And people? IT IS ALWAYS ABOUT ME.

I’ve recently become part of a divorced couple. Not with Mr. Flinger, no no, we’ll kill each other before we try to split our assets, both of them, but with a group friend. It was a somewhat dysfunctional family, sure, with her and I as the two on opposite sides of most deep topics, but the children have spent the past three years growing up together (which constitutes 90% of their short lives thus far) and the group has endured babies, miscarriages, cancer and other life-altering news.

And then? It just fell apart.

Apparently because of me.

I won’t delve in to stupid details, all of which you’ll be getting from my view (see truth #1: IT IS ALL ABOUT ME) but the short version is that one fourth of the group decided she couldn’t be around me and I took it personally and cried a lot and we are left to split our assets.

Both of them.

The children don’t understand. “Why can’t I see my friend anymore? We don’t ever play with them anymore. Why? Can I draw her a picture?” I try to tell her it’s not her fault. “They’re just really busy.” But I feel a guilt and a pain knowing a truth, a stupid ridiculous truth: we’ve been divorced.

It hurts, I won’t lie.

It’s awkward now, the other two ladies left to try to be friends with us both. It’s hard for them to be in the middle. We talk about holidays, how will we share the group? One weekend at my house, one at hers. It’s Jr. High. It’s a crazy replay of life 23 years ago. It’s a painful projection of how horrible life would be if someone you loved stop loving you back.

It sucks.

Have you dealt with a friend divorce? How? When? Was there a wake of children in the mess? Other friends? Mutual hangouts?

I don’t really know what to do, honestly. I’ve always moved often enough to never face a long friendship coming to an end.

And the children! MY GOD THE CHILDREN.

I find myself begging, “Can’t we just get along enough to let the children be together? Comon.”

I don’t know if we can. I hope we can be amiable, but it takes two. And right now my divorce attorney is talking to her attorney and I don’t know where this all goes later.

But god, I hope it goes soon.

Divorce sucks. However it is.

Now? I’m taking it to a whole ‘notha level.

The ovulation predictor kit. Or OPK for those trying to conceive (TTC). Which, apparently, we are. I guess.

So. The OPK. I got a 10 pack at Costco. I downloaded an app (seriously) for my iPhone which tells me when I *should* ovulate and when I should start using my OPK.

So I started my OPK. I couldn’t get the gottdamn thing open, first of all, and second, I apparently have no clue as to how to piss on gottdamn absorbent pee sticks because I? GOT NO GOTTDAMN RESULT.

So I can piss all over the gottdamn thing, but nary a result in the RESULT WINDOW. Fuck me dead, as Kelley would say.

I try again the next day with one my neighbor gave me since they are done with the bebes. Same result. As in, there wasn’t one.

Shaysus FUCK. I KNOW I’m a cracker, but COMON.

When you’re trying to conceive, you learn that your ‘first morning urine’ contains the highest/most concentrated amount of hormones. You really, really do not like knowing this phrase, ‘first morning urine.’ It’s like, gross ‘n’ stuff.

ANYWAY. I try again with my first morning urine. Let’s call it FMU for fun.

AAAAHHHHhhhhhhh *whizzzzz*

I see the piss climbing up into the result window.

I see some blue tinges appearing.

YES!!! I GOT A RESULT!!!!

I’M NOT ABOUT TO OVULATE!!!! WOOOHOOOO!!

Thank GOD! I was beginning to think that I’m a paltry pee stick pisser!

Let’s repeat, shall we?

Next FMU, ANOTHER RESULT!! I. AM. ON. A. ROLL!!!

COULD IT BE? IS IT SHE? TWO DARK LINES!

Maybe I’m going to ovulate?

(You see, I’m very in touch with what I’m feeling, but couldn’t tell you when where or how I’m going to ovulate.)

Let’s repeat with the NEXT FMU!

No result. WOW. I *am* special.

How about once more with feeling?

Can you guess? No result.

I think I might just give up on this whole peeing on sticks business since I’m so bad at it. It’s a little bit of a blow to the ol’ ego.

I mean, WHO repeatedly FAILS pee stick tests?

Me. Apparently.

Also? Don’t ask me if I’m knocked up yet, because I don’t know. I fail pee stick tests. Just sayin’.

You should know the big boobage around here already with VDog, Dawn & Flinger, so I’m figuring they brought me on to bring down the average cup size. As a larger lady with lovely lady lumps like mine, you’d think they came along with a set of massive funbags, but unfortuntely, the boob fairy skipped over me and granted my sister with the familial breasticles.

