It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 42

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 people I work with. Because there are many things I don't need you people to know about me. SO STOP READING, CO-WORKERS. You know who you are.

Today's topic: Where The Wild Things Are

Okay, so I don't need you to tell me my posts have been lame lately, but I'm so tired *she says in whiny preschool voice*.  Here I am, it's 11 p.m. on Thursday, I'm on my third halfish glass of screw top pinot noir, and I still have a freelance project to complete.  Before tomorrow.  And I have this DAMN FULL TIME JOB!!!  Man, those paid full-time positions really eat up one's non-paid fun time.  Because I have yet to see a Classified Ad that reads

WANTED: Obscene person to write weekly 

column about Whoreticulture.  Must be 

completely immature, narcissistic and 

willing to shock.  Full benefits and 

ONE. MILLION. DOLLARS.  

Starts immediately.

Dude.  That must be the screw-top wine talkin'.  As a matter of fact, after glass number two, I went in to kiss Current Husband goodnight, and he looked at me in much the same manner that George the Superpet might look at me if he wants a Snausage, and I said, "Oh for Chrissake, REALLY?" and he nodded yes and looked really pathetic so I agreed to have sex with him, but I told him I had a lot to do and he wasn't on my TO DO list, so he needed to keep it under five minutes.  He agreed to those terms, and we engaged, but I made jokes the entire time, like randomly saying "MOO!", and he ended up telling me to shut up if I wanted to get back to my TO DO list.  I agreed to those terms and here I am, all showered up and blogging.  How's THAT for TMI!?!  Just another Thursday night in A Day in The Wife.  Literally.  Except that it was Five Minutes In The Wife.  CH is one lucky guy, no?

So anyway.  Back to the blog.

At The Full-Time Job, I work next to a graphic designer named, if you can believe it, George.  And every time I say the name George, I say it like I am talking to George the Superpet.  I just can't help it.  And?  George the Designer is young and single and thin, and so I take it upon myself to be like Mrs. Claus in Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and say things like, "EAT Santa, EAT!" except that I say George.  And I tell him that if he has a double espresso, he should eat more than a granola bar or his stomach lining will disappear.  And I tell him that he should buy a house.  And that he should clock out at 5 p.m. and leave his work at work.  I swear one of these days his skinny, yet long, arm will reach out and superpunch me.  I am mothering George, and I've never really been the maternal type.

So they are putting a new roof on our somewhat large building, and you can hear the sound of the powertools all friggin' day, which is a nice accompaniment to the concrete-breaking-with-a-backloader that starts in front of my house at 6:30 a.m.  Yesterday, I'm sitting at my desk, trying to work, and thinking the tool they are using is making sounds like someone is ripping a huge fart.  Then, George and I have the following conversation:

(large ripping noise)

G:  "That sounds like moaning."

ME:  "I know.  It's like we're witnessing porn being filmed!"

(awkward silence)

G:  "I meant like 'Where The Wild Things Are'."

(awkward silence)

ME:  "Yeah, me too."

 Beloved Children's book, or pornography? 

You be the judge.

And we both go back to work.  But every single time that damn tool is used, I think about large monsters from Where The Wild Things Are having sex.  Which sort of ruins the childhood innocence.  Thanks, George, for porning up my childhood.  Now I need to bleach out my brain.  The funny thing is that every time the power tools run, George is sort of giggling to himself, and I'm thinking, "HA! He is thinking about porn now too!" so maybe I ruined Where The Wild Things Are for him as well.  Or his girlfriend is getting super lucky.  

You're welcome, Girlfriend of George.

 I'm sorry people.  It's 11:34, I'm half crocked and still have a paragraph to write.  But really, I've managed to embarrass CH AND my co-worker George, so I consider this a job well done.  Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and remember, only FIVE DAYS LEFT in the Super-Lame-Maybe-I-Shouldn't-Bother Bloggyversary Giveaway.  It does have books by BOTH stalking victims Stacey Ballis AND Jen Lancaster, so that alone makes it worth your time.  That, and the super-creepy lock of hair from George the Superpet.  Perhaps I can get George the Coworker to pose as well.  Have a great weekend!  And Mom - I totally did NOT have any of the sex.  I'm just telling a story.  I'm an entertainer, not a historian.  Those kids were adopted.