Cardboard Sledding

When I was a kid, we didn’t have cable. Or even a working TV sometimes. We definitely didn’t have video games or cell phones. And nobody I knew did either.


Summer meant being outside all day. We would only come inside for food and water. And not always even water because we could always drink that warm, rubbery water from the hose. I’m pretty sure I recently read that it is considered a carcinogen now.

Thanks for the cancer, parents.

I had some friends as a kid that weren’t even allowed inside their own house in the summer. They had to ask permission to go inside, even to pee. And while we were allowed inside at my house, we didn’t ever want to be there.


When I was 10 we moved to a small town right next to the ocean. We were one bridge and about two miles away. The bridge was one of those huge ones that the boats traveling down the intercoastal could pass under without anything being raised and lowered.

This is it.

That bridge was a bitch to ride your bike up. I never successfully managed it. But it had these massive embankments leading up to support it. Like four giant hills guarding the bridge.


My brother T, sister J and I would go hang out behind the local businesses at the base of the bridge. We would wait till they threw out a few cardboard boxes. Then we would climb into the dumpsters and pull out some nice big pieces of cardboard.


On a semi-related note, we also used to play in this giant shipping crate that they used to collect newspapers for recycling. It was literally a steel box full of old newspapers. I have no clue what the draw was, but I remember it being fun. Those were dark and desperate times for entertainment.

We would climb in and out through the donation holes. Until my mother found out and we got in trouble.

We would rush away from those empty lots and dirty dumpsters, sometimes with shop owners yelling at us to keep out of their trash. We would take our stolen cardboard down to the bridge and climb the embankment.


Then we would sit on the cardboard and push ourselves off and slide down the hill. Those embankments were the highest hills we had ever seen. It was thrilling.

Apparently a lot of people did this.

We would slide down the embankment for hours until the cardboard was torn into tiny, useless shreds. Or until someone got hurt. Getting hurt was always the universal symbol for us to go home.


But there was this one time that my piece of cardboard had been damaged before anyone else’s. And rather than wait my turn, I thought I would try to see what happened if I tried to roll down the hill on my side.

I wasn’t even this smooth.

I don’t recommend this to anyone.

I made myself sick (because I get ridiculous motion sickness) and tore my favorite pair of shorts. They were just a simple pair of elastic waistbanded shorts that my mother had made. We were so poor that she made a lot of our clothes. They were white with rainbow pinstripes. They went with everything I owned and made me legs look extra tan. I really miss those shorts even though they would never fit me now. They were my Technicolor Dream Shorts.

I would so wear this thing.

Hair Envy

A few years ago I worked out of a different office at my company. I worked in the field with mostly men. There were quite a few women that worked at my office, but we didn’t really get along.


The women there were older. Serious. Kind of uptight and in my view, not very interesting. They would never talk about their vaginas in the workplace or split their pants and flash everyone their underwear or any of the other things I haven’t even shared with you guys yet.

This sums them up pretty well. Older, white, and with awful fashion sense.

I mostly avoided them and they mostly avoided me. It was a fine arrangement.


And then one day, there was a new employee, E. She was close to my age and exactly the kind of person I like. She was sarcastic and loud mouthed. She was funny and cool and witty and she laughed a loud infectious laugh that was irresistible. We immediately liked each other.


Every morning I would stop by her desk to talk and crack jokes. She was great.


One day that first week of meeting her, I went to lunch with a group of the guys and I met another new employee, C. He was so cool and funny too. He was a big, burly, biker type, but laid back and sarcastic.


He and I really hit it off and in my head I was totally shipping C and E. By the end of our conversation I was convinced they were soul mates. So I asked him if he had noticed her. He had noticed her. It turned out E was his wife. I secretly take a bit of credit for their marriage, even though they were married before I knew them, because I would have made it happen if they weren’t already married.

I do this in my head to literally everyone. I don’t even care if they are married, straight, gay. You are all shipped with other people!

Have you ever had a crush on a couple? I had a major one on them. I’d talk to E every morning and have lunch at least once a week with C. They were from New York city and had recently moved down to Florida.


I heard the story of how they met and got engaged (which are my two favorite stories to hear in case anyone wants to share). I heard about how they were trying to have children. We grew fairly close over the period of about six months.


