Sing Me The Song Of Your People (Slightly NSFW)

So this happened recently, and I have got to say it was one of funnier moments that I have with Alex. I had the brilliant idea that we should try to spice things up, and this is not my husband’s forte.  There’s nothing wrong with it, but often times it leads to very peculiar situations.

Me: Hey… talk nerdy to me.

Alex: Beg pardon?

Me: Go ahead, sweet talk me with your nerd lingo.

He takes a long pause to consider the situation.  While he is a romantic, having to do it on the spot causes for horribly awkward situations.  After a few moments, he speaks up.

Alex: Baby, I want to put my skyward sword into your water temple.

Me: … What?

Alex: HYAH! HAAAAAHT!

With as much enthusiasm.

He has this costume…

Me: Uh, try again.

Alex, thinking much faster this time, gives a goofy, sexy grin.

Alex: I wanna squirtle on your jigglypuffs. (Then, in a very deep voice) JIGGLY!

Me: Are you going to take this seriously?

Alex: HYAAAH!

I’m beginning to shake my head in wonder and amazement.  I’m trying not to chuckle, because it might encourage him, but my mind begins to race.  How the fuck can I get him to take this somewhat seriously?

Me: How about some role play?

Alex: That’s right up my alley. What class should I be and what level are we starting at?

Me: Class? Level?  What the fuck are you talking about?

He then goes into a very long dialogue about all the different dungeons and dragons classes.  I used to play, but it has been over six years and I’m a little rusty.

Alex:… And I’m going to need to know what level because I need to know if it’s an introduction campaign or if we’re jumping into an epic one. It doesn’t make that much of a difference, but I need to know what kind of established canon we’re getting into before I commit to my guy’s backstory.

Me: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU BABBLING ABOUT?

He looks at me, as if I’ve just asked him how a toilet is supposed to flush. He throws his hands in the air and rolls his eyes at me.

Alex: What. Class. Am. I. Going. To. BE?

Oh sweet fucking Jesus, he’s taking this seriously.

Me: You can be a barbarian….. and I’ll be a Paladin I guess?

To be fair, this is how I see myself anyway.

To be fair, this is how I see myself anyway.

I thought this would work, but I accidently lit another powder keg. Alex goes into another long dialogue, but this time extremely pissed off.  Apparently Paladins are naturally chaste and lawful, not whoring themselves out to other explorers.

I didn’t give it two thoughts, but apparently this is something he thinks about far more often than he should.

So I’m a paladin, level 7.  With huge tits that he can’t touch for two weeks, because of mother fucking roleplaying.

Not only did I not get lucky, but he gave me homework.  I have to read the mother fucking D&D handbook so I can understand his fucking foreplay.

Thanks Gygax.

Dick.

Dick.

Anyone else try spicing things up and have it backfire horribly on you? Any similar situations with talking nerdy? Please tell me I’m not alone.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE.

I Am Minnesotan To A Fault

As you all know, or should know, is that I was raised in Minnesota.  My parents were both farm kids on opposite ends of the state; my mother was raised on a large farm in a small town about 40 miles outside of Fargo, ND, while my father was raised in a little town just outside of Lindstrom, MN, ten minutes from Wisconsin.

While I was raised in the suburbs of Minneapolis, we always had a very heavy farm influence in our lives.  Growing up I would ride in my Grandpa’s tractor or combine, and other times I would help my grandma with getting eggs out of the chicken coop.  We always had corn fresh picked, and everything we ate would stick to your thighs for twenty years.  I always try to work hard in everything that I do, whether or not I like it.  I drink coffee, I think everything should be cooked in a crock pot, and potatoes go with every meal.  I like to garden, but only food staples.  Flower gardening has never gone well for me.  I stretch my vowels to the point of murdering them, and whenever I have a guest in my home, I always try to offer food and beverage.  Whenever I visit someone else’s home, especially overnight, I always try to bring a dessert of some kind or even bake something.

Basically, I am a Norwegian-Minnesotan to my very core.  I am Midwestern in everything that I do… except I’m chatty.  Not a lot of chatty folk in Minnesota.

Now, my husband, was raised on both coasts.  Primarily an East Coaster, with a grandma who’s a Buddhist and his other grandmother living in New York City, you can imagine that many of our arguments are primarily cultural differences.  I would even say we speak vastly different dialects.

My best example is my use of, “That’s different.” Those in the south have something similar, but it’s actually “Bless Your Heart.”

Minnesotans have this horrible habit of being ridiculously passive aggressive, otherwise known as Minnesota Nice.  I have this lovely talent that nobody knows if I hate them, which is kind of a curse because I’ll have people say we’re besties when half the time I can hardly tolerate them.  However, my real “besties” know who they are and I tend to be a little more up front with them.

Sorry, I’m getting off topic.

