Stop Gym selfies 

I can’t stand seeing work-out selfies. The first couple times you post them—is allowed and understood. It’s awesome that you are working out and eating healthy and give a shit about your health. Like that’s cool. And good for you for making a change to better yourself and your life. I’m all about that!

But, by the 10th selfie… I’m annoyed. I don’t give a shit anymore about what your body looks like and I’m considering unfollowing you.  And by the 15th post,  I’m beginning to think you are possibly narsacistic—self centered, attention starving—and living in your own world.   Like there is only so much of your body that I care to see.  I get it.. You look good! Now, please stop fucking bragging about it and move on. 

Here:   

This is my belly selfie.  I don’t work out at all and I have about a thousand stretch marks from carrying two babies. (Although, I prefer to tell people I got into a bear fight and won).  #bearfight.  

Either way if I posted pictures of my body (in shape or not)— everyday!?  You would get annoyed too.   And after the 15th post you would be thinking, “We get it– you have a bunch of scars and are self conscious– get over it.” 

So please stop the gym selfies. Otherwise I’m going to start harassing your Instagram and facebook feeds with my scars and blinding white skin. 

~ g

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Holy tits…I made it. 

I stood by and watched someone else go through a grueling three years of law-school. My husband.  

  
Law school actually sounded appealing at one point in my life, for like, maybe two days.  And only because I love to argue and yes I love to be right.  Are you shitting me, who doesn’t? 

But uhh, I’m glad it was my husband pulling those all-nighters reading thousands and hundreds of boring pages with words I pretend to know. 

Standing by and watching was tough too though. I mean seriously, I think my ears might bleed if I have to hear one more story about law review, mood court, or exams–cases– professors–grammar–citing–bar preparation–and even constitutional jokes–What?!  Yeah…

Looking back, when my husband and I first started dating, he told me he went as the second ammendment for Halloween one year… that should have been my red flag for over achieving smartass.  Especially when he told me, he sewed bear arms to his shirt. But, inside I was thinking, “shit why didn’t I think of that?”  Precisely why he went to law school, not me. 

Anyway, yeah so, I’ve listen to all things law the last three years of my life. Morning-day-and-night.  And holy tits I made it. 

~ g 

Chopped. Not the show. 

In the beginning, there was anticipation and my double chin. 

  
And then, that bubbling feeling inside.  What the fuck am I doing. 

  
 I’m chopping my hair off.  

 
In the end,  my new badass self was formed. This is my #imabadassselfie 

  
~ g

Marriage is a boot camp 

Lets just be honest for a minute.  Marriage isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.  In fact,  throw some kids in the mix and marriage really isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.  Date nights are hardcore planned, if ever had…and sex? Well, let’s just say that changes too.  Nap time is a family thing not a kid thing.  

  
Calm down, I love my husband and my family more than anything—so don’t get the wrong idea.  All I’m saying is, it’s not what society cracks it up to be.  No one is the fucking Brady bunch with white teeth and big smiles.  And if you think they are– they’re lying to you, because the minute they leave your house, or you leave theirs— eyes are rolled and scofs are made and gossip is discussed.  

Marriage is actually more like being in combat boot camp.  Loud noises.  A bunch of drills and tests. Exhaustion. Repetitive shit. And uniforms. Although, the great news about boot camps?  At the end, you’re damn glad you stuck with it.

Still, being married is signing up for all kinds of compromises from the moment you say, “I do.”   Never liked the color red? Oh well, everything in your house is red now. Never  thought you would give up meat?  Now you’re going vegan.  Never thought you would use blow jobs as a bargaining tool?  Oh well, now you do. (Yeah, that’s a thing). 

Single ladies out there: The movie The Notebook is a fantasy!!! Along with all other romantic comedies– that are only created to make you feel warm and cozy inside.  But guys (in the real world) are just not like that.  Okay, some guys are in the beginning.  The beginning though.  

And guys: what do girls really want?  We don’t fucking know that’s why we want everything.  And that’s why when I shop I buy stupid shit and return half of it. 

Basically the moral of this rant is to marry someone you can stand to be friends with for life.  Because friendship, true friendship– is the foundation to a marriage. So when the going gets tough and rough you can withstand the weather… Or something like that.  

~ g

#BigBarrelBlowme

Okay seriously, don’t ever buy a big barrel curling iron, because if your name is Georgia–that shit won’t work.  And you’ll end up making faces like this one:

Pissed off.

Pissed off.

Here I am clearly pissed off, with my brand-new fifty-dollar big-ass-barrel curling iron.  And I’m pissed because, this is what I get:

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This is not a fucking curl.  I would say it might be a curve. MIGHT be. And Some of you might be wondering– “does this chick even know how to curl her hair?”  The answer is–yes I do.  Yes, I held the curling iron in the right amount of time.  Yes, I even rolled it up the right way.

And yes, I even tried taking a smaller strand.  See:

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But nope. Nothing. No curl.  And yes, I even watched a youtube video to make sure I wasn’t a dumbass! And hey, guess what?  Not a dumbass.  I started getting borderline depressed, so I went back to my shitty smaller barrel curling iron.

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And this is what my smaller shitty curling iron gave me:

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Better, but still not a curl.  At least, not the curl I’m going for anyways.

Now there is only one more option. One more solution. One last hope for a decent hair duo. But it’s time-consuming, old-school, and tedious.

I got out my reserves.

My hair curlers.

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Ugh.

And as I slowly started taking them out…

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What the fuck is that?

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Uhhhh….

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I look like a fucking idiot.

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Worst hair day. Ever.

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Actual tears.

Sooo– I obviously had to brush that shit out.  2 curling irons, 1 set of hair curlers, and 2 hours later…

This was my hair duo for the night.

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#HairFail

Oh and one last side note.

I put my hair in a bun when I went to bed and woke up the next morning to this:

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My G spot

If you’ve found my blog by accident you’re most likely disappointed, but Welcome anyways.  If not, Hey there.  My name is Georgia.  And this is my spot.  I’m a starving-hippie-wannabe, lawyer’s wife, and mother to two girls living in the suburbs of Ohio.  Yes, that was a mouthful and you may be bursting with excitement, but stay calm.  It’s only the beginning.

I figured with my first post I would ease you in to my spot.  So, first, let’s clear the air.  The Spot of G is about me, my life, and my thoughts.  When I refer to “My G spot,” or “The G spot,” I’m referring to something being pure genius, a golden nugget, or holy-amaze-balls delicious.  Not that fun spot located inside my vagina.   And, No, I’m not going to refer to a Vagina as a “wee-wee,” or a “woo-woo.”

Most likely you’re bored scrolling through your phone or at work watching the clock, and that’s why you’re reading this.  It’s rough out there. I get it–you need to stay sane.  So, I promise to you give you all of me and my spottiness. That is, the truth without my pretty filter and with my rich outhouse vocabulary.  Those of you that know me–like this part of me best anyways.

Okay, my infant just shit herself and my toddler is naked. I gotta go.

~g