Oy.

I don't feel so good.


Big lunch today with in-laws, then pre-candy from neighbors, then the actual candy, then the post-trick-or-treating candy, and then a glass of wine and chili. The chili is where my stomach said, "You know what? Screw you. I'm done taking one for the team, let the large intestine deal with this crap."  (Look at me.  It's a Halloween pun.)

I have some photos of the Worst Halloween Costumes Ever, aka Bert and Ernie, as worn by CH and myself, and photos of the kidlets, and then, a photo of George the Superpet.

In dramatic cliffhanger-like fashion, I am going to tell you that George the Superpet had an awesome costume, and you are never going to guess what it was.  Tonight, I go to bed with Prilosec and the bitter taste of regret.  Tomorrow is the first full day of my new career as a Hooker, and then tomorrow night, after driving Miss Daisy and her siblings to cello lessons, basketball and dance, I shall find the cord to download photos from my camera and unveil The Best Superpet Costume Ever.

Until then, Happy Halloween, you scary people.  I'll be bahk.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 47

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. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats.

 Today's topic:
Sexy Halloween
It's that time of year...full of black (feral) cats, Reese's peanut butter cups, and pedophile-friendly Halloween costumes.  When Oldest Daughter forces me to listen to her Love In This Club radio station, I get to listen to ads for Halloween costumes. 

"Hey Partiers!  We have the sexiest Halloween costumes in town!  Sexy schoolgirls, sexy police officers, sexy house cleaners, sexy mothers, sexy nursing home residents...we've got them all!  And guys, you can buy your costume here too!  But bring your girlfriend so we can outfit her in the tightest, shortest costume her body will allow!"


I have to say, I really loathe sexy costumes, because even though I am single-handedly bringing sexy back, I am against exploitation as a hobby.  At least outside of the privacy of my own home.  However, anyone can see that these costumes exist to serve dual functions, therefore making them worth every penny of the $80 or more price tag.

 This costume gives its wearer the obligation
to spend her night telling everyone in the bar
about the crimes against Native American women,
including rape, smallpox, and alcoholism
...and to BE SEXY.

In this costume...well, in this costume

you are just going to hell. To BE SEXY.

If you are the luckiest girl in the room,

this one might land you in bed with Hugh Hefner,

six other women (including twins!)

and the worst crabs you've ever seen.

So Effing Sexy!

This costume is not only advertising

that you will cook, clean for,

and sleep with up to seven men,

or that height is not an issue for you,

but it also says, "Welcome Pedophiles and

Men Who Collect Disney products!"  SO SEXY!

 I don't know about you, but the nurses I've seen in the last 10 years are more likely to be wearing SpongeBob scrubs, but this costume will reap rewards beyond the $65 price tag.  Not only are you seen as nurturing, and as a working girl, and possibly Swiss, but you are likely carring antibiotics.  A win-win in this getup. 
Because it's SEXY!

And isn't that really what Halloween is all about?  Bring sexy?  I think CH is going as Ernie and I'm going as Bert, which says, "Give me the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and I might share, but no one is getting laid tonight."  So. Very. Sexy.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and a Sexy Halloween to you all!

Julie the Wife, Reporting Live

This is Julie the Wife, reporting live from The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About.

This is my last day of full-time employment here, and so I have decided to report to you from the bunker.

It is dim on my floor, which is open to all cubbies and corners of the other employees, because they only have every other light bulb screwed in to save on supplies.  My light flickers over my desk, and the room is quiet except for the sound of muted human suffering.

Laughter breaks out across the room, and everyone turns in surprise to see who has found joy in the building.

Today, I have broken all of the laws, and I am wearing a brown turtleneck with...gasp...jeans, and my German dancin' clogs.  I did not shower.  I did not wash my hair.  I brought chocolate chip bars for the people who volunteered for my last event, because volunteers are few and far between and they must be taken care of.  I brought guacamole because the people in the next department are having a Snack Day, and the guac is my ticket to snacking all day long.

I am openly speaking to other employees in a way that makes it obvious I'm not talking about work-related issues.  I am blogging on my personal blog, and drinking coffee.  It's not just any coffee - it is a Starbucks Grande Skinny Vanilla Latte, nectar of the Gods.  Today is a special day and I deserve a special coffee.  It takes so little to bring me joy. 

The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About does not provide coffee for employees, and so my boss brought in her own coffee pot from home.  We have to hide our coffee pot because other people will come filch your coffee.  In other departments, the coffee pots have big threatening signs on them that say things like, "IF YOU DON'T BRING IT, YOU DON'T DRINK IT" and "THIS IS NOT A PUBLIC COFFEE POT - PAY FOR USE" and "IF YOU DRINK MY COFFEE I WILL KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS".   On the black market here, a cup of coffee costs $42.  This is how I've supplemented my meager salary, by selling cups of coffee in the back hallways.  The crack rocks and Rolexes I sell go for under $40, but the coffee can bring in $60-70 on a good day.

