Eleven jokes your OCTOPUS will LOL over!

Let's face it. Vaginas are about as attractive as an octopus wearing a headband.

Even the word itself seems like an obscenity. I hate the sound of it so much I'm going to refer to it as an OCTOPUS from this point on so I can stop hearing the word "vagina" echoing in my brain, infecting all my other thoughts with germs and STDs. So every time you read "OCTOPUS" think "slimy monstrosity of female anatomy."

But Manda Banana! All girls have one; it's just a natural part of life!

False. First of all, nobody actually calls me Manda Banana. That's just a nickname I created to make myself seem cute to online strangers. Second, the reason you provide is actually the exact reason why there's no point in talking about your OCTOPUS. Every girl has one, end of story, no need for story to exist, let's talk about other things.

Except everyone else loves talking about their OCTOPI. Every time I see a Cosmo magazine screaming "Eleven fun things to tell your OCTOPUS in the morning!" while I'm innocently waiting in line at the store trying to act superior and like a person who does not read Cosmo, I'm like, why? Is this part of female empowerment, loving your OCTOPUS so much that you have to sing to it in the shower?

Because if so, tie an apron around my waist and I'll stay in the kitchen where I belong. Except for the time I'll spend making babies.

People always tell me, oh, childbirth is such a beautiful miracle! And I smile and nod, wondering if they'd find it a beautiful miracle that I could shove a bowling ball up their OCTOPUS. I mean, I'm sure it is wonderful that you can create a baby, carry her inside your body, and push her out your OCTOPUS nine months later. That's awesome. But please forgive me if I decline to watch the video your husband took of your delivery, because squeezing a head out through your OCTOPUS looks like a child with a rubberband around his face.

Told you so?

Personally, I can't handle even thinking about turning my OCTOPUS into a rubberband so a kid can walk out of my stomach.

My view of anatomy may be a bit troubled. Uterus, fallopian tubes, vulva, clitoris, cervix... what is all that? I'd rather not know, so collectively, they're an OCTOPUS.

But you should love and embrace every part of yourself!

Well, I don't. Some parts are icky. I don't care who you are, I know for a fact that you do not have an attractive OCTOPUS. Whether you're a 12-year-old virgin, a teen idol recently discarded from her spotlight, or the 19 Kids & Counting lady, an OCTOPUS is an OCTOPUS and it's not something to love or embrace. The only "sexy" thing about it is its function as a sexual organ.

Maybe my opinion on this makes me an 87-year-old granny, but I just don't appreciate the openness girls have with discussing their OCTOPUS issues. Do they not have gynecologists they can talk to? Or mothers? Or a deaf-mute landlord? Surely they know someone better suited to help with their problems and listen to their list of feminine product preferences than some girl they've only met twice and thought her name was Amber. So please don't come to my work and ask me to recommend something for your itchy OCTOPUS while you have your hand down your pants and your fourteen sweaty children are destroying my brand new sunglasses display.

While you're telling me that Summer's Eve douches give you a yeast infection and Tampax's super plus isn't quite big enough and sometimes maxi pads smell funky, I'm mentally playing Rock Band guitar on expert to "Octopus' Garden" by the Beatles.

oh ok yea lol

Everybody likes to feel important, funny, and interesting. I base this observation on the fact that I like to feel important, funny, and interesting. Even while we're simply engaging in the least personal of all interactions, texting, we crave the witty banter, the flattery, the back-and-forth comedic insults that assure us that the other person understands what we're saying and feels the pull to respond, continuing the conversation and allowing you to say more and more things, however nonsensical or offensive they become. So what if all you're discussing are the various shapes of pasta noodles? Obviously the person you're texting either loves the topic of pasta, or likes you enough to let you rant about it rather than blocking your number and telling everyone they've never met you.

But then there's the other side of it. On that side live the cold-hearted biotches who couldn't care less that penne noodles are the best kind for alfredo-based pastas. They'll take your well-formed opinions, and do worse than ignore them.

They'll one-word you.

Say you're a bit desperate. Just pretend. You reeeeaaaally want the guy you're texting to think that you're witty and charming, but you go overboard just a little bit in your attempt to act natural, and end up with this train wreck for a conversation:

Your Unfortunate Crush: "So what are you up to?"

Ridiculously Nervous You: "Practicing my kung fu skills. I just watched Kug Fu Panda so I'm feeling pretty inspired. Not about being a panda, but about learning kung fu. I mean, if a Jack Black panda can be trained, there has to be some hope for me, right? If not, I think I might just give up on life and become a dog whisperer. Or a ghost whisperer. Or a ghost dog whisperer. Hahahahahahahahahaha."

