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Thursday, September 27, 2012

I, apparently, did not put the lotion in the basket

We all know the trials and tribulations The Quiet Contemplator and I have with soap and lotion. It gives me an eye twitch just thinking about it. Well, it is far from over and it has reached an entire new level. A level so embarrassing that I might be shunned by the entire Mommy Community after I tell its tale, but tell it I shall, because we all know I have no shame, as evidenced here and here and, well, pretty much this entire blog. This one might take the cake though.

The other day, as I was getting ready, The Contemplator came into the bathroom rubbing her hands in her usual mirthful way. Yep, lotion again. As my temperature began to rise, I asked her where she had obtained said lotion. She replied, "By the bed." Funny, I thought. I don't remember having any lotion by the bed. Then it hit me.  

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

You guessed it…

My daughter had coated her hands in lube. Hi, My name is Julie (Hi, Julie) and I may have accidentally committed a sex crime against a two-year-old.

Now, before you get your spanx all in a bunch and think ADD Daddy and I are some kind of sex perverts, hear me out. The "lotion" (I am going to keep referring to it as "lotion" because even just the word "lube" really freaks me out) she had found was actually a bottle of Pre-seed fertility lubricant, not a 20-gallon bottle of Astroglide. This particular "lotion" was used to help conceive both of the kids, not for hot, stinky monkey love. Regardless, I was mortified.

I immediately took her to the sink to wash the "lotion" off her hands, though there was no amount of soap that was going to wash off the crimson flush that had taken over my cheeks. After I cleaned The Contemplator up (a remarkably speedy process, given the presence of the "lotion"), I sent her on her way to play. No "No more soap or lotion" talks, no scolding, no nothing. Just a hope and a prayer to the big man above that she would not tell her friends at school about the incident and that the sex crimes enforcement agency wouldn't be visiting me at work that afternoon.

Anywho, enjoy this video by the Greenskeepers that cracks me up. Put the lotion in the basket, Boozehounds!

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Time Out

After we left the 5th circle of hell Monkey Joe's on Saturday, The Quite Contemplator and I swung by the house to pick up ADD Daddy and The Cool Cucumber for some family fun we all could actually enjoy. We headed to a little fall festival our town was throwing. It was filled with hayrides, corn dogs, live music and, best of all, $1 beers. Mommy likey.

After we had had our fill of artery-clogging treats and had drown ourselves in the we-are-in-public-and-responsible-for-children-but-still-like-to-drink appropriate amount of cheap beer, we took the kids over to where the band was about to start--because we all know how much The Contemplator loves to shake her groove thing to a live band. And sister did not disappoint. She even pulled apart the glow necklace I had bought her earlier and waved it around like a neon freak flag while working the dance floor. I love that kid.

There were a few other kids running around on the large, open-lawn dance floor as well. Two little girls, maybe 6 years old, were running around and having fun. When they came close to where we were standing, The Contemplator gave chase and caught up with them. The two of them went about, running and squealing, all while The Contemplator was doing her best to keep up with them, given her legs were three years younger than theirs. She was in heaven. Hanging out with two "big kids", running like a maniac, listening to music and waving her freak flag. She was having the time of her life. Until she wasn't.

After a few laps around the dance floor, the two girls stopped and said something to The Contemplator. They then ran away laughing as The Contemplator just stood there. She didn't move for a minute. Then she slowly started to make her way over to where ADD Daddy, The Cool Cucumber and I were standing.

With each passing step, her lower lip grew bigger and bigger. It was then that I knew: someone had hurt my baby and mama bear was going to have to cut somebody. Through hysterical tears, I ascertained that the girls had told The Contemplator that she was in "time out" and then ran away from her. A death penalty-worthy offense? No. But to a two-year-old, life changing.

After we left, The Contemplator cried for over an hour. It killed me. She was shattered and so was I. The first permanent scratch had been made on her previously-unscathed surface and there was nothing I could do about it. I swooped in with my Super Mommy cape, but it was too late.

I know that this was just the tiniest ripple in what will inevitably someday be huge waves of pain in her life, but it was the first one, and it was hard. It showed me that no matter how hard I try on a daily basis not to break my children, that it isn't in my control. In the end, anyone can just elbow their way through my stronghold and break my babies.

