Teen Pregnancies and Ass Kickings

I was going to write some long detailed post about exactly why Christmas makes me homicidal. However, that has to wait until later tonight.

Im sure by now most of you have heard the news that Britney Spears younger, prettier and (amazingly) sluttier sister is pregnant, at the ripe old age of 16. I'm not going to jump on the bandwagon and judge her, she's getting enough of that already.

I am going to judge her parents.

They've made some pretty questionable calls. Like letting their 16 year old daughter live with her boyfriend. When I was 16, I was lucky to live in the same zip code as anyone I was dating.

The one question I think needs to be answered more than anything else is "Where is her father".

And I don't mean that in a "She's scared and needs her father" way. Or even a "Where was he when this is going on" way. I mean it in more of a "This mans 16 year old daughter is pregnant, why is he not on a cross country ass kicking tour involving anyone whos ever looked at her"? kind of way.

If I ever walked into my house and said "Dad, Im pregnant" I am 98% sure it would end the following way.

My father would fold up the newspaper he was reading, put it down and calmly walk out the door. The next time I'd see him would be when the local news featured him kicking the crap out of every single male in my age range.

I'll keep reading the tabloids. I don't care what she's going to do with it. Or her plans. Or how scared she is. I'm waiting for Poppa Spears to go on a long overdue rampage.

Anyway, more on why Christmas makes me want to hang myself with tinsel later tonight, I just had to get that out of my system.

What R U B!tching About?

Cooter Crisis!

I wasn't going to write about this as my first blog post, you know, since none of you know me. But that's not my style. So I'm going to jump right in.

I am supposed to be sleeping but I'm not. Because I have a doctor's appointment. This in itself is not stressful. I'm a relatively healthy 25 year old and I'm relatively sure that any health issues I have are directly related to my asthma and nothing else. Nothing to worry about.

So why the stress, you ask? (Well maybe your not, but I'm going to tell you anyway).

My doctor is going to want to do a pap smear. Now I'm going to make a very quick tangent and remind all you wonderful ladies that a pap smear and annual exam are critical to good health and taking care of yourself, and if you're not getting checked out every year, now is a great time to start.

It's not the fact that the speculum is kept in a freezer (seriously, there must be a mini fridge hidden in one of the cabinets or something). Or the fact that I'm laying naked under something the size of a napkin with my legs spread wide open so anyone who happens to walk into the wrong room can see all I have to offer. It's not even the fact that they will use the speculum version of the jaws of life to jack me up like a car.

It's the fact that I've known my practitioner literally my entire life and she's a family friend.

She is a brilliant doctor, and would never act unprofessionally ever. To her, it's just another part. However, to me, it's something that will be discussed in therapy for years to come.

Every time she sends a Christmas card, "Merry Christmas" will read "I've seen your crotch". Family dinners are completely out of the question, as every time she says "Pass the potatoes"I will hear "I've stuck my fingers in you like a bowling ball".

Although I know my doctor would sooner die than ever break doctor patient confidentiality, every time she talks to my mother alone, the conversation will go something like this:

Doc: So your daughter came in for a check up

Mom: Really?

Doc: Yep. Did you know she's slept with (Number removed as not to kill my father if he ever reads this) people?

Mom: Wow, my daughter is a whore.

That's how it will go. I am positive of this, because I am that neurotic. And then they will rewrite their slutty daughter out of the will and give everything to my twin sister.

And it's too late to cancel the appointment. Does anyone have a Valium?

what r U B!tching about?

Cooter Crisis!

I wasn't going to write about this as my first blog post, you know, since none of you know me. But that's not my style. So I'm going to jump right in.

I am supposed to be sleeping but I'm not. Because I have a doctor's appointment. This in itself is not stressful. I'm a relatively healthy 25 year old and I'm relatively sure that any health issues I have are directly related to my asthma and nothing else. Nothing to worry about.

So why the stress, you ask? (Well maybe your not, but I'm going to tell you anyway).

