doahleigh - Holy Waste of Teabags!

And boy was I a hairy beast myself! I was inspired when Brad said he felt 80 lbs lighter after shedding the mountain man look. Could I too lose weight through hair removal? My legs were beginning to look not unlike his face in the before picture.

I tore through two disposable razors like nothing and there’s still stubble left, waiting for next month’s shave I guess! My legs don’t see the light of day in the winter, so they also don’t see the light of a razor (what?) for weeks at a time. I was just about to make a salon appointment for them, thinking some high- or lowlights might do them some good. I decided shaving was cheaper.

I didn’t start shaving until I was nearly 13. I was supposed to wait until my 13th birthday, but my mom caved when she realized I’d already had breasts and my period for nearly a year. My first shave wasn’t really noteworthy however. No gushing gashes. And nobody even noticed the loss of my peach fuzz.

Even though I sometimes regret ever joining in on this repressive (and repetitive!) custom, I still hold it against my mom for making me wait so long. I was her oldest daughter and I’m pretty sure she was trying out some young-mom power trip stuff. She quickly realized holding out on the leg shaving was not the way to go. Things got pretty lax in that department after me. Andrea was probably 8, Emily 5. Kelli got a pack of pink Lady Bics for her first birthday. That’s pretty much the way it’s gone our whole lives. Bitches. Kidding! I love my sisters.
Plus, I totally ended up with way bigger boobs than ya’ll!

I need to go lotion my legs.

I rhymed! 

I was a cranky bitch yesterday. Brad was too, so we kept clashing. We actually got in a fight about who was cutting the cheese. Except we were talking about actual cheese. Sharp cheddar! He kept eating all the cheese I was cutting, without cutting any himself, and when there was one piece left that neither of us wanted, I threw it away. You should have seen the horror in his face. He had visions of stinking rotting cheese in his trash can for the next month. This is the man who leaves his ice cream bowl in our room until it grows its own set of toes. His nightstand is an array of pop cans and beer bottles at various levels of emptiness. He once left a bowl of salsa on the desk until it had turned to a thick Mexican paste. Oh but that piece of cheese. I obviously went too far.

Also regarding food, a few months ago we ordered chinese from the aptly named China Garden down the street. We ordered lo mein and chow mein, and what we got was a carton of delicious noodles and a tub of wet onions and green leaves. Unsure which was which, I looked up images of both online and found nothing even remotely resembling the slop we had been served. So last night when we wanted chinese again, we convinced ourselves it must have been a mistake on the Garden’s part. So.

We ordered the exact same thing. And.

We got the exact same thing.

We weren’t smart enough to take a picture before we deposited it in the trash, but I assure you it looked nothing like this:

So I need help. We’re still not clear on the difference. We ordered lo mein in another restaurant once and got something that looked like the above (except with chicken and not those unidentified brown chunks). But that is supposedly an image of chow mein. What the hell? Any chinese-american cuisine experts out there?

Hey, come check me out at www.doahleigh.com

I’m switching over to that instead of livejournal. I plan to write a lot, so visit often and don’t be shy about commenting. I like to know when I have visitors!

See ya over there!

Credit goes to Brad for my cool new banner and for improving the general look of this site! Thanks hon.

Here’s what else he’s been up to lately…

I love him with a beard, but it was getting a little bushy. With the not-so-recently cut hair and the overgrown eyebrows, he was turning into a bit of a hairy beast.

Some mid-shave experimentation. Nice chops!

The finished product. He’s like a totally different person. I freaked out a little bit and had to not look at him for a couple minutes. His eyes on the face of a stanger. I was kinda trippin’!

And now I think it’s time for our regularly scheduled eyebrow pluck. Tweezers please!

Brad and I sent a card to our friends who just had a baby. The outside was innocent enough with a pastel baby rattle and Congratulations in a childish font, but the printed message inside said “Happy cootchy-cooing.” We were deciding what to write as a personal note when I coyly suggested “Hope your cootchy recovers quickly.”

We went with something a little more along the lines of “Can’t wait to meet the baby.” It’s probably better that way.

To the lady who rode my ass this morning:

Did you have a crush on me or something? Maybe you were trying to read my license plate. But it doesn’t say anything interesting, so it must be that you just really liked me. I hope you appreciated that I was driving so slow. I don’t usually do that, but I was worried that if I drove too fast I would lose you. And it was obvious that you wanted to stay as close as possible. I hope you appreciated it. It made me a little late for work, but for you, it was worth it. You were so close that I could see the pores in your skin in my rearview mirror. Sorry, you’re just not my type. I go for brunettes. If I ever see you and your ice blue minivan again though, I’ll be sure to say hi.