It is terrifying the power two little girls and two little words can have. Time out indeed, ladies. Time out indeed.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

My Saturday in Hell

Saturday was The Quiet Contemplator's first official "friend" birthday party. She has been invited to others, but this was the first one we were able to go to and she was old enough to lose her fucking mind for the three days preceding be really excited about. The party was at a place called Monkey Joe's.

Here is how Monkey Joe's describes itself: Bring your kids to Monkey Joe's fun-filled inflatable play center! Our wall-to-wall inflatable slides, jumps, and obstacle courses will keep your kids active, happy, and healthy.

Here is how I describe Monkey Joe's: the 5th circle of hell. For those of you not familiar, the 5th circle is the one where those who commit wrath and sloth go to. Monkey Joe's fills me with wrath and the place was basically a pit ravaged by Ebola and other disgusting kid diseases, so it seems apropro on the sloth front.


Here is the Monkey Joe's breakdown for kids:
get wristbands.
take off their shoes.
enter blown up pits of snot and fungus protected only by a thin layer of sock.
jump up and down in said sloth-pit until you lose the ability to stand.
go to a private party room (not as dirty as it sounds).
eat cake.
regain stamina and want to bounce some more.

Here is the Monkey Joe's breakdown for parents:
get wristbands.
watch kids jump up and down in germ cesspools.
try to make idle small talk with other parents.
want to die.
go to private party room (much dirtier than it sounds).
watch kids eat cake.
drag  kids kicking and screaming to the car when it is time to leave.
lose will to live.

My kid getting taken out by another kid, AKA, how Monkey Joe's rolls.

I was lucky enough to be the parent with the kid that climbed to the top of the tallest blow up slide only to freak the fuck out get too scared to slide down and need to be removed by an employee. Let me tell you the awesomeness of not being able to enter the cesspit (no adults allowed!) to retrieve your screaming toddler all while trying to find an acne-prone teenage manager to help get them down. It is even awesomer 5 minutes later when they still have not hauled their asses up to the top to go get your baby and you are stuck watching your kid cry and looking like a helpless asshole of a mother.

Needless to say, I hate Monkey Joe's. Also needless to say, The Contemplator loves it and can't wait to go back. Balls.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

8 years and counting...

Tuesday was ADD Daddy and my 8-year anniversary. Yikes, right? No, I am not that old, we just married when we were babies (I turned 25 two weeks before the wedding. Stop doing the math. Yes, I am 33. Ok, I am old. Asshole.)

Don't I look like I am about to eat him like a praying mantis?
We have managed to make marriage work for us for 8 whole years (together 11 this new years). I only wanted to hit him in the face with a shovel during one of these years (it was more like two, but who's counting?). When we toasted yesterday, we said, "To seven fantastic years and one shitty one." It is just reality. That's who we are.

Our first year of marriage sucked balls. The day after we got home from our honeymoon, my husband was laid off from his job. Shit got reals real fast. Since he hated his field of work, we decided now was the time for him to rip the Band-aid off his broken career path and go back to school fulltime. But we had bills to pay, so he also had to work. Suck. He got a job waiting tables at night and went to school during the day. We NEVER saw each other. He worked and went to school, and I sat home alone and drank a lot. Needless to say, neither of us were happy. But we made it. Barely. We always say if we made it through that year(s), we can make it through anything.

Anyway. Since we have been to the dark side and know what it is like, we appreciate the shit out of each other now. ADD Daddy is an amazing man and the only person on Earth who has ever really gotten me (and not ran away screaming after they did). I couldn't ask for a better husband, father or partner in crime. We don't take life too seriously and sprinkle in a shitload fair amount of booze. We are happy.

Yesterday we got to celebrate that. Alone. We dropped the kiddies of at school and had a day that was just about us. We shopped around at Crate and Barrel (we couldn't hit Home Depot though, we didn't have time), had a wine lunch, then went to play the ponies at Horse Hooky Tuesdays. It was awesome. Here are a few pics of our day.

We had lunch at Maggiano's where they gave us a free champagne toast to celebrate! with lunch on a Tuesday.
They also brought us free cookies! Hells yeah. I now love Maggiano's!
It was a beautiful day!

And I won money. Twice!

The best part of the day was freaking out as my winning horses came to the finish line each time, only to realize that the actually finish line was bout 100 feet to our left. No wonder no one else was as excited as I was. The race was already over...