Can I just take a moment and say that the people I work with here are terrific.  I feel like I'm going to have post-traumatic stress disorder and survivor's guilt.  I left the burning car with people in it, and as I ran from the wreckage they yelled, "Don't forget about me if your company is hiring!  Take my resume with you!"  I am like Daniel Day-Lewis in Last of the Mohicans - "Keep yourself alive!  I promise, I will return for you!"

It is 9:45 a.m. I have seven hours left.  It is Snack Day, Coffee Day, and Clogs Day.  I'm ready to clock out, when my world will suddenly be in Technicolor, and the Munchkins will accompany me along the yellow brick road and Glinda the Good Witch will tell me to tap my Dansko clogs together and say, "There's No Place Like Home", and CH will wake me up and say, "It was just a bad dream - can we have sex?"

To those of you who are stuck in a job you may or may not hate to the depths of your soul, get that resume together - somewhere over the rainbow there is a job you will like, I promise. 

UPDATE:  To all of my co-workers who were just told this morning I have a blog and are now reading it, on their computer screens in front of potential management view, a couple of things:

A)  You are wonderful people, I didn't lie.
B)  CLOSE OUT OF THIS BLOG NOW!  It is for home reading.  My Attorney will tell you I don't want to get in any trouble.
C)  Please know that my readers understand that I am an entertainer, not a historian.

Communication Breakdown

I believe I am in a knife fight with Oldest Daughter's hormones.

Sadly, I am not the maturest parent on the block, so this creates some interesting Studies in the Power of Stubbornness in our home.

I give you the past week.  OD has been hassling Current Husband for about six months about getting a new cell phone.  She knows exactly when her contract is up, and I noticed that about 12 weeks before the contract was ready to expire, she started calling CH "Daddy" a lot more.  As I am not in charge of our home technology, I was still referred to as "mwuf" or "whatever".

Last Tuesday night, CH decided it was to be Phone Plan Change Night.  As I've mentioned before, CH doesn't like to stick with any one service provider for too long, because he always suspects he can get a better deal elsewhere.  (Frankly, it's a miracle we've been together for nearly 20 years.  I think my service plan has adapted and changed over time so that I remain competitive with the other service providers in my area.)

As a family, we strolled into the phone store.  Oldest Daughter and The Son immediately knew which phones they wanted (because we gave them the options of Free Phone or Free Phone), CH apparently knew which phone he wanted, and I was left gripping Current Phone, which has been my steady friend for all these months.  I KNOW Current Phone.  I can call and text on Current Phone.  The rest of the family began to debate about my phone situation.

CH:  "You should get a new phone.  That one is old."
OD and The Son:  "She won't get a new phone."
Youngest Daughter:  "Can I have a phone?"
ME:  "Well....I do like my old phone.  But everyone seems to like their Blackberry's."
OD:  (snorts) "There is NO WAY you are getting a Blackberry."
ME:  "Why?"
OD:  "You can't handle the Blackberry."
ME:  "Why not?"
OD:  "Um, like, only because you have NO CONCEPT of how to run any technology."
YD:  "Can I get something at Claire's since I don't get a phone?"
ME:  (fixing my You're Crossing A Line stare at OD) "I do so know how to operate a phone."
OD:  (fixing her I'm 13 and My Estrogen is Erratic Right Now stare at me) "Whatever."
CH:  (stepping in between us) "How about if you get one of these nice Free Phones?"
ME:  "I'm getting the Blackberry."
YD:  "Can I at least get some Skittles?  It's not fair!"

So I got the Blackberry.  And now I can't text or call people very easily because I don't know how it works yet.  But I will Never. Admit It.

It looks awesome in my purse and holds down papers.

On Saturday, OD was supposed to go to the mall with a friend, but the friend ended up not being able to go.  OD seemed a little bereft about her cancelled mall trip, so I offered to take her.  Surprisingly, she took me up on it.

We had a nice trip over to the mall, and I thought "This is the best idea I've had in a long time!"  We got out of the car, and walked into the mall.  Oooh!  A kitchen store!  Let's run in here quick.  OD grudgingly went along with me and looked at stainless steel toasters.  In a few short minutes, she was sighing and lagging a few steps behind me.  I remembered my days of trailing my mom in the home department at Younker's, so I relented and we left.

Just across the corridor was a Von Maur.  OD wanted shoes, so I said we could stop in the infamous Von Maur Sale Shoe room.  She still seemed unenthusiastic, but trudged along with me.  Of course, I got sucked into the sale racks of clothing.  OD had to be thrilled, because what is better than to be 13 and clothes shopping for your mother in the mall on a Saturday, in full view of all of your friends who might be mall-trolling that day?  I picked up a sweater.

