Dead people shouldn't wear makeup

That was the conclusion I came to during my mother's wake. Her pale, dead body in her bed didn't creep my shit out the way her heavily made-up body did in a pretty party dress.

Roman Catholics are fucked up.

Also, when people say, "She looks so good," they are full of shit. She doesn't look good. She looks dead. She would look better in her kitchen making pancakes or inappropriately grabbing someone's ass. Mom liked to grab ass a lot. Man, woman, didn't matter. Your ass was hers. Seriously, if you're ever in St. Charles Cemetery in section 35, be careful where you stand. Your ass is not safe.

On a note somewhat related to ass, I found mom's vibrator as I was going through her dresser. I'm choosing to believe she used it to massage her neck, and not a single one of you can convince me otherwise. La, la, la, I'm not listening to you.

Cooch ball: I know not what this is

I didn't even know what this was until I saw that someone had hit my blog searching for it. I still don't know what this is. Urban Dictionary says a cooch ball is "When your vaginal area has been been so torn up, it is swolen and appears as a ball between the legs." Then it gives an example.

"Matt: Damn taylor, you must be a slut!

Taylor: Why do you say that?

Matt: You have a huge cooch ball"

Putting aside the glaringly obvious spelling, capitalization and punctuation errors that let me feel all superior, I find this definition unhelpful. Sometimes I think people just make this shit up. I've known a lot of sluts in my time, and not a single one has had her cooch grow four sizes bigger.

If the person who searched for "cooch ball" is still here, get yer ass over here and explain this whatthefuckery.

This post has 100% more cooch

Warning: If you're offended by blog posts about cooch, turn back now. This one has a whole lotta vagina.

In anticipation of No More Bush Day, I decided to go to the gynecologist and get my gear checked out. Truthfully, I would have done this anyway, because it's good to get your gear checked out. But the fact that my appointment fell a few days before the Big Event was still pretty neat.

I waited 90 minutes in the middle of a work day just to get into the exam room. Ninety minutes. To give you an idea of how long 90 minutes is, just in case you can't imagine that much time, 90 minutes is enough time to read two copies of Fit Pregnancy and half of Conceive magazine (because that's the kind of material you find in an OB/GYN office). Ninety minutes is also enough time to make my blood pressure go up to 120/90, which seemed to baffle the assistant, who couldn't figure out why I'd be a bit peeved about the fact that I was half an hour late getting back to work and I HADN'T EVEN GOTTEN INTO THE STIRRUPS YET.

After 15 minutes of more waiting in my socks and a front-opening medical gown, I finally got to see the nurse practitioner, who looked down at my chart and asked, "So, you're 38?" And I was like, "Hell, no," and now I need to qualify that, because it sounds like I think 38 is old, and a lot of people bigger than I am are going to kick my ass for calling them old. When I'm 38 I won't have any problem with being 38, but, until then, I'm all, "Dude, no!" But now that I think about it, I don't need to worry about all the people over 38, because they probably have arthritis and brittle bones and stuff.

When the poking and prodding was over, she mentioned that my pressure seemed a little high, and I insisted that it was probably fine, but she took it again, because it would be really bad form to have me drop dead of a heart attack on the way to the elevator. It was 98/70 that time, and she apologized for making me wait for so long, which was cool because I didn't even have to bitch about it. I just had to make it seem like I might die, which I wasn't even trying to do. And it's only now that I realize that Fitz totally played me.

Anyway, if you have a cooch and you haven't had it examined lately, you should totally do it. Just bring something to read.