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

She's Crafty (What's My Mutha Funkin' Name?)

I spent my weekend working away on the house. ADD Daddy and I finished three projects in the kitchen (to come in future post, keep your pants on!) and one big one in the living room. By big, I mean over six feet of wall sassy-fied for under $50!

I never really felt like the wall to the left in this picture looked right. The three 8 x 10s I hung there looked nice and all, they were just a little dwarfed by the large wall space they were on (poor guys. don't worry, they weren't harmed in the making of this post, only relocated to the basement). Then, of course, Pinterest had to intervene. Bitch.

I saw these pinned to someone's board and was inspired. But the bummer of this pin was: no instructions, only a place to purchase the finished product. They were super cute, but with the price hitting almost a hundo with four frames (to spell out our last name, Deem) and shipping, I knew I could do better. I was on my own. But don't fret, Boozehounds. You aren't on your own. The Beer Bitch has you covered. Let's get started, shall we?

Materials needed:

Stretched Canvases
Enough canvases to spell out what you want to spell out. I reused some old 18" x 18" canvases I had from a previous project, but here is a set of three 8 x 10" canvases for $15! Damn I love me some Amazon.

Two yards more than covered my job of four large-scale frames. I bought mine for $9.99 a yard (half off) at Hancock. I imagine if you did four 8 x 10s, one yard would cover you.

Staple Gun and Staples
Don't forget staples. Seriously. I ran out mid-way onto the first frame and almost had a rage stroke. And BTW, using a staple gun makes me feel like She-Ra: Princess of Home Improvement. I highly recommend it. For reals.

Wooden Letters
I bought 13" letters at Hobby Lobby for $3.49 per letter.

Spray Paint
I bought two cans of Krylon Sun Yellow at Walmart for $3.67 per can. If you do 6" letters, one can should be good.

So, you got all your goods and you are ready to get this home improvement party started, right? Ok, let's rock. First things first: Read ALL instructions before beginning. I never do this and it always bites me in the ass later. Trust me.

Done reading? OK, First off, set a drop cloth down in a well-ventilated area (or UN-ventilated if you are feeling frisky). Then, spread your letters out.

Next, get your spray paint on. In thin, even coats. Move the can back and forth in a slow, fluid motion, about eight inches from the letters. Let them dry in between coats. Don't forget to paint the sides! Mine took about four coats. In hindsight, I would have slapped a coat of real base paint on them first since the letters I used where cheap and porous, not real wood.

And now, we measure. Measure both sides of your canvas, then add three inches to both measurements. So, if you have an 8 x 10 canvas, your final measurements will be 11 x 13.

Now, mark those measurements on your fabric and cut. Do this as many times as you have frames. (If you have a fabric with a large pattern and are making more than one frame for a series, make sure the top, bottom and sides of each cut are at the same place, so you have a fluid pattern. Scroll down to the picture where all four canvases are already covered in fabric so you will get an idea of why this is important. If I would have just cut, there would be no fluidity in the pattern.)

Lay out all of your fabric and canvases and ensure that each of the four sides are at the same place in the pattern on each square (this will matter later if you are using a pattern and doing more than one. Trust me.)

Fold the fabric over the back of the canvas and staple. I stapled about every three inches. Staple one entire side, then do the opposite side so the fabric will be tight and the pattern even. Then get to work on the final two sides.

Tada! Where there once was plain canvas, there is now a pretty pattern. Impressive, no?

Wash, rinse and repeat until you have covered all of the canvases. (See here why it matters that you took the time to line up the pattern?)

Now, I am a redneck at heart, so I super glued my letters on. In hindsight, I might have went with a thicker letter and stapled them to the fabric for durability. Your call, but if you staple, be sure to put a towel under the letter/canvas so you don't scrape your pretty new paint job off while stapling. Also, no matter what you do, make sure that the letters end up in the same space on each canvas. This was easy with my square, blocky letters, but I can see it getting cray cray with a quickness with letters of varying width.

All my ducks are finally in a row. Now just time to hang them.

 Since the canvas is stretched, leaving a gap between the canvas and wood, I just hung each canvas balanced on the wood by two nails. Works great and no need to readjust every time you slam a door (not that I ever do that. SHUT UP! slam!).

Before (Meh.)
After (Yay!)

Hope you Boozehounds likey. Feel free to contact me with any questions. And if anyone tackles this project, send pictures!

