Mother vs. Nature, part 1

Growing up, I spent a lot of time on my grandparents' farm in southwestern Iowa.  Grandma would ask us what vegetable we wanted for dinner, and then we'd go out and pick it.  Want eggs for breakfast?  Let's head to the henhouse.  (I'm sure I didn't feed the baby pigs and think about bacon - my fond memories are full of sunshine and clean laundry on the line, not the squealing of animals on the kill floor.  Work with me here, I'm creating an image, dammit.)  For the last couple of years, I've been pining for some of the farm life I remember, and this is why I've dug up a huge part of my yard and planted a vegetable garden.

We (meaning me and the Son, don't get the idea CH spends much time out there) ripped up the sod and tilled all of the dirt boulders out there, and then we planted.  Soon, our sweet garden was being eaten by savage killer chipmunks and mutant baby rabbits, and we had to erect a fence.  We had some success with the garden last year, but this was to be the year of our victory.  Instead, we've been crippled early by the opposition.  I even put a Chipmunk song on the playlist today, but it was so annoying that I set it so you can play it if you want.  (I do this because I care about you more than the other readers of this blog, so don't tell them.)

George the Superpet is put on patrol 

while the garden is being tilled.

The other half of the garden - 

the green bushy part is our strawberry patch, 

which has already produced these:

I see some limeade, ice, and rum in your future, my pretties.

Um, I mean A Healthy Breakfast for the children.

Our garden is a little ambitious.  I've planted broccoli and cauliflower, yellow onions, peas, green beans, tomatoes (Celebrity, Roma, and Big Boy, only because the names of these varieties covered the Holy Trinity of People magazine, the Godfather, and CH.  Yeah CH, I went there), and peppers (red bell, green bell, yellow bell, jalapeno, and sweet peppers), zucchini, cilantro, basil, oregano, flat leaf parsley, rosemary, and the aforementioned strawberries.  I'm all about zucchini bread, spaghetti sauce, and salsa.

Here are some pre-critter plants:

  Broccoli and cauliflower plants, feeling safe before the night killings.

The Son, planting zucchini in an area 

we now refer to as 'Area 51' or 'Certain Death'.

(Peaches and) Herbs.

So The Son and I toiled away on our little garden patch, and we even put our fencing up this year, but we woke up one morning to find one broccoli plant eaten to the ground, and the other plants weeping and tearing their leaves.  We heard screams in the night, and woke the next day to find a zucchini plant torn stem from stem.  Two days later, a whole family of strawberries had been gutted and left to die in the patch.  And that just did it.  Those little bastard rodents were going down.

I called Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein. 

You know how when you want to fight the CIA, you call someone who is ex-CIA.  Steven Segal is always called in as an ex-Navy Seal who needs to kick some ass.  If BP was fighting Steven Segal, they would be crying uncle and the environment would be saved.  I'm voting for a Chuck Norris-Steven Segal ticket in 2012.  Anyway, I figure if you want to fight killer rodents, you get a kick ass killer rodent to fight them.  I give you Todd.

 Do you see a difference in Badassness?  Because I don't.

So Todd goes out on patrol, and the next day we find this by our HOUSE, about two feet away from the garden:

 Yeah, that is a huge pile of animal crap.  And it is bigger than Todd.  And kind of scary.  You know how you look at clouds and see things?  My family stood around this monstrosity and shared what we saw in the rabid raccoon scat.  Good times, good times.  So I decided maybe it was unsafe outside for Todd, and he fought me hard to stay outside, but I said, "Stand down, soldier" and he followed the chain of command.  Because I can't lose Todd.

The Son took to the patch with a bow and arrow.  The rules were to only shoot at the ground, and don't shoot toward the neighbor's house or toward the street, because it would be unfortunate if he accidentally shot someone we like.  At this point, you may be thinking, "Hey, c'mon Julie, these are just innocent little chipmunks!" 

But no.  Mine are gang-sign-throwing, meth-dealing, zombie-apocalypse-starting destroyers.

They all wear shades and pull their hoods up and they sing horrible songs in squeaky voices and make terrible movies and tag my grill with their little rodent gang signs and they EAT MY VEGGIES!  

So it's almost midnight and I have more to tell and I'm not one to cut a long story short in the interest of keeping my audience's attention, so I'm going to bed, but trust me when I say that things got VERY VERY ugly.  Literally.  I may be actually physically scarred for life and I blame the Munks.  Tune in tomorrow for part 2.  In the interim, I would like to hear about if any of you are doing veggie gardens, what are you growing, and what do you do to fight rodents?  You can say the word "strychnine" here, I won't judge.