One day I was talking to E and she brushed a strand of hair back off her face. Normally I am hesitant to compliment women. They almost always take it as a come on. Maybe I don’t know how to do it in a way that seems platonic. But I had to tell her.


“Your hair is gorgeous!” She had the kind of hair I always dreamed of having. It was milk chocolate brown. Silky smooth without a hint of frizz. It was was shoulder length with perfect body and shine like something in a hair commercial. If she hadn’t been so cool I would have hated her for her perfect hair alone.

Like this adorable one right here.

She gave me sort of a bemused at my compliment and I worried I had overstepped my bounds. Or come across as flirting.


She reached up, grabbed a fistful of hair, and yanked the whole thing off her head. She was completely bald underneath.


I have no idea what kind of look I had on my face. It took about 45 seconds for my brain to catch up to what my eyes had seen. I was beyond dumbfounded.  I was completely confused and speechless.


My expression must have been good because E laughed for about 5 minutes until her face was red and tears were running down her face. She was gasping for air when she she finally replied.


“For $200, you could have a gorgeous head of hair too!”


I managed to say something totally smooth like “Why…what… It’s a wig?”

She laughed again and told me all about her alopecia. And then she asked, “Haven’t you noticed the days I wear other wigs? Or the days I don’t wear one at all and just do a bandana?”

Stan Sitwell. Also, I think my real hair generally looks like this terrible wig.

And do you guys know what? I hadn’t. I don’t know if she had never worn anything other than that wig around me or if I am just the most unobservant human being on earth.  But I’d had no fucking clue.


It was a complete mindfuck. E immediately called C and told him all about it. And they never let me live it down.

Light Switch

I gave myself a project this weekend. Because I apparently don’t have enough of those. I decided to take all my old skanky wall plates and decoupage them into something cool and cute.


They really were gross.

The wallplates in my apartment have probably never been changed. They look like they are actually somehow older than the apartment itself. And that kind of minor thing really bothers me.


I managed to decoupage all the ones in the kitchen and bathroom with absolutely no issues. It was surprisingly easy, actually. Deceptively so.


Not bad. Not bad.

I next removed the wall plates in the living room and dining room with no major issues. But, if you guys know me (and you do) then you know that nothing ever goes smoothly. Like ever.


I went into my bedroom and unscrewed the light switch from the wall. These wall plates were all painted on ages ago by some lazy slob that didn’t know you have to take the plates off when you paint. But a little paint barrier was no match for my trusty screwdriver.


I had used it to break the seal on several of the other wall plates. So I slid it under the wall plate and attempted to pry it up from the wall.


In that split fucking second there was a flash of beautiful light. It was the exact color of an old timey light bulb filament. And a pop. And everything in my bedroom went dark.

I love these old light bulbs. They’re lovely.

My heart was pounding. I knew instantly what had happened. I popped the plate off and even in the dark I could see the scorch mark. And my screwdriver was melted and black.

20141117_145207 (1)

My actual screwdriver.

Now, my screwdriver wasn’t rated for an electric shock. I don’t know why I wasn’t at least shocked by it if not electrocuted. In fact, I am kind of disappointed I wasn’t shocked. I am pretty curious to know what would happen.


I see it going one of two ways. Either the electricity of even a mild shock would stop my already damaged heart and I would die. Or the shock could potentially knock me back into normal rhythm and I’d actually feel better. Like a homemade defibrillator.

I’ve never had the pleasure of being defibrillated before.

Maybe next time we’ll find out. For science.


I tried resetting my breakers but that didn’t work and the power was still out in my bedroom all night. And I slept horribly. Because I literally keep three nightlights in there normally. I’m genuinely afraid of the dark and can’t sleep in that pitch blackness.

I have 10 of these in my one bedroom apartment. For real.

And now you guys know another one of my big secrets. I’m scared of the dark. Like a child.
But my switches all look pretty nice.


I’m really pleased with them.

My Three Nipples (NSFW)

If you looked really closely at this picture in this post, then you are a bit of a creeper. But you also probably noticed my third nipple. I’m not really interested in posting another picture of it, so that one will have to suffice for all your third nipple-y needs.

I wish it was magical.

I was born with the thing and honestly never thought much of it. It’s not like I was going around naked for people to see it. And I didn’t start wearing a two piece bathing suit until I was 10 or so, which was more than old enough for me to be ashamed of my body in other, more debilitating ways. My third nipple was barely on my radar.


