Testicaliens Learn Early in Life That They're Usually Wrong

Some things perplex The Grasshopper.

For instance, why do grown ass people continue to throw other people under the proverbial bus?

It never ceases to amaze me. I'm a grown woman. You know what that means? It means that I have bigger balls than a good number of men. I means that I own up to my mistakes. Truth. I'll claim it as mine, put my name on the birth certificate and pony up the mistake support for however long it takes for the mistake to grow up and move far, far away and start having its own baby mistakes.

Because I'm grown. That's why.

I'm convinced that this must be more of a problem among the Ovarians. Not that there aren't some Testicaliens out there who will throw a brother (or a sister) under the bus every now and then.

Pretend there is dramatic music playing here...

Naughty, Naughty: My Second Virginity

I recently had a total hysterectomy. As with most things, I think life is incomplete if you can't put a soundtrack with it. So, pardon the lyrical interventions here.

Don't tell me "I don't wanna be a girl like that"
Do you wanna see a grown man cry?
You don't wanna be a girl like that
Baby this could be the first time 

Before the procedure, the doctor let me know how the procedure was going to ummm "change" things down under. I was concerned. I was scared that my junk would lose its spunk.

Not to worry, he said. But, he warned, "sex the first time will be much like losing your virginity again." Say whaaaaaaat?

Ever hear someone say, "If I'd known then what I know now..." Yep. Yep. Yeppers.

It's All About Soul

What is love?

Poets spend their lives languishing over lines of prose trying to capture the essence of love. Lovers attempt to describe it but often flail about terms you usually hear in love songs. Song writers twist it, rhyme it and set it to the beat.


It has been only recently that the Grasshopper has made a revelation. Another Stephiphany on the Highway to Hell. Love is about soul.

A few years after the Divorcetant Debut, The Grandaddy tried to impart his fatherly wisdom. He urged me to look for a mate that wasn't "crazy." You laugh. But, the old guy was serious.

There's a love letter written on my heart.

A friend and I discussed love letters tonight. As you can imagine, if I put my mind to it, I could fashion quite the letter -- lustful, loving, lavishing and languid -- depending upon my mood at the moment.

I don't do it very often. Why? Well, simply because it doesn't seem that men take to prose as well as women do, or, if they do, they tend to hide their enjoyment very well.

It is also a tip-toe along a dangerous precipice. If you make it across, you'll likely feel enamored and empowered by the love the two of you share. But, it's just as easy to trip, tumble down that rocky face and land in a bloody pulp. If that happens you might be lucky to find that you still have your heart in your hand. It is more likely, however, that you either lost it or it was decimated on the way down.

Yes. Putting myself out there scares the hell out of me. 

No, I don't write love letters very often. I write them in my head, sure. I seldom put it down on paper. As a writer, I suppose that rejection to my love via my craft would just be too much to handle. So, I seldom write at length to someone who holds my heart in the palm of his hand. It is just too much vulnerability for me to bear.

Grasshoppers vs. Caterpillars

Little Me went on a grasshopper hunting expedition this afternoon. For real grasshoppers.

We've got what is left of the original gaggle he collected in a small fish bowl in the middle of our living room -- right next to the caterpillar cocoon he's so intent on giving birth. The cocoon is currently hanging out in half of a plastic Easter egg.

"You know, I take personal offense to capturing grasshoppers," I joked with him as he scurried about in the grass capturing fugitives. It didn't matter. He wasn't listening. The kids were all too busy catching helpless grasshoppers.

Later, he asked me if I knew the difference between a grasshopper and a caterpillar as he tenderly rubbed the poor grasshopper's tiny back.

"Well, when you squeeze a caterpillar's butt it poops on you," he pointed out. "When you squeeze a grasshopper hard on the butt, it throws up on you."

"One could be beautiful one day [the caterpillar] and one could be nice [the grasshopper]," Little Me added.

Awesome! I tried to remember what happened the last time The Grasshopper got squeezed hard on the butt. I couldn't even recall. I guess I"ll take his word for it. Maybe he's right. Maybe, one day in a land far, far away I will be nice. Nice and puking. That's me. Oh... that was me. In college.

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You'd Better Get Back Honky Cat


My therapist recently made an astute observation.

"You should be dating men who are on the same income level you are and intelligence level."

Among my crazies is the occasional time when someone says something or I see something and a suddenly a song pops into my head.

"You'd better get back Honky Cat" screeched though my head. Cause, you know, dating these days is like trying to get liquor from a bottle of wine.

Dumbfounded. I sat for a moment and replied. "That's not going to work for me."

We don't want to admit we love someone who doesn't love us back.

They say that what you're doing on the first day of the new year is what you will be doing all year long. If that is the case, I want to go back to 2013.

