like someone broke into this apartment!”

Nosy person #2: “Yea, let’s go call, I’m sure the tenants would be happy that someone called the cops for them.”

It suddenly hit me, Boy Ryan’s alter ego had busted the window to break in and unlock the door to our apartment.

I won’t even go into the explanation I had to give to get us out of that one.

The Worst at Hiding Secrets. Men need to learn that Women are smart. Men can’t hide anything and get away with it. We notice everything, I mean everything especially if you have a shared bank account. So when our 2 year anniversary came around, I looked on our bank statement (to snoop) and found a purchase for a jewelry store on our card. I got so excited and went out to buy Boy Ryan an equally nice anniversary gift. He had mentioned that weekend he was taking me on a “surprise”. We found ourselves at a cute little Bed and Breakfast for the weekend. All weekend he had planned activites and dinners for us to celebrate our anniversary, but never gave me my anniversary present. So on our drive home, after I had given him his gift, I found myself disappointed that he hadn’t given me the jewelry (what was he waiting for?!). My mind starting to go to crazy places and I was reminded of the many Lifetime Movies I had watched that month. I know what it means when a man buys jewelry but doesn’t give it to you. He must be giving it to SOMEONE ELSE! Then I thought a little deeper…How could he possibly have a girlfriend? How would he have time? With his clothing choice…who would want to date him?! How dare he!

I sat the whole ride home in silence and got angrier as the hours passed.

Boy Ryan: “Are you ok? You seem a little mad?”

Me: “No, not me. I’m not mad, what COULD I POSSBILY BE MAD ABOUT?!”

Boy Ryan: “Wow, ok? You must be hungry then. I’ll stop for food.”

Me: “No, but I do want to know who SHE IS!”

Boy Ryan: “Who’s who? She? Whose she?”

Me: “You bought HER jewelry, I saw on OUR bank statement.”

Boy Ryan: “O, About that…yea. Um, I lost my wedding ring last weekend and I didn’t want to make you mad so I bought the same exact wedding ring from the same exact store. I thought you wouldn’t notice…I guess I should of mentioned something…”

Yes, correct Boy Ryan you should have mentioned something. Guys, if you buy jewelry and don’t give it to your girlfriends, our minds do go to these thoughts, we are all products of Lifetime Movies.

A Brand-Name Virgin. One of my fantasies about being married used to be that I could shop for my husband and dress him in nice clothes, but unfortunately I married Boy Ryan. Boy Ryan is what I consider a, “Never Grow Up Dresser”. He constantly wants to wear sport-team shirts, ripped

No, Means No!

shirts and high-water jeans. He also refuses to wear certain brands. Some to name are; Express Men, H&M and (my personal favorite) Calvin Klein. These brands to him are “Gay” and “Fruity”. Now, let me explain what I have to go through to get away with buying him clothes from the stores listed above: I have to strategically get rid of the bags/tags or any evidence related to the brand name. Sometimes if I am lucky, he will accept the outfit and not look too hard at the shirt tag to see where it’s from. If he does notice where it came from, I have to tell him that it was on clearance and I couldn’t pass up the sale price and then he MIGHT accept the brand.

The shit I go through to make sure that husband looks hot…poor me.

There. Now that you all know about Boy Ryan, you can decide for yourself what you think of him.

If he reads this and decides to file for divorce, then I guess that shall be my next topic.

Tags: Blog, calvin klein, clothes, elvis presley, express, Funny, Girl, Gossip, H&M, health, Humor, Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Johnny Walker, Laughs, Love, Marriage, Personal, Relationships, Ryan, Status, Thoughts

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Author rynolexson

Knocked Up…Ryan Style

20 Dec

My co-worker/Publicist has brought to my attention that my readers don’t know the story behind That Girl Ryan. So I thought I would take the time and dive a little into my story…with a humorous touch of course because you just can’t take all this shit too seriously. Perhaps this will give you a better idea of why I write the nonsense that I write.

It also occurred to me that I haven’t really gone, in-depth about my husband, Boy Ryan (don’t worry, he’s well aware that his blog debut is drawing near). So I decided to make this a two-part blog, the first being a little background about me and part two about, That Boy Ryan.

