Silly Sunday

One picture story is true, the other is false.


Before:

After vigorous ruffling:

Either way, he's a puffball. Just how disorganized depends on how dry & staticky the air is, and whether his human feels like torture that day.


Before: The Big B giving the puppy-eyes look for something he wants.

After: Gloating when I fall for it.

And running away in fear of my righteous wrath.

The Women in My Family Are Comfortable With Touching

This is something I've discovered when comparing my immediate family with others. Everyone has boundaries to some extent, with the only difference being in size and application.

For the most part, we have no issue touching other people in social settings. Just met you? No problem, we'll be back-patting, arm squeezing and shoulder-punching you like we were lifelong friends quicker than you can say "bad touch".

Like the time my mom chest-patted my high school boyfriend Parrot Boy (so named for his blue hair, prominent nose, and various pierced body parts. What? I fancied myself a rebel youth). He looked so startled we both laughed about it later on when my mom apologized to me for doing it. Hilarious, because despite Parrot Boy's best efforts to be angst-y and scary, very little deters the women in my family from being touchy-feely.

This sometimes creates problems, like when you marry someone who isn't touchy-feely. Or someone who avoids unnecessary tactile contact like the plague, as the Big B does. I try to be good about not touching him too much, but every once in awhile I can't hold it back any more and I go into "leech mode", whereupon I latch onto him like he's the last floating piece of debris in the ocean after a shipwreck and squeeze with all my might. If he struggles, I've been known to wrap a leg around his hip and be dragged around the house until I've had my fill of hugging.

Coupled with this, I was raised to be comfortable in my own skin and to have no problems discussing bodies and natural functions.

So it was no surprise when my mom, sister and I found ourselves in a compromising situation on a road trip to see Dave Matthews Band one summer.

As a present for my mom, we bought tickets to one of her favorite musical artists and decided to make a girl's trip out of it since the concert was in Wisconsin. We loaded up in the car, booked a hotel room at the Rainbow Inn (eh? eh!) and proceeded to drive across Wisconsin.

We pulled off at a trucker stop/gas station/middle-of-nowhere place to stretch our legs and walk around a bit midway through our drive. We parked in a non-busy part of the large lot and somehow, the conversation turned to our breasts and went something like this:

Me: Your girls look HUGE! (staring at my sister)
Sister: What? Yours are just as big!
Mom: (laughing) 
Me: Yours are way bigger! Mom's don't look exactly small, either.
Sister: I think Mom's are bigger.
Mom: (Surprised) Really? I think Sarah's are the biggest.
Me: No way. (Feeling my breasts and looking at the others) Yours are definitely the largest.
Sister: C'mon! We're all pretty similar in size, I think. (Feeling herself up at this point)
Mom: (Feels her own and reaches out to feel ours) I think she's right, Sarah.
Me: (Reaching out to feel my mom's, then my sister's, then my own again) I think you both are crazy!
Mom & Sister: (Feels their own and then everyone else's)

Meanwhile, I happened to look around and realize we had an audience...

Me: *hissing* Omigod don't look now, but I think we just gave that trucker over there something to put in the spank bank...
Sister & Mom: Ewwwww! (All breast fondling stops and we start giggling)
*Disclaimer

And with that, we decided we'd stretched our legs enough and hopped back in the car and speedily made our exit from the scene of our unintentional lewdness.

In honor of that trip, I made us take this photo together on my wedding day.

We're crazy, and neither of them could refuse me on that day.

HA!


*This conversation is not accurate as far as who started touching who first, what exactly was said, or who even brought up the subject of breast size, although I have a strong suspicion it was me. But it is accurate as far as the tone and such. Plus there really was a trucker leaning on his vehicle watching us.

What is This Phenomenon They Call "Bronies"?

Looking for My Little Pony stuff on the web the other day, I came across something called "Bronies".

WTF?

Have you heard of this before?

Apparently, it's men (and women) who love the new My Little Pony cartoon.