Until tomorrow, gentle readers.  OH - Todd now has a Facebook fan page!  Feel free to Like him all you want at his Fanpage!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 28

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. (Yes, KAREN, that includes YOU!)

Today's topic: Good Vibrations.

There have been a number of new followers of A Day In The Wife this week on Blogger, Facebook, and Twitter, and for those of you who are Whoreticulture Friday virgins, I apologize that this is how we begin our relationship.  Things to know:  I am only really bawdy on Fridays, I stick to innuendo the rest of the week, and you can always pause the music.  Welcome, and I hope you stick around for Monday.  It will likely be about gardening.  Without dildos.  

But let's pause for a moment to think about Gardening WITH Dildos.  Hmmm.  How does YOUR garden grow?  And what would one have in lieu of a green thumb?  Hos with Hoes?  Bloom where you're planted?  The possibilities are endless.

So a few weeks ago, the fantabulous Brenda at MummyTime (Are you not following her yet? I'll wait.) celebrated her first Bloggy Birthday by doing a giveaway.  It wasn't just ANY giveaway.  It was the MummyTime SuperMegaAwesome Giveaway.  She was giving away ad space on her blog and on her pal Veronica's blog Sleepless Nights; some gorgeous handmade cups by Kim, of frogpondsrock, an Aussie artisan; a blog redesign with Blog Designs by Sarah; AND?  The BeBe. A VIBRATOR, sold at Love Being Woman.  And please.  You cannot throw down with a vibrator without me trying to win it.  All one had to do was answer this question:
"Why do I need and want to win MummyTime's SuperMegawesome Giveaway?"

Here was my answer:

A gift?! For me?!? On YOUR bloggy birthday? Oh you shouldn't have! (Yes. Yes you should.) Why ME and not these other fabio followers? Well....

A) Ad space. Who the heck doesn't love a little narcissistic ME time? I DO! And when I am published and famous I can say to Oprah "I really owe it all to Brenda and Veronica, they are the shizzle."

B) CUPS! I love cups! I use them every day, as a matter of fact, but nothing as pretty as these. I would say, "Oprah, you should have your mint julep out of these cups. I owe these to Brenda as well!"

C) THE BE BE!! HELL TO THE YES! If I win The Be Be, I promise that during every single orgasm for a year I will yell "MUMMYTIME! MUMMYTIME!" and you can take that to the bank. (No Oprah, you may not borrow The Be Be. Take it up with Brenda, you should have entered the contest.)

D) What blog couldn't use a makeover? There are many things I would like to do with my blog, but don't have the know how. While I am sure The Be Be would give me some transformative powers, I need professional help for techie things. Waxing my blog's mustache and shaping it's eyebrows is a must.

In any event, thanks for having the Mummytime Supermegaawesome giveaway. It's like an Internet Festival. xoxo julie

AND I WON.  A vibrator.  

God Bless the Internet.

Now I have to decide who should own it.  I could keep it for myself, yes, and I have to admit that I am a vibe virgin.  But it is SOOOOOOO tempting to give it away.  Who would want a vibrator as a gift?  Who wouldn't?  Here is my short list of great recipients:

• 
  
  Mother-in-law Christmas gift (I'd send it to you Mom, but I know you have one.)

• 
  
  
  End of year Teacher gift

• 
  
  
  Newly divorced friends

• 
  
  
  New Neighbor Welcome Wagon gift

• 
  
  
  Gift for Jen Lancaster at next book signing

• 
  
  
  Cellmate gift when I break Jen Lancaster restraining order

• 
  
  
  Store for CH to give to me when he only gets me a gas station gift card on our 15-year-anniversary later this summer

 

See?  The BeBe is the gift that keeps on giving.  And look how pretty they make it:

 In my drawer it would be next to some Tums, nail clippers and my picture of Damian Kulash from Ok Go Current Husband, but you get the idea.


But wait, there's more!  They have a You Tube video demonstrating how to unpack and power up your BeBe:
  


Dude.  I. Want. This. Job.  And doesn't everything sound fantastic in an Australian accent?  They could be saying, "And then you shove the whole thing up your arse!" and it would sound so lovely that you would go, "Oh, that's all?  It's so easy!"