We can go into an in-depth analysis on boy Ryan later…moving on…. Boy Ryan and I started hanging out-at first- on the weekends; mainly partaking in one of our favorite activities- college binge drinking (which, I’m not so sure we really gave up). Now, not to spoil too much about part two, one thing you have to understand about Boy Ryan is that he is a man of little, outward emotion. He does not openly express himself like normal human beings. This is probably why I was attracted to him the first place. He was like a pet project; it’s always a mystery to find out what the man is thinking. As you can imagine this relationship did not begin in a normal fashion.

I know, we look so normal.

Now as us gals know, we over-analyze everything with men. So working with little hints here and there, I started to notice that Boy Ryan was into me for more than just my impressive keg-stand record.

Like this one time we were at a party (we had no idea whose party, we just saw a party and walked in) and I of course, cut the line in beer pong. I strategically scratched out the next contender’s name on the list and inserted my own. The next contender was not enthused when she saw this. She asked her boyfriend to explain to me how a beer pong line list works. Well, the boyfriend decided to use the word SLUT to refer to me, more than a few times. I just starred blankly at him thinking quickly for a come back. But Boy Ryan stepped in before I had the chance to embarrass myself. Being the southern gentleman that he is, asked me to kindly go downstairs for a moment. I walked out of the room and went downstairs to wait for him. The next thing I know, Boy Ryan comes barreling down the stairs, his shirt ripped in half and behind him, a mob of Perry, boat shoe-frat boys. As we ran out of the house, Ryan grabbed my hand and it dawned on me that whatever happened up in that room was done to defend my honor. Even though I DID indeed cut the line, he still defended me. This little gesture continued throughout our relationship and I still, to this day think it’s adorable even if it is a tad violent.

OR another example…

One time I went to his house for a party and regrettably drank 2 cups of lethal “JMU Jungle Juice”. If you attended JMU and know about the jungle juice its probably because you encountered it at a baseball party. But like any good drinker, we always blame it on the juice. Well it was a long night, or short night, whichever perspective you choose to take, but basically it was all a blur to me. I woke up in Boy Ryan’s bed and realized I had peed his bed. No, I’m not kidding I peed the kid’s bed. I was more than mortified and quickly left his house not expecting any kind of communication to continue between us from that point on. But, can you believe that crazy idiot called me the next day? Now if someone peed my bed after only 4-5 weeks of hanging out, I would have never called them again, maybe only to ask for money to buy a new mattress. To this day I can’t comprehend why he called, maybe he just really liked the fact that my name was Ryan, or maybe he thought I was marking my territory and was flattered by that gesture.

We have had romantic moments (the kind that Hollywood defines as romantic), but for some reason, out of all the dates, flowers and jewelry, these moments are the ones that I always remember and love the best.

Fast forward about 11 months later and WAM, we found out I was pregnant. Now this is always the part that people ask me that stupid question, O-M-G, how did that happen? And I always answer…“Well I think it happened with little Birds and Bees and a wild Cinco-De-Mayo that year”.

We created a monster.

A gorgeous one at that!

When we found this out, I was miserable, embarrassed and just down right disappointed. Not only did this little Oopsy not fit into my five year plan, but I was still in college and I had to quit track. There is nothing more awkward than telling your track coach that you got knocked up and can’t compete anymore. “Coach, I wont be coming back to track this year. I sort of have this-let’s call it a disease, that requires me to get fat, crave ridiculous things like pickles and mayo and eventually push out a live human being out of small hole. SO…The whole track thing-yea I just don’t think its going to work out this year. Go Dukes!!”

I’m making a come back when I turn 40.

The only thing that got me through this tough time was the award winning show, 16 and pregnant. Watching that train wreck made me feel better about myself. As I watched faithfully every week, I found that things could be a lot worse. My personal favorite life lesson came from Amber. Amber taught me that beating up your baby-daddy is NOT a good idea. Thank you MTV for that televised inspiration.

During this time I also reflected on why I was so embarrassed to be in this situation. I always wanted to be popular and liked by everyone. I wanted my story to be a successful one, the golden, all American girl themed story, similar to Carrie from Sex in the City. I wanted to be that girl at the party that was just enough fun but never over the top (however, coming from a family with a long history of alcoholism, just enough is really never enough, so that plan went to shit.)

My life took an unconventional path and going through this event, I soon realized that I’m more comfortable with being a tad different than I am with being normal. Like for instance, I had always imagined when it was time for my marriage proposal, it would be this magical thing. Fireworks would sparkle and these guys with guitars would sing and I would look so beautiful because I would have a killer outfit on that night. But remember, I married Boy Ryan and my proposal was anything BUT.