Hers? Are magnificent.

Mine? Are Itty Bitty Titty Committee charter members ravaged by months of breastfeeding nearly Irish twins. Not so spectacular.

When I tell the peoples of the interwebs that I have the biggest ratio of chesticles to body mass, they don’t believe me. Way back when 6 months ago at BlogHer ‘09 (woot! woot!) when I met many of my fellow computer dwellers, I had my sweater puppies out, raised, and propped up with the aid of little air pockets courtesy of the best bra known to the big woman. They gave me out-and-proud, ever-important decolletage. (I totally learn stuff watching Project Runway.)

Family dinner nights when I wear them out and at attention, it’s hard to get my husband’s attention up to my face. Cause really, let’s be honest. He’s not really looking at the teeny tittys on days when they’re hidden in the threadbare everyday bra. (Proof: the picture I had him take above.)

On a normal, yoga pants-wearing day, my titties are folded into my tiny 42Bs (yes, they DO make that size, they’re just found on a month-long scavenger hunt to the big girl store).

Normally, I’m pretty much lucky to find my bewbs reaching out past my belly rolls.

Do yours hang low, or do they wobble to and fro?

Or both?

~

Angie is a well-rounded internet pro. With an online children’s store, a personal blog about nothing, a co-op blog with like-minded snarky women, and a heavy hand at Twitter, she knows the internet and the world of social networking well. In addition to a full internet life, Angie has two young girls and a husband who puts up with a lot of her computer-driven life. She enjoys her TV and DVR more than what is considered healthy. She understands the happiness found in a good meal and isn’t afraid to take a second helping of everything good in life.

My motto: “Might as well do something while you’re doing nothing.”

(Totally my ass being grabbed there, FYI)

I was first introduced to this drink when I went to Oklahoma State University and it’s my go-to when I want to get really, really drunk.  My disclaimer:  I always end up naked when I drink this, so consider who you’re hanging out with before indulging.

What you need:

2 beers, your choice (though Natty is usually the only thing I could afford in college)

1 can frozen lemonade concentrate

Vodka (again, your choice, though I know that the cheap stuff gets you just as drunk)

Now the hard part:

Mix beer and concentrate together.  Fill empty concentrate can with vodka and pour into mix.  Pour in a glass if you’re fancy, chug out of the pitcher if you’re like me.

~

Meg, aka Sleepy New Mommy, rarely exerts any effort to hop or skip, but going naked is just a typical Tuesday for her.

Mostly, though, the aging process sucks rocks. Big giant boulders, in fact.

Including the parts where, although menopause has brought me the cessation of that monthly visit from Aunt Flo, that benefit comes with a certain — ahem — shall we say desert-like aspect.

Accordingly, the Wonderhubby and I have learned to adapt in many ways, including the use of the euphemistically termed “personal lubricant.”

We are always looking for a thrill — cheap or otherwise — so it seemed logical that we would be attracted to this his-and-hers thing, called (cleverly) Yours and Mine.

It comes in two separate bottles, one for him to use on her and one for her to use on him.

They’re color-coded, see? One is blue, one is purple. One for him and one for her. Used in tandem, the combination is supposed to be (and I quote) “thrilling” for both of you.

But here’s the problem:

Have you ever tried to figure out the difference between blue and purple IN THE DARK?

Plus, the writing on these suckers are teeny. And it doesn’t say HIS and HERS. It’s says YOURS and MINE.

Well, hell. Who is who here? You? Me? Her? Him? WTF???

I really wanted to give you a detailed review of what “thrilling” really means in the Casa de Janet’s Planet, but … uh … the bedroom scene really went more like this:

Wonderhubby: You want to use some … uh …?

Evil Wife: We have that two-fer stuff, if you want to use that.

Wonderhubby: *reaching into the nightstand drawer for the two tubes of thrill* Which one is which again?

Evil Wife: *squinting in the dark* I can never remember which one is which. What does it say on the bottles?

Wonderhubby: Wait, what is Yours? Is that mine? Or is that really yours? Is that yours for me or yours for you?

Evil Wife: WHAT???????

Wonderhubby: Wait. Is blue for you? Or is blue for me? Is this the blue one? Or is that really purple? I can’t see the color, and I cant see what it says. Can you see what it says?

Evil Wife: Wait wait wait. If it says Mine, is that for me or is that for you? Does this say Mine?

Wonderhubby: Wait. Is purple for you or for me?

Evil Wife: *totally ruining the mood* Oh, turn on the freakin’ light, for crap’s sake.