On the Love Being Woman website, they have some interesting information, including the history of the vibrator.  According to the BeBe people, at one time women were prescribed vibrators to cure the symptoms of hysteria.  The site also reports that by 1917 there were more vibrators in American homes than toasters, which doesn't surprise me much, because really, What Have You Done For Me LATELY, Toast?


Seriously?  It's stuff like this that reassures me there is good in the world.  Happy people, promoting vibrators on the internet, but with CLASS and FACTS.  *sigh*  I love blogging.


But this post is just about the BeBe.  As a Vibe Virgin, I brought this topic up at my book club this week, and they suggested looking into The Rabbit.  (Can you imagine how thrilled my book club is when I don't show up?  Because then when someone says, "So, did you think the main character was suppressing their inner rage?" I don't jump in and say, "Hey, I won a vibrator!")  So next week?  Good Vibrations, Part Deux, The Rabbit.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend! 
 

Stalker Update: Jen

I really do love the people I stalk.

Some of you are familiar with my established stalking of Jen Lancaster (My Fair Lazy, on bookshelves now!), and how my friend and I made a pilgrimage to see her that ended up ugly and could have been uglier.  But really, was somuchfunbesttimeever.  I did finish My Fair Lazy, and I loved it, but I'm going into it ready to love it anyway, so take that recommendation with a grain of salt.

As part of my stalking program, I like to contact my victims, but I'm a top shelf criminal and only write when I have a reason.  Therefore, it was with gratitude that I wrote Jen Lancaster a few weeks ago upon my return from Chicago.  There are a couple of reasons for writing:

1. Aspiring writers are always fobbing their work off on someone more successful, because they always hope someone will read their stuff and say, "Why does she not have an agent and a book deal yet?"  It's a little like buying a Powerball ticket - you can't win if you don't play, but your chances of winning are about the same as Lindsay Lohan straightening her life out.
2. The more authors I stalk, the more I realize how many stalkers they have.  Julie Powell, of Julie & Julia fame, allows comments on her blog, and I would say 80%  of them are telling her to go read their work, 10% of them are calling her a slut, and the other 10% say they love her.  I stay in the Love Her 10% because I feel bad that she gets bugged so much.  Jen Lancaster has said in interviews that a large volume of her mail is people trying to get her to read their stuff, or complaining at her that she doesn't blog enough anymore.  Okay, I do send her links to my blog when I write.  But the reason for writing is always to compliment her work - I have Stalker Standards!
3. I truly appreciate the authors who blog, do Facebook, Twitter, etc, and do the signings.  They do actually have lives, and keeping up with all of the social media, fan requests, and book events keeps them from their marriages, kids, pets, lives, and writing more great material.  It's a sacrifice that Jen Lancaster probably doesn't have to make anymore, and yet, she does.

So....here is the e-mail I sent to her:

On Mon, May 17, 2010 at 11:11 AM, Julie wrote:
Dear Jen-
Attended your signing at Borders last Friday, sorry to say I was *ahem* mildly intoxicated after long wet lunch at Ralph Lauren, but you, and Fletch (whom my 40-something sorority posse jumped after books signed) were lovely.  Thanks for doing the appearances, your fans love love love them (except for woman behind me without the coveted BLUE wristband, who nearly took out a blade and cut Borders employees - Xanax, over here, STAT!)

I'm aware that you have around two seconds to yourself a day and are trying to buy your short sale house and pet your animals, but if you have time to kill I blogged, with interesting photos, about our day-long stalking of your signing, and how my Borders Rewards card got revoked.  No need to reply, just wanted to say thanks!

Halfway through MFL, love it.  Good luck with the house.

xo
Julie, drunk woman who tried not to fall on you during signing
www.adayinthewife.com

And here is the reply I received this morning:

Julie,

Thanks for coming! It was fun and it's always a thrill not to be thrown up on!

Best,

Jen

I love her.  I'm sure she replies to most, if not all, of her fan mail.  But really?  Look how long and detailed my message is to her.  Clearly, I'm obsessed.  Why does she keep encouraging me this way?  Someone needs to have a talk with Jen, because I can't be held responsible for what I do at the next signing I attend.  After the restraining order expires.

It's always a thrill to get something back from someone you admire.  I hope something unexpected and wonderful happens in your day today as well, Gentle Reader!

Snakes on My Plane

I am one of the few moms on the block who is not completely freaked out by mice.  Or snakes.  Or flatulence.  I can't get a kid to school on time and the house is always a mess, but snakes?  Meh.