I hated being touched then even more than I do now. And, unlike now, that hatred extended to anyone in the medical field. I had many bad experiences with doctors and dentists growing up.


Nowadays, I’m just like “You want me to get naked? Okay.” And then I start taking off my clothes with the door still open. Also, they have told me to undress before and I take off everything, including my underwear. Because they don’t specify not to. I truly do not care anymore. It’s made for some awkward conversations with nurses and doctors that are confused and disturbed by my nakedness.

James Bond’s fake third nipple.

But, when I was 14 or 15, my mother took me to see our pediatrician. We’d only been seeing her for a few years and I hated her. She was rude and dismissive. She treated my body like I was an unfeeling piece of meat. Alway poking and prodding at me. She would talk to my mother about me as though I weren’t even there. And her biggest crime, was that her handshake was like a cold, limp fish.


We were alone in the exam room. I was always alone with doctors as my mother passes out at the sight of blood or needles (even for shots). She asked me to lift up my shirt, and I reluctantly did. Uncomfortable and embarrassed at even this basic level of undress in front of a stranger that I hated.

This is really fun! Famous third nipples!

She noticed my third nipple and with no warning, she began touching it. It is just below my left breast, and she was making me very uncomfortable. It was too close to my breast for my comfort. And she was touching me without my permission.


She then left the room and came back in with literally the ENTIRE staff in the building to show them my third nipple. Nobody had ever seen one in the placement that mine is in. They oohed and ahhed over me like I was a Barnum and Baileys exhibit. They all came over and also tried to touch it/me. None of them even acknowledged me as a person.


And I flipped the fuck out. I was a terrible advocate for myself in those days. I was an insecure, shy, sad child. But I could see no medical purpose for this and also, it was just plain rude as fuck.

Mark Wahlberg actually has three nipples! Welcome to the trip nip club!

I got up from the exam table and left with my mother. I never told her what happened as she would have been just as dismissive as the doctor. And I refused to ever go back to see her.


My third nipple has caused plenty of other awkward encounters for me. If I am at a water park, children stare at it and whisper to each other about it. I’ve had people try to touch it. I’ve had “friends” try to rub it for luck.

If I’d had open heart surgery Krusty and I would be third nipple/heart surgery twins.

My sister, J, wants me to pierce it. I’ve had exes try to get me to get it removed. And friends have wanted me to get it tattooed.


And on one memorable occasion, my brother T’s ex girlfriends* wanted me to cover it up when I was in a bathing suit around him as it was “indecent.” T jokingly suggested I start wearing an eye patch over it, which I have to admit, would be fucking cool as shit.

Like so.

I recently bought a new bathing suit that is incredibly flattering on me and covers it up completely. I am not ashamed of it. But I am annoyed by the way I am treated because of it.


To answer a few questions that I always get asked: No, it doesn’t have any extra nerve endings like a regular nipple. Yes, I can feel when you touch it, just like if you were touching my skin. It is smaller than my other two nipples. It is an actual nipple, not just an areola.  It probably wouldn’t lactate if I were to lactate as there are no milk ducts behind it.

In writing this story I learned several things. #1 Third nipples are significantly more common in men than women. #2 They used to be considered a sign of witch craft but are now seen as a sign of sexual prowess in some cultures (wink wink). #3 Nipple tattoos are a thing. On women. And they are beautiful and painful looking and now I kind of want one!

I seriously love this.

Feel free to ask any other questions about it in the comments. Or maybe some of you have third nipples. Please share!

*I should make a disclaimer that this ex of T’s was insane. That is not a term I use lightly. She once accused us of cheating on her. With each other. We are full siblings. What the actual fuck?

Bar Fight

You guys probably all know at this point that I highly dislike being touched. The closer I am to you, the more lax I get. And someone I am dating generally gets all my physical affection. I don’t even really like touching friends and family unless we are really close.


I’m not sure why, but I can feel wherever someone has touched me. If someone casually puts their hand on my back or shoulder, I can feel it for the rest of the day. If someone hits me or kisses me, I can feel it for days. And some touches, I feel like they are invisibly tattooed on my body forever. Like sex, or physical violence.

I totally love this tattoo! I am getting a white ink tattoo soon.

So I take touch very seriously. So seriously that it has gotten me into a lot of trouble in the past. And probably will in the future.


