Anne Nahm

I have been watching this meme travel across my various internet friends. Six or ten or One Hundred things that you didn’t know about the person. No one tagged me. But what could be more fun than jumping into a conversation not directed at you?

And so I proudly present: Some number of things you probably didn’t know about me. Enjoy!

1. I am somewhat drunk at the very moment this post seems like a good idea. Although its crossed my mind as an unworkable post several times sober. How drunk? Take the number of drinks you are comfortable with and add 1.5 to that. Whhheeeee!

2. I once worked as a counselor of sorts. Turns out? I have one of those faces that make people tell me their secrets.

Seriously – when all the counselors-in-training would get together and report what they had heard that week? The other c-i-t were telling stories about family histories and peanut allergies. I was getting special training on how to make a police report because my counselee had told me where she buried the bodies. Fluke? Maybe the first two times. After that, not so much. Hand me the Lasso of Truth and some American Flag underwear and I could totally be WonderWoman with that kind of superpower. Here’s some advice: Dude, keep your mouth shut. I don’t know what it is about my face, but ignore it. I’m just thinking about what to make for dinner.

3. My parents bought property that had a pond on it when I was very little. So they put me in swim lessons before I could walk. And not only did I totally kick swimming ass, but I thought I was Boss Hogg of the pool.

One of my earliest memories is cutting in front of all the bigger kids so I could go on the diving board at the public pool. I was so little almost everyone thought it was cute. Give me a break – I was more 2 years old than total primadonna. Anyway, I remember very clearly cutting in front of a boy who was pretty pissed at me. I heard him say to his buddy, “that little kid can’t swim. She’s gonna drown.”

And I thought, “Wow! He’s big! He must know what he’s talking about!”

And so I jumped in and couldn’t swim.

My dad had to jump in and save me and the other kids laughed. And I couldn’t use the diving board for the rest of the summer.

4. I think about deleting this blog about one third of the days that it has been in existence. If I could light a match and set it to the computer, thereby burning this blog to the ground in all its burny glory, it would be so much charred ash on your friend’s list already.

5. I once wrote a paper that probably has scholastic merit and/or academic value. But I haven’t tried to get it published yet because I. Just. Don’t. Care.

6. I spent the first 30 years of my life trying to impress someone else. I have spent two years unlearning that.

Best two years ever.

Hardest work. Ever.

Still sometimes wonder if the people that I was trying to impress are impressed with my unlearning all the things I learned to impress them. Fwoops. Maybe I still have a ways to go.

7. Deafness runs in my family. If I get water in my ear or some other obstruction and I can’t hear, I start to feel like I am losing my mind.

8. I will probably regret this post. Wait… You knew that, so it probably doesn’t count.

All right, tagging all you sorry bastards that have just been greedily reading every one else’s ‘you didn’t know this about me’ posts. Don’t make me name you! I will totally call you out. You know, assuming I remember this when I’m sober.

Dear Members of the Nahm Household,

Here are the facts as I see them:

1. It is raining. And dark.
2. Grocery Shopping Day is tomorrow afternoon.
3. There is a quarter roll of toilet paper among us.
4. Back ups include a half-empty box of Kleenex, which will be located in the master bathroom.

Don’t get crazy – of course you should use toilet paper when necessary.

But perhaps you should re-evaluate what ‘necessary’ means to you.

Love,
Mommy

PS – anyone found hording disposable tissue of any kind will be publicly flogged

PPS – stay out of Mommy’s gift wrapping drawer.
M.

Adventures in MILFification also involved the purchase of these new Sexy Mom** shoes.

A little Minnie Mouse? Sure. A little bland? You betcha. But they were the only things that passed my ‘run around the shoe store and successfully hurdle the showroom couch’ without falling off or causing me serious bodily injury. So while they have no polka dots or sexy kitten heel, they are reasonable, by God.

And also, sexy must be judged in comparison to what I have been wearing the last three months. Every day. Even in the rain.

Anyway, can’t talk too much today. I also bought new bras. And now that my boobs are actually hanging out in my general chest area, I am wearing out all kinds of new arm muscles trying to type around them. And also? My belly button is feeling chilly.

**  And bleh on the words ‘sexy’ and ‘mom’, huh?  I am vowing right here and now that they will never go side by side in this blog again.

I thought MILFification would be a rather simple weekend project, but it is turning out to be a much greater undertaking than expected.

Here is just one segment from my all day shopping adventure. I call it, Anne walks into Barnes & Noble thinking ‘hey, I’m a 30 year old woman, I can buy some erotica, no problem’.

But then? I swear on a stack. Here were my legitimate options for something sexy:

And not anything against car sex or exotic fruit masquerading as wimmin parts, but hey? I’ve attended 8th grade Health class and several cooking classes and uhm… I’m thirty (something).

I was actually tempted by Penthouse because it seemed… I dunno? In story form without a lot of diagrams, oil changes or recipes. But once you get out beyond, say Roman Numeral 10 on a ‘best of’ series, I’m guessing quality control kind of goes out the window … of the carma-sutra.

Heh. Sorry.

On the other hand, things are generally looking up. I seduced my husband in the kitchen pantry the other day, which I thought totally qualified me as a domestic sex diva. Especially when I looked deep in his eyes and he just stared at me like I was some exotic creature he had never laid eyes on. I mean, half fear, half passion? It was like some soap opera afternoon sex face close up right before the commercial break. Rawr!

Yeah, I was pretty sure I had totally rocked his world. Until I caught sight of myself in the mirror later and realized I just had a Cheerio embedded into my forehead.

Hey, look at what my husband doesn’t have to wear any more!

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Oh, grow up, you. It’s just this:

He had a cut on his finger. One of those dry-crack cuts right on the tip by the nail that gets bumped every time you touch anything? Bet you didn’t know there was a tiny little rubber ‘O’ out there to help with that problem. Neither did I.

But after about 40 very-manly-and-absolutely-not-manicures in which I had to rub lotion on the husband’s crack (Shut. Up. God, what are you? In the fifth grade?) because the husband was all too manly to step into that gray meterosexual arena known as using hand lotion by himself, I gave up and asked the local pharmacist what I could give my husband to heal his poor hand without continuing to massage him nightly while peeling grapes for him and asking him what kind of day he had.

And also, I got kind of fed up with him poking me in the ribs until I was forced to say for the eighty millionth time, “it rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again!” while he giggled like a school girl. Yes, peek behind the curtain and view our secret lives if you dare.

So I got these finger cot dealies. My husband used them once or twice and then suddenly refused to so much as touch the box, let alone the contents inside.

Apparently, he had discovered these so called ‘cots’ serve a dual purpose:

Or as my husband reported in a terrified whisper: “it’s for applying ointment in unspeakable places, Anne!”

So apparently, while Poe had the Tale-Tale Heart, my husband has the dreaded fear of the Unspeakable Places Ointment Applicator.

I’m not really sure about the finger only format. If you are that worried about coming into contact with either your unspeakable places or your ointments, don’t you think you would just spring for a whole glove?

I don’t usually fist the receiving party with ointment when I am in the finger role, but going out of one’s way to only cover the finger seems a little unnecessarily kinky. Like maybe the ‘support fingers’ want some skin-on-skin action while the one I call ‘penetrator’ needs a little distance. It occurs to me I have given this subject far too much thought already. Creeping you out yet? Just checkin’.

Oh yeah, and he also doesn’t have to wear a condom anymore! Yay end of antibiotic nightmare!