Middle Son has a friend with a corn snake, and so, ergo, the son wanted a corn snake.  I talked to my dad about how the son wanted a snake, and he was intrigued until I told him what the corn snake eats:  Mice.  Little frozen baby mice.  And more than monogamy, sobriety, or people of other races and cultures, my dad hates mice.

When I was in fifth grade, everyone took turns taking Chester the Hamster home from school for the weekend.  Chester was a cute little fluffy white hamster, but my dad really hated Chester, whom he referred to as "the Rat".  Since I was in fifth grade and my sister was in second grade, I pulled rank and wouldn't let her hold Chester.  She decided to do what any younger sister would do - she sneaked out of bed and held Chester while everyone was sleeping.  And then she accidentally left the cage door open.  Chester got out and the next time I saw Chester, my dad was trying to kill him with a ski pole in the closet of our storage room.  Luckily, crisis was averted and I recovered Chester for the school.

Another time, Dad drove about 24 hours to our house to visit, and I complained about a peculiar smell in the kitchen.  The house was built in 1900, so peculiar smells will happen, but when it got worse I started tearing the kitchen apart.  When I found a dead mouse under my stove, Dad packed up and left two days early.  He literally stayed in the house about two more hours after I found the mouse, and couldn't do it.  Bye, grandkids!  See you when you're in college! 


Another time, when CH and I were visiting Mom and Dad in Texas, Dad told us about finding dog food nuggets in the back hallway near his shoes.  He wondered aloud if perhaps mice were moving it.  Always looking for ways to screw with Dad, CH and I left a few dog food nuggets in the hallway, causing Dad to look for an entry point for mice.  He narrowed the culprit down to a small gap in the garage door.  Before we left to drive home, I filled one of Dad's shoes with dog food.  CH and I laughed and laughed all the way home about our prank, and when we got home we called and said, "So, what did you do today?" and Dad said, "I went out and bought a new garage door.  Those mice were getting bad."  We looked at each other, got off the phone quickly, and never confessed.

Dad couldn't understand the need for a corn snake.  "Don't most people try to avoid snakes in their homes?"  They live in southern Texas, and the game warden has been to their house more than once to remove five foot snakes from various places in their house.  "And those mice?  Nothing good comes from bringing mice in your house, even if they are dead."


Having Cy the Snake eat mice has never really bothered me.  They come in cute little plastic pouches, so I never see them.  Once, when I was paying for something in a store, I reached in my purse and accidentally pulled out a packet of "pinkies", which are the baby frozen mice.  I had purchased them the night before, and forgot to put them in the freezer, so I was walking around with thawed baby mice in my purse.  Ish.  The clerk wasn't too thrilled either.


Last week, Cy the Snake DID do something that bothered me - he made the Son cry.  The Son had moved Cy up from eating "pinkies" to eating "hoppers", which are more like teenage frozen mice.  Cy had a bulge in his tummy, and the Son decided to take Cy outside for some fresh air.  A short time later, CH and I are talking and we hear the horrible sound of the Son crying in panic, "MOM!  Mom!  Come quick!  Oh Cy!  Cy!"  We ran to the back door, and here he comes, Cy writhing around in his hands, and he yells, "Cy threw up on the porch!  I think he's going to die!"


Let me make one thing clear.  I got the snake because he was supposed to be low maintenance.  It's hard enough watching George the Superpet walk around all sad because we are terrible people and don't walk him.  But the snake?  Get in yer glass tank and shut up.  Now that we have the snake, I have to make weekly mouse runs, make sure he has water, find a summer location for him so he can burrow, and now apparently I have to clean up his puke.  Who friggin' knew snakes puke?


CH looked at me like "I call dibs!", took the Son by the arm and said, "Let's get Cy upstairs and into some water."  As they're walking away, he looks back over his shoulder at me, like "Sucka!", and this is how I know I'm getting stuck cleaning the puke.

I walk onto the porch.  George looks up from where he is smelling the puke and gives me a "wasn't me" look.  There, at his feet, is a puke worthy of a cat or a very small dog, which came out of a snake the thickness of my pinky finger.  Even worse, I can see that it is basically a fully hydrated mouse covered in slime.  I look at the mouse and I sigh, and then I clean it up with great reluctance.  

As I used forty paper towels to pick up my half digested friend, my dad's voice echoed in my head, "Nothing good comes from bringing mice in your house, even if they are dead."  Perhaps, just this once, Father knows best.  Cy the Snake lived, but the next time we get a pet in this house, we are going retro, and buying a Pet Rock.