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Acid Reflux Sucks Balls

For those of you unlucky enough to have to deal with the life-suck that is acid reflux, I am ridiculously sorry. I, too, have reflux and know it sucks donkey balls. The ridiculous burning in your chest and throat can be unbearable. And don't even get me started on how bad it can be during pregnancy.

So, what sucks even worse than having acid reflux? Having a baby with it. Watching your helpless baby suffer when there is not a whole lot you can do and waiting while Drs make you go through a string of hoops to get the medicine you need is a hell no parent should have to go through. A hell you feel hopeless to escape.

Per the Mayo Clinic, signs and symptoms of infant acid reflux may include:
  • Spitting up
  • Irritability during or after feedings
  • Coughing
  • Wheezing
  • Refusing to eat
  • Crying when placed on his or her back, especially after a feeding
  • In severe cases, your baby may arch his or her back while crying and this may look like your baby is having a seizure.
The Cool Cucumber had signs of reflux starting around six weeks. Things went like this: He would seem super hungry. We would feed him. He would take maybe an ounce. He would start wailing and arching his back like crazy. He would refuse to eat any more. Wash, rinse, repeat. All day. Every day. For a week. SUPER FUN! He never really spit up too bad, just the crying and the arching at all feedings.

So we started the super awesomeness that is the game of getting a true diagnosis of acid reflux. If you have done this, it can be a long and arduous task. I would like to help you cut through that if possible. Let me drop some knowledge on you.

When you cry infant acid reflux to your pediatrician, there is a possibility they will think you are just one of the crazy mommies who doesn't know babies cry and are hard, so they will give you multiple bullshit-detecting steps to see if your baby really has reflux. They usually go like this:

Try cereal in the bottle.
This sucks because cereal really only fixes the spitting up (the symptom), not the acid reflux (the problem). It is also a huge pain in the ass. Cereal clogs the nipple (even if you use larger ones), causing the baby to suck air a lot of the time and get super pissed. Plus, it doesn't really fix the problem, just masks one of the symptoms. Though it does do a hell of a lot of good for reducing spit up, so it is great for helping with that. But, chances are, if your baby really does have acid reflux, the problem will persist even with the formula in the bottle. So then you will...

Get a Script for Zantac
Zantac is an acid reducer. It comes in a liquid form for infants. If your child has mild reflux, it will help a lot. You can get it at almost any pharmacy as it does not have to be compounded (made in house). If your child's acid reflux continues with age (some infant reflux goes away with age) and it is severe, Zantac will only work for so long. There is a max dosage and you hit it pretty quickly with an infant with severe reflux. If this happens, you will most likely…

Get a Script for Prevacid
If your baby maxes out on Zantac and still has acid reflux symptoms, their pediatrician will likely pull out the big guns: Prevacid. Prevacid is an acid inhibitor, whereas Zantac is an acid reducer. The names kind of spell it out: Zantac (zap it after the fact) Prevacid (prevent it from happening). I don't know about you, but I would rather prevent the problem before it starts rather than manage its symptoms after the fact. But hey, I drink too much, so maybe I am just crazy. Anyway. Prevacid is a godsend if your baby has severe reflux. We have had to up The Cool Cucumber's doses a few times, but other than that, it is amazing.

There are a few drawbacks to Prevacid though:
  1. Insurance companies can be dicks about covering it. Why? Hell if I know, they just are, so they might make you go through hoops to prove you need it. The hoops start with a history of trying Zantac and it not working...
  2. It is hard as hell to get. It is a compounded formula, so pharmacies actually have to make it when you order it, not just pour medicine from one bottle to another. This time costs money, so most pharmacies don't want to deal with it. Even Target doesn't make it! Also, it has an exact 30-day expiration date, so if you do find a pharmacy that carries it, don't expect to have it ready when you walk in to pick it up, even if you did call it in yesterday.
The moral of this whole story: don't give up. And be an advocate for your child if things don't feel right. Also, know your stuff about the medicine. Call to make sure you insurance covers it. Call to make sure the pharmacy offers it. Call before you leave to have them start compounding it. And, most importantly, don't beat yourself up. Infant reflux is a hard row to hoe, feeling like you are never doing right by your baby, but hang in there, things will get better.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Fatty has fun outside

Today I am going to introduce you to a lesser-known member of your family: Fatty.
Fatty enjoys laying in the sun, bathing herself, eating chocolate pudding, glaring at inanimate objects and howling in the middle of the night.