Instead, Wonderhubby reached for his cell phone.

What? You gonna make a call?

But no. He flipped it open and used the light from the phone to illuminate a blue tube labeled “Yours (for him)” and a purple tube labeled “Mine (for her).”

And I gotta tell ya, at this point? I had given in to hysterical, maniacally uncontrollable laughter.

It took a loooooooong time to get back to business.

~

The apparently-not-so-brutally-shy Janet blabs about everything at From the Planet of Janet, where even lube is not off-limits.

While we will never wear our country’s colors on a podium at the Olympic sports games – there ARE events where we will ALWAYS take the gold.

Opening Ceremonies – I believe we have established we can throw a party. Or two. Perhaps three … hm …

Laundry Pile Jumping

Alpine Swiss Cheese Eating

Speed Drinking

Bicoastal Skypeathon

Tonsil Hockey

Free Swag Distributing

Lugee Wiping

Shortness

Nordic Trak (okay, this is just to make sure you are paying attention. Only if there is a piece of chocolate cake as a reward.)

Figure Admiring

Cross-Country Airport Hopping

Ironing Board Ignoring

Curling Our Toes. Ahem.

Care to give us a score, judges? *wink*

(please click the photos to be taken to the flickr pages of the photographers)

I have the perfect gift idea for you, and it requires very little effort.  That’s how we like it, right? (At least us crackers/lazy douches, that is.)

All you need is a bow.  Not even a new one, either.  Just grab a leftover one from Christmas, or something.  In fact, he’s probably not even going to notice it much, so the bow is purely for you, really.

It’s the perfect gift for any husband/boyfriend/significant other of a female.  It’s the perfect gift, quite frankly, for any occasion.

As Justin Timberlake would say, even meat day at the grocery store is happily celebrated with this gift that keeps on giving.

Hell, especially meat day.

If you’re feeling particularly giving, “mow the lawn” first. *cough*

Happy VD, Beeshes.

So, while I’m that annoying girl who says, “Ooooh, I want a milkshake SO BAD RIGHT NOW!” generating a chain-reaction of milkshake cravings – try it on Twitter, you’ll see – the odds of me actually getting in the car and hitting the drive-thru at MickeyD’s to get a frosty milkshake are pretty slim. Yeah, I want a milkshake but I’m pretty sure I’m too lazy to get one.

Because my cravings are persistent and loud, though, I had to come up with my OWN do-it-yourself milkshake, and really, it’s so easy and so NOT horrible for you, you can totally justify covering it with a metric ton of whipped cream.

Add one packet hot chocolate mix (I use sugar-free, natch), 1 cup skim milk, and three ice cubes to your blender.

BLEND. Then blend some more. I use the “Whip” setting on my blender. I can’t really tell the difference from one setting to another, so I’m basically just fooling myself.

Pour into a nice tall glass (or two if you’re nicer than I am and willing to share).

Don’t forget the whipped cream. Lots of it.

Image source

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Sarah is a wife, mom and stepmother who writes This Mom’s Wired. A gadget geek, book nerd, endorphin junkie, music dork, coffee lover AND a complete and total goofball, you can find Sarah on Twitter tweeting about cookies as @SarahInMI.

before Spandex maded their butts look hawt

It’s coming soon. The biggest television event of every year is about to unfold on plasma screens, LEDs, home theaters, and rabbit-eared 15-inch black-and-white slapboxes (because you have to slap the side of it to get it to stop doing that fuzzy thing) across the US. That’s right, I’m talking about Great Big NFL Championship Game With the Copyrighted Title. Even better? The commercials.

Let’s face it. I live in Detroit, home of the Lions. Since the NFC and the AFC combined 43 years ago, the Lions have won exactly ONE playoff game. In 1991, the Lions won the game against the Rams (in which Guard Mike Utley suffered a neck injury that would leave him partially paralyzed for life) and went on to beat the Dallas Cowboys in the first round of the playoffs. Then they got spanked by the Redskins, 41-10, and the Earth returned to its normal orbit.

Any description of the Lions history since the sixties includes terms like “awful,” “disappointing,” “horrendous,” and “humiliating.” And that’s just from the Detroit sports writers.

the excitement of the game was overwhelming

So, where I live, we thank the baby jeebus for Great Big NFL Championship Game With the Copyrighted
Title commercials. Honestly, unless the game has an incredible last-minute play (isn’t that basketball? Just tune in for the last five minutes?) like Eli Manning managed in January of 2008, nobody really talks about the actual game the next day. Am I right?