When Alex and I were first dating and first married, I was very much a creature of habit in my cooking.  Everything I cooked would use only a little salt to taste, potatoes and cream of mushroom soup in everything, and it was all very heavy food.  Alex, on the other hand, being raised by a hippy*, whenever he would cook there would be lots of seasoning, lots of fresh veggies on the plate, and hardly ever starches.

Whenever he’d ask me my opinion, I would always respond, “Well, it’s different.”

In Minnesota, if you say something is different, it has a few different meanings.

  1. “This is horribly disgusting.  If you feed this to me again I will defecate in your morning coffee.”
  2. “That is really, really weird and I hope that you never give this to me again.”
  3. “Why the hell are you serving me this weird ass food?  Why would anyone eat this?  What the fuck is kale?”
  4. Or, if you’re my mom, “Hmm, nobody else would wear something like this and it’s flattering on my body type, I give it a 5/10.”

Alex was unaware of this.  He thought that I thought it was a little weird, so he would continue to make it and add different tweaks.

Every single time, I would eat it and say the same thing, “Well, it’s different.”

When we decided to make a trip to Minnesota for the first time together, we had been married nearly two years, and we were taking a full eight days to see family and friends all over.  My brother, who is probably one of the funniest people I have ever encountered in my entire existence, decided to send Alex a book titled How To Talk Minnesotan.

Hilarious Because It's True

Hilarious Because It’s True

The very first chapter of the book discusses the three most common phrases in Minnesota: You Bet, That’s Different, and Whatever.

I remember Alex reading it, and after finishing the first chapter running over to me, demanding to know why I never explained, “That’s Different,” to him.

Honestly, I had thought it was universal.  We got into a fight over how I never explain what I mean and that when I talk, I’m far too vague.  After he finished reading the book, he realized just how much of a bitch I really am.

He even said to me, “I always thought you were just really neutral on everything.  Now I realize that you’re probably the bitchiest person I know.”

But I’m always nice about it, Because I’m Ridiculously Midwestern.

 

*My mother in law is a very nice woman, but she was a vegan for a while and from what Alex has told me, a lot of their living was from large gardens, she doesn’t kill the bugs in the house, she does compost, just… you know, hippy stuff.  Nothing wrong with it at all, just when he first told me about that I was like “There are actual hippies? AWESOME!”

 

Ever have any issues with dialect differences when going to different parts of the country?  Ever say something and someone took it the wrong way?  Let me know in the comments, I want to hear your horribly awkward situations.

Want to learn more about the hilarious dialect that is Minnesota?

The Book: http://www.amazon.com/How-Talk-Minnesotan-Revised-Century/dp/014312269X/ref=pd_sim_sbs_b_1?ie=UTF8&refRID=1DMQNGZVVBVQPA93ZM9R

The Movie Based On The Book (Don’t Worry, It’s Free To Watch Online): http://www.mnvideovault.org/mvvPlayer/customPlaylist2.php?id=15512&select_index=&popup=yes#0

Random Article Showing How Eccentric We are: http://www.buzzfeed.com/katieheaney/31-things-only-minnesotans-will-understand

Some Hilarious Youtube Videos about Minnesotans:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OymMl734Ews –Radio Talk show Host doing his Shit Minnesotans Say

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_-wx11l3nr4 –Showing the passive aggressiveness of Minnesotans

 

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog, as well as any requests, questions, comments or concerns.  If you have suggestions, please feel free to email me and tell me.  I try to check it once a day in the evening 🙂

 

The Bra Guru

I have this weird habit of the same week a year, all of my clothes die.  I have no idea why, but I go from having a full closet to having two shirts, one pair of pants, one pair of underwear, and all of the wires in my bras snapping.

 

I blame the bra wires on Alex since he has this nasty habit of not keeping his hands to himself.  To be fair though, I think every man on the planet has this weird habit of grabbing their girlfriends or wives boobs every chance they get.

So after four days when all of my pants got holes in the thighs, the wires in all four of my bras snapped, the dogs ate all my underwear (it was weird, one week they all decided my underwear is delicious), and all of my shirts getting ripped or so worn that they’re see through, when they were never see through before, and all of my socks no longer having a match, I tell Alex I need to go bra shopping.

For anyone who has boobs, it’s very obvious how important it is to have a good bra.  They perk you up, they help your back, and they can give you some confidence.

Weirdly enough, Alex has a really weird talent.  He can find any bra.

He is the Bra Guru.

Let me start from the beginning.

I am a very strange size.  I’m a heavy girl and I have really small boobs in comparison to my body.  Fat girls never have a flat chest.  It just rarely happens, so a lot of the time I have to order bras, then send them back because they just don’t fit right.  Luckily, Lane Bryant usually has my size, but very few and far between.

A little over a year ago, my mom and I dragged Alex to LB and we searched for over 20 minutes to find me a bra and had no success.  We were about to give up and Alex, who had been sitting in the corner of the store watching from afar, offers his searching abilities.