My doctor is going to want to do a pap smear. Now I'm going to make a very quick tangent and remind all you wonderful ladies that a pap smear and annual exam are critical to good health and taking care of yourself, and if you're not getting checked out every year, now is a great time to start.

It's not the fact that the speculum is kept in a freezer (seriously, there must be a mini fridge hidden in one of the cabinets or something). Or the fact that I'm laying naked under something the size of a napkin with my legs spread wide open so anyone who happens to walk into the wrong room can see all I have to offer. It's not even the fact that they will use the speculum version of the jaws of life to jack me up like a car.

It's the fact that I've known my practitioner literally my entire life and she's a family friend.

She is a brilliant doctor, and would never act unprofessionally ever. To her, it's just another part. However, to me, it's something that will be discussed in therapy for years to come.

Every time she sends a Christmas card, "Merry Christmas" will read "I've seen your crotch". Family dinners are completely out of the question, as every time she says "Pass the potatoes"I will hear "I've stuck my fingers in you like a bowling ball".

Although I know my doctor would sooner die than ever break doctor patient confidentiality, every time she talks to my mother alone, the conversation will go something like this:

Doc: So your daughter came in for a check up

Mom: Really?

Doc: Yep. Did you know she's slept with (Number removed as not to kill my father if he ever reads this) people?

Mom: Wow, my daughter is a whore.

That's how it will go. I am positive of this, because I am that neurotic. And then they will rewrite their slutty daughter out of the will and give everything to my twin sister.

And it's too late to cancel the appointment. Does anyone have a Valium?

what r U B!tching about?

Sex in the City? Try a gun fight.

There seems to be a common misconception in entertainment that being young and single in the city is the best case scenario for a female. According to the episode of Sex in the City that I caught tonight, I should be rail thin with abnormally great hair and a wardrobe so vast I don't ever have to wear the same thing twice. I should be spending what's equivalent to a month's rent on shoes I can wear with only one outfit, made by people who's names I can't pronounce.

What baffles me is the fact that their apartments are always spotless. This leads me to believe that writers in New York make a hell of a lot more than I thought and can afford a live in maid (which isn't likely) or the writers of the show are so completely out of touch with the actual experiences of single young women that my dad might as well write the show.

I like to think that real life in the city is a vastly different experience. Tonight I was wandering around my apartment, getting ready for an exciting night of sitting at my computer and rambling until I came up with a coherent thought when I experienced the one thing any person in an urban dwelling has nightmares about.

There were two loud popping noises behind me, and the sound of shattering glass. Either someone was shooting at someone and had really bad aim, or my landlord was more serious about the money I owe her than I thought. Either way, being shot in ratty pajamas while eating microwave popcorn is not how I planned on leaving this earth, so I made a running dive behind a wall and stayed there.

After a few minutes, I finally got the nerve to peek around the corner. Either the person shooting was dead, or running from the authorities, so either way I was in the clear. Unless it was my landlord, but if she shoots me she's REALLY not getting her money and I'm sure the blood stains in the carpet would ruin my chances of getting my deposit back so I assumed it was safe.

The first thing I noticed was the shards of glass all over the floor. I looked up to survey the damage to my apartment, and to my surprise my glass door was perfectly intact. Upon further inspection I learned the horrible truth.

I went diving behind a wall like one of the hippos in Fantasia because the last Diet Coke in my fridge had managed to freeze, and then explode with such a force that it made the door of the fridge swing open, allowing the can to fly through my apartment like some sort of caffeinated grenade, not stopping until it took out all of my brand new wine glasses and gave me a massive coronary.

There is diet coke syrup on the walls. The ceiling. The carpeting in the other room. My white table cloth. Everywhere. The girls in Sex In The City? They were partying with rich men who have private jets. I was dodging from bullets that look strikingly similar to soda cans.

I'm not sure why that particular soda can decided that tonight was the night to end it all, but I do know that Carrie Bradshaw didn't spend her Saturday night in old pajamas scrubbing Diet Coke off of the ceiling of her apartment while listening to infomercials. If she did, I might find the show a little bit more believable.

Now its your turn.

What are you b!tching about?