There are four possible topics of Monday morning conversation the day after the Great Big NFL Championship Game With the Copyrighted Title (thank heaven for copy and paste):

Topic Number 1: Bad calls by zebras. See how I subtly suggest that I am in-the-know about football by referring to the sports-judgey guys in the striped shirts as “zebras?” I have no idea if anyone calls them zebras, just as I have no idea what a bad call might be. But I’ve heard loud protests, so there must be something.

Topic Number 2: The halftime act. Honestly, America got at least a year of conversation out of Janet Jackson’s (right? left? center?) bewb appearing on national TV. We were all very glad when the Rolling Stones didn’t get naked at Great Big NFL Championship Game With the Copyrighted Title XL here in Detroit. I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.

Topic Number 3: Squares. Somebody at the office always has one of those ten-by-ten charts. Ya pays yer money and ya takes yer choice. I have seen people cheer for the opposing team because, “Hey, I could win $250 bucks, here!” Or, “No, no! Go for the two points! The two points! I have 8 and 5, not 7 and 5!” (Are you impressed that I knew there is a two-point play in football?)

Topic Number 4: The commercials. From singing frogs to sexy chicks, and hapless suckers who do pratfalls for the nation’s largest viewing audience, the conversation with the most legs (with the exception of Janet’s bewbs–wait—bewbs with legs?) is easily the commercials.

This year, commercials during the Great Big blah, blah, blah – you get the picture – are selling for $3 million for a 30 second spot. That’s one hundred thousand fine American dollars per second.  Last year, Doritos let fans submit ideas for ads. The guy that hits his boss in the nads with the snow globe? That was thought up by two regular guys. Two regular guys with authority issues, anyway.

This year, look for fan-generated ads from CareerBuilder.com. Probably something hilarious about rampant unemployment. Ha, ha, what a laff riot that is!

My favorite ads are always the movie trailers. Hell, sometimes my favorite part of going to the actual movies is the trailers I see beforehand. This year is no different, and I am likely to be drooling heavily over shots of Robert Downey, Jr. in Iron Man 2 previews. Tony, who’d care about Pepper Potts when you can have me? But I digress.

Advertisers were complaining that ads shouldn’t cost so much in the time of TiVo and DVRs, because viewers are likely to skip right past. Until TiVo was able to demonstrate that viewers were actually re-running commercials they thought were really good. Why else would you TiVo the football championship? The winner will be unescapable the next morning, spoiling it for anyone who needs to wait to watch. And the damn thing ends so late (it puts the Oscar broadcast to shame), nobody watches a TiVo’d version after the real-time version ends on Sunday night (or Monday morning!).

And now that we have the interwebs? All those great ads will be on YouTube by Monday. So I can go to bed early. Just like the Detroit Lions.

~

Mary Wyatt normally blogs at Unmitigated as middle-aged-woman, a name she chose before it was true and now regrets. She likes baseball, hockey, and support undergarments that keep her bewbs from bruising her knees.

Here comes Valentine’s Day.  What better excuse to grab a bottle of Champagne to celebrate your current love affair?  Whether it be with your husband, yourself, Champagne in general, your picture of Brad Pitt, or whatever you can think of.  Personally, I’ll drink Champagne just to celebrate that it’s Tuesday. This one is a lovely, bubbly red color that fits right in with the “Holiday”.

Champagne Pomegranate Cocktail

1 sugar cube (or 1/2 tsp sugar)

1 oz.  Pomegranate Juice

Champagne to fill

Drop sugar into Champagne flute. Pour in pomegranate juice. Top off with Champagne.

An awesome  tip for this kind of cocktail is that you should save the expensive stuff to drink straight.  If you’re mixing it with something, use a less expensive American sparkling wine, Italian Prosecco, or my choice, a Spanish Cava ($8/bottle).  Just make sure it says Methode Champenoise, Charmat Method, or Method Tradicionale on the bottle. This ensures a fermentation that causes small bubbles to occur naturally. Small natural bubbles = less of a headache.  Large bubbles from forced carbonation = big bad headache.

Contributed by – Kellie Nelson.  Formerly of Mom Ran Out Screaming. That is to say, she let that blog die a slow and painful death this past fall while she blundered around trying to find something else to do. Thank goodness the Room 704 women dug something up!    Ever since she left the glamorous job of fine dining server eight years ago she has been seen around and about herding her three rabid monkeys.  She has a new blog in the works but hasn’t quite figured out how much of the population she would like to offend with it.