Your Unfortunate Crush: "lol"

...What does it mean? Why would someone respond with such a low level of care and humor, not to mention personality? Here is a loose interpretation of the bland lol, drawn solely from my own experience in both receiving and sending it:

Your Unfortunate Crush: "Has anyone ever told you that you need to not say so many words? You're probably the least funny person I know of. And I've seen three Rob Schneider movies. I don't even read my messages all the way through when I see your name on my phone."

The best way to respond to that douchebag is with the silent treatment. If he can't appreciate your ridiculous humor or understand that your ramblings (and your impressive pit stains) are a product of smitten-induced nerves, then he's a clueless unsympathetic moron unworthy of your sharp wit.

Now check this one out. You text one of your buddies some sort of information or fact that isn't really conversational. Just a sort of friendly FYI.

Helpful You: "Hey! Just wanted you to know that we're all having dinner at Sleazy Mike's tonight! You're welcome to join us if you're interested!"

Ungrateful Party Guest: "ok"

OK? How is that a useful reply? Is that his lazy way of RSVPing, or is he simply acknowledging that he did indeed receive the message? Let me clarify all that for you with a brief insight into the subtext of this text.

Ungrateful Party Guest: "I don't care."

That's right, your sweet thoughtfulness and exclamation points don't phase this guy at all. He just wants to be left alone, probably so he can watch dark foreign subtitled movies through his obnoxiously long bangs and write exclamation-point-free poetry about his tragically lonely life. Because he doesn't care, and you can't make him.

The Siamese twin of "ok" is the even lamer "oh," but little difference exists between the two of them as far as their deeper meanings. They both bring any textversation to a screeching halt and hurt your feelings, and that is always their intention. Especially if shortened to "k" and "o" and accompanied by the rudest and most abrupt of all punctuation: the period. Slap me in the face, trip me down the stairs, spit in my hair, but please, spare me from opening my phone to an "o."

Now say you've had a really terrible day and you just need to vent. So you go through your contacts and start ranting to some poor soul.

Frustrated You: "I just don't understand the world. Like, can't school just be easier? We don't all need to be rocket scientists, ya know. Then my stupid boss wrote me up because he said being an hour late to work is unacceptable, but I had to curl my hair, ya know?"

Poor Undeserving Friend: "Yea"

Sure you're a bit hysterical and your friend did nothing to to warrant your lunacy being poured out upon her, but a little sympathy or encouragement wouldn't kill her. So why is "yea" all she has to say? Here's what she's trying to convey to you:

Poor Undeserving Friend: "I will agree with anything you say if it means an end to this conversation and your senseless whining. I don't understand your problem, I don't see your point of view, and I don't want to."

Ouch. Think twice before counseling that biotch next time she's freaking out about her latest pregnancy scare. Because now you get to be the bad guy.

Slutty Careless Acquaintance: There's probably a 98% chance I'm going to have a baby. I just don't know what to do. Life is so unfair, I've done nothing to deserve this. Except for all that unprotected sex. Will you be the baby's godmother?

Vengeful You: Yea.

Is "uvula" a dirty word?

I have strep throat. Again. It's approximately the 19th time I've had it in the past two years, so it's lost most of its sympathy points and moved on to just plain annoying.

Those are my tonsils, not a dirty picture.

Instead of people being like, "Oh I'm so sorry! I'll buy you some ice cream and massage your head!" they're all like, "Again, Amanda? What do you keep doing to infect yourself?" As if I keep getting genital warts instead of spotty swollen tonsils inflamed with Hell's own special brand of white-hot volcano fire.

I took my doctor's note to my manager, who gave me one of those "how dare you!" looks and walked away. I was like, "Thanks, I will get better soon!" It's not like I wanted to miss 14 hours of work; that's at least $100 even if I was still making minimum wage, and I enjoy being able to keep my car, home, insurance, and electricity. But that's not what this post is about; it's about how pitiful I am, and in need of some nice chicken broth.

After I shelled out $20 (of my mom's money) for the antibiotic that would put out the fire in my throat, I drove home sleepily and laid down with Luke. Luke is my dog, for all you morons who didn't read my last post. He was very understanding of how bad I felt, so he did his best to comfort me.

Also he ate some of my sour cream & onion chips while I was in the bathroom. Jerk.