ME:  "Do you like it?"
OD:  "No."

I stopped at another rack and pulled out a shirt.

ME:  "Do you like this one?"
OD: (repulsed)  "No."

She is clearly fading.  I take her to the Sale Shoe room and see a pair of Dansko Clogs I've been eyeing.  I put one on.

ME:  "How about these?"
OD:  "Ugh, NO!"
ME:  "I think you are purposely dissing everything I like."
OD:  "If you don't like my answer, quit asking the question."
ME:  (getting pissed) "We are supposed to be out having a good time.  I am simply asking you if these shoes would be okay for ME, not for YOU to wear to school.  Can you get outside of yourself for a second and see if maybe these shoes are okay for a 40ish woman to wear?"
OD:  (getting pissed) "No.  I think they are ugly."
ME:  (to clerk) "I'll take them."

The shoes I'll be wearing to clog dance outside

of the Middle School morning drop off.

We leave the store and walk past Whitey's Ice Cream and I didn't even OFFER to buy her a malt, because I'm making a point.  We go into another shoe store and get her the moccasins she made the trip to the mall for, and walk silently through the crowds of people.  OD spies a kiosk selling cell phone covers, and suddenly, her ice thaws.

OD:  "Let's get a cell phone cover for you!"

ME:  "We can get one for you, I don't know that I need one."

OD:  "If you can't use the phone, at least it will look good."

ME:  "I know how to use the phone!"

OD:  "Whatever.  I like this one with polka dots!"

We pick out cell phone covers.  We get to the car, and OD puts hers on her phone, and then holds her hand out for mine.

ME:  "I can put it on."

OD:  "No, you can't."

ME:  (Damn it, she's right.) "Okay, here you go."  (I hand her the Blackberry.)

OD:  (snaps it on) "There!  Now it looks cute!  Do you know you have five unread texts on here?"

ME:  "Yes, I just don't have time for texting like you do."

OD eyes me suspiciously, and then I see a softening in her, like when the Grinch realized his heart was 10 sizes too large.  She hands the phone back to me, and says, "Okay.  Thanks for taking me to the mall."  Dang!  She can always get me with that unexpected kindness!  I give her a hug, and we drive home.  I may not with the war, but I've won this battle.  Take that, Teen Estrogen.

 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 46

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: Gleedophilia

This week, Whoreticulture Friday is all about being on top of today's hot and fresh headlines.  Who is hot and fresh this week?  Some of those nutty kids from Glee.  You may be thinking to yourself, "Julie, this is a far cry from cock rings," but to you I say, "Is it, gentle reader?  IS IT?"  Because according to next month's issue of GQ magazine, those Glee Girls are fresh from Berlin and the Reeperbahn District.

The Parent's Television Council is upset about the photos because they claim they are bordering on pedophilia, but I disagree.  No one looking at those photos is thinking about little girls, they are thinking about Catholic school girls playing dress-up in fetish clothing.  Completely different.

And must we ALWAYS assume that when a 24-year-old woman wants to be photographed in her panties and bra and knee socks and stillettos and favorite lollipop it is SEXUAL?  I can offer some non-sexual takes on these photos.  It is the Liberal Media Bias Legislating From The Bench as Career Politicians who Approved This Message.  That's where the misunderstandings happen.

"My blood sugar is low.  So.  Low. 

Which is what made me forget to

wear pants to school and simulate

fellatio with a blow pop."

"I am so angry with myself for

forgetting that spike heels will

ruin the gym floor!  I deserve to

be roundly punished!"

"This is totally my favorite shirt from

the Gap because it has spandex in it,

so it's really flexible, like me! 

Wanna see me put this fuschia

pump behind my head?

"Yay, reading!  We love books! 

Look, here's a book on Exploitation! 

I'm going to bend over in my short skirt

and high heels to read it!

"I did such a good job polishing this bench

that you can see my vagina in it! 

Hooray for Brazilians!"

Okay, this one actually pisses me off.
When are we going to stop objectifying men?
This poor, innocent young man is forced to palm
those supple buttocks in a way that says,
"Hey, I'm up for two chicks at once!"
when he is clearly uncomfortable about it.
And?  Do we *need* to see his forehead?
Get a hat, dude!

See?  It's all just media slant.  And as they say, Glee is not being marketed toward teens AT ALL.  And if my teen sees these photographs, which is not likely because thank goodness there isn't any kind of crazy space-age worldwide web that will bring up these pics every time she types "Glee" in Google, she won't think they are cool at all, because they are purposely set up to be as unsexy and uncool as possible.  I mean, how many teenage girls are eating Blow Pops?  That is SO fourth grade.  And knee socks?  Please. 