There's dreary rain here in Georgia today. It perfectly matches my mood. Tearful, bleak, broken and tired. Not really a good way to welcome the new year.

I don't deal well with heartbreak. Whether it's the loss of a friendship or a relationship, it hits fast, hard and deep. And, honestly, I carry a little of that sadness of those losses with me for the rest of my life. Once someone touches a part of my heart, it kind of belongs to them for life. I often think of lost loves and friends from many years ago. For some of us, I guess hurt just never truly goes away.

During the past few months, I have spoken with many friends who are still hanging onto relationships that have passed the point where one or both of them should have walked away. Yet, they are there. Still hanging on. Still finding a way to stoke the fire of optimism. I'm not sure if I'm impressed or distressed when I look at these relationships.

Babies! Babies! Babies!

I don't care how much you want a baby or how much you plan, getting pregnant is always a bit of a surprise.

With Little You, I was in total shock. Married just a few months, a positive pregnancy test wasn't exactly what I was expecting. For some reason, this unwise 20-something was convinced she couldn't get pregnant. I could and I did. I was overwhelmed. Not long after, the morning sickness crept in. I spent the entire pregnancy huddled over the toilet as the little blessing inside of me tried to make me puke my liver out of my nose. She completed her debut with an emergency c-section on our first anniversary.


With Little Me, I tried for years to get pregnant. Fertility treatments, checking bodily functions you don't want to know about, praying, visualizing, eating certain things -- if there was a rumor out there that it would increase fertility, I tried it. I wasn't quite as sick with him but found it difficult to make the 2-hour commutes to and from work. I didn't mind, though. Even then he cracked me up how he would dance to certain songs. He's still a little dancer, luckily now he doesn't do it on my bladder. And I will forever know what LP, TTC, CM, LMP, POAS and cervical position mean.

Men have no idea how complicated a woman's reproductive system is. Nor, how devastating it is to get your "girl time" when you're hoping to get pregnant. Or the shock of how you can be "late" and pee on a stick and it somehow magically stimulates your body into "girl time."

Have You Ever Wished You Could Unknow Someone?

Recently, a friend on Facebook posted one of those cutesy saying pictures.

"Have you ever wished you could unknow someone?", it asked.

Generally speaking, I'd say no. Like all of you, I've had people who've hurt me. People who have abused my friendship and kindness. People who have left me questioning the sanity of believing that there really is good in each and every person if you look hard enough.

At least, generally speaking, I would have said no 20 years ago. Or 10. Or maybe even last year.

But, alas, it is today. Hello, my name is Grasshopper and I DO wish I could unknow someone. I love the Gotye song, Somebody I Used to Know. It fits.

There are people that come into your life along the way and you think that you know them. But, given enough time, you end up discovering that you don't know them at all. You learn that all of that good you chose to see was hiding a malodorous spirit. That's when it would be nice to be able to "unknow" someone.

This is saying a lot for me. I'm the girl who works to find the good in people. I'm the girl who almost always ends up with a new friend when a romance doesn't work out. Forming friendships after relationships isn't easy. I've said it before - if I thought enough of someone to have them in my life romantically, I'll do all I can to keep them as a friend afterward. It is not an easy task. It can be done with effort.

When you have someone you wish you could unknow, it means that all of the bad outweighs any good. It means that the pleasant memories can't hold up to the present bullshit. It means you suddenly realize all the times the person has screwed you over. It means you made a mistake and for all intents and purposes you, my dear, are an idiot.

Dating Bingo: I keep getting all the wrong balls!

Getting old is inevitable. Or, at least you hope it is. It's better to get old than to not live long enough to get old. I'm kind of looking forward to it.

Since it's coming one day, which is a day that is getting closer each and every day, I've decided that I'm going to look at the perks of old age. Kind of the "if you can't beat them, join them" approach to wrinkles, saggy boobs and pooping in a bag.

Among the things I'm looking forward to are becoming an alcoholic and partaking of some therapeutic (i.e. medically needed) weed. I skipped that stage in college. I figure if I have nothing to do all day and I'm 80, why the hell not? I'll drink, smoke up and watch vintage Jerry Springer. I'll be the coolest great-grandma around. I'll say what I want when I want. I will think of odd demands to make of my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, such as never turning their backs to me when they're walking away. I figure if the Queen of England doesn't have to look at someone's ass, why should I? When they're not around, I will undermine my great-grandchildren's parents and let them do whatever they want...including having a nip of the old fire water if they want it. I ain't sharing the weed though. I do have standards.

I may pass gas in front of company. I might burp. I'll probably start wearing underwear. I will play lots of practical jokes on anyone that I can find. I will definitely play dead. I'm sure that one will be a riot!

