Still as true today as it was 7 years ago.
Originally posted on A Surly Girl's Guide to Life:
It’s been a year now since Parrish passed away and those who knew and loved her experience their grief in unique ways. While I frequently go to pick up the phone and call her to get her take on the latest installment in our family saga only to realize she’s now got the divine 3rd person perspective; it is really when I log into Facebook and see the box entitled “People You May Know” that I truly miss her the most. Because, the problem is, that while I may know these people, I don’t have a clue who they are, and my one resource for this information, Parrish, forgot to leave me CliffsNotes.
It’s not that I don’t remember anyone or anything from high school. The problem is that I remember my fabulous 80’s wardrobe better than I remember the names and faces of my classmates. I remember old boyfriends…
View original 627 more words
Since my coach took away the option to listen to music while we train for our Ironman, I’m stuck spending a lot of time alone with my own thoughts. As y’all can imagine, that’s a bad idea. I spend a lot of time thinking about all kinds of shit that would be better left buried in the relatively shallow depths of my psyche. Contrary to popular belief, I ain’t all that deep.
The last few weeks I’ve been obsessed with another girl on my team, Sara. She’s this nice, pretty girl that is always just ahead of me on every run work out we do. I literally chase her around Los Angeles on the weekends. Usually just as I almost catch up to her she jackrabbits off ahead of me. She’s the Road Runner to my Wile E. Coyote.
During our 14 mile run last weekend I decided that if they were to make a documentary of my quest to complete an Ironman, the working title would be “Chasing Sara… a Middle Aged Woman’s Quest to Catch Up With a Perky 20-Something Blonde With a Perfect Ass.”
During this week’s run, after cursing her with “Damn you Sara!” each time she passed me on the run course, I started doing a little mental compare and contrast activity to keep myself busy. I compared Sara’s inherent qualities to mine. Here’s a basic breakdown so you understand better my obsession with Sara.
Sara for her part is tolerant of my obsession in that way that all well-raised young people are tolerant of the elderly. She’s too well mannered to say “Surly, you’re one weird ass old woman. Leave me the fuck alone.” Which really, is what she should say. It’s true, I am. And I should. Only chasing Sara, and the fleeting hope that I might actually catch her, is what distracts me from the aches in my legs, stiffness in my shoulders, and the seemingly never ending stretch of asphalt under my shoes.
One thing that Sara and I do have in common, other than thinking I’m a freak, is that we’re members of the Dead Relatives Club. We’ve both lost people important to us to cancer. Doing something to help find a cure binds us, although if she didn’t know me from this experience, odds are her gut instincts would warn her to cross the street if she saw me approaching – and, again, she’d be right. I’m lucky she’s a good girl and a good sport, as chasing Sara is now an integral part of my making it to Cast Iron Bitch status.
So, you know, as I always say, I’m all about the live and let live. Judge not lest ye be judged, and all that shit. You know, unless you’re just begging for me to weigh in and judge you. Which, apparently, some of you are. Just when I thought I was gonna get a little time off too.
As we’ve established over the years, I’m usually on top of all the trends. In the know, as it were, on all the latest and greatest. It’s usually pretty hard for you all to slip one by me, but I’ll admit that this time, you blindsided me. Maybe it’s all this Ironman training I’ve been doing. I’ll admit, I’m tired and a little distracted. But still.
Last night I was laying in bed (never mind what I was wearing) and channel surfing when I landed on TLC‘s show Strange Sex. I like strange. I like sex. Seemed like a good call. I thought maybe I would be in for a little “Bronie” or foot fetish discussion. You know, strange, but in a colourful fun and yet expected way.
But alas, no. Instead I got something I had never heard of before. I know, shocking. It’s called Feederism. Basically it’s getting off by feeding another person. Now sure, I can hear you sayin’ “Well Surly, what’s wrong with that? I like to feed my man strawberries and whipped cream in bed. A little chocolate in the right place and, well you know…” Yeah, yeah. That’s not what we’re talking about. That’s fuckin’ amateur hour and as unusual as getting caught by your mother whacking off when you’re 13. No, this is on a whole other level. And fuck me, it ain’t sexy AT FUCKING ALL.