Communication Breakdown

I've always had a little Fahrvergnügen.  As far back as high school, I wanted a nice little VW Jetta or convertible Cabriolet to drive to illegal drinking parties in cornfields.  Thankfully, I had a tomato red 1972 Buick Opel, because as my dad likes to remind me, it was easier to scrape the corncobs and puke off of the bumpers.

When Current Husband and I had our second child, I needed to upgrade from the two-door car I owned, and I talked him into buying a Jetta I saw in the paper.  It was sleek and beautiful and said "FUN!" and when you are logging an average of 4 hours of sleep a night and go to work smelling of breast milk with baby puke down the back of your shirt, you want to believe "FUN!" still exists.

We were driving the new car home and were on some winding, heavily wooded roads, and I jokingly looked at CH and said, "Wouldn't it be so funny if we hit a deer right now!"  
Ha. Hahaha.  Hahahahahahaha.  THUNK!   

And we hit the biggest raccoon I've ever seen in my life.  It was so big that I thought it was a wolf.  All was well EXCEPT that the Check Engine light came on, and it didn't turn off for the next five years we owned that car because the it was haunted by the ghost of a Mutant Raccoon.  You think I'm kidding.  We took it to the Jetta dealership about every six months after that, and they would run their electronic diagnostic, and every time they would say, "Nothing wrong with it.  We turned off the Check Engine light.  That will be $75."  We would get in the car and about five miles away from the dealership the Check Engine light would come back on, and we would shake our fist in the air and say, "DAMN YOU, MUTANT RACCOON!" and we could hear his ghostly chatter laughing at us on the highway.

We eventually got rid of that Jetta, and I felt all empty inside.  I was Fahrvergnügen-free, and couldn't bring myself to sing German beer drinking songs or polka or attend Oktoberfest.  CH saw my sadness, and agreed to get another Jetta a few years ago.  Now?  The ghost of the Mutant Raccoon has returned, and the Jetta has been in the shop four times in the past three months.  Someone gave CH a copy of Consumer Reports that says VW's all go down the crapper after about three years, so I can see that I am going to lose my Fahrvergnügen again soon.

Every time CH takes the car to the shop, he takes things out of his car and puts them in my van.  I am going to take a moment to tell you that CH is very paranoid (he would say 'safe' or 'prudent' - no, he would say 'safe' and then 'what the hell does prudent mean?') and he is a big car locker even though we live in Iowa and not in Gangbangerville.  I, on the other hand, am all "Oh, big deal, what do we have worth stealing?  Happy Meal trash?  They can have it."  Well it turns out that I was wrong (Did you see that CH?  I WAS WRONG!) and we did have something worth stealing, because we have now had two - count 'em TWO - Garmins stolen out of the Jetta, once because I didn't lock and once because one of our kids didn't lock.  So we lock.  I lose.

Last week, CH had to take the car in, so he put the Garmin in my van.  It was sitting on the floor of the van between the two front seats.  I remember taking Oldest Daughter to middle school in the morning and thinking, "I should put that in the glove box".  The next morning, I returned from middle school, parked the van, and called a friend while still in the car to reschedule something.  The conversation went like this:  "Hello!  Hey, I wanted to catch you quick because I forgot to tell you yesterday that we need to meet at...OH NO.  NO.  OH HOLY SHIT THE GARMIN IS GONE.  NO.  IT IS.  I KNOW IT IS GONE.  CH IS GOING TO BE SO MAD.  THIS RUINS MY WHOLE DAY.  I HAVE TO GO."

I tore that van apart.  Nothing.  No Garmin.  CH was sitting in the house, waiting for me to arrive.  He was leaving for Chicago in two days and wasn't going to have a Garmin.  His THIRD one.  GONE.  All because I probably forgot to lock the doors again.  I sat in the van, my heart pounding in my chest, visualizing the moment when I would have to tell him that I didn't lock, AGAIN, and his Garmin was gone, AGAIN, and he was going to have a small blowup and be mad.  And let me tell you, if you should know one thing about me, it is that I HATE conflict.  I am so passive aggressive that if I called the last donut, and then you took it, I would jokingly call you "Last Donut" for a year rather than stand up for that donut.  And I friggin' LOVE donuts.

I formulated a plan.  I would go in the house, act like nothing was wrong, chat for a moment, and then leave for Target to buy a new Garmin, program it, maybe wipe a little chocolate on the side, and stick it in the car like it never happened.  Then I would collect 5000 cans to pay off the Garmin charge on my card.  No harm, no foul, right?  What's a little white lie between spouses?  It was either Plan A, above, or Plan B, a hummer.  And I would rather collect 5000 cans.  I'm not judging, I'm just saying my Linda Lovelace days are over.  (Hi Mom!)

