Easter Week Continues...

This week, Wendy at On 'n On 'n On kindly awarded the Bald Faced Liar Creative Writer Award to moi.  The typical thing to to with this award is to list 7 things about myself, with six of them lies and one of them 100% true.  I'm going to turn this on its head, and list six things which are true, with only one of them being a lie, and I'm going to take it up a notch - all of them are going to be about Easter.  You need to guess which one is a lie, and I will give you the answer on Good Friday.

1. I have been the Easter Bunny, and while in costume I had the Cadbury Eggs kicked out of me by a bunch of violent fourth graders.  One of them inadvertently felt me up while trying to see if The Easter Bunny had 'candy' in her pocket.  ( I know, this one is a gimme since I wrote about it yesterday, but c'mon, I have to come up with six things!)
2. My sister was a big believer in Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street, so instead of visits from mystical creatures like Santa or the Easter Bunny, my family was visited by Oscar the Grouch, who was actually my Italian neighbor in a green fur suit in a garbage can outside of our door.
3. Easter Sunday 1979.  Our black Labrador Retriever, Mandy, brought a rabbit to our doorstep, dead and gutted.  My sister and I woke up, saw the bloodied, dead rabbit on our front step, and were immediately and permanently traumatized.  My sister started screaming at Mandy, "BAD DOG!  BAD DOG!  You killed the EASTER BUNNY!"
4. At my grandma's house in Iowa, dyeing eggs was a huge production.  My grandparents lived on a farm and had their own henhouse, so we would gather the eggs from the henhouse and bring them into the house to boil and then dye.  After dyeing our eggs, we would have a big Egg Hunt in the yard, and get hopped up on candy.  My cousin Yvonne was running through my grandma's living room and dropped her Easter basket, only to find that her dyed eggs somehow never got boiled, so her raw eggs broke on Grandma's beige carpet, and then the bitch blamed it on me.  Of course, everyone believed her.
5. My mom was a good cook, but could be inattentive or forgetful when cooking.  One year, when all of my Mennonite relatives were coming for Easter, she forgot to defrost the ham when she should have, so she resorted to thawing it under running water in the sink (this was before we had a microwave), and then getting it into the oven quickly.  All of the side dishes were done, and she figured the ham was done enough to serve.  Oh how very wrong she was.  I think 10 of the 18 people there ended up with varying degrees of trichinosis (or roundworm) from undercooked pork, with the most prevalent symptom being diarrhea.  We had three bathrooms.  Things got ugly.  It is the Easter Ham that lives in infamy.
6. When I was a reporter for the North Liberty News,  I was to report on a re-enactment of The Last Supper at a local church.  I did the story, interviewed various apostles, and got ready to take pictures.  They were in the middle of rehearsal, and I slunk down the aisle, trying to be unobtrusive.  I put the camera up to my face to see the shot, sat down, and immediately realized I had just sat on Jesus's thorny crown, which would be used later in the production.  The show went on, but for a brief, memorable moment, I felt Jesus's pain.
7. Easter, 2003.  I was very heavily pregnant with Youngest Daughter, and we attended Easter services at our church.  My other kids were 6 and nearly 4 at this point, and they hadn't asked much about how the baby got in Mommy's stomach.  In the middle of the Easter service, The Son (mine, not Mary's) leaned over and said, "How DID the baby get in your tummy Mommy?"  I whispered to him, "God put the baby there".  He thought about this for a moment.  He looked up at the front of the church, where Pastor Frank was talking about Jesus, and how he was the only begotten son of God.  A light bulb went off, and The Son looked at me and said, out loud, "PASTOR FRANK PUT THE BABY IN YOUR TUMMY?"

That is all.  Thanks Wendy!  See if you can detect the false story, and I'll see you tomorrow for Good Friday, which this week will be Holyculture Friday.

Hey Mom, Could You Vagazzle Me?

Whoever said Disco sucks must know Jennifer Love Hewitt's vagina.

In January of this year, Jennifer appeared on the ‘Lopez Today’ show with George Lopez to give some dating tips and promote her new book, "The Day I Shot Cupid".  Go ahead.  Click the link and watch.  I'll wait.  One of her tips was to glue shiny things right on your privates. She also revealed that she was, at that very moment, sporting a vagina decorated with hot pink Swarovski crystals, which made George Lopez and his audience need to take a moment for visualization. “After a breakup, a friend of mine Swarovski-crystaled my precious lady,” she said. “It shined like a disco ball so I have a whole chapter in there on how women should vagazzle their vajayjays.”

Her precious lady.  Thank you, Jennifer Love Hewitt.

 I have crystals on my vagina and you don't.

At first, I was a little thrown by this.  It seems so easy to make fun.  But you have to feel for Jennifer Love Hewitt because she seems like such a nice girl, who just REALLY wants to be in love.  It is, after all, her middle name.  She's gone public a number of times with her desire to get married, and in the last People magazine she said she has an engagement ring picked out that she goes in to try on once in a while, and some wedding dresses on standby.  She seems nice and normal and doesn't appear to have a drug problem or an eating disorder or sleep with anyone from The Hills.  John Mayer purportedly wrote a song about her you might know, called, "Your Body Is a Wonderland".  

So why can't Jennifer find love?  Could it be that when she is getting hot and heavy with a beau and he goes below deck, there is a sparkling in her panties, like she is a human but her vagina is a vampire?  Could it be that when he sees the disco ball on her precious lady he does The Hustle right out of there?  Does he get Boogie Fever from complications from the cuts he might receive from her cut glass cave?  But I like J Love, and if she wants to vagazzle her vajayjay, that is her cross to bear.

