I Want Nothing to do with your "Class"

To clarify, NO I don't mean classes of people. I have absolutely no interest in the uneducated, ignorant nonsense of racist thoughts and anything similar. The classes I have beef with are these absurd class action settlements people keep including me in against my wishes. 

Would these people please stop being presumptuous enough to believe that I would want to be associated with their fucking petty class action settlements? Is that too much to ask? No, I do not want to fill out a metric butt-ton of paperwork so I can potentially get a settlement of up to a measly $10. No, I absolutely do not care whether or not a facebook status of mine was used for a "sponsored story." I also do not think that if it was, that I should be entitled to damages. Who cares? It's a facebook status. No one maimed BatDog. Facebook didn't come to my home and personally assault me or cause me emotional distress. I am also not a lazy, entitled greedy little princess. I work for my money, and I'm not interested in suing a giant company for a dumb reason so that I can cash in on it. Especially for the pennies I would get for these types of lawsuits. Now if a big company actually committed some awful crime that caused me immense suffering, loss of MY hard-earned cash, and/or hurt my family/friends in some way - then sign me up. I'll fight to the death against them for that shit. Then I'd take my millions and spend tons of it in whatever way would cause that particular company the very worst publicity possible. I'm vindictive like that. 

However, that is not the case. These are all petty lawsuits. No one was truly wronged, and people are just greedy assholes. The stupid facebook class action isn't the only one I received lately either. Class action lawsuits seem to be attracted to me recently. It's coming out of the damn woodwork to annoy me. I could not possibly care less if a phone company charged me a potentially illegal surcharge of 5 cents a month, 10 years ago. I don't want the $2.75. I don't care. It is not worth the paperwork or the stupidity of it all.

Who are these people that are so very lazy, entitled and bored that they feel the need to sit on their ass all day and think up shit that could potentially be blown out of proportion and into a lawsuit against some humongous company with loads of money who supposedly "wronged" them? They are pains in my ass, that's who they are. Because these same people take their stupid, petty lawsuits to a whole new level of idiocy by making them class action lawsuits (so they can get their lazy grubby fingers on more money that they did not earn). When they make it a class action lawsuit, then I get notices in the mail with enough legal jargon to make my eyes bleed. Because of these jack-holes I have to read this crap. I don't want to read more legal jargon than necessary, which I why I long ago abandoned my childhood dream of becoming a lawyer. Because of them I am being subjected to more junk mail, and junk mail with legal jargon no less. 

The greedy-princesses subjected me to emotional distress from reading legalities about their whiny-baby problems which they involved me in. Don't put my name on that crap. If it wouldn't make me just as petty and stupid as them, I would sue them for making me read the piles of junk mail I have received, which made my brain ache and my eyes bleed. If you are one of those people, please know that we are no longer friends. 

Beard R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

 I was reminded of my new favorite coined term today, and had to share with the Internets because it should totally become a thing - like the damn mustache craze. I mustache you a question - where the F did the 'stache thing start?

For background-sake I must remind you that I have wicked awesome friends. The Hubs and I collectively have additional friends who join in our joint shenanigans, profane humor and the more than occasional adult-beverage.  I am forever grateful that The Hubs has some guy friends to whom I can pawn off all discussions of: football, Bambi-catching, fishing, hockey, vehicular repair and/or any sport other than my beloved baseball. 

Back to my story, and the new "it-phrase" I shall be promoting. The the convo prompting the coining of this new term occurred at some point while Bambi's dad was still fair game and I was a Hunting Widow turning to Pinterest for love. The Hubs had some friends over after completing the daily outdoorsy shit. I know the timeline because it also happened to be "No Shave November." No Shave November is a hallowed holiday in some of our friend-circles, and must be respected. The Duck Dynasty guys seem to be rockin' the beards, so why not my man? And his buddies? And all dudes or beard-happy ladies? The Hubs looks as sexy-pants with a beard as he does beardless, so I'm a big promoter of "No Shave November."

While the Hubs had friends over I was channeling June Cleaver, but with a twist of profanity and a koozied beer. My version of June Cleaver translates to me being a decent, and not fully-drunken hostess while guests are in our home. To this end I was chatting with the Hubs and our guests. Every dude in my house had a mug full of beard-tastic glory, and therefore Duck Dynasty and the glory of the beard became a topic of conversation. One of our guests had a beard that rivaled The Duck Commander - I shall dub this friend "BeardMaster." BeardMaster was disappointed in his wifey's apparent disapproval of what he considers his crowning-glory....the beard. The conversation went a bit like this (poetic license only slightly abused):

BeardMaster: "I don't think the wife is a big fan of my beard."