I walked in the house, sweating a little bit.  CH looked up from his computer, said "Hi!" all cheerfully, and I immediately thought, "He knows."  I said "Hi" and walked through the kitchen, down the hall and to the bedroom.  There it was.  The Garmin.  Sitting on his dresser.  That son of a bitch.  I picked it up and stomped down the hall.

ME:  (waving the Garmin at him) "Did YOU bring this in here?" 
CH:  (startled) "Yeah, I brought it in last night.  I didn't want anyone breaking in the van."
ME:  (now yelling bordering on screaming) "Do you think you could have told me?  Do you know what I've been doing for the last 15 minutes?  I've been TEARING that van APART looking for this stupid thing!  And I was going to drive to Target and buy a new one and plant it in the van, and that would've been $250 we didn't need to spend, all because you can't talk to me and tell me when you do something like this!  That's FIFTEEN MINUTES OF MY LIFE I CAN'T HAVE BACK!!  It's called COMMUNICATION!"
CH:  (smirking)  "So what you're saying is that instead of asking me about it, you were going to drive to Target, buy a new one and lie about it?  Who is the bad communicator?"
ME:  "That?  Right there?  That just did it.  And to think, I was going to give you a hummer because I felt so bad."
CH:  "........?"


And of course I had no intention of doing that AT ALL, but that is how you win a fight.
You're welcome, ladies.  You may pay me in donuts.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 27

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: Choking the Chicken.

So tonight I had a totally different topic in mind but I needed some help so I walk into my bedroom and Current Husband is lounging in his comfy pants, one hand on the remote and one hand sort of stuck just in the top of his waistband, eyes glazed over and watching TV.
ME:  "Don't judge my Whoreticulture Friday topic, but do you have any weird stories about..."
CH:  (still looking at TV) "Choking the chicken?"
ME:  "Wha...No.  No, it was not about choking the chicken.  It was about..."
CH:  "Pullin' the Pud?"
ME:  *sigh* "Why don't you tell me all of the slang terms you know for masturbation."
(I can be very Zen.  I will use his current energy flow to my advantage instead of fighting it.  My hormone of choice is EstroNinja.)
CH:  "Okay!" (Now he's excited about the blog.  This rarely happens.) "Um, there's..."
AND HE DRAWS A BLANK.  No pun intended.  I guess that would be "Shoots a Blank" to be a pun, but I'm a lover not a fighter.
ME:  "How about Spanking the Monkey, or Shining the Brass Knob?"
CH:  "No, you can't use Shining the Brass Knob, that's a blow job."
ME:  "I don't think so.  It sounds more tactile than oral."
CH:  "Whatever.  It's a BJ."
ME:  "I'm going to Urban Dictionary."
And THAT, folks, is a snapshot of the marriage of The Wife and Current Husband.  Your welcome, Hallmark, on ideas for next season's anniversary cards.

FRONT

To the man whose brass knob I would shine any day.

INSIDE

But that's NOT a blow job!  Happy Anniversary anyway!

Don't you love how Hallmark can get away with a lame joke by saying "anyway"?  

We invited the fire department to your birthday

...to put out the candles!  Happy Birthday anyway!

 Hallmark, you crazy sonofabitches.  Back to whacking off...

I called a couple of friends and said, "Do you have any weird or crazy stories about masturbating?" and they all pretty much said, "I have stories about masturbating, but they are generally disturbing more than entertaining."  And then I realized I have the most awesome friends that they don't bat an eye when I call them at 9 p.m. and ask them about beating off.  So we're back to Urban Dictionary, the Official Go-To Guide for Whoreticulture Friday.

Masturbation- The act of touching oneself to produce a favorable feeling in the groin area. Usually accompanied by some sort of mental, visual, or audio stimulation to assist in reaching climax.

But you already knew that.  I like the examples better:

No honey, I don't want to tonight, I'm tired from watching Oprah. Why don't you just go masturbate? 

That dumb broad got me all worked up and left me; so I had to spit-shine the old water pump manually if ya know what I mean.

Sometimes, when I wake up, I have an erection, so I have to beat off until it goes away. Sometimes, it comes back so I beat off again until it goes away. Once, it kept coming back so I just chopped it off. It hurt bad.

