It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 39

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. Or bosses.  Really, I wrote this at home.  I save trolling the Internet for porn for the workplace.

Today's topic: Me (because that's so different from other days.)

Conversation with Current Husband at 9:38 p.m. tonight

ME:  "I'm so tired.  I still feel groggy from my Tylenol PM last night."

CH:  "Go to bed."

ME:  "I shouldn't have used, but I was too wired from the Diet Coke and Dots in the movie."

CH:  "Go to bed."

ME:  "It's Thursday night.  I have to do Whoreticulture Friday yet."

CH:  "Uh, the world won't stop if you don't blog."

ME:  "Mom and her two co-workers will be disappointed."

CH:  "Your mom retired last week."

ME:  "Well then I'm down to one reader and she's bored, so I can't risk it."

CH:  "I'm going to bed."

ME:  "Bastard."

And then I got on the computer, intending to write, but I had to quickly get on Twitter and send messages to The Bloggess (whose adorable pug, Barnaby Jones, died a few hours ago, so send her some love) and to Fletch, because stalkers who slack miss out on vital information.  Then I sent mass e-mails so I get more entries in the Stennifer Lunch contest (Good Enough To Eat - pre-order your copy now!) because going through Stacey's garbage alone isn't going to get me a seat at that lunch table.  Or that amazing necklace she wears on her website.  (She won't give it up, I've already asked.)  Talked to a couple of friends on Facebook, and badda bom badda bing, it's 11 p.m. and I haven't written one whorish word.

crickets....crickets....crickets...

I've NEVER had a problem with topics for Whoreticulture Friday, and then I realized the problem...it's ME!  Because I don't want the people at work to realize that I am not the pristine, well-presented girl I want them to *think* I am.  Inside of those Banana Republic pants and Gap shirts is a mother of three with the mouth of a trucker.  I keep my 'Ms. Jackson If You're Nasty' personae under wraps, away from my kids, co-workers, and some neighbors.  But Fridays I can usually let it all hang out.  Until this one.

Without going into great detail, let me say that I also blame Mike from American Pickers (Watch it Mondays at 8 CST on History Channel!)  He and his ladyfriend told my new boss about my blog, which I had sort of neglected to mention in my interview.  I knew it would probably come out eventually, but not less than a week into the job!  So she asked for the address this week, and now I sit, thinking something along the lines of this....

"Well.  You can't do the blog about how you and CH like nooners, because every time you come back from lunch she will think you were out having sex and now you'll never be able to have nooners again because she can see the archives where I talk about nooners, so between that and the kids being home the rest of the time you can't have sex for another 11 years.  You can't do the one about how you had the owner of a very nice restaurant over for Hamburger Helper and proceeded to tell him about The Shocker (it's hardcore, you may not want to go there) until he squealed like a girl and put his hands over his ears and said NO MORE I CAN'T HEAR ANY MORE but then went to work the next day and asked everyone about it and as he left our house he said CH and I are like Jr. High kids who are legal to drink.  (we were flattered) You can't do the one about the friend who knows a housewife who trolls the Internet to meet strangers in cities around the country to have sex.  You can't do the one about the friend who accidentally left a tampon in and had to have a doctor remove it a week later.  You can't do the one about the dogs getting stuck together.  Queefs.  Taints.  NOTHING.  Because your boss might read it.  And she's cool and probably wouldn't care, but STILL.  I do possess some small measure of public humility.

It's one thing to write about vibrators and Brazilians and such and go on your happy anonymous way.  It's quite another to write about CH saying "You look like you want me to bend you over" and then saying, "So how was your weekend?" to someone who knows about the bending.

So now l have a dilemma.  Will I be c***blocked forever, or can I work through it to everyone's ultimate satisfaction?  (Oh how I adore innuendo.)  Will we be able to adopt a "don't ask about the blog/don't tell about the blog" policy at work?  

My other dilemma?  It's 11:40 p.m. and I am really dead.  Stay tuned to see if there is an Issue 40 of WTF....oh, and welcome to my boss!  See you tomorrow!  Let's pretend this never happened, okay?