A Pond of Pondering

Today, I sat and thought about some of the overwhelming issues that have been impacting my little family as of late. Seems that just as we have our plates and utensils ready to attack the stress buffet, another dish is added. My current diet consists of Zofran in the morning, phenergan at night and Zantac for the heartburn. And, of course, Skittles for dessert since they taste the same going down as they do coming up. (I think they should hire me for their next advertising gig).

I have had a recurring dream recently. In it, there are four of us in a car. I'm in the back seat on the passenger side. My Momma is driving us by the shoreline on a scenic beach road. The day is breathtakingly beautiful. Blue skies and sunshine are all I see out the front window. Then, I turn to look at the ocean. I watch as a tremendous tidal wave soundlessly barrels toward us and overtakes our car, completely submerging us in the raging water. Through this, I am calm. Just calm. I patiently wait for the water to still and then roll (yes, roll, I was a child in the dream) the window down. We all scoot out our windows and swim for the surface to find the sun still shining.

I've thought a lot about this dream. No matter what natural disaster disguised as life comes swaggering your way, no matter how dark it may seem... Keep swimming. If you swim long enough, you'll surface to find beautiful weather once again.

As the dream suggests, I've been drowning in stress for awhile. Balancing being a single mom and a career is never easy. Add in a few unexpected surprises on the radar and there you have it.

Which has provoked some amazing transformations. I'm 20 pounds lighter without even trying and I'm considerably well read for the first time in quite awhile. Each of the three of us is in the midst of a private battle of some sort at the moment. Battles that will impact us for a lifetime. Changes that are imminent and, finally, that we're starting to accept and get excited about.

But...

Jealousy is Poison. And It Makes Your Boobs Sag.

It's an ugly truth.


Many women find it hard to be happy for other women.

Be it jealously over relationships, work stature, money, cars, clothing, (you name it), the adult bully is alive and well in our culture. We commonly call these women "bitches." They will vilify your successes. They will celebrate your failures. They will do nothing to improve themselves. They will believe that they deserve better but, if questioned, really have no substantive reasons to give to explain why.

A recent survey of 5,000 workers found that an astonishing 45 percent of respondents claimed that women in their workplace are bullies. And, estrogen laden bullies pick on other women. Some 71 percent claimed that the usual target for female bullies was another woman.

My female readers, please a take moment. Think about your professional and social acquaintances. I bet you can name quite a few bullies right off the bat. Maybe it's a neighbor, a mom in the local sports league, a coworker, or a family member. You're more than likely to say that she's "mean" or a "real bitch." At the end of the day, she's a bully. And, she needs to grow the hell up.

Women can be covert, manipulative and conniving. They will often befriend the object of their bullying just to gather information to be used against her later. They usually travel in packs of two or more. An aggressor hell bent to bring another woman down to her own level of misery with her own life with a weak-kneed accomplice lending her motivation, support and validation. Women can be snarky, sneaky and hateful without any provocation.

A Labor of Love Weekend

I've blown my nose at least 20 times today and I'm convinced there's still some pieces of tire tread still in there.


I didn't want to go. I dreaded it all week. The crowds. The heat. The late night. The noise.
The stairs. But, yet, I went.

There are things that intimidate me as a single mom. Like sending my little boy into a public restroom with two exits that I can't see at the same time. Changing the well filter knowing that a few short weeks ago a snake had claimed the well house as his home. The fact that the garage door tried to eat itself the other night and now won't close at all. Those are the times that I feel most alone. Those times when a single mom just wants to sit in a corner and cry. I usually don't cry though because at the end of the day I don't have enough energy to cry.

Venturing out alone with your kids to the overwhelming sensory experience that is a NASCAR race is one of those intimidating experiences.

I've found that sometimes it is those things that I dread doing the most as a mom that tend to yield the biggest returns and this experiencedidn't fall short.

There are few things that can convince me to spend a day in searing heat and bouts of rain in a sea of people. Even fewer things that can convince me to stay up until 3 a.m. and awake the next day with aching legs from climbing a gazillion stairs -- multiple times for bathroom trips and pizza. 

My ears are still bleeding. 

I Can Explain Crazy Cat Ladies

I'm single. I've been single for a long time. My divorcetant debut was in 2008. And, it's been an interesting road.

When I hit 40, it occurred to me that The Grandaddy was probably right.

"You're the kind of person who is meant to be alone," he said one day a few years earlier.

Yeah. It kinda stung. But I have to admit the old guy had a good point. It won't be long and I'll be divorced as long as I was married. Truth be told, the idea of getting married again scares the spit out of the Grasshopper. Too many things can go wrong too easily.