Miffy: "Really? How can she not? I LOVE that the Hubs grew a beard."

BeardMaster: "She may dislike the scratchy-face for kissing purposes. I'm experiencing 'kiss-neglect' as we speak."

Miffy: "There is no excuse for such blatant beard-bigotry. I applaud the beard-movement. My Hubs looks sexy with a beard and it makes me want to jump him even more often."

BeardMaster: "Seriously?"

The Hubs: "She's serious, and her love of my beard is totally working out for me right now! Although, Miffy may be a bit too fond of my beard. I have to hold her off with a stick to get any work done around here, so I can satiate my OCD. [Hubs commences sarcastic laughter]"

Miffy: "You like it, so hush, but seriously...what woman in her right mind doesn't find a man with a beard sexy as all holy hell? WTF? You should have to turn down lovin' from the wifey during 'No Shave November'"

BeardMaster: "Miffy, you have some serious BEARD RESPECT."

The Hubs: "Miffy, it takes a lot of work to maintain these sexy-man-beards so I'm actually doing you a favor. Therefore you owe me like a million favors in return. One favor for every sexy bit of facial hair I have to groom."

Miffy: "Hubs, you are not allowed to use the almighty beard for any additional advantages other than some good lovin'"

BeardMaster: "Miffy can you chat with the wife? She needs to gain some more Beard Respect and maybe you can persuade her."

BEARD RESPECT should go viral and/or become a "thing" like the godforsaken mustache jazz. It is just bizarre enough to catch on, and it is the opposite of "fetch" so I think we can pull together and make it happen. If not, I maintain that "Beard Respect" should be a thing and we could all stand to respect the beard a bit more. Duck Dynasty would approve.

DISCLAIMER: I am not a graphic designer, nor do I have neat graphic design tools on my home PC. Forgive my terrible graphic representation of "Beard Respect."

MegaTron and Optimus Prime Could Totally be BFF's

Back when Dane Cook was still funny, may his hilarity rest in peace (makes sign of the cross like the good christian Italian I am), he did a bit about naming all of his kids after Transformers. This particular bit prompted the creation of a pact between myself and my good friend Highlander to bastardize the idea and take it to a whole new level. 

Highlander and I decided that we would BOTH name our kids after competing Transformers. We would do this because we are batshit crazy or quite possibly in order to prompt either fantastical fights or majestic treaties. We would each have only little Decepticon or little Autobot crotch-spawn. Highlander will therefore be naming all her crotch-spawn after Decepticons, whereas I will name all of mine after Autobots. 

There is the obvious issue of our kids being subject to the horrific suffering of the inability to find a keychain with their name on it, but there's always the Transformer items available! My primary concern with this plan is maybe if we name our children in this fashion they will be forever destined to be mortal enemies, and potentially battle to the death in our front yard by turning themselves into bitchin' cars and shit. I would really like my kids to have a wonderfully-crazy friend like Highlander, so I'm debating the pros and cons. Also, I simply cannot have my six year old morphing into a sweet mustang when all I have is a very dirty hand-me-down SUV. That's bullshit. 

If I were so inclined to actually come through on our ill-advised pact and potentially subject my children to years of therapy - I totally have a plan in place so I can be prepared. Also, to appease the parents I would give the kiddos Christian middle names so they can shut the hell up about it already. 

My Favorite Autobot Names for My Potential Future Kids:

1. Optimus Prime (This name would clearly be reserved for my firstborn son)
2. Jazz (Maybe she will be into music and shit)
3. Bumblebee (I believe this will be my quiet child who is so VERY ADD that they cannot help but fly around from activity to activity).
4. Prima (I'm a little iffy on this one because my automatic reaction to this name is to turn it into "Prima-Donna", and I don't want a whiny little princess running around mucking up my gene pool)
5. Alpha Prime (This would be reserved for my firstborn daughter just to trip up the whole "alpha-male" crap that certain dudes always throw around. My daughter will be the Alpha-Chick and those cocky macho morons who think they are "Alpha-Males" can just ruminate on that while they lift their weights and chug their protein drinks).
6. Ironhide (This child shall have nerves of steel and will not succumb to any bullies. They will be the defender of my other crotch-spawn).
7. Inferno (I think maybe this kid should be adopted by Highlander, who is much more of a pyro than myself - maybe she will be able to deal with this little fiery handful).
8. Siren (I feel like I may be dooming this kid to a life of manipulating men named Ulysses. Good thing that name isn't ultra popular).
9. Blurr (This kid better get into the damn Olympics as a runner. It would be my crowning glory if Blurr could run so fast he/she beats all standing records).