And when I say love, it's like the kind of strangely fantastic love that inspires a legion of fan art, forums, videos and communities. The phenomenon is an apparently growing epidemic online and I can't believe I'm just stumbling onto it now.


I try to be open minded, I really do.

But, uh, Bronies? Just FYI, the BEST My Little Ponies are and always will be the FIRST GENERATION.

From the 80's baby, with realistic pony bodies and the best names, like Moondancer, Melody, Windwhistler and Firefly (yes there is a MLP named Firefly and she IS a Browncoat!).

Not that I can't get down with a name like Rainbow Dash, of course. Especially since according to Wikipedia, Rainbow Dash is based upon the original Firefly's personality, who was basically THE star of the original My Little Ponies.

Herds of Bronies online may disagree with the above statements. I'm not sure if they have watched the older cartoon since they were kids or if they would even want to, since the impetus of their devotion seems to be wrapped up in the show itself and is inexplicable, even to themselves.

However, after babysitting two little girls recently who think the best part of coming over is the gigantor bag of old school My Little Ponies they get to play with, I got the opportunity to watch one of the new episodes.

All too soon, the show was over.

At first, the animation style threw me off but gradually the surprising depth of plot for a children's show and the great voice acting sucked me in.

In a move that spoke to my fierce nostalgic heart while at the same time creating a bit of disappointment, the little girls said they wanted to watch my DVD of the original 80's TV show instead of another of the new My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic episodes.

I have a feeling I won't be waiting for the excuse of babysitting little girls before I watch the other episodes. And if I grow restless for more MLP magic, there's plenty of fan content on the web to keep a geek like me happy.

As I FINALLY watched Firefly and became a Browncoat,

I thought this would be appropriate. 

Enjoy! And if you become a Brony, be sure to tell me. I'm fascinated!

Too Naive for My Own Good

Despite all my wishes to the contrary, I am still naive.

To prove my point, witness my stupidity the other day whilst outside on my break.

I push open the doors, heading towards my usual spot by the air exchanger for the building where occasional warmth can be blown over me by the constant wind downtown.

"Nice shoes," says the man on the bus stop bench.

I have seen him before...he wears shorts even in 40 degree weather, has an Aussie-style cowboy hat with chin-strap, and a large salt and pepper beard. Almost infallibly he compliments me on my shoes, whenever I see him.

The past couple of times I've entertained the thought that maybe I know this man. He looks sorta like a fellow Minnesota blogger I follow and I've thought about asking him to confirm this.

Who knows? Maybe he IS that blogger and compliments my shoes because he knows I follow him? Although I do wear kick ass shoes...

For whatever reason, I decide that today is a good day to gain confirmation (or denial) of my supposition.

I approach him cautiously.

"Are you so-and-so? You look just like a blogger I follow..."

He shakes his head and says no.

"Oh okay, you look a lot like him!" and I start to walk away, which in hindsight was very smart, however dumb I was just a minute ago to approach him in the first place.

"Nope, but would you like a foot massage?" he says in return.

ACK!

When will I learn?

No matter how kickass my shoes are, the only men who are going to compliment me constantly on my footwear are gay men and people with a foot fetish.

And so I shut my mouth, shook my head vigorously, and proceeded to walk away in my kick-ass black zipper ankle booties as fast as the high heels would allow.

Peter Pecker

This, boys and girls, is the story of Peter Pecker.

He came to me with that new plastic smell, the smell of things that can be inflated that are made out of plastic.
(Do guys that buy inflatable dolls breathe in that new plastic smell with fondness? I don't think I want to go there).

His face was creepy...like a bad screen print of a voodoo doll with a horrible rendition of the victim on the front.

He came with several plastic rings that could be tossed onto...well I'll just leave that part to your imaginations.

With a name like Peter Pecker and an introduction like that, I'm confident you'll reach the correct conclusion, although you may wish you hadn't.




*blush* Thanks for thinking I'm not that type of girl, but truth is Peter Pecker made me squeal in delight.




*gasp* NOW you're going somewhere you shouldn't!