I like pudding.

Though I call her Fatty here, at home, we call her Kitty. Her real name is Fiona. She likes to pee on carpet, and our whole main level is carpeted, so Fatty lives in the our new finished basement. Don't call the Humane Society feel sorry for her. We spend most of our time down there since the playroom and TV family room are down there. She also has her own bedroom, full bath and laundry facilities. Fatty isn't exactly being abused. Her level of the house is bigger than our entire loft was before we moved. She also has constant company in Alyssa the snail and Boy the fish, of which Fatty would love to make into an appetizer of escargot followed by a main course of sushi. But I digress.

On Friday, I got off early and decided to sit out in the backyard to enjoy a beer or two by myself before ADD Daddy got home with The Quiet Contemplator and The Cool Cucumber. I decided to take Fatty along for the ride. She was not pleased. If there is anything that Fatty is 1,000,000% not, it is an outdoor cat. The experience went a bit like this (keep in mind that Fatty's voice is that of a bitchy French gay man):

We go outside.
I sit on the couch with Fatty.
Fatty immediately jumps off and heads for the closed door to the inside.


Fatty begins howling.
I begin laughing.
Fatty howls louder and look desperate.
Fatty's inner dialogue: Ohmygod. WhyamIoutside? Whatisthatscarynoise (lawnmower)? Whatisthatotherscarynoise (air conditioner)? Ohmygod. WhyamIoutside?
Me: What's wrong, Fatty?


Fatty's inner dialogue: (Fatty now looks more pissed than scared) OH MY GOD! I think there is a leaf in my butt.
Me: Fatty, what's wrong? 
Fatty's inner dialogue: What's wrong? What's wrong? I am a tortoise shell calico, bitch. My fur is pristine. What were you thinking dragging me out into the wilderness?

Oh, hell-to-the-no, bitch.

Me: Fatty, do you want to go inside?
Fatty's inner dialogue: 

Bitch, I will cut you. Open the door. Now.

The end.   

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Dearest Mommy Dearest

Hello, Mommy Dearest Joan Crawford. I am writing to let you know that I think I may have discovered something about you. I am thinking maybe you weren't the monster everyone made you out to be in the 1981 cult film, Mommy Dearest. I am thinking maybe Christina just finally drove you over the edge of Crazy Town and you never looked back.

I get it. The Quiet Contemplator has also been steering the Mommy Car toward Crazyville lately. A lot. She LOVES to play with soap and lotion. No biggie, right? She just likes to have clean, smooth skin, no? No. You see, I tell her 5,367,241 times a day, "No soap or lotion unless Mommy or Daddy say it is OK." Why? Because she likes to sneak into the bathroom, coat her tiny hands in soap or lotion, then proceed to smear it all over her body and everything else within a 50-mile radius. Super fun.

Que last night, when ADD Daddy had to stay late at work and I was left herding the two turtles by myself. I was feeding The Cool Cucumber when I noticed it was way too quite in the house. I asked The Quiet Contemplator what she was doing and she walked into the room and said nothing while rubbing her little hands together mirthfully. This could only mean one thing: they were coated in soap.

Yeah. I pretty much lost it. Now, did I beat her with the soap bottle while screaming, "NOOOOO  SOAP OR LOTION! EVVVAAAAHHHH" like you so infamously did with the wire hangers? No. But if that furry red bastard Elmo was anywhere in sight, his ass probably would have taken a whoopin' just for good measure. I just asked her to leave the room so I could have a mini rage stroke without having DCFS called or adding to her list of things to tell her therapist later.

So, in closing. I think I get it, Joan. I am starting to understand the whole "No wire hangers!" thing. Maybe you had told Christina every day for the last five years not to put wire hangers in her closet and seeing one in there finally just caused you to snap. Maybe you had to scour every Babies "R" Us this side of the Mississippi to find enough pink frilly hangers to match Cristina's room decor and that ungrateful bitch just didn't appreciate the hell you had been through walking into a Babies "R" Us in the first place. Or, maybe she had just finished covering your entire bathroom in soap for fun and it wasn't even noon yet, so you couldn't have a drink to calm your nerves.

Anyway. You so crazy, Joan.