On a much different note, last night I saw a commercial for a urine remover. It was called Urine Out or something equally disturbing. It definitely had urine in the name. Is this really a problem? They tried to play it off like their primary customers are the cat ladies who need to cover up all the kitty accidents on their shag carpet. But they were none too subtle about the “other uses” you may have for Urine-B-Gone. Kids wet the bed? Urine-Ex! Husband too drunk to find the toilet? Try the Urinator!

Urine. Urine. Yer in. Yeerrriiiinnn. Weird Al should write a song called Urination. Are ya getting it? As in… Rhythm* Nation. But it has the word urine in it. Maybe he already has. Anyone?

*I first typed “Rythym” and actually thought that was right for a minute

We went to a birthday party this weekend. It was a grown up birthday party with a fully stocked open bar in the basement and an eager tender. His specialty was butt sex. The drink. I don’t know if he actually ever made a round of butt sex, but he couldn’t stop talking about it. And neither could anyone else.

Because what’s funnier than anal intercourse? Nothing apparently! The continual banter went something like this: You want a drink? I’ll make anything. How about butt sex? [laughter] Oh, well you’ll have to clear that with my wife upstairs. [laughter] And so on with every new guest that arrived.

Know what else is funny? Jokes about alcohol. “Keep ‘em coming! Or you could just hook me up to an IV.” Oh how we laughed. Alcohol. Fed directly into your blood stream! This is the stuff of true comedy people.

And just in case these jokes don’t get you through a party, always keep a can of spotted dick in your purse. Apparently it’s some kind of canned sponge cake. Or something. That was the birthday boy’s gift from one particularly witty young lady. Throughout the evening I heard random references to spotted dick, and always, always, it was followed by a chorus of laughter.

These are the keys to adult party humor my friends.

I’ve been wanting to write a huge I HATE WINTER post, listing all the reasons I loathe this season in Michigan. But then I woke up this morning and the snow was melting and it was almost warm. Well okay, not warm, but… balmy maybe (Brad, did you get the King of Queens reference?).

I know it’s only January 20 and there’s no hope of spring in the near future, but I just can’t bring myself to complain about winter on a morning like this. Don’t worry, it’ll be shitty again soon enough and you’ll hear all about my hateful disdain for the depressing 5 months we call winter.

Eating an orange is kind of therapeutic for me. Not the consumption part necessarily, but the process it takes to consume one. Sometimes it’s cumbersome when you just want a damn snack without the hassle. But when I’ve got time to sit down and eat an orange, I find it relaxing.

I’ve mostly discovered this since Brad came into my life. He’s become my official orange peeler. He’s like a magician when it comes to removing the tough outer rind. He’s got this technique that results in exactly two evenly shaped rind pieces, just two, that he removes flawlessly. It’s really quite amazing because I usually have a million little orange rind chunks laying around if I do it myself.

He then hands me my orange and gets to work on his. I’m picky about all the white stuff that surrounds the fruit, I think it takes away from the orangey sweetness. But that’s precisely what is so therapeutic about this process. I meticulously remove as much of the white as I can from each slice of orange. It takes me a really long time, there’s a good two or three minutes in between the consumption of each slice. And I end up with a little mountain of yellowy stickiness in front of me. But the slices taste so good, and I feel serenely calm and peaceful when I’m done.

In the meantime, Brad has peeled and scarfed his entire orange (the whiteness doesn’t bother him), and has moved on to yet another round of Streetfighter. Or whatever.

I just read this on someone’s blog:

“This comes on the heels of a British Amnesty International poll that found that 1 in 3 Brits think that a woman is at least partially to blame for her rape if she was flirting or drunk, about 1 in 4 think she’s to blame if she was dressed sexily. And if a woman is known to have had an active sexual history? 15% think she’d be partly to blame for being raped and a full 8% think it would be completely her fault.”

http://www.amnesty.org.uk/news/press/16618.shtml

I don’t how to explain how this makes me feel. If you don’t think like me, then maybe you won’t get it. But how are we, our world I mean, ever supposed to crawl our way out of that way of thinking? It’s so deep-rooted. It seems hopeless.

I know this report only represents a certain portion of the population, but I’m willing to venture that more people than I want to think about share the same views.

How is it ever anyone’s fault, even kind of, that they are assaulted in any way? I don’t care if a person walks down a dark alley naked and drunk. Or if s/he is in your house or car naked and drunk. It is never permissible to assault or attack that person in any way if they don’t explicitly ask for it or give permission.

I’m not looking for arguments here, you won’t convince me I’m wrong. And I don’t have the energy to try to convince you that you’re wrong, so let’s just leave each other alone if you disagree.

I’ve been reading a lot lately. Four books so far this month. Reading makes me happy, it fills my time, it gives my hands and my eyes and my brain something to do.