He was a gag gift at my bachelorette party and was an instant hit. The Big B was for some reason still home when the shower/bachelorette party started, and as he snuck downstairs to use the bathroom, the gaggle of girls used the opportunity to place Peter Pecker across the doorway of the bathroom and we all waited in anticipation of his reaction.

My lovely nerd boy, he took it in stride and burst out the door a-la football players bursting through a large sheet of paper stretched across a frame and knocked Mr. Pecker to the floor.

Smartly, the Big B disappeared shortly after that and wasn't seen until the following day.

Peter, on the other hand, was used and abused and forced to watch all the silly wiener-themed games done at bachelorette parties--the broom and toilet paper race game, the hot-dog on a string and the bucket of tacks game, the pin the dong on the hottie game.

His face remained creepily stoic the entire time.

*********************************************************************************

Cut to last year, sometime during the spring. My coworker Jeino (nicknamed this for his weird obsession for the German folk artist Heino and the fact that he can look eerily similiar) invited me to see his band, Loyal to the Group of Seventeen, play a gig at the 7th Street Entry.

He is a person who insists on being outside the lines, all the time, in every aspect of his life. The crazier, stranger things can be, the happier he is.

He once started a collage of the Jolly Roger on his cubewall made entirely out of cardboard fake credit cards. Sadly, the 2008 economy crash ended the credit card offers for the most part, so the collage went unfinished.

But I digress!

I had told him about Peter Pecker and he said he'd want him for his band to play with.

Not play with like that, you sickos!

Well, okay, maybe so. But he really wanted Mr Pecker there so he could be onstage, basking in their glory alongside the rest of the band. He excitedly told me of what he would make Peter do, and trust me, it was NOT G-rated!

When I agreed to come to his gig, he asked if I would bring Peter with and at some point, throw him up onstage. Jeino has a wicked sense of humor and a penchant for practical jokes.

I agreed...and brought my girlfriend K along as my moral support.

I chickened out on lugging an inflated male blow up doll through the downtown streets of Minneapolis. I DID bring Mr Pecker with, safely rolled up and tucked away in my huge purse.

Loyal to the Group of Seventeen came onstage, and the first few songs were played while I nervously contemplated the plastic doll in my purse.

Where in the heck was I gonna blow this thing up? How would I bring it onto the floor? Everyone will stare!

Jeino must have sensed my misgivings, for at one point he leaned over his drumkit and said into the microphone, "Where's the blowup doll?"

I looked at K. K looked at me. We nodded, and departed for the entryway.

There we blew up the nefarious doll, as people walked past into the show. Peter's arms had gotten all twisted up and I had trouble with my half of the chambers, and in a fit of impatience K took it from me and proceeded to finish inflating Mr Pecker.

Of all my girlfriends, only K would have the balls to do something like this with me.

Sheepishly, I grabbed him and we made our way back to our place in front of the stage. I waited for a good time so I wouldn't disturb the players...and when the moment was ripe, I dashed up close, tossed the doll and ran away quickly.

The lead singer who plays keyboard while he sings suddenly turns around and sees the doll.

"Oh my god, there really IS a blowup doll! I thought you were just joking," and he turns to look at his drummer as he says this.

Apparently Jeino wanted to play a joke on his bandmates as well and hadn't told them about the possible appearance of Peter Pecker.

The lead signer proceeded to put Peter Pecker on his lap and played the next few songs around Peter's...ahem...pecker. The appendage may have been used to play a few notes on the keyboard as well. The night grows a bit hazy after that...but my cheeks hurt from smiling.

The bassist was weirded out by his face.

"It's so creepy!" she exclaimed at one point when the singer threatened her with the doll.

Eventually Peter ended up bent over the drumkit with his member facing the bass drum hole.

When next I ran into Jeino at work, I asked him how Mr Pecker had fared during the afterparty.

Jeino shook his head. "You know, we forgot him there? I can't believe we did, but in the rush to load the van, he got left behind."

Sadness! But I'm comforted by the thought that perhaps Peter Pecker found a new home.