New Rule: Chiropractors Must Be Fugly

Picture a man with the body of a rugby player. Now picture that he’s also tall, with the aforementioned black hair and blue eyes.

Hot?

Right. Of course he’s hot. Anyone who’s shaking their head in disagreement right now has no soul and eats slugs for breakfast.  I’m not sure we should even be blog friends anymore.

Anyhow.

Look, it’s hard enough being twisted into a pretzel and have some random dude’s hands all over your ass when he’s an Ugly McFugly. But when the doctor manipulating you in ways you can’t even properly fathom is beautiful? Like, out of this world gorgeous? With major 5 o’clock shadow?

Well.

That’s enough to make my little head explode.

I have seriously gotten more action from this man than I’ve gotten in real life in months. Maybe I shouldn’t admit to that. But he, literally, had to climb on top of me to maneuver my bones and I had to do everything in my power to stare at the ceiling.

I just wish I’d gotten a little more warning about the procedure. Being that this is my first real experience with a chiropractor, I really had no idea what was coming. And since it was scheduled right after work, I obviously had my professional attire on.

People, do not wear corduroys and heels to the chiropractor. At least not when the pants squish your lady bits all damn day. You see, there’s this phenomena that occurs when you have clothing wrapped tightly against the natural creases in your body. Like armpits, knees and – well – your “area.”

So while Dr. McHotty’s face was dangerously close to my shiz, I was hoping for two things.

1) Please don’t let my pants rip. Please don’t let my pants rip. PLEASE do not let my pants rip.

2) Please don’t have sweaty crotch. Please don’t have sweaty crotch. PLEASE do not have sweaty crotch.

When he was finished with this particular procedure I joked lightly about my relief at my pants still being in tact. And then he had to go and be funny!

Motherfucker.

Here he was making slick comments about how he’s only ripped two pairs of pants, you know, at least through chiropractic services.

Hint hint.

And here’s me, giggling like a damn school girl. GIGGLING. Nonstop. For pretty much the remainder of the visit.

You don’t even want to know how badly I laughed when he showed me the exercises I need to do on on of those big, rubber exercise balls. It deals with a lot of swiveling of the hips which just made me picture all kinds of dirty things.

Oh, and on the drive to DC after? You’d better believe I double checked that my girly bits weren’t emanating anything they shouldn’t have.

Don’t worry. They weren’t.

Before I began watching porn at the ripe old age of thirteen, I had no clue what a vagina really was. I understood that when I used the bathroom, there was an area to wipe afterwards. And that was really the extent of it other than being fully clear on the fact that boys had sticks and berries and girls didn’t.

So when it finally dawned on me that things could actually go up a vag and that it was supposedly amazing and caused chicks to scream in pleasure I decided I should give it a try. 

There was just one slight hang up – there was no way in hell I’d let a peen go there. My teachers said that it caused pregnancy and STDs! Like AIDS! And you could DIE! FROM SEX!

I sure as shit wasn’t signin’ up for that. Oh hell no.

Like any logical 13 year old I could not stop thinking about it. You know, my “area” and the pleasure and the yes.

It took several months until I decided, once and for all, that I needed to do something about it. Since using boy parts were out of the question in this quest of mine, I chose the next best thing.

A stuffed animal. 

Specifically the tail of a dinosaur. It was long, it was firm and I figured it would work.

Except it didn’t. At all.

I had won it at some carnival and as soon as I had laid eyes on it I figured it would be perfect for my little scheme. Let’s not discuss the fact that I’ve no idea where it was prior to my ownership of it, nor how many strange hands may have laid their fingers on it.

Because ew.

I’m sure this would have been all well and good except I’ve always been a blabber mouth. I just don’t know how to keep my own secrets. And like an idiot, I went ahead and told somebody I went to school with. 

And she told somebody else, who told somebody else, who turned around and told even more folks.

I quickly became the punch line of every joke at my school. Even better, the story warped from the truth to me having done the same with hot dogs.

HOT DOGS?

Fucking gross.

I had some standards. I mean, yeesh.

________
And what the hell, I’m tagging this as a TMI Thursday.  Why not hop on that bandwagon, eh? 

Uhm. I’m about 99% sure that a few of you read that last post and went, “oh no – not this shit again.” Because I’m pretty sure I’ve felt this way, like, 4 times in the last six months. And then blogged about it. Because I’m a loserface like that.

So, thanks for stickin’ around anyway. Even when I’m not being particularly sparkly.

And for what it’s worth, the bigger issue at the moment is that life is being weird and it’s affecting everything and blah blah blah I’ll shut the hell up now. I just needed to let it out.

On to more interesting things. Like my age.

I’m getting OLD.

Ever since that BOCA sponsored spa night thingy, I have had the most unbearable neck and upper back pain. Do you realize how much fun it is to drive a stick-shift and check rearview mirrors for on-coming traffic when you can’t even blink to the left without your neck screaming bloody fuckin’ murder?

No?

You should try it some time. I ensure you it is pleasantly unpleasant.

Like a good girl, I took myself to the doctor’s office. Specifically one that deals with pain and injuries.

Best. Idea. Ever.