Kacy left for work a few minutes after I got home because she didn't care how I felt. Such a cold-hearted bitch. Actually she left her ibuprofen with and told Luke to behave for me. He stared solemnly into her soul, then licked her face. We translated that as, "yeah right, loser!" What he was actually saying was more like, "I'll behave if behaving means walking across Other Mommy's ribs repeatedly, crinkling the pages of the book she's reading, and barking at phantom rabid spiders while she sleeps to mess with her dreams." It was a very relaxing afternoon.

My belly is not pleased with my throat for the roadblock. All I've eaten is ice cream because it doesn't scratch, burn, or make me want to stab a rusty fork into my jugular. Last time I had strep, all I wanted to eat were bacon-chili-cheese-dogs. I don't recommend that practice.

To supplement my restless fever-induced dreams, I read a little of Stephen King's "Under the Dome" before napping. In case you aren't familiar with the story, I'll fill you in a bit. An invisible undetectable impenetrable dome spontaneously arises around this small town in Maine. Everyone goes crazy, riots break out, the military tries to intervene but can't help, and nobody knows how it happened or how to get rid of it. When people go too close to the wall of the Dome they have seizures and prophesy about what will happen to their town. Super-creepy. I haven't finished it yet so I can't spoil the end for you. In my delirious sleep I became certain my bed was in an unbreakable bubble and if I sat up my head would hit it and be electrocuted.

Tossing and turning, suffocating from the hallucination of decreased oxygen, was how I spent most of my afternoon.

In other news, here's Luke's drivers license picture.

Floppy Cheeks

I hate dogs. I hate most animals, but dogs have filled me with inexplicable terror ever since I can remember, as if even the mildest of Dachshunds were actually a rabid blood-spattered Saint Bernard raving to tear my throat out. When they're not causing me to experience anxiety and sometimes bladder issues, they discover plenty of other ways to ruin my day. If I'm trying to sleep late, nap, watch TV, read, or any of my other thrilling hobbies, the last thing I want is a stupid slobbery beast hopping around, bow-wowing and scratching everything in sight.

But now I have one of those beasts.

Kacy decided my company wasn't enough for her anymore, so she made a deal with the devil and brought his firstborn child home. She let her dad do the honors of bringing the Antichrist home for the first time because she was a-scared and she knew I would refrain from cussing him out and throwing dirty socks at him.

He thrust the Boxer puppy into my face to greet me when I let them in to our pristine, poop-free, cinnamon-scented home. I was like, seriously? But I cradled the dumb little monster motherly against my bosom anyway because Kacy's dad looked so enthusiastic about the magnificent event of bringing a child into our lives.

My plot to murder Kacy was well into Stage 3 already as I sat down on the couch with the creature, but just as I was calculating roughly the amount of rat poison needed to do the job, the wrinkly little gremlin yawned hugely and snuggled against me.

Damn it.

I called off the animal sacrifice and laid down with the puppy snoring contentedly, garlic mysteriously oozing from his pores directly into my nostrils. Kacy came home after she was sure I wouldn't grenade her car and told me she'd named him Luke, after Luke Perry because of all his wrinkles.

She also named herself Mommy and me Other Mommy. Someday when he's old enough, we'll have to explain our confusing family to him and hope he can understand .

Luke eats our socks, gets into the trash, hides under my bed, barks at nothing, chews on poo, and tries to play with the horses next door, so we were forced to take disciplinary action. Spanking and "no"ing seemed to challenge him to behave worse, so as a last resort we got a shock collar. We've only actually used it a few times, so don't judge us. As soon as he sees us pick up the shock remote, he stops behaving like Satan and watches us sideways to make sure we're noticing how angelic he's being all of a sudden with no fear-induced motive at all.

Since Kacy and I are lame and don't have anything better to do, one of our favorite forms of entertainment is doing things to make Luke turn his head sideways. Unfamiliar sounds and abnormal events are the best ways to cause his delightful expression of confusion and curiosity. Once he becomes accustomed to something, he no longer has to turn his brain perpendicular to his neck to comprehend it, so the challenge is coming up with things he's never experienced. Sirens, saxophones, and baby laughter all did the trick for a while until he grew bored with them and matured into the need for more complex, sophisticated ideas. Like the blow dryer when it's sitting quietly on the couch, not attacking his moms' heads or roaring its battle cry.

Random spirits and auras also seem to fascinate Luke enough to flop his head over while staring upstairs in wide-eyed horror. But we pretend that's caused by flies and specks of dust.

I guess we'll keep him after all.