Moving beyond Jennifer and her need to sparkle plenty, I wonder about the person who is applying the crystals.  I did a little research and found that you can book a Ladies Crystal Party, where you and three to six of your best friends can go in for a little blingy on your thingy.

Using Swarovski™ body art, choose a delicate design or create your own masterpiece working with one of our Crystal Art Artisan.

• Individual Crystal Body Art application.
• Qua Exfoliating Body Scrub with Crystal Body Art application.
• Ladies Crystal Body Art Parties (4 to 7).

60 min: from $130

I am thinking this is for a crystal butterfly on your shoulder, but if you ask for a mongoose on your muffin I'm betting they will happily do it for an extra fee.  I'm also making the assumption that you will be expected to have a Brazilian to get this service, unless they are going to just put some guiding lights down the sides of your runway strip, but it would take a very special Crystal Body Art Application Technician to agree to bling a full bush.

 I want a killer whale diving into mine!

Now that I know this service exists in the world, I need to know the particulars.  I'm becoming obsessed with Jennifer Love Hewitt's vagina.  I'm doing dishes and I think, "How do they apply her crystals?  Is she laying back, legs spread, drinking wine from a straw?  What is the name of her technician?  Does she call her by name?"  I'm folding towels and I think "How long do Jennifer Love Hewitt's vagina crystals stay on?  Do they start falling out of her clothes?  Does she scratch herself after peeing?"  I'm packing the kids' lunches and I think, "Does J Love's vagazzaling require special underwear?  Don't the crystals catch on most panties?"  I will be driving the kids to cello lessons and think "Is it like a pedicure, where they have to remove the old polish to put on the new?  How does she pick her design?  Does she do themes, like Abe Lincoln for President's Day, or Jesus for Easter?"   

Her vagina has become the siren call for all people with vaginas.  She is now setting the bar for caring for all of our Precious Ladies.  If your dealio is not encrusted with crystals, maybe you don't care so much.  Where is the love, ladies?  Where?

If you are vagazzaling your vajayjay, I want to hear about it.  Release me from my torment.  I need to know.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 21

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Celebrity Marriages.

"I always just hoped that, that I'd meet some nice friendly girl, like the look of her, hope the look of me didn't make her physically sick, then pop the question and... um... settle down and be happy. It worked for my parents. Well, apart from the divorce and all that!"

- Tom, Four Weddings and a Funeral

I'm sorry, men, but in the words of the poet Jon Bon Jovi, you give love a bad name.  Celebrity husbands?  I'm talking to you.  Is it a particular plague among celebrity husbands, or is it just that no one cares enough that Phil McCracken of Dubuque, Iowa, is screwing around to put it on the cover of People?  Does Joe Blow screw around as much as your average Hollywood husband or wife?  This question, coupled with my obsession with Girl Scout cookies and therefore acid reflux, is what keeps me awake at night.  (Really, it's the cookies.  I know lots of people cheat.)

Sandra Bullock is only the latest Hollywood wife to discover her husband has been burning the coal in someone else's furnace.  Before her Brad left Jennifer for Angelina and Reese caught Ryan with Abbie and Sadie caught Jude with Sienna (who caught him with the nanny) and Uma caught Ethan with Ryan (who was the nanny) and Halle caught Eric with everyone.  Let's not forget Elin or Vanessa Bryant in sports or Elizabeth Edwards and Silda Spitzer and Jenny Sanford and Mrs. Larry Craig and Mrs. James McGreevey and Mrs. Bill Clinton....Really.  I could go on forever.

Famous women caught cheating on their men...um, maybe Madonna and A-Rod?  Farrah left Lee Majors for Ryan O'Neal?  Anyone?  Anyone?  Bueller?

To right this wrong, I have developed a simple multiple choice test for women to give their famous husbands.  Answered honestly, I think it will save some heartache.  You're welcome, Hollywood.

1.  You ask me on a date.  You:
a) Ask me if I want to stay in or go out.
b) Take me to In 'n Out Burger.
c) Say you'd like to screw my sister.

2.  While dating, I have to leave town for work.  You:
a) Read Jane Austen's "Sense and Sensibility"
b) Take a class in sensitivity.
c) Watch the porn movie "Scents and Spankability"

3.  We decide to marry.  You propose:
a) In Paris.
b) On the beach.
c) an open marriage.

4.  As a hobby, you:
a) drink screwdrivers.
b) like carpentry.
c) screw everything.

5.  When you text me, you sometimes:
a) send me links to funny videos.
b) tell me you love me.
c) call me the wrong name.

6. Your favorite drink is:
a) A daquiri
b) Whiskey, neat
c) Beer bong between the stripper's tits

7.  Your biggest personal problem is:
a) Organization
b) Communication
c) Herpes

If he answers A to most of these questions, he might be gay.  Best to keep him as a movie or shopping date for a while.  If he answers C, YOU fail for keeping him around this long.  Jesse James?  You had me.  You were the poster boy for not judging people by their looks, or their tattoos, or their porn-star ex-wives.  You start playing around with tattooed biker chicks for a little fun, and next thing you know:

 You're guilty conscience is forcing you to make bad fashion choices.  

That's right, Jesse.  You earned those overalls.  Perhaps regular pants irritate the sores.  Even Larry the Cable Guy is saying, "Hey man, just because we dress alike DOESN'T mean we have anything in common!"

Perhaps what these men really need to do is not get married.  They aren't doing women any favors by marrying them.  Honestly?  Sandra Bullock has other options.  And who wouldn't want to be with Jen?  (Hmm.  Okay, bad example.  But she seems like a really fun girlfriend!  Take ME to Cabo, Jen!)  But Reese, Uma, Halle, Elin, heck, even Hillary could hook up with someone else.

