Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross

Better Orgasms. Better World.

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My kids and I are big text messagers. Whether they are at school, or I am at work, they are with friends, or I am out doing errands, our lives don’t lend themselves to phone conversations.

And goodness knows, with a 16 and an 18 year old, actual face time is limited to the one dinner and one weekend day per week that we brainstormed everyone could spare without seriously effecting their social standing.

So, we tap out our messages, on our cell phones, in a modern day Morse Code.

From the common, everyday stuff:

* Can we go to Red Lobster tonight?
* We can’t afford it. Doctor bills have us pretty broke until payday.
* Okay. Dollar menu at BK, then?

or

I come from a chubby family. Not fat, exactly, but I definitely belong to a blood line that provides a birthright of belly fat and double chins. Some of us fall on the fat side, some of us on the thin, but all of us have disproportionately large upper bodies that throw a shadow like a potato perched on two toothpicks. Sometimes the potato or the toothpicks are smaller, but we all pretty much look like we were made by Hasbro. Potato Head family, reprazent!

“This month’s budget was thin, so I had to choose between cable and food.”

“Mom, please tell me you chose cable.”

Things are tight in the Fuck Yeah household, but not any tighter than usual.

Due to the fact that I’m crap with money, the cable/internet is off for a week or so, which has lead to two sullen teens. “I’m bored” and, consequently, “I’m hungry” are heard echoing through our apartment, making this place sound like the orphanage in a modern day version of Annie. The kids discuss all the wonderful shows they’ll watch (Which have magically transformed into the best things ever, due to their unattainable nature. “Remember Hannah Montana? The ‘Cheese Jerky’ song is a work of genius!”) and computer games they’ll play, when our bill is paid.

“I’m sorry I’m not wearing any pants,” I said, for the third time already, today.

“It’s okay,” said the technician, because what else are you going to say to that sort of thing?

I had my first mammogram.

It all started a few weeks ago, when I went to the doctor for a desperate case of WTF, Period Edition — Mood swings that typically left me in a heap of tears and self-loathing, cramps like a kick in the gut from an angry robot (robots are strong, guys), blood that flowed like boxed wine at a bunco party.

She did the usual poking around, and when she got to my breasts, she poked a little more deliberately. Turned out I had a lump and would need to have it checked.

“Hi. I’d like to make an appointment.”

“Okay. What test did you need?”

“A mammogram.”

“Fine. Let me get some information from you.”

She asked all the pertinent stuff — Name, Phone Number, Insurance Info. She asked if she could have my social security number or would I rather not. Stuff like that doesn’t freak me out in the least. Please, if someone were to steal my identity, they could only improve it.

“I’d rather not,” I said, surprising myself.

When she asked my date of birth, she automatically assumed.

“So, routine screening, then?”

“No, ma’am. Diagnostic.”

I have a lump in my breast.

It wasn’t very far into the Oscar-nominated movie Black Swan that it became apparent something was very wrong with Natalie Portman’s character, Nina. An overachieving ballerina with a mother who is borderline infatuated with her daughter, her beautiful but extremely fragile facade begins to crack almost as soon as we are introduced to her.

It seems to be a common assumption that retail girls are easy. I can neither confirm nor deny this. However, we do get hit on. Quite a bit. Now, I don't pretend that it is because I am beautiful. I am, in fact, quite average looking.

I think it's more about having a girl be nice to you for a period of time (I guess about one to two minutes, average, per transaction). Here's a hint: While she may actually like you, be interested in what you are saying, or think that the jokes you tell *are* that hilarious, the girl ringing up your purchases is also paid to be pleasant and somewhat charming.

From time to time I'll kick around the idea of leaving behind the glamorous world of the modern supermarket to live the carefree life of someone who works for tips. Why on earth would I do something like that, you ask? Well, I already spend my days being nice to assholes, and my wage isn't even BASED on that. Why let all that faux-amiability just go to waste? Damnit, man, there are people starving for that stuff in, what, New Jersey?

Not long ago I played a round of "I gotta get the heck outta here" and decided to let my fingers do the walking all over the world wide web to see what was being offered in the restaurant biz. It's like the internet intuitively knew that I love all things cheesy and USA (all the way!), and returned solid gold (lamé).

Behold, Hooters Girl, a site actually owned by Hooters of America, Inc.

I once dated a guy who was a 35 year old virgin. He had learned what little he knew about sex from pornography which, in theory, seemed totally endearing and somewhat hot. In practice, though, it left a lot to be desired. And it took a long, long time to get to the practice. You know, because of the whole "virgin" thing. When we finally got to it (my suggestion, naturally), I ended up the sadclown in a 3 ring shit circus.

We headed upstairs in his parents' house, which was where he lived (hey! how 'bout them stereotypes?), for my first glimpse of his bedroom.

I'm never sure how far into a friendship to reveal that I am actually a teensy bit, well, off. Not in a "Oh, how cute, she's a wacky, silly, magical sprite of a girl" way, but more of a "Holy crap, there are people who actually think those things and are WALKING AROUND FREE AS A BIRD" way. About half of the people I warn are like "I won't judge you. You can tell me anything," and regret that decision soon after. Half aren't listening because they just got an iPhone 4 and omgitssoamazingIcantevenbelieveit and I quickly and quietly drop my crazy bomb so that later I can say that I told them and the horrified face they are currently making is their own fault.

A woman came in today, wearing Coach rain boots, a Coach scarf, and carrying a Coach bag (how do I know this? everything was emblazoned with the very-much-about-being-seen "C" logo). She was pleasant enough, asking about flowers and talking about the weather, until she accidentally misstepped and knocked over a small display. Her whole attitude changed when I made move to help her.

"I wouldn't have knocked that over if you hadn't put it in such a TERRIBLE place. How is ANYBODY supposed to get around that? NOT very good planning," she snarled, loudly.

Masturbating is by far the awesomest hangover cure in the history of awesome.

Yep. See also: PMS

I'll have to take your word for it.

In high school, a teacher told me that an orgasm was the best cure for cramps. I just thought she was coming on to me.

Is there anything orgasms CAN'T do?

Cuddle. whompwhomp

For those of you who don't know, I began my illustrious (illustrious means "eating cold, leftover kung pao chicken while wearing dirty pajamas", right?) writing career by chronicling my adventures in retail at the blog, The Checkout Girl. The site is offline for now, but the thought of my stories sitting around, collecting dust, makes me sad, so I'll be sharing my favorites here, on Mondays.

About a year and a half ago, I was the checkout girl at a mall clothing store. I prefer not to say exactly which one, but it rhymes with Cold Gravy. Though grocery is my specialty, it was great not to wear a uniform for a while, and a really easy job.

I was showering this morning (you know - getting wet, soaping up, hitting all the important parts and the less-important parts that just feel good to hit), when I was surprised by something... the bushiness of my bush. I mean, I knew I hadn't trimmed her lately, so it made sense, but had no idea she was already so, um, natural. I struggled to remember the last time I had gardened down in my posy patch. Let's see, I haven't done the dirty in 75 plus 10 carry the one. Yeah. It's been a while.

In my life, I've tried out many a ‘do on my Little Miss Don't. For the first 25 years or so, she roamed free. Like a gazelle. Or maybe a porcupine.

They stood over me, the two of them. He poked at my sides as I lay* there, wearing only a gown that opened in the back, my bra, some panties, and a pair of old Converse that I had neglected to take off. I still felt like myself as long as I was wearing my sneakers.

"She's really big," he said to her, "Bigger than I thought. We're going to have to adjust for that."

She nodded as tears welled up in the corners of my eyes.

"I'm right here, you know," I said, trying for indignation but managing little more than a whimper, "I can hear you."