Boy Ryan is the worst at planning things out-Like throws a party and doesn’t remember to pick up the beer-worst. For my proposal, he took me out to go geo-caching. Geo-caching is like a scavenger hunts for adults but way, way nerdy-er. I was about 5 months pregnant at the time and he thought it would be such a great idea to hike up a hilly trail to get to the right spot. Well, after 45 minutes of hiking and a nasty case of swamp ass, we were at the “perfect” spot. He pulled out his GPS Geo-caching app on his phone and told me to follow him down a rocky ledge. This ledge was covered in rocks, steep and slippery. It lead right to the edge of a waterfall-Again, not a good idea to make the woman carrying your child to climb down a ledge.

Actually, thinking about it now, he may have been trying to kill me and thought “if this pregnant girl makes it down this ledge, I’ll propose to her” Well, lucky man that he is, I made it down the hill with my fat self and there he was kneeling, face red and grinning from ear to ear. At that moment, all my fantasies of being proposed to with fireworks and guys with guitars seemed so…blah. This proposal was not the picture I had created in my mind. But you know what, it was so Boy Ryan to do something like that. He wouldn’t think ahead of time that pregnant women couldn’t hike up hills or climb down steep ledges. He wouldn’t think to make sure I wore proper shoes or dressed in pants that wouldn’t show my sweaty ass marks. The whole thing was so funny and backwards that it will always be memorable.

This whole backwards thing has been a hell of a fun ride and I have no idea where it will take us. From this epiphany, I’ve unlocked a great secret that perfection is boring. Because nobody is perfect. If you watch enough 20/20 episodes, you’ll see relationships are not always what they seem.

Such an awkward photo, I had to share it. Of course Boy Ryan looks out of his ring like it’s a telescope.

So with that being said, I write what others are too afraid to admit. I also write because my therapist thinks it’s the best thing for my Adult ADD. But now that you know a little about me, you might understand the perspective I choose to take.

I strongly suggest you stay tuned for part 2 because I am going to have a blast telling you about my husband.

WHO IS THAT BOY RYAN…coming soon.

Tags: 16 and Pregnant, American, Blog, Funny, Girl, Gossip, health, Knocked up, Laugh, Life, Live, Love, Old Parents, Personal, Popular, Ryan, Sex, Sex and the City, Status, Story, The Knot, Thoughts, Wedding

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Author rynolexson

WAPP

11 Dec

For some reason this topic has come up in conversation over the past two weeks. I feel that this is a sign from the universe. I can no longer avoid the topic, It’s time we addressed this.

Pooping in Public or PIP is a serious phobia that strikes a lot of women, enough women that we could form a group called WAPP (Women Against Pooping in Public). If you feel this way, YOU are not alone; there are a lot of women out there who fear PIPing.

Now you would think this phobia would strike men as well due to their public bathroom set-up. They have urinals AND they have stalls. We all know which activity is used for each. Basically, when your in a urinal everyone sees what your doing. And when your in a stall, everyone knows what your doing. It’s like a public shame room, how do men live under this kind of pressure?

Apparently, according to men (well really my husband who might as well represent all men), this public knowledge doesn’t seem to bother them. I’ve even heard a rumor that men TALK to each other while they are in the stalls, even at work! I just couldn’t imagine speaking to a co-worker while I’m PIPing.

“So Sally, how bout that meeting today…pretty intense huh. PLOP

“I know, do you think they are going to fire Jeff?” PLOP

“So, great day were having, huh”
“hmmm, you can say that again. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name..”

WTF? How fucking weird is that? I mean I talk about not shaving my legs and Dutch ovens, but hey, I still got a bit of decency compared to that.

So I decided to explore this potty situation a little deeper. Why do women have a fear of shitting in public? Is it the thinness of the stalls? Is it the fact that other people know your shitting? After speaking with some friends and family, I have complied a few scenario’s of how this phobia affects the “ bathroom situation”.

Scenario #1: You thought you were alone in the bathroom and let your guard down. Unexpectedly a Poop Intruder walks in and the loud “PLOP” is now unavoidable. The gig is up…. What do you do?

A. You remembered that you packed your “poop flats”. These flats are designed to hide your identity while you are in the bathroom. IF the intruder that walked is someone you know, they will not be able to identify you by your shoes.