Basically this couple’s relationship consists of him feeding her copious quantities of food and then fondling her fat. Sure, nothing too weird there. I mean heck. Dave fondles my fat all the time. (Poor bastard doesn’t have any other choice if he wants to get any.) And more power to this guy for liking big women. Not a problem. Fat chicks deserve love and sex too. However, this couple goes, in the words of Madness, one step beyond. The goal for their relationship is that they want for her to become so fat, approx. 1000 lbs, that she is incapacitated and needs him to care for her completely. Sure, we’d all like to be waited on hand and foot. I’ve been trying to get Dave to do that for years. But tell me where the sexy is in having your partner clean the mold from between your rolls of fat? Come on, tell me where it is!
Like I said, I’m good with you getting your kink on. But can you do me a favour and leave the Big Mac’s out of it? I don’t like to think of what you might be doing with the fries.
PS. You owe me a huge thank you for not posting videos from YouTube of people being fed and having their fat fondled. You’d never eat ice cream again.
There comes a time in every relationship when you have to have THE TALK. That happened for Dave and I last night. There’s been something bubbling under the surface and I just needed to confront him about it. So I asked him point blank. “Have you looked at my anus lately? Do you feel like it’s the wrong colour? Are you ashamed that it’s not pink enough?” He gave me that look. You know the one. The one that says “My imaginary 22 year old mistress doesn’t ask me these kinds of things.” What he said was “You need to get off the internet.” And promptly went back to watching John Stewart. The poor bastard wants a way out but knows he’s trapped.
Ah. The utter shame and humiliation. It was hard enough to live with rosacea flareups and missing eyebrows. Those I can cover up. I put on makeup and have bangs. If you don’t look too closely you might confuse me with a 40 something whose body hasn’t turned on her. But a brown anus? That you can’t hide. Even if you’re not looking directly at my anus, you’ll suspect my secret shame.
Yet there is hope on the horizon. A cure. Apparently you can slap some Clorox* on your anus every night for a month and it will bleach away your shame. Afraid that like a bad home perm you’ll screw it up? Not to worry, you can go to the spa and request that they do it for you. That’s right. After you’ve asked the esthetician to wax your twat to resemble a 9 year old girl, just ask her spread your cheeks and bleach that brown right out of your ass. Sure. You might get burned. But what’s a few weeks of anal lesions in the pursuit of the perfect pink sphincter?
*If you’re enough of a fucktard to try this at my suggestion you’ll get exactly what you deserve.
Hope this letter finds you well and that I’m not too late in submitting my wish list for this holiday season. I know Christmas is only a few days away, but there are still a few shopping days left, and I’m really hoping that you and the Elves might be able to hook me up with a Vagi-Stool this holiday season.
I know, you’re probably wondering what the hell a Vagi-Stool is, and really, who could blame you. I didn’t know what one was until last week when I discovered that I’m way behind the times in terms of my feminine hygiene practices. Here I was thinking that if I washed and dried my twat on a regular basis we were good to go. Apparently, it seems, I’m supposed to be steam cleaning it on a regular basis. I checked the Bissell website and they don’t seem to have a vaginal steamer in their product line, which seems like a missed opportunity to me. So, since I can’t get one in the small appliance section of the Best Buy, it seems I have to improvise.
I’ve done some research into the subject and it seems that if I get one of these fancy stools and hunker down over a bowl of boiling water mixed with herbs I’ll be set to steam clean my lady bits in no time. Although, I’m a little confused about the herbs part. The stuff I read says I should be using basil, oregano, and rosemary. Which makes me think that afterwards my twat is going to smell like leftovers from an Italian meal. I talked to Dave about this as I wanted to get his take on what flavours he’d like my pussy to taste like – but he got a little weirded out when I suggested things like butterscotch pudding and peppermint candy. According to him “pussy should taste like pussy.” Who knows, he may come around after trying the recommended lasagna flavoring.
I understand if this letter arrives too late and you’ve already picked out a monogrammed enema kit or a bunch of cute Vajazzling designs for me for this year. Really, I totally get it. Maybe Dave can build me one of out of plywood and PVC, he’s a clever bastard some times.
My best to Mrs. Claus and the Elves.
Wishing your a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year,
But that’s all just anecdotal evidence of reasons why we should turn Florida to dust. Sure, not all Floridians are psychotic. Some of ’em are just old folks draining the Social Security coffers instead of taking off to live with the aliens. But my real problem with Florida doesn’t lie with its human population. No. It’s their fucking reptile population that clinches for me the notion that the only thing we can do with Florida is nuke the fucker.