The Beer Bitch

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Theeeeee'rrrre Baaaaack!

So about six months after I had The Quiet Contemplator, I noticed all of the hair that I had lost three months postpartum was starting to grow back. I had the normal outgrowth: those wild and straggly two-inch hairs that stick out all over your head, giving the middle finger to any hairstyle you attempt for about a year. But I also noticed an odd new growth of hair in a strange place. Where, you ask? Wait for it...I had grown...sideburns. Oh yeah. Don't be jealous. They were super sexy in that Nicolas-Cage-married-Lisa-Marie-so-he-could-bone-a-piece-of-Elvis sort of way. Gross.

Thinking I had sidestepped that sexy landmine after The Cool Cucumber was born, I wore ponytails with confidence. Until this morning, when I realized Theeeeee'rrrre Baaaaack! Move over Andrew Dice Clay, mama is gonna give you a run for your furry money!

That's Hot.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Pinterest has made me Star of Super International

Today, I was looking at my blog stats and came across a weird traffic source. The address was a bunch of jumbled letters and ended in, so I figured it was one of those spambots that had picked up on my site. I imagined if I clicked through it would be something about a sexy girl who studies at "the university" and is looking for a man just like me. Why do they do this? I just don't understand.

There was quite a bit of traffic from the source, so I decided to risk having my identity stolen by checking it out. Turns out, I am huge in Hungary. How fucking awesome is that? See here. I promise it is not a sexy bot that will eat your babies. It is the blog of a woman from Hungary that found my flock of birds post.

We flew all the way to Hungary, and damn are our wings tired.

Through what I am sure is a wickedly accurate translation job by Google, I found out that the post kind of might have been close to saying said:

Wall Migratory Birds (Google, I think you forgot the word "of")

I love the unique baby room decorations prepared and sk, the total time belelkesedtem me find a wall stud applicated galloping. (applicated galloping. That just sounds fun.) And I lived through now and again, thanks to Julie, who's blog is not just for the beer, but the little ones you love. And more creative as well. (Whoever you are, I love you. For the beer, for the babies and for knowing my real name--wait how do you know that?)

Julie since retiring madársereggel decorated in a wonderful little girl's room, and was kind enough to share the method of preparation of the blog as well.
(What did I retire from? Madársereggel? That just sounds fucking awesome. Why would I retire from that?) You do not need to add more than a pair of scissors, a bunch of scrapbook paper - or patterned paper - it is a pattern that Julie's blog above or the links to the source it can find as well. Then you can start the work, which is not to say that it is not time consuming, but as many as two birds is to compile, I do not have a lot of distress - the horses are definitely less time. (I do not have a lot of distress either. The two birds that I have compiled and the horses keep me calm. Horses pretty.) The birds are ready to glue or poster blue-tack on the wall with applikálhatjátok. (applikálhatjátok sounds way cooler than poster putty. I want some.) And definitely stay there a hint of summer in the nursery.

Anyway, whoever you are, Gyermekszoba, you made my year. As for the rest of you Boozehounds, I don't know if you know this, but I am kind of a big deal. Well, at least in Hungary I am.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

The Confessional

Confessions from a fellow Boozehound

While feeding my daughter the other day, she stuck her hand in the bowl of sweet potatoes. Rather than walk across the room to get a napkin (and give her the time to rub the potatoes in her
hair), I simply stuck her hand in my mouth and licked off the sweet potatoes myself.

ILBAB says: This sounds like a two-fold win. First, you averted the dreaded task of having to bathe a baby. Second, you provided your body with some complex carbohydrates. Carbo-loading while time-saving? You are a genius, my friend.

While at a party in college, I drunkenly dropped my pack of cigarettes into the toilet I had just peed in. I fished them out pretty quickly, but they were still a little soggy when I lit one up later. Rather than haul my inebriated self off the sofa where I was lounging to throw them away, I just tossed the pack a few feet away from me. A couple minutes later, this guy that I had been flirting with walked up, found the cigarettes, exclaimed over his good fortune, and lit one up. I politely declined when he offered me one and decided that I would NOT kiss him that night after all

ILBAB says: Having the wherewithal to not make out with a hot guy because he smoked your pee-soaked cigarettes proves you are one classy lady. I can not say that I would have had the same better judgement back in my college days. I put the "ass" in classy.

The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons. 
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