After Urban Dictionary, I Googled "Masturbation", and as I hit Enter, I cringed as I thought about all of the porn sites that were now going to spam me.  What really surprised me is the sheer number of "How To" sites on masturbation.  Really?  Is it that hard?  Couldn't anyone learn the basics by watching "9 1/2 Weeks" or "American Pie"?  If you are a little behind the curve, here is a whole list of sites from About.com, but for the REAL thrill, you have to visit Wikipedia.  There are a variety of pictures, from the artsy, by Gustav Klimt, to the incredibly disturbing sex offender self-portrait by Egon Schiele.  Even better, there are incredibly smooth and Brazilianed people "demonstrating" it.  For Science, OBVIOUSLY. 

I did get a couple of interesting masturbation stories, but those all involved a vibrator, which I will save for another Friday because THAT is deserving of it's own post.  Since you are all so well-versed on masturbation, today's post will serve to help broaden your knowledge of alternate terms for masturbation.  Feel free to add your own in the Comments section. 
 
YAY!  It's an interactive blog!


jacking off * jerking off * wanking off * hand job * spanking the monkey * beating off * spanking the monkey * beating the ugly stepchild * choking the chicken * flogging the donkey/dolphin/log/hog * spit-shine the water pump * flagging the mule * slapping the salami * beating the meat * rubbing one out * pocket pool * buffing the banana * walking the dog * roping the pony * beating the bishop * burping the worm * wonking your cronker * bleeding the weasel * corking the bat * pumping the python * buttering the corn * pull the weasel * tug the rope * polish the knob * do the 5-finger shuffle * slide the snake * toss off a batch of orphans * peek-a-boo the mole * pay the babysitter * plant the carrot * stroke the one-eyed monster * burp the baby * choking the man in the pink turtleneck * jacking the beanstalk * yankee-ing the doodle * waxing the wood * caulking the cracks * tickle the pickle * shizzle the nizzle * cream-filling the donut * cleaning the pipes * juicing the Twinkie * punching the clown * shaking hands with Dr. Jolly * roughing up the suspect * feeding the geese * shaking the shark/Pringle can/shit/bottle/change/gadget/iPod

Consider yourself educated, America.  Doesn't it seem like ANYTHING can be a term for masturbation?  Now go on and Fill Your Friday or Greet Your Weekend or Call Your Mom.  It can be creepy, or a drinking game.  Your call.  Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

How I Got My Electronic Ankle Bracelet

As I write this, I am enjoying my first glass of wine since my "Jencident" with Jen Lancaster last Friday.  While it is delicious, I can tell my body is having a certain amount of trepidation as I lift the glass to my lips.  No worries, little liver.  This ain't no Borders.

So today I am working on a freelance project, and I glance up from from my desk/dining room table and look out the window at a beautiful day outside.  I feel like the dog in the Far Side cartoon, watching two other dogs attack the mailman, with a caption that reads something like "Fido wanted to go play with the other dogs, but he had to stay inside and practice his violin."  I notice that the grass is about 6 inches tall again, and think "I should mow that".  This gives you some insight into how far I am willing to go to procrastinate the work I am supposed to do.

Then I started thinking about how I mowed the yard the last time, and how many times I did it LAST summer, and I'm thinking "has feminism given Current Husband a pass on mowing?"  Then I started thinking about traditional roles of men and women, and if there is such a thing as a "Traditional" gender job anymore, i.e. husband mows and takes out garbage, wife does everything else, and then I started thinking about Nutty Bars and coffee.  I believe the medical community refers to this as "Attention Deficit Disorder".

Mmmm.  Nutty Bars.
So in order to procrastinate my work even further, I log onto Facebook and post the following on my ADITW Fan page:  Just curious...who does the mowing at your houses? Are there still traditional "Man" jobs and "Woman" jobs? Does this sound like a dangerous question, like "Do I look fat pushing this mower?"
  
(Before I get into the rest of this story, I'd like to point out that I got 22 comments on this single little post, more than ANY OTHER POST in the history of ADITW.  You Likers get really riled up about laundry and lawns.  Next week I'm going to post about dirty dishes or toilet paper and see if I can top 22 comments.)

So I make my little post, and no shit, within 30 seconds I get an e-mail from CH:  "What's THAT all about?" and I get really indignant because CH is following me on Facebook and Twitter and checks the blog regularly and honestly, it's starting to creep me out.  I feel like I have a CH-Cam on me.  If I cut myself shaving he is going to text me and say, "You should shave in the other direction.  Put some aloe on that."  He is the spousal version of Big Brother, the HoverSpouse.  I call him at work.