Do you see that thing? Look at the size of that motherfucker. And he’s not a lone wolf. There are now upwards of 150,000 of these things slithering through Florida courtesy of the 80’s obsession with exotic pets. Apparently Spandex and cocaine weren’t enough diversions for the residents of Miami. They needed creepy reptiles too. Crockett and Tubbs would have been better suited fighting snake smugglers than Colombian drug lords.
When I moved to Orlando in the mid 80s there was a story on the news the first night I arrived about a snake coming up through the plumbing at a local residence. During the entire 7 months I lived there I did not once sit on the toilet seat for fear that something was going to slither up and bite my twat. There just isn’t enough vodka and Xanax on the planet for me to cope with something like that.
So, my plan is simple. Before Florida unleashes Jeb Bush on us and before these creepy crawlies reach the Northern borders of the state… before there’s SNAKENADO! let’s just dust the place and call it a day.
Keep an eye out on Facebook for my upcoming Nuke Florida petition. It’s gonna go viral. Like herpes.
We give the dead a lot of credit. Sometimes more credit than they deserve. We act as though, even dead, they are present and passing judgement on our every move and utterance.
We are forever putting words in their mouths.
“If your grandmother was alive she would say…”
“Dear Aunt Betsy must be rolling in her grave knowing what you’ve done.”
“I’m sure your dearly departed father is looking down with admiration.”
Just the other day my girlfriend Carol and I were discussing how our dead friend Stella would be taking credit for the fact that I’ve recently signed up to train for an Ironman. Stella was a world record holding athlete whose inability to stand still when an exercise option was available is legendary amongst those who knew her.
“I’m a little speechless. Did this start when Stella died… did you drink the juice?”
“Carol, we both know that bitch would take full credit for this.”
“True… cuz she wouldn’t DO this!!”
Fact is, I’m pretty sure Stella doesn’t give a shit. She’s dead. She’s moved on to bigger and better things than caring about what I’m up to. Yet, we still put the win in her column on the big scoreboard.
Personally, I prefer to lay the blame for shit on the dead. Seriously. Why not? They aren’t here to defend themselves, but that also means that they aren’t here to deny or refute the allegations. I like to blame my dead sister, Parrish, for a lot of things. If she hadn’t up and died my life would be infinitely easier. I mean sure, it wasn’t her fault she got brain cancer. Undoubtedly no one asks for that. But, damnit, she left a huge mess behind when she died. Orphaned children, a depressed mother, and a huge gap that nothing can fill. However it’s not just the big things for which I like to blame her. That would be too easy. I like to blame her for all the little shit too. When I can’t remember someone who wants to friend me on Facebook, I blame her.
It’s just like when we were kids. As the eldest child I was obligated to blame her for trying to usurp my throne by being born. Do you have any idea how awesome an only child I would have made? If there was something to get blamed for, I would pass the blame to her. It’s the rule of self-preservation, blame the other kid. Half the time she really deserved it, although my mother rarely believed me. Parrish was really good at looking wholly innocent when she was guilty as sin. She was an excellent liar. If she were still alive, she’d look at you – all bewildered – and ask you if you had any idea what I was talking about.
Recently I’ve come up with a new thing to blame on her. It’s really kind of genius on my part. As I mentioned earlier, I’ve signed up to do an Ironman next summer. Like all my other athletic endeavors it’s in aid of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society and done in memory of my sister, my grandparents, and my two favorite uncles. I’m looking at a grueling year of training. It will mean hours in the bike saddle, miles on my feet, and swimming with Great White Sharks off the coast of California. Every one of those hours, miles, and moments spent as chum will be an opportunity for me to once again blame Parrish and take her name in vain. At night, while sitting on the couch icing my sore muscles, I will mutter “If you hadn’t fuckin’ died of cancer, I wouldn’t be compelled to do this. THIS is your fault!” She won’t be there to defend or deny my accusations, but you can damn sure, when I cross the finish line, she’s going to try and take credit for it. She and Stella both. They can fight it out.
If you’d like to follow my travails as I train for the Ironman, cast a little blame my sister’s way, or would like to make a donation to honor the memory/honor of someone you’ve lost to cancer, visit www.castironbitch.com.