One time, a few years ago, I was out with my brother T and my sister J. We went to a karaoke bar. Just so you know, yes, I do sing. I’ve got a good enough voice. On this specific occasion I sang “I’m on Fire” by Bruce Springsteen. I like to sing that song because #1 I LOVE Bruce Springsteen. I have seen him in concert 4 or 5 times. He is a brilliant writer and his lyrics are like poetry. #2 I really like that song. #3 It is easy to sing and short which is the key to good karaoke.

Also, he is completely fucking hot.

But before we sang, T and I played a game of pool. I used to be a good player, but now I am not so good. But better than T. We played our game, I won, and we abandoned the table to go sing.


Once we were done singing, we agreed to play one more game before leaving the bar. I walked over and grabbed a stick. My brother T also grabbed one. There were no quarter stacks on the table to indicate that someone was waiting to play so we loaded up our quarters and racked up a game.

I found this on Pinterest and I love it.

We had not even broke the set when a large man came strolling up to me. He was about 5’10” and very large. He was wearing a leather jacket and had his wallet on a chain. He was your typical tough biker type.


And he was walking right towards me.


Being taller than everyone grants me some privileges. I can reach things off the top shelves. I can gain a lot of weight before it is noticeable. And people generally don’t start shit with me.


But this guy walked up to me and said. “This is my table.”

I was really confused. “I’m sorry? Your table?”


He smiled. “I won the last game. You have to play against me.”


I still was pretty confused. “Um, no thanks. I want to play against my brother.” I gestured to T who was standing on the other side of the table watching us.


“But I won the last game. That means you have to play against me.” He was whining now like a petulant child.


“No. It doesn’t. I don’t want to play against you. There were no stacks on the table. I paid for this game. And I am playing it against who I want to.”


He smiled and put his hand on my shoulder in an over-friendly way with his face close to mine. “Listen sweetheart-”


I did not smile. I shoved his hand away from me and got right up in his face. “No. You listen. I’m not your sweetheart. You have no right to touch me. I am not playing this game against you. You will wait until I am done. And then you can do whatever the fuck you want on this table. Are we clear?”

His smile instantly faded from his face. He took a few steps back from me. It was loud in the bar and probably the only person that had overheard was my brother, who was expressionless, just watching. Waiting to see what would happen next.


The biker walked over to my brother next. I moved closer to hear what he had to say. I am very protective of my friends and family. And I thought maybe this guy didn’t want to hit a girl and would start a fight with T instead.


“Hey man. I’m talking to your girl over there-”


My brother interrupted. “She’s not my girl. She’s my sister. And I heard you talking. And I heard her say no.”


“But if you just talk to her…”


My brother interrupted again. “I’m not talking to her. I don’t want anything from her. YOU go talk to her if you want to. But she already said no. And you shouldn’t have touched her.”


I should mention here that T is 6’4” but very thin. He is also not very athletic. This biker no doubt could have kicked his ass. Easily.

My brother looks and acts like this.

“But it’s my game!”


“Technically, my sister won the first game on this table tonight and then we walked away. So it is still her game.”


The biker was now stuck. He looked at me and then he looked at T. It was pretty clear we were not going to be intimidated by him. He was a fucking amateur compared to the kind of treatment we were accustomed to from our parents.


The biker went over the bar and sat and glared at us all through the game, sulking. I intentionally missed every shot I could. We dragged the game out longer than we’d ever played before. I could feel the biker seething at me. And you know what? I didn’t fucking care. I don’t like being bullied. And I like being touched even less.

Wah! I ‘m not getting what I want.

When my brother tells this story, his friends ask “Why didn’t you go over and help your sister when some creepy biker was touching her at the bar?”


And my brother always says, “Help her do what? She didn’t need my help. He was an idiot that didn’t know better than to start something with her.”

And he is right. Because I would never start a fight with someone over a game of pool. But I sure as hell would over being touched without my permission.

Sex Story

You guys probably remember from my last post that I recently met Ann St. Vincent. She has convinced me to tell a sex story as a guest post on her blog. I don’t normally talk about my sex life. And am actually pretty nervous. So, if you know me in real life or just don’t want to think about me having sex, do not click here. Or if you maybe lived with me when this all happened *cough cough J*. Otherwise; you’ve been warned.