B. You forgot your poop flats because you never thought of packing poop flats (brilliant). So now you quickly pull your feet up on the wall of the stall and wait until they enter their stall before you exit yours. You avoid being recognized at all angles.

Scenario #2: You are in the bathroom and just about to PIP and an intruder walks in. The intruder enters the stall and sits quietly. You soon realize that this is a stand-off situation. Your not leaving because you’re waiting for the intruder to leave and vice versa…what do you do?

A. You remember that thing in history about Attrition warfare… Attrition warfare is a military strategy in which a belligerent side attempts to win a war by wearing down its enemy to the point of collapse. You decide that today you will engage in battle and stick it out for the long haul. Wait until the opponent realizes that she doesn’t have the luxury of time and decides to stand down. Win for you, Loss for intruder.

B. You realize you have a time limit and there will be no battle for you today. So now you decide to pull out a Flanking Maneuver. Flanking Maneuver is an attack on the sides of an opposing force. If a flanking maneuver succeeds, the opposing force would be surrounded from two or more directions, which significantly reduces the maneuverability of the outflanked force and its ability to defend itself.

Your Flanking Maneuver… flush the toilet excessively until you are…finished. This accomplishes a few things; the smell, the noise and distracts the intruder from realizing what you are actually doing. When you exit the stall, you exit in a timely manner. Because after all, you have accepted the fact that the other person has won the stand-off battle to begin with. It’s just common courtesy.

Welcome to the Jungle

Scenario #3: You’re at a friend’s house and the feeling hits. You can’t hold out till you get home, so you have to make a quick decision…what do you do?

A. You wait until the last possible minute, and by that I mean until a turtle appears, and quickly excuse yourself to go the bathroom. You do your business and flush in a record time of 2 min. 45 sec.

You have accomplished two things; you haven’t exceeded the time allotted for peeing, and you haven’t stunk up the bathroom enough to require any use of Lysol or Febreze. Situation avoided. Success.

B. There is no other option. You must revert back to option A and make it work. If you took your time like you do at home, someone might send a search party to “check on you” and you know that kind of embarrassment is worth the wait.

I’m sick of having to deal with these scenarios. The nonsense we go through. There should be changes being made for all women across the world to combat this anxiety. We need to ban together and make some demands…For instance:

All bathroom stalls must be the size of handicapped bathrooms. These sized stalls are much more comfortable for PIPing. They provide ample leg room, a place to hang your purse and a sturdy hand rail (in case one may need that extra support)
Eliminate all automatic flushing toilets; because I will flush when I am ready.
Soft toilet towels. Preferably the brand with the cuddly Snuggle bear on it.
The latest copy of People Magazine
Automatic toilet seat covers, because hovering over the seat is just not ideal in a PIP situation.

We will call these demands, the PIP Amendments for WAPP

We should all start to strive to be THOSE women who “go to town” in public bathrooms, they don’t care who knows it! Well power to you sisters, I hope we can all learn a thing or two about your courage.

But until that day, for those of us who hide behind our Poop Flats, flanking maneuvers and quick-minute-shits…Hang in there and PIP ON!

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/04/09/daily-prompt-do-over/

Tags: Blog, Funny, Girl, Gossip, health, Humor, Life, Love, Personal, Poop, Ryan, Status, The Knot, Thoughts, Women

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Author rynolexson

# Massage Problems

27 Nov

We as women pay people to do odd things. We pay someone to clean our feet and wax the hair out of our “hoo-hass”. It’s fucking bizarre, but yet so normal.

So when I went for a massage last week, I realized how stressful pampering yourself can really be.

Let me elaborate.

Last week, I arrive at the spa, late and am rushed into the “Relaxation Zone”. I look up to find a strapping young male; tall and tan with a defined jaw line. If you took off his dread locks, he would look like a young version of Fabio.

“Welcome to Renewed Spa, My name is _____ (I ignored his real name and put in my own, “Young Fabio”). I will be your massues for the evening. Please get comfortable and I will be back in a few minutes. “

“ Comfortable” -What the heck does that mean? I assume it means to get undressed but undress what? My bra? My pants? Bra, but no pants? Underwear and no shirt? The combinations are endless but all he said was, “Get comfortable”.

A girl needs a little direction, at least at the Gynecologist the nurse says straight out,

“Everything off except your bra. Gown open in the front. Feet in stirrups and the doctor will be in shortly.”