The Only Decepticon Names I Remember that Highlander Chose (because my dumb ass lost the list - Highlander can feel free to correct me via comment):

1. Megatron
2. Starscream
3. Ramjet
4. Rampage (added by me because Highlander is destined to have a child to fit this name)

UPDATE: Highlander chose to answer my blog duel in her gloriously irreverent and self-declared "...atheist pirate hooker sailor Marine in a poop and incendiary firefight..." type humor. I am going to take the liberty of being the judge, the jury and the 1950's husband - I declare Highlander to be the uncontested winner of this duel. I must surrender. The sole reason for my surrender is her observation of an absolutely critical point which I failed to notice or clarify. Under no circumstances will I ever even consider popping nine kids out my no-no-zone. If the Hubs saw this post sans-clarification he would have hit the roof with the propulsion of steam shooting violently out every facial orifice.  To clear up any misunderstandings, I will settle on having two kiddos - a boy and a girl. And they shall be called Optimus-Prime MIchael (the fightin' angel) and Alpha-Prime Mary (cuz we all know that will appease my mother). To that end, I tip my hat to Highlander and her future crotch-spawn, Megatron Caliber.

My Preggo-Pants Friend Scarred Me for Life

There are few things in the universe that terrify me more than the idea of getting knocked up. The whole idea makes my uterus contemplate running away screaming and flailing ovaries to and fro. 

I have no objections to the idea of being a mother. I have always wanted to have kiddos. Also, I've got the Hubs, who would be an amazing father and would make me some heart-meltingly adorable babies. My fear consists solely of the nine month gestation period where my body would be hosting an adorable little parasite. Yes, it would be worth it... blah, blah, blah. I couldn't agree more. The problem is that some of my momma friends, specifically my dear friend Preggo-Pants, shared entirely too many of the "joys" of pregnancy in vivid detail. They call me their friend yet these bitches have scarred me for life! They are MY BITCHES so that was meant in the most loving of ways. 

I do have one friend who had a glorious pregnancy during which she felt even more amazing than she did sans-fetus. However, this particular friend is a much nicer person than I am and karma is a fickle little hussie... She is the friend who has absolutely no enemies because she's so kind, friendly and generally wonderful to everyone. Similarly, I am a nice person in general, I am a softie on certain things, and I do have a big heart. However as her opposite, I am also sarcastic, a TAD bitchy, and speak my mind - opinions be damned. I don't have any true enemies, but I have people who dislike my witty sarcasm and/or dislike hearing the truth. I also don't really care if those people dislike me - they can suck it. This leads me to believe that when the time comes for my uterus to be used as a rental unit, that karma will break out her bitchy side and let all hell break loose upon my unsuspecting body. 

Since karma is a bitch, and so am I...there are certain unfortunate baby-hosting effects that I can't help but believe will happen to me. My current third greatest fear entails some or all of the following things happening to me while renting out my womb:

