Hot damn y’all, so much has happened in the past few days, I don’t even know where to start. First off, I’m blogging live from the Lone Star State. That’s right my Texan homies, momma’s home.
Anyway, as I mentioned last Friday, we had another holiday party to attend over the weekend. It went okay, except for the fact that I was ‘wife of man that smells like garlic’. We’ve discussed my super nose on multiple occasions. My husband is well aware that an offensive odor can do all sorts of damage in my world, and yet he loves garlic. Now, I will say that he usually refrains because he knows the smell kills me. But Friday night he opted to eat pasta with what I assume was a sauce made from one thousand pounds of pressed garlic. It was heinous.
And then he had some cocktails. Nothing quite like the scent of whiskey and garlic, yessiree.
It kept me up a great deal of the night. I eventually moved to the sofa because he refused to turn over and breathe garlic fumes in the opposite direction. When I woke Saturday morning, I closed the door to the bedroom so I could walk the dogs and go about my business without waking him up. A couple of hours later, I came upstairs from doing laundry to find the bedroom door open. I knew he was awake and that the door was open before actually seeing or hearing anything, because I was hit with a wall of garlic. By shutting the door, I locked in the smell, and it sat in there festering along with the whiskey. What a fucking mistake. I held my breath, ran into the room, and opened the window to air it out. It took the entire day to eradicate the stench from our apartment. My husband thought this was hilarious. Obviously I was extremely worried about the party, especially in light of my Thursday night experience. I didn’t want to be guilty by association, so I made him work out and take a hot shower, neither of which helped. That’s when I pulled out the big guns – lemon and parsley, which helped some, but not nearly enough. We are now, by the way, in a garlic-free relationship. I don’t care how good it is for you, my nose can’t handle it.
In other completely unrelated yet equally wrong news, I came really close to snapping a photo of some woman’s crotch over the weekend. I actually forgot all about it, but then I looked at my stats page and noticed the inevitable search terms querying whether or not camel toe is bad (for Pete’s sake, why are people still asking that question? Yes, it is). My husband and I were at a Diesel store, and this chick came strutting in wearing leggings as pants and a camel toe so pronounced that I swear it was talking to me. For real. Her vagina was so unhappy about her decision to don leggings without a shirt long enough to cover her precious parts, that it decided to eat the leggings.
Since camel toe brings so many people to the Cowardly Feminist, I decided a photo was in order. But you know something? It is rather difficult to inconspicuously snap a photo of someone’s hoo ha, so no photo to illustrate the phenomenal-ness of this toe. Depending on what kind of person you are, either I’m sorry, or you’re welcome.
Anyway, we left early Sunday morning for the mother land, and it’s been a whirlwind of stuff since arriving in Texas. This is the first opportunity I’ve had to sit down and write a post. I’ve also been slow to check and respond to my emails, so I’m a few days late for this, but, if you haven’t checked out Lizzie and Ali’s latest Funny or Die video…what would Baby Jesus say?