Ok, now were talking. There is no room for any surprises. When the doctor walks in, I know and she knows that my Pikachu is up and visible on the table for a proper examination.

At this point my mind runs wild…what if I get completely undressed and young Fabio is surprised? What if I leave my bra on and he awkwardly tells me to take it off…nevertheless I had to ask.

“So, I can’t remember how this works…do I get undressed totally or just…like a little?”

“Ummm…” Young Fabio’s face turns red…”Everything except your underwear”

He quickly leaves the room and I rush like a maniac to strip down; god forbid Young Fabio walked in on me as I was undressing. As soon as I am down to my underwear, I jump on to the massage table and start to think…if Boy Ryan and I don’t work out, my next boyfriend will be a massage therapist. Yes, great idea, I would go on Match.com.

My posting would read something like,

Tall, Knotted blonde looking for a man good with his hands. MUST have massage certification with specialized focuses on the neck and lower back. Must bring prior girlfriend references upon first date.

I get interrupted…Knock, Knock. Young Fabio walks back into the room.

“Ok Ryan, just relax and enjoy”. He fumbles with his Ipod and a song that could be found on the “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” soundtrack starts to play. “How does that feel?”

“O, great” I feel the need to make a joke, “I am drooling on the floor, it’s a great massage”

“ O…uh…no problem, I’ll get the cleaning lady to wipe it up”

No, I was totally joking Fabio. Idiot.

As the massage continues, I begin to realize that my body is relaxing on its own. Now when the body relaxes, certain muscles, begin to relax too. When I say certain muscles I mean the sphincter.

Yes, 20 minutes into the massage, the farting began….

I clenched as hard as possible to keep from releasing any sound. Holding my breath and clenching my toes, Young Fabio starts to feel the tension rising in my body…

“Ryan, just take a deep breath in and relax, you keep getting all tight!”

O, geez that’s because I am farting! I can’t let you hear me fart, girls don’t fart. I can’t be that girl that spoils it for the rest of the female race. They would be talking about me for centuries, “That Girl Ryan, the girl who let the secret out-literally-that girls DO indeed fart”

As the gas begins to subside, I am relieved for a moment to know that there is a blanket blocking Fabio from finding out what is really causing my “Tension”. But just when I thought I was safe from being found out, Fabio lifts the blanket to move my arm and I can feel him back away and let out a little cough.

Great, I thought to myself, I just dutched oven-ed my massuse.

10 minutes later…

Young Fabio starts to work lower on my back and I can feel the tip of my underwear sticking out. I suddenly remember that I wore my BTD panties- aka Bottom of the Drawer panties.

(Don’t judge, all of you have BTD panties)

It’s that underwear that your grandma gave you because she thought a thong was for cleaning in between your cheeks. Or those panties that you wear on a first date because your will power to stay at 1^st base is more powerful than letting the guy see what kind of underwear you have on.

Don’t Lie, you know you got em.

Let me paint a picture of my BTD panties; Red and covered with happy, fat penguins dressed in Christmas outfits. They sound cute until you see that they don’t quite fit the full top of my ass. My crack is slightly exposed as if it were saying to the audience behind me, “Hey there, nice day out today, eh?”

15 minutes later…

As Fabio moves his way down from my back to my calves, I start to feel my face get flushed with embarrassment. Shit, I didn’t shave my legs

Listen, in my life, I suspend shaving my legs from November-March. I am a married gal and my husband doesn’t seem to notice when my legs feel like a Sasquatch’s back.

Sasquatch Sighting?
Nope, just Ryan in the month of November.

Maybe, I can make a joke to ease the hairy leg situation…

Yea, I know my legs feel like an ape, but it is November. So instead of growing out my mustchase this year to show my support for Movember; I decided to grow out the hair on my legs.

Hey, I’m French.

But instead, I keep quiet and let my mind continue to fret about the hair on my legs. I just thank god he isn’t massaging my armpits…there would be no reasonable explanation for that forest.

After 50 minutes, my massage is over. I breathe a sigh of relief as Young Fabio exits the room. It suddenly hits me why I don’t get massages; they are just way too much work.

I run to exit the spa and drop off a large tip for Young Fabio; there just isn’t an appropriate monetary compensation for what this poor boy just went through.

UH…I got first world problems…#MassageProblems.

Tags: Blog, Gossip, health, Life, Personal, Thoughts