My doctor? He is HOT. Like, on blazing fire HOT. Who told people to make babies with blue eyes and black hair that turn into grown ass adults with blue eyes and black hair and then turn me into a big puddle of goo?

I’d like to have a word with them, please.

And while it’s fun to focus on how pretty that man is, I’ll try to pretend that his huge muscles didn’t make me feel like a lazy asshole for not going to the gym. Since December.

For a week I blamed it on “woman issues” but I’m thinking sixty-five days later that excuse has run it’s course.

So anyway. Y’all wanna know how often I have to go back to that doctor? Of course you do.

THREE TIMES A WEEK.

FOR A MONTH.

I’ve turned into my grandmother overnight and this realization has smacked me in the face like a brick.

I was hoping that he would be a miracle worker and fix me in a day, but this sort’ve thing takes time and patience and work. None of which I care to deal with.

While jabbing his huge fingers into my back he rotated my arm in a manner that I expect was meant to help relieve some of the pain. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I have some tig ole bitties. Which basically just means that in his attempt to move my arms in semi-circles, they got in the way. It’s kind of awkward having a hot doctor squish your own arm against your own boob.

And THEN he had some wiry (but also very pretty) guy hook me up to this contraption that pulses electricity into my muscles. It was like shock treatment for my back. I felt like a science project gone wrong.

It was the weirdest damn feeling I’ve had in my life. And worst of all, it caused me to have gas. Lucky for the other guy in the room, I am a lady and hold that in until in private.

…Which made the car ride home pretty interesting. Kinda like a moving dutch oven.

Splendid.

Dear Deutlich,

I need to have a word with you. In your 27th year of life, I would imagine that you’d have some kind of inclination as to what happens when you venture into Drunksville. While the initial rush is all fun and games, eventually you’ll turn the corner into Idiot Town. And the next day? Puke City.

You’ve tested this theory time and again. Your hypothesis that Deutlich + alcohol = BAD IDEA is always proven to be true.

Always.

Yet you can’t seem to keep yourself from trying it out just one more time.

Last Friday your participation in alcoholic festivities with fellow DC Bloggers began innocently enough. I mean, you wore your cleavage (as promised on Twitter) with the short brown dress and funtastic heels.

Normally I’d be all about this. Except on this particular night, it was -20 degrees and somebody decided it best we all congregate on the outside patio where the wind was whipping and the heat lamp barely kept you warm.

I call this stupidity to the tenth power.

It also didn’t take too long for you to discuss inappropriate things like giving oral (or lack thereof), muff diving and the like. While this is normal behavior for you even when sober, mayhaps you shouldn’t have kept YELLING LOUDLY about it and interrupting other people’s conversations? You even had the audacity to ask What’s His Face if he’d like to stick his penis in you. While he did nod in assertion, the lovely lady blogger who was forced to witness this particular exchange ran for the hills.

RAN.

So.

In conclusion, please refrain from drinking. If none of the above is enough to remind you that the consumption of spirits leads to nothing positive, try to remember the full day of nausea in which you expel more than you ingest.

K? Thanks.

With Love,

Your Conscience

PS: I forgive you for the champagne you had on Sunday. It doesn’t really count anyway.

No, I’m not coming out of the closet. I already blogged about my disinterest in being labeled as straight or bisexual. Sometimes I just happen to like sexy time with girls.

Is that so bad?

What I am doing is showing my face. I’m not sure why I’ve held on so tight to my “anonymity.” I mean, at this point if you’re facebook friends with any of the bloggers I’ve met in the last year – there’s a fairly distinct chance you already DO know what the hell I look like.

My biggest fear to date has been that someone would figure out where I work, email my coworkers and then “out” me. Just typing that has my heart racing because what happens if I just gave somebody an idea?! What if one of you hates me that badly that they’d stoop to such levels?

Then I remembered that, hey, I don’t blog about work. In fact, I will never blog about work. Maybe a situation here or there, but nothing that gives a definitive idea of what I do or where I make my money. I have no interest in being Dooced. More importantly, the folks I work with already know that I blog. Only three know where, but I haven’t been secretive about the act itself.

I don’t do secrets.

Besides, if you are reading this blog, there is a 95% chance that you own a blog too. And you wouldn’t want someone doing that shit to you, right? Right.

Mayhaps I’ll regret this decision tomorrow and delete the post all together. Maybe this turns out to be a much smaller deal than I’m making it out to be. Or perhaps in a few months when I’ve forgotten all about posting this particular blog, my boss will come to my cubie with a print out of the things I’ve said here in my corner of the web.

Dear gods-that-I-don’t-believe-in,

Please, please, please do not let my boss come to me with any of this because I will have the worst panic attack of my life.

Also, if you could just get rid of all web tracking software – that would be killer.

Much love,

Deutlich

Anyhoodle. Enough with the talking. Uhh… I mean writing.

This was taken at my 27th birthday party in December. We went bowling. I wore the dress anyway.

This is me fucking with Jack. Just because I can.

That’s my eyeball…just in case you couldn’t tell. This is a gratuitous shot of my eye make up. Because I’m vain (but not really).

And that’s my super fantastical mom and brother. I think their expressions speak volumes. My mom would freak out if she knew I’d posted a picture of her on my blog. Don’t tell her.