I just hope the boys DO see these pictures in GQ, because they send an important message: Even if really hot girls with smokin' bods are squirming all over you and forcing their buttocks in the palm of your hands, you should KEEP YOUR CLOTHES ON and STICK TO YOUR VALUES.  If more boys would behave in this way, teen pregnancies would go way down.  So thank you, GQ.  Thank you for caring about the youth of America, and reminding us that no matter how strong your favorite female characters are on your favorite show, they are really just sluts deep down inside, trying to get a man.

*julie slow claps for GQ here*

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!

It's Not a Job, It's an Adventure

So I have some news in the Day of this Wife - I have ALREADY quit The Job I Can't Blog About. Yes, that's right, I'm a quitter, and I could not be happier about it. Ten pounds of hair, a couple of bald patches, four periods in two months, face sagging off of my skull and 100 Prilosecs later and I am almost free. My last day is next Wednesday, and if you listen closely you might hear the sound of jubilant laughter followed by the screeching of tires pealing out of a parking lot. I would like to add that the people I worked with were fantastic, truly, but enough is enough. I just started The Job I Can't Blog About on August 1, but I am a lucky, lucky girl, because I found what could very well be The Best Job Ever.

Best Job Ever came to my attention last Monday, because Current Husband was spending most of his days looking for jobs for me. CH was not a big fan of The Job I Can't Blog About, as it dramatically increased The Wife's stress level and cut back on his Getting Laid Time. When men don't get laid, they spring into action. CH found the job on Monday, I sent my resume on Tuesday, I got a call on Wednesday, I had my interview on Thursday, an offer on Friday and gave my notice on Monday. Best Job Ever is about me selling tools one uses to make wool hooked rugs to individual artisans and distributors across the country, making the Facebook, Twitter, and website pages for the equipment (hello, social media time!), creating a product catalog, and traveling once a month to trade shows for rug hooking. That's right, people...

I've taken a job as a hooker.

And I couldn't be happier about it.  Obviously being a hooker is going to bring in more money, and there is profit sharing in the hooking field.  CH has already reaped the benefits of my new hooking career, which I begin on November 1.

As long as we are talking jobs, let me tell you about the Career Fair I attended today as a representative of my current company.  First let me point out that perhaps the person who just gave their notice after working there for two short months is not the person you want working your career fair.  As I walked out of the building at The Job I Can't Blog About, six different people told me to take their resumes with me and pass them out to other companies.  I told a number of people attending the career fair that I know of a position opening up next week at my company, so maybe I found my own replacement.

If you really want to get depressed, hang out at a career fair for a couple of hours in this economy.  There are some really well put together people who seem to have a solid background in their field who cannot find a job.  There seems to be a preponderance of very competent looking single mothers who can't get a living wage or a position with benefits to take care of their kids.  But I am not here to depress you, Wifers.  I'm here to be snarkily delicious, so let me give you my Top Hints of What Not To Do At a Career Fair:

1.  Do not tell the person in the booth you hate their company.  I honestly had a guy walk up, say he hated my company, and then take an application and ask if he could drop it off later.  Um, sure?  Do you want me to slap you when you turn it in?

2.  Do not say that you saw the position you just asked about in the paper and that we will never hire anyone at the salary listed.  And again, she took an application, filled it out, and dropped it off with me later.  Good luck in your job search.  Honesty is important....except when you are unemployed and trying to find a job.  A little less criticism, a little more smiling.

3.  Do not say that my company would not be in existence without the ball bearings/fexor valves/paper rolls your last company produced.  And then, you guessed it, took an application and filled it out.

4.  Do not wear any clothing that has Disney characters embroidered on it.  I swear to you, I would rather see you in a plain t-shirt with a forearm tattoo that says "Fuck Tha Police" than a sweatshirt that says "Tinkerbell" on it.

5.  Do not tell me you missed out on picking up a job posting because you were outside smoking.  My parents smoke, and I love them dearly, but in an employment situation you might as well say, "I'd like to have frequent breaks, smell badly, go through Nicotine withdrawal, and die early for your company."

6.  Do not walk with determination to my booth, throw down your resume, and walk away.

7.  Do not look at the job postings on the table and say, "This better not be another job requiring a Goddamned degree."

8.  Do not put your hand in the bowl of Hershey's kisses, grab as many as you can, stick them in your pocket, and then ask for an application.  Those kisses might as well be paper clips or blank checks.  Take one, and move along.

9.  Do not rant about how crappy your last job was.  Or I might be forced to write "Potential Shooter" in the Position Desired box on your application.

10.  Do not tell me we have no jobs that interest you, and then ask me for an application to show your unemployment officer.  Need more unemployment benefits?  Fine.  But let's all be a little more subtle about it.

Don't get me wrong, Wifers.  I am extremely sympathetic to serious people looking for employment.  It's a tough world out there, and I wish I could make it a lot easier for a lot of people.  I also know it's no fun to feel like you are stuck in a job you hate.  BUT.  If you are a Tink-wearing kisses-stealing anger-spewing company hater, fresh off your Career Fair smoke break, you just aren't going to get my gold star on your application.  And I'm not even the HR director, but I'm collecting the first impressions for him.  Also?  Remember that a smile goes a long way.

And I am smiling, honey.  Oh yes I am.  Have a great week! 

    

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 45

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: Mommy the Sex Toy Dealer

First, I must apologize for no blog on Wednesday a.m., but The Son sprained his foot badly at football practice, and we did the whole Convenient Care/x-ray/crutches thing and he is out for the rest of the football season, and I was just not really in a bloggy place that night, so sorry for slacking!

Today already feels like one of those days when I am going to lose followers, so let me say before I begin this edition of Whoreticulture Friday that I really enjoyed the time you spent on my blog, I apologize in advance for offending you, and you will be missed.

So.  I was approached last week about selling sex toys on my blog.  Oh yes, Wifers.  Cock rings for everyone!  It's like Christmas, if Christmas was absolutely not about Jesus and we all had Spanish Fly instead of eggnog.  

(Today is also starting to feel like one of those days when I will be going to hell, so let me say to Jesus that I really enjoyed the time I was in your favor, I apologize in advance for offending you, and I will really miss heaven.)

As many of you know, bloggers get approached fairly regularly to whore out products on their blogs.  Most of these proposals are scams, and no one ever gets paid.  Unfortunately, the adult sites seem to be the only legitimate companies paying people to advertise for them.  This say a LOT about the Internet.  Since 66% of my blog posts are about kids and families and 33%, or more namely, Whoreticulture Fridays, often are about sex, I will probably not be advertising for this company.  However, since they gave me a topic, I will promote them for free today, provided they don't sue me for posting some of their photos.  Sounds like a fair exchange, no?  Eleven Creations, by reading further in my blog, you are agreeing to let me post some photos, okay?  Good.  I'm glad we got that settled.

So the company is Eleven Creations, and they seem legit.  Too legit to quit, even, because they've been in business for 18 years, which means that they started up right about the time I started harassing Current Husband to marry me because it seemed like he was getting the milk for free and therefore not purchasing the cow.  Moo.  Let's take it slow, like foreplay.

They say this is for the big finger.  

So THAT's what we're calling it these days.

This finger talk makes me harken back to New Year's Eve, 1992, when CH and I were spending the night with a very good couple friend.  We had all been drinking and playing Taboo (an excellent, and innocent, game), and the clue was Moonlighting.  The woman, who was drunk as a skunk in a funk, started telling her husband about how she had forgotten to tell him that she watched a porn the other day at home, called "Moonlighting", and that she had masturbated using "TWO FINGERS!"  CH and I hadn't known them that long, and we looked at each other like, "Best New Year's party EVER! Tell us more!" because we knew we'd talk about it for years, and the husband was trying to shut her up and saying to us, "Um, she didn't really do that, she'll be so embarrassed tomorrow" but we knew the truth because their gifts to each other were still under their Christmas tree and Santa brought him the banana-sling type underwear for men who are hung so we already knew they were funky that way, and then we woke up the next day hung over and he made us biscuits and gravy and Lord did we ever both want to throw up but we didn't because it would've been rude, especially after the underwear and masturbation thing.

Oh, are you still here?  What was I talking about?

 Oh yes.  Cock rings.

Did you hear that?  It was the sound of people Unfollowing me.  Sorry folks.  Pray for me.  I would like to say that while I find it irritating that the model on the box (pun intended) looks like Megan Fox, I love that her boob is a little on the saggy side, like she's dropped a couple of calves.  That is a 40-year-old boob, my friend.  Also, I always find it irritating when things are purposely misspelled.  "How It Workx"?  Come ON.  So you are selling cock rings and bondage tape and Spanish Fly.  Is it necessary to lower yourself to BAD SPELLING?  Be a classy, educational sex company.  I don't want to know HOW IT WORKX.  I want to know How It Works, and what Freud might have thought about it.  Make me feel SMART for using your cock ring with the pulsating tickler, batteries included. Or at least for reading the box if I'm not actually going to use the product.

Bondage tape. Pretty in Pink.

This purports to be the best selling couples product, but I'm guessing that the best selling couples product is actually a tie between Ben & Jerry's Super Fudge Brownie Chunk and Tylenol PM.  As a public service, I will tell you that if you go to Eleven Creations, stay away from the DVD and Love Dolls sections, unless you just haven't seen enough rectums today.  I, for one, haven't seen a rectum in five years since I changed my last diaper, and I have no plans to go on a Scavenger Hunt for one anytime soon.  I'm not judging, I just know I'll be reaching for either the Ben & Jerry's or the Tylenol PM tonight.  But you other couples go have your fun.

So there you have it.  My brush with fame in the sex trade.  I'm sure I would have made over $10 in commission by the end of this post, just on the Bondage Tape alone, but it just isn't my thing.  I appreciate the offer, EC, and it's nice to be wanted, but contrary to popular belief, I'm not the selling-sex-toys-on-my-wifey-blog kind of girl.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

The Confession Stand

Have I mentioned that Youngest Daughter is adorable, and yet, calculated?

Every Sunday, The Son has a football game.  Youngest Daughter has been excited for every game, and at first I thought, "How cute.  She is supporting her brother!" About 20 minutes into the first game, I realized that this was another instance of it really being all about her.  Here are the reasons YD supports Rising Knights football:

1. It is outdoors with a playset.
2. A number of her small friends are there as well.
3. They sell candy.

YD is a total crack addict, but for sugar.  We are constantly monitoring her sugar intake, but she somehow gets through our radar.  This is because, since the day she was born, YD has worked the Baby of the Family system.  If Mom says no, go to Dad.  If Dad says no, go to Oldest Daughter.  OD says no, go to The Son.  If he says no, try the neighbors.  Someone always has a treat they are willing to give someone adorable!

A perfect example of this is playdates.  During the time our house has been on the market, YD has begged for playdates, only to have me say no because when she has little friends over, the house inevitably fills up with 10,000 Littlest Pet Shop animals.  Then, when we were moving, I packed up most of her toys so I could seamlessly move her 10,000 Littlest Pet Shop animals.  Now that we are in the new house, her room is a little smaller, and we are trying to figure out WHERE to put 10,000 Littlest Pet Shop animals, along with six American Girls Dolls and their period-appropriate wardrobes, 5,000 Polly Pocket items, 15,000 Puppy/Kitty/Pony in my Pocket items, and a library of books.  There currently isn't space in her room for a playdate.  So what does YD do?  She starts telling other mothers the following:  "Mrs. X, I would LOVE to come over to play at your house, but you have to call my mom and ask me over."

You see the thought process.  YD is what they call a "self-starter" in the working world.

SO, we are at the games, and YD is playing with friends, and she inevitably approaches us for money.

"Can I go to the Confession Stand?"  YD asks.

Oh, how I love this.  First, we are at a Catholic high school, so the thought of getting nachos and absolution at the same time is pretty awesome and appropro.  Second, I love the concept of confessing one's love for junk food.

"Forgive me, Booster, for I have sinned.  I would like a pack of peanut M&Ms, a Ring Pop, nachos, and a Dr. Pepper.  I confess, I am a junk food junkie."

Booster:  "You are forgiven, my child.  Take your food and do five Hail Marys.  That will be $3.50."

YD takes her money, and insists on spending every nickel.  She will get a dollar, buy herself a Ring Pop and an Airhead, and then ask the Confession Stand people how much money is left.  Then, she finds other kids who aren't sporting Ring Pops and buys candy until she is broke.  It's a lovely concept, but I've had to talk with her about food allergies, kids who can't have sugar, and asking parents' permission.  What is YD's response to so much lecturing?

"Mom, I'm learning about counting money at school, and I'm sharing."

Oooh, the double defense of education and cooperation.  I confess, she has me stumped.

Happy Monday, have a nice week!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 44

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: No sex for you!

I used to be quite the purveyor of sex, and it was probably my sluttish ways that secured Current Husband to me.  But CH has been wronged in a number of ways since the day of "I Do."  

1. First, I cut off my long hair about two weeks after the wedding.  CH has a philosophy that women use their long hair to fetch themselves a husband (because it is a truth universally acknowledged that every young woman with long hair must be in need of a husband), and then they cut it off when the deal is sealed.  I used to scoff at this notion, but I have to admit that I've seen it happen more than once.  It must be a symbolic cutting off of oneself from the insanity of planning a wedding.
2.  I stopped cleaning.  Okay, I never really cleaned, but at least I used to make an effort toward the ILLUSION that I cleaned, such as stuffing the dirty clothes under the bed, putting old magazines under the couch, and sticking dirty dishes in the oven when people would come over, only to forget and fill the house with smoke when preheating my oven a few days later.  CH, on the other hand, cleans a mean bathroom.
3. I stopped being a whore.  When CH was Current Boyfriend, I was freshly graduated from college and feeling liberated and unencumbered.  Let's have sex on the living room floor!  Let's re-enact 9 1/2 weeks!  Let's get you a gag ball and call you Slappy! (Okay, I've never used a gag ball.  But I have called him Slappy.)

So totally me.  

If I was blonde, sexy, and inexplicably 

attracted to Mickey Rourke.

Maybe it is The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About.  Maybe it's the move.  Maybe I'm perimenopausal.  Maybe I'm a frigid bitch.  No, I think it's the job.  Either way, I've become The Sex Nazi.

It happens all the time.  CH starts circling me after dinner when I am clearing away the dishes and cleaning the kitchen, and he is....circling me after dinner.  He starts trying to be cute and lunge at my boobs or "hug" me from behind and say sexy things like "You know you want it".  (Was it obvious at dinner in front of the kids when I said, "Do you want more meatloaf?" that I really meant "Do you want me to eat your meatloaf?" nudge nudge wink wink. Because that is TOTALLY what I meant, you really "get" me.) 

Suddenly, something happens to push me over the Annoyed line, and it's "NO SEX FOR YOU!"  Don't clear away dishes with me?  "NO SEX FOR YOU!"  Watch SyFy or USA too long and it's "NO SEX FOR YOU!"  Fart just one too many times?  "NO SEX FOR YOU!"

It's sad really.  I used to love sex.  I was the absolute, frequent instigator of sex.  At least one of our children was conceived in the back seat of our car in our own driveway.  Another might have been in my parent's garage.  I was Paris Hilton without the coke.  I was Jersey Shore without the tan or Ed Hardy or Jersey.  I was Tila Tequila but three feet taller and monogamous.  Now I'm Phyllis Diller.

Is it age?  Do I need some Vitamin D or Folic Acid or Spanish Fly?  It's not CH - he's still got it goin' on, he just doesn't always make it on my "To Do" list.  There are kids to be fed and a dog to be groomed and a job and a house to unpack and showers to take and legs to shave before that action can go down.  When did being an adult become such a pain in the ass?  What happened to Dime Draws or Bloody Mary night with Beer chasers and Baby's Got Back on the house sound system and the Walk of Shame?  

I am The Sex Nazi.  And don't even think you can reference this blog post and use it to guilt me into sex CH, or there will be NO SEX FOR YOU!  I'd love to hear if I'm alone - I know for a fact a few of you gentle readers are in the same boat.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Go on out and have The Sex. 

He said, she said

Current Husband and I have set roles in our household:

CH
TV systems, usually consisting of us changing our service provider every few years.
Cell phones, usually consisting of us changing our service provider every few years.
Investing, usually consisting of us changing our service provider every few years.
Computer systems, usually consisting of...you get the idea.
Directing of yard work.

Bringing in the bulk of our income.
Making suggestive comments about sex, usually in a hopeful tone.

Julie
Everything else.
Instigating the actual sex.

I will say that since I got The Full Time Job Which I Can't Blog About, CH has really stepped up to the plate, and he now gets the younger kids ready for school in the morning, and he is in charge of driving The Son to his 5x a week tackle football practices and his flag football games, while I drive Youngest and Oldest Daughters to their music/dance lessons.  Of course, we no longer have Family Dinner because of said activities, which makes me very sad.  I have always been a big proponent of the Family Dinner.  So how do you say, "I'm sorry kids, you have to give up cello and a potential scholarship so I can see you fight at the table"?


Anyhoo, CH and I had to call in a plumber last week for an emergency leak under the sink, which seems to have happened after our home inspection, and YET, the floor in front of the kitchen sink is somewhat soft even though the plumber, who was awesome, stopped said leak.  Seems like perhaps it would take a long time for a subfloor to become soggy, but what do I know.  Then yesterday, we had an electrician come in because we can't run the vacuum cleaner the same time the air conditioning, or perhaps a toaster, is running, so we had to replace the junction box.  Cha-friggin-ching.  And?  I couldn't do laundry because the dryer had a European outlet.  That's right.  I bought a house in Iowa which accommodates European appliances.  We are THAT classy.  I can hear the sound of laundry drying right now, so it was worth the grand we dropped on it.  As a matter of fact, we have so much money that I am drying about $10,000 in fives in my American dryer plugged into a North American outlet right now.


CH held down the fort while the bunk bed installers came into the house (far and away the best $50 I've spent), so now my son can be disoriented and fall from six feet in the air at night when he needs to use the bathroom, but at least The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About has benefits.  


Now we need phone jacks installed, because this house apparently has two, and one of them is under the phone nook that is Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein's new bedroom.  (My Dad, while moving things into my house, said, and I quote, "That fucking rodent had better not be here the next time I visit, or I'm getting a hotel."  He's not a fan of my taxidermied pet.  Todd shall have his revenge.  Oh yes, yes he will. BWAH HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!)  CH has handled all of the other technical stuff in the new house, so I suggested he call the phone people, because CH is...how do I say...completely anal retentive when it comes to his service providers.  Which we change every few years because no one ever really does it up to his standards.  Here is the conversation:


ME:  "Are you calling the phone company or do you want me to do it?" 
translation: 'when are you calling the phone company?'
CH:  "You can call them, they should come this week."
translation: 'you can call them, they should come this week.'
ME:  "Uh, that's fine, I'll call, but you are never happy with it when I do it."
translation:  'I can't believe you are making me do this. It is SO not fine.'
CH:  "What are you talking about?  That never happens!"
translation:  'I am the easiest person to please on the planet. Let's have sex.'
ME:  "You are NEVER happy with any service I schedule.  Something always goes wrong."
translation:  'I am not responsible for what will inevitably go wrong, and I will buy art if you get angry with me in any way.'
CH:  "That is so not true."
translation:  'that is so not true.'
ME:  "We'll see."
translation:  'asshole.'


So this morning I am at The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About, and I decide to call Qwest and get it over with.  I call the toll-free number, and after five different numeric commands, I am in Hold Hell.  I was on hold for SEVENTEEN MINUTES, no kidding, and the entire time I had to listen to over-enthusiastic jazz with an over-enthusiastic announcer telling me all of the super Qwest deals I have the opportunity to pay them for, and how much they value me as a customer, and how a representative will be with me soon.  If I could have reached out and touched Joe Voice-Over, he would be Soprano Joe.  Darien came on the line, and asked if he could help me, and I said, "Darien, I know you don't control the hold music, but it's really awful and I want to kill someone."  Darien said, without missing a beat, "I have to listen to that hold recording about 10 times a day, and it makes me want to hurt someone too."   Whoa.  I was dealing with a professional here.  Darien and I were going to get along just fine.

He took my order for two additional phone jacks in the house, and while he was scheduling the service he told me about his five kids, one of whom just bought a car in Korea, and how he loves Dancing With The Stars.  I don't, but Darien I could just sop up with a biscuit he was so sweet.  As Darien is giving me my confirmation number for my service order, a message from CH pops up on my computer screen.
"Call me before you call Qwest."  

Too late, M-F'er.  I have a confirmation number.  Unbelievable.  I call CH.

"Well, such and such just told me he can do it and it will be cheaper, but he can't come over until Thursday, so maybe you can get Qwest to delay the service until we find out for sure that this guy can do it....."

I stopped listening at "Well," and started thinking about the rooster painting I really want at Five Star Salon Spa.  Momma's getting some art.  Thank you, Darien.  It was a pleasure.

Heavy Bunkbeds and Lukewarm Showers

I have an announcement - I'm still slacking.

Today was Current Husband's birthday, so we started with donuts and ended with margaritas, with a tackle football game in the middle (The Son's, not us).  I had two freelance projects due tonight, and we spent a large part of the evening looking for the bill holder.  You know, the one thing that while you're moving you say, "We can't lose this, bills are due next week!"  We spent much of the weekend looking for this 8 1/2 x 11 plexiglass object, stuffed with bills, but alas, we cannot pay.  

In the middle of the day, we decided to unload The Son's new bunkbed.  We paid to have it assembled, and felt like we were being extraordinarily clever, but the store made it clear that the bed wouldn't be assembled until it was in the house.  CH and I unloaded the huge 5' x 8' box, and it became clear that my Little Engine blew a gasket and lost a wheel.  OH HELL NO is what my engine was saying, followed by SON-OF-A-BITCHIN' THING and then (*&$#)*&$&@)&@!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  We tried to push it across the grass, and in the process we plowed a nice furrow in the yard.  On the plus side, the front yard looks more like a Grant Wood painting than it did.  

Our neighbor across the street, husband half of the cat feeding team named, I kid you not, Darryl, was mowing, and he actually stopped his mower to watch us try to manipulate the box across the yard.  Already, we are entertaining the neighbors.  Later, I started fantasizing that the neighborhood is really evil, and maybe the current residents are all possessed and throwing hexes at us, like "Make the box 100 pounds heavier" and "Sic the feral cat pack on their children" or "Start the dripping in the pipes under the sink".

Tonight's curse was on the water heater.  I got in the shower at 10:10 p.m. to take a lovely hot shower before I blogged and got in my warm bed, and instead, my shower never got above the "tepid" mark on the heat index.  I didn't even bother to shave my legs, because they were covered in goosebumps and I would've cut the heck out of them.  I am currently standing at our computer in the kitchen (my laptop is still out of commission from the Vanilla Ice virus), surrounded by cords because we can't find more than two phone jacks in the house to hook up the computer, in my towel and robe, hoping the electric doesn't get shut off from non-payment, shivering, and praying the Prilosec I took an hour ago helps keep me from guppy puking my margarita all night long. Again, I am bringing sexy back.  

Happy Birthday, CH.  You are clearly one lucky man.