1. Becoming a "House" instead of a Rental - I took the liberty of combining two completely separate metaphors here. No, I am not scared that I will somehow become impregnated with a squatter who will stay and make my uterus a permanent home. I have a legitimate fear that while my uterus is being used as a rental, my body may become the SIZE OF A FREAKING HOUSE despite my deliberate exercise and healthy eating habits. I have just spent the past year working my ass off on Weight Watchers and turning my lifestyle around to lose 40 pounds. I have about 15 more to lose before I reach my goal weight. The absolute LAST thing I want to do at this point is gain a butt-load of unnecessary weight while pregnant. I am determined to be one of those pregnant women who eats perfectly healthy and exercises (I'm going to need a Jillian Michaels or someone in my ear to accomplish this I think). However, I have heard of women who gain absurd amounts of weight even though they eat right and exercise, because apparently karma fucking hates them. Clearly. I'll be mega-pissed if I worked this hard to lose weight only to get fatty-mcfatterson again against my will. 
2. Wolverine Scars - Isn't it enough that I already own enough stretch marks to span the Great Wall of China due to my previous stint of being a fat-ass? Is it really necessary for me to develop the kind that look like evidence of my abs having an unfriendly run-in with Wolverine? I liked X-Men, but I certainly do not want to look like I fought one. Coincidentally, I also get the shiny kind of stretch marks that look iridescent, so they would look all the more like the remnants of a battle with a fictional superhero. When I get knocked up I expect that each of my true girlfriends will bring me a giant tub of cocoa butter as a "welcome to pregnancy" gift. I intend to bathe in the stuff.
3. Giggle-Tinkle - I had a friend who during the majority of her pregnancy, would pee herself a little bit almost every time she laughed. Even sometimes randomly without laughing as well. It reached a point that we couldn't even joke about things around her for fear of a change in panties being necessitated. That is horrifying! I should not have to change diapers BEFORE I have a baby - especially not my own. Then god-forbid that nonsense continues to happen after pregnancy - I have heard of that happening with some ladies I know as well. F that game. I do not want to be wearing diapers after my kid finally gets potty-trained or takes the SAT. I don't want to wear them at all actually - tampons are my limit in that realm - and pads are only allowed in my life due to dire necessity. 
4. Morning Sickness - If "Morning Sickness" were actually confined to the wee hours of the morning, which I despise anyway, I would not mind as much. Mornings already make me want to gag at the thought, so I'm not sure it would be a huge transition on my part. Alas, some heinous bitch named it "morning sickness" in an effort to deceive all the young mothers-to-be. I'm sure she meant well, and didn't want to scare the young ladies by informing them that "morning sickness" can in reality last the entire first trimester, with no restrictions on time of day. However, I think it was dirty, dirty trickery on her part because I cannot possibly plan adequately around the fact that I may or may not get all vomity at any random point during the day or night. What if I projectile vomit during a meeting at which I am presenting, and it lands on my boss's new suit? Or while driving my car down the interstate (in this case I would say "Damn the cost, and it is getting professionally cleaned. I will tip like a high-roller"). What if I am one of those poor souls who can't keep anything down at all? Before I announce my bun in the oven people may start to accuse me of being bulimic. Also, I really, really truly do not want to put my head in a public toilet to blow chunks. If the morning sickness isn't relegated to the morning then I have no way of ensuring that when the puke starts bubbling up, that I will have home field advantage. Public toilets may be the most disgustingly necessary location I have ever had to visit. I have no desire to kneel on the floor of one and pay homage to a continually abused and poorly maintained shitter. I have seen what lands on those floors (see my previous post "Like Peeing in a Janky Gas Station" to check out my experience with THAT). Maybe I can get some of those handy barf bags from airplanes?  
5. Amazon Woman Syndrome - I am not quite as worried about this one because I have a solid and viable plan to combat it. However, it bears mentioning since I have heard entirely too many stories from ladies who fell victim to this very fuzzy syndrome. Proper grooming dictates that ladies' legs not resemble those of a grizzly bear. There are also rules and sanitary reasons for keeping one's nether-regions properly groomed via razor, waxing and the like. When a small infant resides in your uterus and is nearing the end of their lease term, sometimes it becomes logistically impossible to complete any grooming below your baby bump. The victims of Amazon Woman Syndrome simply accept the predicament and allow both their legs and their hoo-haas to become so overgrown that weed-whackers and hatchets will be required to retrieve the child during labor. Just the idea of that situation makes me cringe, so before the time comes where I can no longer groom myself, I will be locating a salon with waxing services. The pain of waxing can just be sort of a "prep" on a much smaller scale for the upcoming labor pains. 
6. Episiotomy and/or Rippage - As if pushing a human being out of your hoo-haa (with what I have heard is indescribable pain) isn't bad enough - there's also the possibility that your no-no-zone simply cannot stretch enough to accommodate your baby's giant head. Hoo-haa's aren't made of whatever the hell Stretch Armstrong was made of so sometimes this happens. The result is either forced rippage of your special parts by the child, OR in the case of several of my lady friends, the doctor does a preemptive strike against ripping by snipping two holes into one. That's right, the baby-exit then merges with your poo-poo-hole. Don't get too worked up, they stitch you make all nice and normal - but I hear it's a rather unpleasant healing process... Where do I sign up for a C-section?