I didn’t make a new year’s resolution to read more this year or anything, but I should have because so far I’ve been a reading machine. Yes, a machine that reads. I think this speaks volumes about how much free time I have these days. I love having my evenings free and being anti-social. Surely this is the life I’m meant to live.

Anyway, every book I pick up turns out to be gold. Well gold in the sense that it’s really enjoyable, so if you’re looking for something to read, try these:

Egalia’s Daughters. It’s a satire of the sexes. It’s about a society in which men posses what we consider typical “female” roles and characteristics, and vice versa. I read it in college for some English course, and I pulled it out again to remind myself that so much of what we “know” and accept to be true is just a result of our perceptions passed along through time. It’s pretty entertaining.

Kite Runner. I was worried that this was going to be a book about foreign policy that I’d have no hope of understanding. Turns out it’s a really great story about a boy and another boy and some other people. I won’t give it away, but don’t be intimidated by the back cover description.

Lolita. A nymphet? I mean come on, you gotta read it. It’s not the sexually lewd novel you might be hoping for, but Brad said I was “obsessed” with this book the whole time I was reading it. He’d leave the room for a second and come back to find me once again engrossed in this story.

The Bridge of San Luis Rey. This was on my “to read someday” list forever, so I finally bought it at the used book store, and after it sat on my shelves for a few months, I gave it a go. It’s pretty short and it was a genuinely interesting story, so I read it in two days. It doesn’t befuddle you with complicated language or confusing plots. It’s simple, yet discretely intertwined.

Now I’m reading Watchmen. It’s a graphic novel. Brad introduced me to this genre, and although I was skeptical at first, I’ll admit I’m now a bit captivated. Apparently this one is on some Top 100 Books list, alongside the likes of Hemingway and Salinger and other greats. So far I’m not disappointed.

One day somebody decided to roll some tobacco in a piece of thin paper and the cigarette was born.* People lit them and smoked them and there was much joy in the world. But there were others who found the smoking of the cigarettes vile and disgusting. One day doctors discovered that cigarettes caused damage to lungs. With the inhalation of toxic fumes and all. But people continued to smoke, throwing caution to the wind. They also threw smoke to the wind, which carried it to the non-smokers who deemed it foul and smelly.

Then one day the doctors realized that even non-smokers can get lung damage from the smoke of the smokers who smoke when the non-smokers are near. Thus, the term “second-hand smoke” was born. But smokers didn’t care, they just kept on smoking. Whenever. Wherever. However often they pleased.

Soon smoking was barred from most indoor areas, and all the smokers were exiled, forced to go outside with their rolled tobacco. And there was peace on earth.

But one day, my children, all the smokers of the world decided the best place to enjoy their cancer sticks was huddled up near the entrances and exits of all the buildings in the world, forcing all the silly non-smokers of the world to walk through their cancer-causing stench whenever they needed to enter or leave a public place. Thus, non-smokers became prisoners in their own buildings.

They’ve been living there ever since, starving for scraps, begging for freedom, while the smokers stand guard at all the doors of all the buildings of the world. Smoking their cigs and beating back the non-smokers if ever they try to get home to their families.

Moral of this story: BACK THE FUCK UP YOU MOTHER FUCKERS! IT’S NOT MY FAULT IT’S RAINING! I DON’T CARE IF YOU SMOKE, BUT GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!

*I don’t know the real history of the cigarette, but go with it.

I hate taking showers. Does anyone else have this problem? No, it’s not that I like being unclean. Dirty is not my thang, smelly is not the new fresh-scented. But showers, they’re just so much work.

Sometimes I wish I was a boy. Here’s what I imagine the showering process to be like if I had a penis:

Strip.
Get in shower.
Wet entire body and hair in 2.6 seconds (this is of course assuming I’m not a hippy or a rock star).
Finger 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner through hair with a couple quick swipes.
Rinse in 2.6 seconds.
Grab bar of soap, lather.
Wash body in 6.2 seconds.
Rinse.
Exit shower, dry off.
Dress.
Run fingers through hair.
Time elapsed: 3 minutes.
Let hair air-dry, approximately 10 minutes.

Now let’s review my showering process while in possession of a vagina:

Strip.
Get in shower.
Wet entire body and thoroughly wet hair, 2 mins.
Finger shampoo through hair, 1 min.
Grab soap and razor.
Shave armpits and other unwanted hair (no this does not include legs, that would add an additional 7 mins that I rarely have time for), 2 mins.
Rinse shampoo, 2 mins.
Pick strands of hair hands and stuck all over body, 1 min.
Apply conditioner to hair, making sure to work it into all layers of thick hair, root to tip, 2 mins.
Grab soap, lather.
Scrub entire body, 2 mins.
Rinse body.
Rinse conditioner in layers so as not to let it dry and cake underneath, 3 mins.
Pick strands of hair off hands and body, 1 min.
Towel dry hair, squeezing and wringing out as much moisture as possible, 1 min.
Towel dry body.
Lotion entire body, 5 mins.
Further towel dry hair, 1 min.
Dress.
Time elapsed: 27.5 mins.
Let hair air-dry in layers, approximately 4 hours.