ME:  "What the hell?  Can I say ANYTHING without you butting in?"
CH:  "Well are you saying I don't mow the lawn?"
ME:  "No, I'm asking people about traditional chore roles."
CH:  "I think you're saying I don't mow."
ME:  "That is beside the point.  Why do you feel like you need to Creep in on all of my stuff?"
CH:  "Someone needs to keep an eye on you.  You were illegally posting for advice on getting out of jury duty, and need I remind you of the Jen Lancaster incident just 72 hours ago?"
ME:  "I am an adult.  Butt out, Creeper."

And then we make an appointment for a nooner because school will be out in three weeks and that will be the end of that.  I grab a Nutty Bar and refresh my coffee and mutter to myself about being a responsible adult and I can post whatever I want.  I am SO in control.  Sheesh.  But as long as I've taken a break from work I wasn't doing, I think I will go over and check The Bloggess today, because I am an equal opportunity stalker.  Of course, she is hilarious, as usual.  Today, she created an ad about BINGO, because Bingo.com asked her to create and post an ad for them on her site.  Here is what she came up with:

I scan the comments, because some of the commenters are really funny too, and someone posts something like "Get 1,000,000 People To Beg SNL to Let The Bloggess Host" and I thought, "Hey, something like that would be funny".

And that, my friends, is where things went a little south.  It's like I was stalking Jen again, except this time there was actual trademark infringement.  I blame the Nutty Bars.

My next thought was "We have a Poet Laureate, The Bloggess should be our Blogger Laureate!"  Next thing I knew, I was on Facebook, CREATING THE PAGE:

A Dozen People Who Want The Bloggess to Be Our National Blogger Laureate

And then I'm like, "Hey, what good is a Facebook Fan Page without a photo?" and so I go to her site and STEAL her image and post it on the page, and I list her as a Government Official, and then Facebook sends me a message that says YOU'VE CREATED A FAN PAGE! and I think, "HA!  That's SO funny!" and I go to her site and post a comment that says, "Make Jenny the National Blogger Laureate - click here!" and I post the link and I check the page 30 MINUTES LATER and there are 24 Likers, and then the sugar wears off and I think, "WHAT.  HAVE.  I.  DONE." 

I start sweating a little bit, and I send Jenny The Bloggess this e-mail (Actual text):

"Hi Jenny - Okay, so I read the funny blog about Bingo, and then I see someone comments about starting a Facebook page and then I think HEY that would be funny, she should be our National Blogger Laureate, and I go to FB  thinking "I'll just see if it's easy to do" and then POW, there is a page created, and I take your picture and then I'm like HOLY SHIT WHAT JUST HAPPENED!?! and I think I may have accidentally taken some Vicodin or drain cleaner and now I think I have violated you, which of course everyone dreams about, but not in this way.  So,
A)  I'm sorry
B)  Can I keep it?  I'll feed it and take care of it and make sure it doesn't get rabies
C)  You really do rule the Internet.  But not with an iron fist, and that's why we all like you so much.
D)  I will happily take it down if it is annoying and/or scary

I am now sweating.  I think I'll eat some crackers and lie down.
Julie"

You may be saying to yourself, "Self, how does she have The Bloggess's e-mail address?" and I will tell you that as I worker I may be a slacker, but as a stalker I am very thorough. 

But get THIS - she responded:

"Ha!  I love it.  It's awesome."

Swoon.  I love her.  And I am really thrilled she is not suing my ass.  So CH comes home from work and puts his things down and pecks me on the cheek and goes to his laptop.

CH:  "How was your day?"
ME:  "Um, good."
CH:  "What."
ME:  "What do you mean, 'What'?"
CH:  "I mean what did you do?  I can tell you did something."
ME:  "Well, I sort of started a FB page to make The Bloggess the National Blogger Laureate."
CH:  "No."
ME:  "Yeah.  And I kind of stole images from her site to do it."
CH:  "Oh shit."
ME:  "And it has 147 Likers.  But I e-mailed her and she said it's okay."
CH:  (head in hands)  "This?  This is why I monitor you."

So now I'm on Double Secret Probation, and there is a suspicious-looking stuffed bear on the buffet staring at me with a huge belly button.  But that bear can't keep me off the Internet, sucka!  Be sure to become a Liker on the Facebook page, because really, how hard can it be to get Obama's e-mail address?  Not very.