Maybe I'll get lucky, and all the good I've done in my life will be taken into account by the Lord and He will keep me from experiencing the 6 nightmares of pregnancy that my wonderful momma-friends brought to my attention. I really do want kiddos someday so I hope and pray that I can breeze through a pregnancy without those 6 particular issues. I can live with cravings, crazy mood-swings, gaining a healthy amount of weight and even peeing every 10 minutes (provided I can make it to the toilet). 

My uterus is offended by your question

Due to an overwhelming amount of recent inquiries from concerned, albeit nosy, friends and relatives (mostly my Mama) I am going to explain my presently unfruitful uterus. No, I do not owe anyone an explanation on the choices the Hubs and I make regarding what Highlander calls "crotch-spawn." And as far as I know my baby-maker is fully-functional. However, it seems that I have recently become ancient as quite a few of my friends are now having kids on purpose. Because I am not dutifully required to 'splain myself directly or at all - I shall vent my miffing to the Internets rather than to anyone's nosy-face. 

Before I 'splain any further let me set a few ground rules:

1. I absolutely love babies and children in general.
2. I also love returning them to their parents so I can spend a quiet evening with the Hubs, who does not wake up 17 times a night and uses the big-boy potty.
3. Babies are a blessing from God (yes I am Christian) and I fully believe it when I'm told they are "worth it."
4. The Hubs and I will decide when the right time for baby-making is based upon a list of factors and the resulting pros/cons.
5. Practice makes perfect. If I want a perfect baby we first have to practice sufficiently.
6. Number 1 on my Con-list is the fact that I would have to be preggers in order to get crotch-spawn - but that is a story for another day.

I am the first of my Mama's progeny, and also the first to marry. Since I have been married for some time now, it is apparently expected of me to begin reproducing. In the perfect little world of some, I should have become a baby-factory the second I said "I Do." I signed up to have mini-versions of the Hubs running around all OCD-like, but I never agreed to any such deadline. Although I would absolutely LOVE to have kiddos, I detest the incessant prying into such a personal decision. The timing for such a decision is complicated and ultimately between the Hubs and I, sans input from the peanut gallery. My eggs are nowhere near their expiration date so no need for rushing. Well, it just so happens that my Mama DESPERATELY wants to be a grandma and I am currently her best bet. She has literally put all her grandbaby-hoping eggs in my uterus-basket. 

I would also like to address the common misconception my other friends and relatives seem to have. There is no rule that if several of us pop out babies, then the rest shall follow suit. I do not recall joining in any pregnancy-pact. Why do people act as if it's polite to ask "So when are you two going to have a baby?" That question should be as taboo as "When are you due" is when the asker isn't damn certain the askee has a bun in the oven. I have just hit the point where I want to start making up equally rude and/or fictitious answers to cause squirming by whoever asks me that question. For instance, 

Nosy-Pants: "So when are you and the Hubs going to have a little one?"

Me: "NEVER. I have lost all faith in humanity and simply cannot bring a child into this world." 

or

Mama: "When are you going to make me a Grandma?"

Me: "When you sign a contract in blood stating you will provide free child-care until the little hellion gets into kindergarten." (I actually said something similar to my Mama and surprisingly she actually loved the idea - I really need to get her to sign something on that....)

or 

Mom of a Football Team: "Oh Dearie how soon are you going to have babies? What are you waiting for?!?!"
Me: "Are you capable of laughing without peeing a little bit anymore?"

or

Peanut-Gallery Lady: "When are you going to have kids?"

Me: "The voices told me I can only attempt to produce the prophesied offspring during the third lunar eclipse, after the second full moon, in the year after my Husband completes the atonement sacrifice. So I'm not sure yet really."

Random Co-worker: "So when are you two planning on a baby?"

Me: [Commence crying uncontrollably until I have rivers of mascara down my face and snot running out my nose - then just walk away without responding].

But in all seriousness, what if there was something wrong with my baby-maker and I could not have kiddos like I want to? That, my friends is why it is epic-ly rude to ask someone when they are going to have kids. You never know their situation, plus it's none of your damn business! Just congratulate me and sympathize (because I'll be preggers) with me when I do turn up knocked-up and until then just stay in suspense like a polite person.