Within five minutes he found eight different bras in my size.  Of course, they were the leopard print with tons of padding that would make me look like Pamela Anderson, because, you know, he’s a guy, but my mom and I realized at that moment that Alex has a gift.

He has the gift of finding the right fucking sized bra.

So last week we walk into LB, and the two women at the front counter thought it was strange that I said to Alex “DO YOUR MAGIC!” and he began to search all of the bras and underwear for the right bra.

These women were confused as hell, and I explained the situation.

“He’s the Bra Guru.  I wear a weird size and no matter what, he can find the size in every style.  It’s a weird gift.”

A few minutes later he has found six bras, all leopard print or racy lace, and these women were astounded.

One of the women even commented that they didn’t even know that they carried that size for that bra.

When in the fitting room, obviously he had to go in with me to make sure that they fit, and every time I’d have it on, he’d conveniently unhook it with one hand and giggle like a school girl because… well… boobs.

Of the six, I found two that were perfect.  I figure two bras will last me for a while, so then I send Alex on a venture to find panties.

Naturally, he put his gift to the test and was rummaging through the panties, throwing all the lacy goodness my way.  You know, stuff a married woman would NEVER wear because I’ve rediscovered granny panties and their glorious comfort.

Image

You will never know such comfort

He found me some cute panties that were a compromise, and while at the counter, the women asked Alex if he wanted to work there to officially put his skill to good use.  He declined, stating that he hated his gift, and we were on our way.

So for any of you who visit me, if you have a weird bra size and need help finding a bra, I’ll send you off with Alex.  He will put his Bra Guru skills to the test.

Do you have problems finding clothes?  Do all of your clothes seem to rip and become unwearable overnight?  Do you have any funny stories of finding clothes?  Tell me in the comments!

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog, as well as any requests, questions, comments or concerns.  If you have suggestions, please feel free to email me and tell me.  I try to check it once a day in the evening 🙂

Elvis Hates My Vagina

I’m finding more time to blog since I threw out my back a few days ago, enjoying the plethora of pain killers given to me by the doctor, so I figured I’d write a blog post for y’all.

 

This is the story of how I met an ancient Elvis and how he decided that my Vagina was not good enough for him.

When I was working one day, I was doing my usual wonder woman thing, when I heard on the intercom, “Someone from donations is needed for a carry out.”

Since I work in donations, I figure I can go up to the front and help them carry out whatever object they need.  Before grabbing the dolly, I decide to see just how big the object is.  Usually it’s something small like a chair that’s around ten pounds, so I don’t worry about it too much.

I walk out and the girl who paged me pointed to this old man by the TVs.  He was tall, about 90 years old, but had Elvis hair.

Except way older

Except way older

The man looks at me, and says one sentence that makes me want to lose my temper.

“Oh geez, why the hell did they send a woman to lift up this old tv?  Women can’t lift for shit.”

I felt my eye twitch and I say to him, “Sir, I’m Midwestern.  I can lift the tv you need.”

He then begins to argue with me.  “No you can’t you’re a woman.  Women can’t lift. I’ll just do it myself if they can only send a woman.”

To which he reaches over to lift up a 6” screen tv, that weighed maybe ten pounds, and he carries it to the front of the store with no effort.

I stood there, unamused and confused.

Did Ancient Elvis just tell me that I can’t lift something because I have a uterus?

Thanks Elvis.  Thanks for thinking my vagina is not suitable for lifting.

Ever been discriminated against because of your dirty bits?  Ever been told you can’t do something because of something you can’t help?  Let me know in the comments!

 

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog, as well as any requests, questions, comments or concerns.  If you have suggestions, please feel free to email me and tell me.  I try to check it once a day in the evening 🙂

Sugar Coated Moron

So I saw on the news last week that there was a farmer’s market in the parking lot of a mall here in Shreveport, and since I love fresh peaches and melons and all the crafts, I told Alex that we needed to go.  No, I didn’t ask.  I didn’t inform him that I wanted to go, I got home from work and said “Put your pants on, we’re going to the mother fucking farmers market.”

I guess I should note that Alex does not like wearing pants at home.

Anyway, so after bickering for twenty minutes about how I needed to go to the farmer’s market or I would die a horrible death, because obviously I need peaches to survive, he sighs and begrudgingly agrees to go to the farmers market.

After getting lost a few times since it was a part of Shreveport I was unfamiliar with, we finally find this farmers market, and it’s tiny.               

But they had the peaches I wanted, green beans Alex wanted, live music and some pretty awesome food.

Mother Fucking Beignets

Mother Fucking Beignets

While we were looking around, Alex saw a beignet stand.  Now, if any of you have ever been to Louisiana, you should know that a beignet is a type of biscuit that is deep fried and covered in powder sugar, often served with marmalade and honey.  When they’re hot, they’re absolutely delicious.  We got an order and began walking around, looking at the strawberry lemonade stand, when I sneak the last beignet in the paper boat.