Do you see? Do you see why I hate showers? It’s not like I include a bunch of unnecessary steps that involve creams and scrubs and fancy devices. I don’t even brush my teeth in the shower like my friend Alaina, which I still think is a very strange habit.

I take showers at night because who has time for all that in the morning? I value my sleep much more than I value my daily hygiene. Speaking of daily. This is not a daily routine for me. Oh no, I have better things to do with my time. Like sleep, eat, read. Update livejournal. The worst part is that I have to plan showering into my day. Oh you want to have dinner Monday night? I’m sorry, that’s a shower night. I’m basically out of commission on the nights I plan to shower. I have to do it early enough to allow ample dry time for my hair. Not that I have any problem going out in public with wet hair and no makeup. Hell, I’ll even wear my pajamas. But dinner plans? I’m sorry, can we wait until Tuesday? That’s not a shower night.

I’m sick of spending 40 bucks at Victoria’s Secret just to have my bras break in less than a month. The underwires always pop out and poke me. I have gashes in my cleavage from these things. So I either have to deal with the lacerations or sew them up every two weeks (the bras, not the lacerations), which I shouldn’t have to do with a 40 dollar bra.

I decided to try JCP. Buy something that was cheaper and not as hot, but did the job. I found NOTHING! All the ones I thought could offer ample support only went up to a C cup. What is that? So I had to go to the full-figure section just to find a D*. Those were all ugly and unnecessarily supportive. Twelve feet of fabric, eight rows of clasps, four-inch thick straps. So I caved and went to VS anyway. I ended up finding a wine-colored bra in my exact size and style on sale for $25, so I bought it. Problem is I already have a black and bright pink one, plus a white one that I can’t wear under light-colored clothing. Of my five bras, the only one I can wear now under half my wardrobe is the nude one which is barely more than a sling of fabric at this point anyway.

But I refused to spend 40 bucks on yet another bra that will disintegrate in a matter of months. I’ve bought like 3 nude bras from there in the last year, and I can’t do it again. Well then I wanted panties** that matched either my wine or pink bra. The only pair I found was this lacy stringy thong thing that was a size small. Have you seen my mega-hips? I went online thinking for sure I’d find something there right? NO! Not a single pair of underwear (I looked at all but the thongs because this booty does not need to be flapping in the wind, trust me) came in hot pink or wine. What the mother fuck is that? How am I supposed to have sexy matching bra and panties? This is Victoria’s Secret for god’s sake! This is their thing, this is what they do!

*What do people like Jessica Simpson do with a tiny frame and huge boobs?
**Seriously, does anyone use that word in real life?

I love food. Who doesn’t right? Well I suppose there are those… But I love food, especially when it’s free. You might not realize this, but I’m poor. I’m what they call a full-time volunteer (no really, that’s official), so the funds are limited.

If you’re guessing that this post is leading to a story about how I got some delicious free food recently, you’re right. Well, half right. Through only a small amount of deception, Brad and I happened upon the ownership of a 50 dollar gift certificate to a nice restaurant in a nearby town. Last night, in celebration of nine lovely months together, we decided to use it.

I ordered the New York steak. And this was a steak people. A big thick juicy medium-cooked steak. Oh how I wish I had a picture to share with you. It was obvious enough though that we were strangers to fine-dining, despite our best efforts to shed the homely clothing and the “we’re poor!” facade. I tried to act like I eat 2 inch thick steaks all the time, cooked in a Merlot reduction sauce with grilled asparagus and a potato-leek cake. By the way, what the fuck is that? Did I give myself away when I asked to replace it with the cheddar mashed potatoes? Perhaps.

My meal alone cost $27. I just had water with dinner and Brad had a bloody Mary (I tried it, not so bad). Then we had strawberry daiquiris for “dessert” The total? 83 dollars!! That includes tax and tip, but you may recall that our gift certificate was only for 50. We ended up spending over $30 anyway! So much for a free meal. But did I mention how big and thick and juicy the steak was? So worth it.

Later that night we finished off the cheesecake we had made earlier in the weekend. Shall we call it “dessert” part 2? By the way, if you ever make a Jello no bake cheesecake, bear in mind that it calls for FIVE tablespoons of melted butter. Not two like I misread. Our crust is nothing but graham cracker crumbles you have to scoop up with each bite. But please know that it was delicious nonetheless.