I understand that good people cheat.  I completely see how people get from Point A to Point B.  I get it that if you're feeling down and troubled a la James Taylor, and someone approaches you at just the right time and tells you how amazing you are when your partner doesn't seem to notice, you will be tempted to stray.  But as the child of a marriage with adultery, can I propose that if you can't be loyal and true, then don't stay married.  Period.  And if you do get married, and then repeatedly cheat, I hope you get potato salad in your pants.  You may still be a good person, but you deserve the itches.

And Jesse?  I hope you really enjoy your time in the garage, because I think you're going to be tuning your own engine for a while.  Let me suggest another quote from Four Weddings and a Funeral for your next relationship:

"Charles:  Let me ask you one thing. Do you think - after we've dried off, after we've spent lots more time together - you might agree *not* to marry me? And do you think not being married to me might maybe be something you could consider doing for the rest of your life?
Carrie:  I do."

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!
EIGHT HOURS LATER:  When God gives you a gift, like Jennifer Love Hewitt vajazzaling, and you don't use it?  Well that's just a crime.  I will discuss the hiring of someone to vajazzle you on Monday.

Edward's Back...And His Front

"Do you really have any idea how important you are to me?  Any concept at all of how much I love you?"  Edward pulled me tighter against his hard chest, tucking my head under his chin.

I pressed my lips against his snow-cold cheek.  "I would get a better idea if you would fix the dishwasher, my handy little vampire."

"You compare one small tree to an entire forest...wait...did you say fix the dishwasher?"

"Yes.  You sit at the table and stare at me the entire time I'm washing the dishes.  For claiming to be so observant, you've really dropped the ball on noticing I am not loading and unloading a dishwasher.  Maybe get up and lend a sister a hand?  And that garbage isn't taking itself out."

 Edward leaving after dishwasher hose bursts.

Worthless bloodsucker.

This weekend, the kids and I watched New Moon.  I ordered it from Amazon, but they gave a free one-day digital download when you ordered the DVD, so at 11 p.m. CST we were able to crowd on the couch and watch it on my computer.  I still love it, even though time has colored some of it in Velveeta-hued shades of cheese.  We can't all be brie, darling.  

(Spoiler Alert!)  So we're crammed on the couch, Oldest Daughter, The Son, Youngest Daughter, and me, all trying to get the best view of the computer screen, and the scene comes up where Edward is in Italy and steps out into the sun with his shirt off.  

YD:  "Why is he naked?"

ME:  "He isn't naked honey, he's showing his skin in the sun."

OD:  "SHHH!"

SON:  "What is wrong with his chest?"

ME:  "What do you mean?"

YD:  "He is TOO naked."

SON:  "He has that one hairy spot on his chest..."

ME:  "SPOT!  You see The Spot!"

OD:  "SHHHH!  Leave The Spot alone!"

SON:  "What do you mean, 'The Spot'?"

YD:  "Why is Edward naked?"

And this is how I know these are my children.

First, YD understands that Edward is, indeed, almost naked.  It's one thing to read the book when he takes his shirt off in Volturra and gets nearly sparkly.  It's quite another to see Rob Pattinson's V-Line in front of you.  Let's take an Urban Dictionary moment:

V-Line:  Usually refers to a guy's ripped obliques, which are like plainly visible arrows pointing to his happy place.

But the New Moon movie people did Rob no favors by flaunting Taylor Lautner's shirtless visage in front of us the entire movie.  Rob, who should be impressive without a shirt, suddenly looks like a scoop of vanilla ice cream next to a Hot Fudge Sundae.

Second, my children seem to be the only other people who noticed Rob's unbalanced nipple hair.  As I mentioned in my post after seeing the movie in the theater, from Whoreticulture Friday, Issue 7, Rob had such disproportionate nipple hair I lost my New Moon focus:

"So far I seem to be the only person who noticed that in New Moon (Oh my GOD will she quit talking about New Moon? No. No she will not.), when Rob Pattinson took his shirt off, one of his nipples had some whackadoodle hair job or something around it. It's like one nipple got the JFK hair and the other one got the Jackie. It was distracting for me. Urban Dictionary calls this a Nipple Brow or a Nipple Beard. I've started calling him Spot, much to Oldest Daughter's chagrin."

 Holy crap, she's right!  This one IS bushier!

All I'm looking for is validation.  I can't be the only person who notices these things.  I mean, come on...they didn't stick him out there naked so I would listen to his dialogue.  So pay a little attention to the details, okay?

Eclipse is coming out on June 30, and since Edward shouldn't be shirtless in this one, all I ask is that they keep his lipstick under control and I'll be happy as a clam.  That is all.

Yard Work Be Dammed

On Friday I wrote about Spring Cleaning.  Back in the 70's when I was a kid in the 'White Lights Christmas City' in Nebraska, one of my Spring Cleaning responsibilities was raking the leaves.  We lived on a lake, so there were lots and lots of trees, and the damn things littered those leaves everywhere.  I was a lazy and asthmatic child, so I usually got out of some portion of the raking in one of two ways:

1. I would have to go to the bathroom, A LOT, and each trip would usually take about a half hour.  I would saunter into the house, grab an apple, watch a little TV, all the while looking out the window to see if my dad was coming in to check on my whereabouts.  Eventually they would come looking for me, and I would be on my way out the back door as they came in to check.
2. Once the bathroom excuse was exhausted, I would just stick my face in a pile of leaves, which would make me sneeze and get wheezy, and then my parents would send me inside so they could avoid a hospital trip.  Have I mentioned that I was a deviant and manipulative child?  (But I really did have asthma.)

The leaf did not fall far from the tree with my children.  We live on a corner lot with lots of trees, and every spring and fall we force the children to grab their rakes and head out into the yard, where multiple bathroom trips and small injuries ultimately occur.

Since I like to think I am cleverer than the children, I sometimes disguise work activity as play.  We have a huge crabby tree in the front yard that spends its time swearing and throwing small branches at our house, and in the spring we will end up with hundreds of branches in the yard.  Over Spring Break, The Son had an out-of-town friend over for a few days, and I suggested to them that it would be really, REALLY fun to build a beaver dam in the front yard.

ME:  "I bet you guys could build a HUGE beaver dam here."
THEM:  "How would we do that?"
ME:  "Just like beavers do!  With all of these sticks!"
THEM:  "But won't they cave in?"
ME:  "Nah!  First you put up a frame with the bigger sticks, and then you build around it with the smaller ones.  It will be easy."
THEM:  "Hey!  That sounds like fun!  Let's do it!"
ME:  (Walking back into house) "MWAH HA HA HA HA HA...suckers."

The idea was that the sticks would be in one location, and therefore easily bound and prepared for pickup.  Four hours later, I did an abduction check (and really, they could've been in Ohio in that amount of time) and found a beaver dam in my front yard.  A real, legitimate beaver dam.  And not only had the boys built a four foot by six foot hut next to my front door, they walked over the three million leaves in my yard to get the BAGGED leaves by the garbage, and dumped them over the top of the dam.  

DAM IT ALL!!  Now I had the same amount of sticks in the yard, AND my previously bagged leaves were back in the grass.  Just when I started to think about getting annoyed, two of the happiest boys I've ever seen came bounding out of the Dam Thing.

"MOM!  This is the COOLEST thing EVER!  Take pictures of it!  Can we sleep out here?  Do you think actual beavers will move in?"  

 Boys.  Enough said.

I was a goner.  Who cares about the Dam leaves?  Or the daffodils coming up that are now in the side room of the Dam.  There is nothing like the joy of a 10-year-old kid.  So we took pictures of the boys, and of course, pictures of Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein in his formerly natural habitat.  Now that he is a dead taxidermied squirrel and unused to the elements, he needed his stocking cap.
  

 Todd loves the Dam Thing.

Youngest Daughter carried approximately 12 sticks to "help" with the dam, and she was angry at the end that she was not included in the Building Credits.  Hell hath no fury like YD scorned, as the boys were soon to discover:

 Sleep lightly, boys.  YD will have her revenge.

It snowed over the weekend, and as we live two blocks from the Mississippi River, Current Husband and George the Superpet found themselves wondering how many critters were squatting in the Dam Thing for the night.  Our neighbors found themselves wondering why no one thought of writing a neighborhood covenant when we moved into the area.  The boys found themselves wondering how much candy it would take to buy their safety.  And I found myself wondering how I got outwitted by the children, again.  Dam it.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 20

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Spring Cleaning.

In my mind, spring cleaning is what I did growing up during Spring Break.  We didn't really have a Spring Break at my school, per se.  We had Good Friday off, and sometimes the Monday after Easter.  Back then, we called it Easter Break, and no one went anywhere other than their grandmother's house for ham.  (I grew up in a town of 25,000 in Nebraska with a billboard outside of town that said "Welcome to the White Lights Christmas City!"  It was supposed to mean that we put candles in the windows of the houses, but the kids growing up in the town realized it meant we lived in a town made up entirely of white Christians.  Most of us were pretty excited to leave and get a little more diversified.)

A friend and I were joking the other day that Spring Cleaning in our age bracket has now come to mean getting divorced and selling your house when the snow melts.  It makes me wonder what Urban Dictionary, the go-to reference guide for Whoreticulture Friday, has to say:

1. Spring Cleaning  -

A thorough cleaning around the house when winter is over.

I need a spring cleaning service on my house.

I'm always a little shocked and disappointed when Urban Dictionary comes up with something so normal.  I'll go to Webster's if I want something that makes sense.  I go to Urban Dictionary to get the underground versions of things.  Fortunately, there were four more definitions.

2.  Spring Cleaning - The act of having sex with a woman who thinks their period is over only to find out afterwards that it wasn't as over as you thought.

Okay, ISH, but still, I had to laugh.  Because I have the maturity level of a middle schooler.  Why the Massengil douche company has not capitalized on this, I do not know.  I mean, really, what is going to sell faster...something called "Disposable Vinegar and Water Douche", which sounds like an Easter Egg dye solution, or "Spring Cleaning Service", which sounds like a team goes in and changes your sheets and opens your windows? 

Summer's Eve is a little better.  Alongside "Extra Medicated" and "Vinegar and Water", they have catchy names like "Fresh Scent" and "Sheer Floral", and my two favorites, "Summer's Eve Douches Island Splash" (I picture a bunch of Jersey Shore guys on an island with water guns), and "Summer's Eve Ultra Feminine Powder Sporty Fresh" (wow - your vagina smells so girly, yet fit! And fresh!).  There was another brand that had a "Baby Powder Fresh", which is a mistake.  Most women in their target demographic will tell them that when they need to start using this product, the last thing they want is to get anything baby-like near the factory.

 "Summer's Eve Douches Island Splash"

Admit it.  It fits.

The third definition on Urban Dictionary was so stupid I'm skipping it.

4.  Spring Cleaning -  a term used by drug dealers or high minded criminals to "clean up" when they get word the Feds have obtained a search warrant to check their property.


This is good information, enabling me to talk to teenagers with street cred.  I'm left wondering why only 'high-minded' criminals use this terminology.  Are 'low-minded' criminals banned from using snarky phrases to describe their activities?  This seems a little classist.  


The fifth definition was so gross that I actually voted thumbs down on it and can't reprint it, even in a forum like Whoreticulture Friday.  News Flash!  Even I can get repulsed.

That's all for today - may all of your Spring Cleaning activities end freshly.  Happy Whoreticulture Friday and have a great weekend!


 

Fear of Abduction, Part 2

So my last post was about fear of abduction, 
and I got this comment from Andrea:

Just under my facebook posting of your "Fear of Abduction" update (which I loved!), a friend posted this site: www.stopabductions.com
Coincidence, I think not! If Oprah were nearby, she would say the universe was trying to tell me something. So, I am on abduction high alert :)
Beware, this site will suck you in for hours and leave you speechless... and possibly have you worrying about more than just pedophiles and rapists, or at least, human ones.

 I thought to myself, "Nice try, Andrea, IF that is your real name and you are not trying to abduct me, but I'm not going to that clearly depressing site with tales of successful abductions.  FAIL!"  Then today, I'm eating a donut and perusing the Internet, and I think, "Hey, that site Andrea suggested looks informative, I think I'll go."


And it is worse than I thought.  I have some news.

Aliens are reading our thoughts, 

AND abducting us.

According to this site, the Thought Screen Helmet stops space aliens from abducting humans, and has been used by former abductees for years.  

Apparently the only people aliens are interested in abducting are people who speak English, French, and Portuguese, or at least those are the only people who can be SAFE from abduction.  Furthermore, ugly people and the elderly are not the only ones who can be abducted.  There is a very attractive Austrian teen who is modeling her version of the Thought Screen Helmet, and had this testimonial:

"I have been abducted by aliens for years and found stopabductions.com by a happy coincidence.  The Thought Screen Helmet, invented by an expert, has stopped the unwelcome visitations and has raised me and my family`s quality of life. Therefore I highly recommend it."

The look on the girl's face says, "I made this effing helmet with instructions I found on the Internet, and I can't wait to wear it to the skate park and show my emo friends that I think outside of the Hot Topic box."

Michael Menkin, the inventor, is a well-dressed man who drinks Minute Maid beverages and bottled water, uses a corded phone, and he cares about your well-being, people.
 
Apparently aliens use telepathic powers to control the human mind.  They are then able to control us, and abduct us.  I am sure I was abducted once in college, when the aliens bought me and a friend a case of beer and said they would take us on a road trip to Cedar Falls, IF we would just step into their spaceship, disguised as a 1980 Ford Mustang.  I was also abducted on a June night in 1996 when an alien human hybrid took over my husband's body and mind-controlled me into a night of drinking and sexual revelry that ended with me knocked up.  I was abducted in this same fashion at least two more times.  Had I been equipped with the Thought Screen Helmet, I would not be raising my three obviously alien children.

All of the children have used their mind control on me a number of times.  Oldest Daughter recently got unlimited texting, after a year of refusals from her parents.  Middle Son got a corn snake in his room after a year of pleading.  Youngest Daughter stared at me at the dinner table, and the next thing I knew, I was on the phone with the government of Portugal, declaring war.  Coincidence?  I think not.

So thank you, Andrea.  Thank you for being brave enough to share this valuable site with me, and in turn, my mother and her two non-English speaking co-workers who pretend to read this blog.  I am fashioning my own helmet this evening, and will be making helmets for the entire family as Christmas gifts (except for the alien children, who are trying to control my brain RIGHT. NOW.).  

I've been lucky enough to find a photo of the aliens.  They infiltrate our televisions, political parties, popular music, favorite plastic surgeons, and yoga classes:

I, for one, will NOT be visiting the Bony Pony Ranch.

Live long and prosper.

 

Spring Break Day 3: Fear of Abduction

A popular topic in any form of current media is fear:

• Fear of another terrorist attack
• Fear of H1N1
• Fear of earthquakes
• Fear of Janet Jackson's exposed nipple
• Fear of Mexican drug cartels
• Fear of universal health care
• Fear of the absence of universal health care
• Fear of Heidi Montag (the one thing on this list of which I am truly afraid)

A big one that is very prevalent in our area is the fear of obesity.  The Iowa State Legislature passed the Healthy Kids Initiative, which now ensures that my children have to do Physical Education homework.  I love big government - "Let's tell the parents they have to do a bunch of stuff we mandate at home, but serve the children fried cheese sticks and Ball Park hotdogs for hot school lunch!  That will combat obesity!  Fatness SOLVED!" 

Oldest Daughter brings home a slip from Middle School we sign that says we forced her to exercise for 15 minutes every day of the month, and the younger kids bring home monthly PE homework sheets that say we made them do some form of a suggested list of activities, such as "hugging a senior citizen" and "bowling".  When I drove the kids to the local bowling alley to throw a few balls and hug all of the old people, we got kicked out.  You just can't win.

So it's Spring Break in the Heartland.  I've been sending the kids outside to play because it is finally above 30 degrees for long stretches of time.  However, I find myself standing at or near the large window to the back yard most of the time because we live on a corner, which is next to an alley and has city streets on two sides of the lot.  Our yard is not fenced in, so I cannot send George the Superpet out to eat abductors, and we live five miles from the headquarters of a Police Gang Unit and a major interstate, and a half mile from the state line.  If someone in an unmarked pedophile mobile unit pulled up and threw in one of my delicious kids, the clock would start ticking as to how long until they would be out of the state and gone forever.  So I'm a freak about them playing outside, which pundits everywhere tell me is the real cause of childhood obesity.

Which do I fear more?  Fat kids or dead kids?  Hmmmmm....I think I'll take Fear of Abduction for $500, Alex.

Fear of abduction is not limited to the kids.  I'm no spring chicken, but rapists are not known to be terribly picky.  A friend is selling her house, and is out of town, so she asked if I could show it to people while they are away.  No problem!  I get to play realtor!  She called last night and said a guy wanted to see the house.  She gave me his name and cell phone number.  We agreed to meet at the house at 7:30 p.m.  On the way over, it suddenly occurred to me that I could be killed and no one would know about it for a while.  I've watched Forensic Files on A&E, I know how these things go down.

I got to the house and turned on all of the lights.  I put my cell phone in my back pocket so I could call someone from his trunk, or at least I would have a tracking device on my body.  I started thinking about how to reason with him - "everyone has your cell phone number and name...it's only a matter of time before they find you...I have a raging case of syphilis...I just completed gender reassignment surgery..."

Then I thought about how they tend to like it when people fight.  Maybe I should act MORE enthusiastic than him, and that would freak him out so much that he would run from the house.  The doorbell rang, and I jumped about a foot in the air, and turned to meet my potential killer.  You don't fool me with your grandpa charm and your John Deere hat, Mister.  Oh yeah, you're interested in arched doorways and original wood trim.  Whatever.  I'm onto your game.  Yes, the washer and dryer are "negotiable", whatever THAT means.  Are the sellers "eager"?!  "I HAVE SYPHILIS!  IT'S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME UNTIL THEY FIND YOU!  I'M REALLY A MAN AND A NINJA!!  CHUCK NORRIS IS MY GODFATHER!"

There will be other prospects on this house, I'm sure it will sell.  But if I hadn't yelled at that man, the terrorists would win, and I can't have that on my conscience.

One is the Loneliest Lego Number

"You smell that?  That's the smell of Spring, and I love it."

I would like to take a moment to acknowledge that Spring is finally upon us, and celebrate its arrival with one of my favorite Kids in the Hall bits (you only need to watch the first 40 seconds):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsKcxdtuZE0 

And who doesn't like to bury the people they've killed over the winter?  Tis the season, indeed.

Spring break started at our school last Thursday at 3:10 p.m., and we've made it through the first three days without Mommy hitting the sauce or the pharmaceuticals.  Scratch that, I did hit the sauce on Friday night, but that was Social Sauce, not Coping Sauce.  Big difference.  I'd like to take a moment to introduce a new service to A Day In The Wife readers, called:

THE WIFE'S 'WINE OF THE WEEK'
Galena Priorat

"Galena is a dream of a winery with its own vineyards, producing very individual wines.  It is located in the Priorato, around the village or El Molar.  Galena is sophisticated and elegant.  Make with the varieties of Red Garnacha, Carignan, Merlot, and Cabernet Sauvignon, it is an aged wine, dark red in color which has been kept for 12 months in French and American oak barrels."

It is delicious, and can be consumed with friends, or crouched down beside the washing machine from a Chuck E Cheese cup.  I recommend friends, but do what you have to do.

The weekend went relatively well, and I sat down around 7 p.m. to write the blog.  Some friends who are moving (DAMN THEM!  And like moving out of state will stop us from coming over.  They underestimate our tenacity.) left four large tubs of Legos in our care while they show their house.  Youngest Daughter (YD) has dug into Legoland in a big way, but she decided rather quickly that again, it is more fun to be Jim Jones and tell everyone what to do.  One is, indeed, the loneliest number.  Naturally, one should go out and summon up some minions to entertain you.

Current Husband (CH) played Legos from about noon until 1 p.m.  Middle Son (MS) played Legos from around 2 p.m. until 4 p.m.  Oldest Daughter (OD) was corralled into playing Legos from 6 p.m. until 7 p.m., and then people started saying Uncle. 

7:10 p.m.
YD:  "Mom, will you play Legos with me?"
ME:  "No honey, I'm working."
YD:  "No you're not, you're staring at your computer."
ME:  "No, I'm working, so you'll need to play on your own."
YD:  "So that's your job?"
ME:  "Not really.  It's the blog, but it's part of my writing."
YD:  "So it's not really your job?"
ME:  "Well, not really, I don't get paid for it, I just like it."
YD:  "Well if you aren't working, then WHY WON'T YOU PLAY LEGOS WITH ME?!"

 Let me remind you...angry YD...panic-stricken family...

ME:  "I will play Legos with you tomorrow."
YD:  "Fine."


I can hear her playing with them.  She is pushing a police van and saying there are criminals in the back, but she will let them go because they are her friends.  She says the guy who owns the pizza parlor she built is selling pizzas for $90 each, any toppings, but that he is getting too rich ripping people off on the pizzas, so she will arrest him.  

LESSON:  If YD is the sheriff in your town, and you are a criminal, befriend her.  However, DO NOT SCREW HER OVER ON PIZZA or you will pay the ultimate price.


7:40 p.m.
YD:  "Mom, is it tomorrow yet?"
ME:  "You know it isn't tomorrow."
YD:  "Why won't you play Legos with me?"
ME:  Because I really hate those imaginary play games unless there is a hot guitarist with whom I am contemplating an inappropriate relationship. Because Mommy is working, precious."
YD:  "But not really."
ME:  "Yes, I am."  But not really.


YD continues to build her dictatorship.  The guys from Star Wars have landed some sort of battle cruiser into her village, and they are considering taking people away from the planet.  The criminals, now free, are going to run the community, and the pizza guy has been loaded up in the fighter to be taken to the Emperor.


8:00 p.m.
YD:  Throws her head on the dining room table next to me.  Sighs loudly.
ME:  "What."
YD:  "I'm so bored and I need someone to play with me."
ME:  "OD!  Come play with your sister!"


OD has to play the pizza parlor owner who has broken free of the Star Wars guys, but is now languishing in jail.  OD's only role in the game is to occasionally ask for an early release, which YD roundly denies.  YD arrests other people in the town, and OD is the voice for all of the prisoners, now victims of prison overcrowding, all begging YD for clemency, which she denies.  OD decides she is due for her hourly check of her Facebook account and leaves.


8:30 p.m.
YD:  "Mom, will you just play the last few minutes of the game with me?"
ME:  Staring at computer screen with 10 words on it.  Brain has stopped.  "No.  Tomorrow."
YD:  Sniff.  "But then I will be sad."
ME:  "I am sorry for your sadness.  Play by yourself or be done playing and clean up."
YD:  "CLEAN UP?  But it's Spring Break!"

You smell that?  That's the smell of Spring, and I love it.  You know what I like to do over Spring Break?


NOTHING.  


I am following YD's lead and going on Spring Break.  Anyone want to play Legos with me?  There is a hot guitarist playing in the Hard Rock Cafe I just built by the couch...and drinks are on the house!
 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 19

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Titty cheese.


I nursed all three of my children, and was happy to do it.  There is something magical about nursing a baby - the closeness, the bond, the toe-curling pain when a greedy little piggy latches on to your cracked pre-mastitis nipple...but I digress.

Current Husband never tasted breast milk.  He was a little grossed out by the whole leaky pipes deal, particularly since we tended to have a lot of icky nursing pads in the garbage, which honestly smell like rotting roadkill if not taken out promptly.  I have friends whose husbands happily relieved their engorged breasts during nursing if the babies were full, but CH was never that guy.  

Therefore, I will not be taking CH to Klee Brasserie in Chelsea, NYC, because of this article in the March 9, 2010 New York Post.  (Observations by me are in blue, lest you think they are part of the NY Post story and I somehow end up getting sued):

Wife's Baby Milk in Chef's Cheese Recipe
This Chelsea restaurant has gone from brasserie to brassiere.
Chef Daniel Angerer is letting diners at Klee Brasserie munch on cheese made from his wife's breast milk.
(Say what, hoobastank?)
"It tastes like cow's-milk cheese, kind of sweet," he told The Post.
The flavor depends on what the cheese is served with -- Angerer recommends a Riesling -- and "what the mother eats," said Angerer, who once bested Bobby Flay on TV's "Iron Chef."
Breast milk doesn't curdle well due to its low protein content, so a little moo juice has to be added to round out the texture, Angerer said.
(WAIT!  DID HE JUST RECOMMEND A WINE TO ACCOMPANY HIS WIFE'S BREAST MILK?  Uh, Chef, I just made a mousse out of the 4000 mounds of winter dog shit in my yard, do you have a wine recommendation?  Hey Chef, I'm banging your wife, is there a wine you would recommend?  Chef, I have a human liver and some fava beans, do you have a nice Chianti you could recommend?)

"Just wait until you see the innovative ways 

I plan to cook the baby poo...."

After blogging about his efforts with the human cheese, customers started demanding a sample, he said.
"The phone was ringing off the hook," the chef said. "So I prepared a little canapé of breast-milk cheese with figs and Hungarian pepper."
(When people call me demanding my biohazardous body fluids, I tend to lean toward the figs and Hungarians myself.  It's a no-brainer.)
The response has been generally positive from those who've tried the cheese, although many customers are too squeamish to attempt it.
(Like me.  Hungarian pepper freaks me out, too.)
"I think a lot of the criticism has to do with the combination of sex and cheese, but . . . the breast is there to make food," said Lori Mason, the chef's wife.
(Wait...we get to have sex with the cheese?  Do you call Daniel "The Breast" at home?)

Since the restaurant began offering customers a taste, Mason has been inundated with creepy queries, she said. (Like, "Hey, would you make some cheese for me out of your wife's breast milk?")
"Some people who clearly have issues have . . . e-mailed me saying, 'I wasn't breast-fed as a child, so can I taste your breast milk?' " she said.
Mason politely declines the offer.
"I'm not here to walk people through their psychological problems," she said.
No Lori, of course not.  Your psychological plate is full with strapping on the double breast pump for your morning and evening milking schedule for the restaurant.  That Titty Cheese ain't gonna make itself!  And no Funyuns for you today, it might taint the milk, and we wouldn't want Mayor Bloomberg sending back the appetizer, now would we?
That said, Mason is now prodding her husband to make gelato.
Prodding him, is she?  So the gelato isn't going to be made out of HER bodily fluids...tit for tat, indeed!
After inquiries from The Post, health bigs said yesterday that even though department codes do not explicitly forbid the practice, they have advised Angerer to refrain from sharing his wife's milk with the world.
"The restaurant knows that cheese made from breast milk is not for public consumption, whether sold or given away," a spokeswoman for the city Department of Health said.
 The End.

Don't get me wrong.  If Dan and Lori want to make Titty Cheese at home and serve it on Ritz, that's great.  And if he wants to make Titty Tiramisu or Titty Tarts or Titty Yogurt at his restaurant, as long as he labels it for exactly what it is and doesn't slip it in (oh yes, I just said that) other dishes, go for it.  And perhaps the argument can be made that it isn't that different from getting a cow's bodily fluids and pouring it on our Trix.

So why does this all seem so...so...icky thump to me?  Is it picturing the source?  Is it that a cow can't look at me and say, "This would be great in custard...moo."  Or is it looking at Lori's lovely dimpled face and thinking "I'd really rather have a margarita with you than eat cheese, or anything else, pumped out of your breast"?

I am sure Daniel and Lori are lovely people, and their baby is a sweet little biscuit.  All I know is that I am suddenly feeling a little lactose intolerant.  There is something magical about nursing a baby, but there is something porno about eating Titty Cheese with figs and company and then paying for it.  To each his own, fo shizzle.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!

Blowing Sunshine Up My Blog

First of all, I would like to address this song.  

For those not familiar with its awesomeness, it's "Hair of the Dog" by Nazareth.  One of my best friends in Junior High, Jenny, wore a back brace for scoliosis, and it was the full-blown, full-body hardware everyone dreaded.  Some people who wore them would be shy or upset about it.  Jenny ROCKED that back brace.  She was attitude and a bag of chips with that thing.  Jenny was the youngest of four kids, and I think her parents could see the light at the end of the tunnel, because when she was really mad at them, which was often, she would stomp down to her basement bedroom, slam the door, and blare this song at full volume, and NOT GET INTO TROUBLE.  Whoa.  I remember looking at her and thinking, "That's how you do it."  Of course, I would've been sent to live with my Mennonite grandparents, but still.

So let's get back to the present.

Remember the part in The Shining where Danny is calling himself Tony, writing REDRUM in lipstick on the door, and saying "Danny doesn't live here anymore"?  Julie, The Wife, had one of those weeks.  I was going to unleash the fury of a woman scorned on the blog, because I figured, "Hey, this IS a DAY in the wife, and not all days are good, right?  So I can complain a little. Or a LOT."

I'm poised at the keyboard.  The fingers are ready.  I am ready to morph into a bitch on wheels.  Oh, but first, I think I'll stop over at my friend Danon's blog at The Insatiable Host and see what she's up to, because she makes me laugh, and she's had a few funny 'man does that ever SUCK' posts lately.  Here is what I found:

"A Day in the Wife - Julie - COME ON DOWN!!!!!! You're the next recipient of the Sunshine Blogger Award.  I am giving you this award for many reasons also.  You were my first...yes, I was a blog virgin and you were there to pick up my spirits and tease me with your ways!  You had me at Laura Ingalls and leave me gasping for air especially with your last post about grooming!  I also have to give you this award because you are an amazing writer!  CH is lucky to have a RIDE or DIE bitch like yourself!"

Aw.  Shucks.  She gave me a Sunshine Blogger Award!  

It's Link Love!  Who can be mad after a little Link Love?  

So here's the deal:

The Sunshine Blog Award is awarded to bloggers whose positivity and creativity inspire others in the blog world. The rules for accepting the award are:

1. Put the logo on your blog or within your post.

2. Pass the award to 5 bloggers.

3. Link the nominees within your post.

4. Let them know they received this award by commenting on their blog.

5. Share the love and link to the person from whom you received this award.

6. Share 5 things about yourself

Logo has been added.  Check.

Pass the award to five bloggers - let's see....

1. Crash Test Mommy, who is funny and real and makes me smile. 
2. The Secret is in the Sauce, the SITS girls, who do their damnedest  to promote all of the chicky bloggers in the world.  Girl power, indeed!
3. Aleighopolis,  a friend of mine who is a fresh face in the blogosphere, tres funny, check her out.
4. Anissa Off the Record,  who blogged every day last month and made it count, AND
5.  Abby Annis, who, along with Anissa, write these excellent, motivational blogs for writers.  They are both very encouraging and real.
6. WAIT!  WAIT!  I have to add one more...On 'n On 'n On, Wendy's blog, which has been stubbornly refusing to show up in my favorites list.  Wendy is sunshine personified.  She is like a freshly appointed IKEA kitchen.  Because she lives in IKEA.  So here's a shot of Absolut to Wendy as well.

Check that.

Linked nominees, informed them.  (By the way, ladies, this doesn't mean you have to do it, I won't be hurt, I just want to take an opportunity to share the Link Love!  I love your stuff!)  Check.

Linked to Insatiable Host, whom I love like coffee in the morning, and she tolerates all of my crazy nicknames for her.  Double check.

Now it's time for sharing.  I would like to take this time to note that the Sunshine Award Committee does not say that you have to make your sharing items positive.

1. I'm having a very bad week.  One good friend is moving, one is divorcing, another is in pain, and one isn't returning my e-mails and I don't know why.  It may not be anything at all, but it is nagging me.  "Did I do something?  Say something?" Because I am fully capable of doing or saying and not realizing.  It's called narcissism, friends,and sometimes I got it bad!
2. My parents, whom I see maybe twice a year, traveled 24 hours to see my sister and they are 5 hours from me and I can't go see them.
3. I'm a little torqued-off at CH at the moment, which is rare.  I get humorously annoyed, but not "balls-out-you-wanna-piece-of-me-MF?"  But I am still his Ride or Die Bitch.  I just won't hook or strip or go to jail for him right now.  Have no fear, it will be over by Whoreticulture Friday.
4. My entire yard is full of dog shit from the winter, and now it has thawed, and the kids want to play in the yard.  Where does George the Superpet like to do his bizness?  In front of the playset, of course.
5. I need to have the first draft of my book done in four weeks, and I just can't get my brain to prepare for liftoff.  (MOM, CAN I HAVE A SNACK?) Fingers on keyboard, meet brain.  (MOM, XYZ IS BEING MEAN TO ME!!)  Brain, meet fingers. (MOM, WHERE IS MY iPOD?) Work together, and make Momma proud. (MOM, I CAN'T GET TO SLEEP!)  What am I working on?

Okay, I realize that my sharing time was not sunshiney.  But it is sooooo much better than what I intended to write.  I have seen better days, but I always say that it takes the lows to appreciate the highs.  I am ready to get high.  (On life, Mandatory Reporters!  But Vicodin and Gin are accepted.)  And by the way?  I JUST NOW heard my dog fart.  This is what I'm talking about.  Other than Danon, THIS is the kind of sunshine that has been blowing my way this week.  But maybe it will smell like sunshine and roses?  Embracing the positive...serenity now...