Alex saw me grab it, and there was about an inch of powder sugar in the bottom of it.  Seeing as I was tired and not really smiling or laughing too much, he screams “YOU TOOK THE LAST ONE?! NO! GIVE ME THE BOAT! GIVE IT TO MEEE!”

To which he then proceeds to stick his entire face in the powder sugar, dumping it all over his face, neck, and shirt.

He screams “BUH BUH BUH BUH BUH,” shaking his head in the sugar.  Several bystanders just stopped and stared.  And when I say several, it was probably close to 20 people.

I usually don’t get embarrassed, but this time I was a little embarrassed. Alex then decided to tell people that he just LOVES powder sugar.  So much.

 

Also not cocaine.

Also not cocaine.

I put my face in my hands, trying not to laugh my ass off.  Several older women shook their heads, kids laughed, and a woman offered Alex a napkin to clean off his face.  He then bought me a bunch of peaches and we ran the hell out of there.

I went again today, and I brought my coworker with me who had never been to a farmer’s market.  I bought her boudin.  And she didn’t embarrass me.

It was awesome.

 

Ever go to a public event and you were totally and completely embarrassed?  Ever think that you made the best beignets ever?  I want to hear your thoughts.  And if you live in Shreveport and claim you make the best beignets, beignets in my face speak far louder than messages on here.  >:3

 

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog, as well as any requests, questions, comments or concerns.  If you have suggestions, please feel free to email me and tell me.  I try to check it once a day in the evening 🙂

How A Scentsy Warmer Broke My Toilet

Okay, to be fair, it was mostly my fault.

This story happened when I was living in Alaska, shortly after I got married.  Alex and I were still in the honeymoon stage, we were just getting to know each other still, and I thought that absolutely nothing could ever go wrong in my life because I’d already survived shit creek in my teen years.

This particular night, it was a little balmy at -45 degrees, and I was tidying up the house.  I had my scentsy warmer filled to the brim with cubes so my house smelled of lavender goodness.  Since I had hardly any furniture at this time, mostly I was just vacuuming.  This was actually before I had Luna or Sahara, so mostly the vacuuming was just getting the dust off of everything because we had nothing but gravel roads in rural North Pole.

I decided that the cubes had used all of their scents and instead of dumping the hot wax in the garbage like I was supposed to, I decide to be a true idiot and dump the hot wax into the toilet.  It solidified immediately, making a huge chunk of cold wax in the toilet.  Since I don’t want to stick my hands in the toilet, I decide to flush.

Now, for those of you who are not engineers, let me explain what happens next.

  1. The flush starts to act funny because the wax gets really cold in Alaskan piping.
  2. The toilet stops working
  3. The Empress Majestic Dodo (me) decides to keep flushing, which it can’t because the giant ball of wax is stuck in the piping.

So, obviously, the toilet begins to flood the bathroom.

And after a few minutes, it starts to flood the hallway.  Then the bedroom.  Then the living room.

Alex was at work until midnight and it was around 8:30 at night.  I start to full blown panic.  We didn’t have a plunger because we never thought we’d ever clog the toilet, so I just keep flushing, hoping that it will start to work again eventually.  When the water is reaching the living room, I know I have to call Alex.

Me: Hey, honey, do you have to stay at work tonight?  Can you quite possibly come home right fucking now?

Alex: No, it’s Red Flag right now, I’m stuck here until probably one in the morning.  Why?  What did you do?

Me: Did you know that you’re not supposed to flush hot wax down the toilet?

Alex is quiet for a few beats.  I’m pretty sure he was banging his head against the wall, considering I heard a few thumps while I was waiting for him to respond.

Me: The entire apartment is kind of flooding right now.

Alex: Did you put towels down?

Me: I honestly didn’t even think of that.  I’ll do that.

Alex: I’ll see if they’ll let me go home since you’re trying to ensure that we never get our security deposit back.

When we got married, we married our towel collection as well.  He had a bunch of pretty, white towels and all of my towels were either a light tan or a dark burgundy.  Since I’d had them for a couple of years, I figured the color wouldn’t bleed at all so I throw every towel we have on the floor to soak up the toilet water.  The toilet eventually stopped flooding, but it still wouldn’t flush.

Alex was home about twenty minutes later, to which we put the towels in a garbage bag and head to Fairbanks to get a plunger.  After the thirty minute drive to Wal Mart, we stop at the laundry room in our apartment complex to wash all of the towels.

Naturally, I am not my mom who is a wizard at laundry and do not think to separate the colors from the whites.

All of our towels turned pink.

My husband declared me the Majestic Empress Dodo.  Never again, am I allowed to fix the toilet.

 

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog!