Monday Minivan Media

Picture yourself in the front seat of my Venture minivan. (Oh yes. You're already green with envy over my life of obvious excess.) We both have a grande skinny vanilla latte, and we have a little time to kill. We could be waiting for our kids, or for our meth dealer to show up. No matter. We're here, in the van, together. Let's talk pop culture. I promise to give you a 1000 word review where less than 10% is actually about the topic. It's like having an actual conversation with me.


Today's music: The Black Keys

I hope everyone had a lovely weekend.  It's Sunday night here, and I find myself wanting one more weekend day, as always.  My plan for a perfectly balanced life includes working four eight-hour days and enjoying three day weekends every week.  In addition to that, my plan for a perfect marriage is broken up into a four-week plan - the first weekend, Current Husband leaves the house, the second weekend I leave, the third weekend we run away somewhere together alone, and the fourth weekend is family weekend with the kids.  This way, we each get alone time, and we get one-on-one time with the kids, we get a weekend to walk around naked and drink excessively, and one weekend where we soley do things as a family.  According to this plan, my life is completely unbalanced.  Unless spending 60% of my time either preparing meals alone in the kitchen or driving people around town is considered "alone" time and "one-on-one" time.

We are expecting another 8-10 inches of snow in my part of Iowa in the next two days, and frankly, I'm over it.  So suck it, Winter, move on back to Northern Canada or Russia where you belong.  It's days like these when I spend an unhealthy amount of time fantasizing I'm in a Corona commerical.  I can almost feel the sandy beaches.  Sigh.

I bought CH a snowblower two years ago because I was sick of shoveling the walks around our 1/3 acre corner lot, and somehow during the move, the snowblower was broken.  Now, when we try to start it, gasoline pours out of the back of it.  Somehow, this seems wrong.  And unsafe.  And even though CH's life insurance policy is paid up, he is like small furnace in bed and I would be very cold without him, and I need him to pick up the slack in driving people to activities, so I guess we're back to shoveling.  We should be getting that piece of equipment fixed sometime around Easter, when the lawnmower is scheduled to break down.

So.  The Black Keys. (Click there for the fansite.)  For the first time in a long time, I've found a band where I'm not having an adolescent crush on the guitarist.  And I STILL LIKE THEM.  Wow.  I've heard The Black Keys off and on for a few years, but really started liking them when I got the Eclipse soundtrack.  Make fun of those movies all you want, but their soundtracks kick ass.  Here is a video from The Keys that I love - the drummer has the glasses, the guitarist and singer is the ginger.




Okay, how adorable is that?  And funny!  And who can believe these two dorky white guys from Akron, Ohio can come up with that big soul bluesy sound? Their latest album, "Brothers" is up for a bunch of Grammys, and they are pretty cool. But of course, now that I like them, they are done touring because they're burned out. I am like the Grim Reaper for bands, once I like them, it's over. 

Whole album is great - I give it five whiskey sours.

In other music news, Nelly and 3Oh3 are playing within 3 hours of me, and I'm really tempted to go, but am afraid I will get punched or shot, and I'm too old for that shit.

In unrelated music news, Flavor Flav opened a new chicken restaurant nearby, thus proving once again that truth is stranger than fiction. I loved a comment in the local newspaper that went something like this:

"I watched some of his reality show, and I won't eat ANYTHING Flav has touched." 

Happy Monday, have a great week!

UPDATE:  NPR's Teri Gross AND Stephen Colbert are totally copying me.  Get original, people!  Click here for more Black Keys info from the poseurs...

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 55

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. Or the ghost of Liberace.


Today's topic: My New Pink Button
  
Sometimes, gentle reader, a vajacial is just not enough. 

Perhaps after your vagina has been ripped, tweezed, buffed, exfoliated, powdered, masqued, and had "Goodnight Moon" read to it, you are tucking it in for the night and you think, "Honey, you look a little pale.  Are you okay?"  And perhaps you are one of those people who might stare at their own vagina for a VERY VERY long time, like other people might watch a sleeping baby, or a movie, or three-day biopic.  And then perhaps, just perhaps, you are of the opinion that young vaginas are very pink vaginas, and maybe yours is on the pale side, and you develop a DYE SO YOU CAN ARTIFICIALLY COLOR YOUR LABIA.  Because NO ONE wants an old, pale pussy.  No one.

Get your things in order.  The Mayans were right. 

Yes, ladies, your prayers have been answered.  For only $29.95, you can dye your labia back to it's original jailbait shade of fuschia.

NEXT FRIDAY NIGHT
ME:  "Hey Gail, what are you doing tonight?"
GAIL:  "Not much - the kids are out with their dad."
ME:  "Mine are at the basketball game.  Hey!  I have a great idea!"
GAIL:  "What?!"
ME:  "Why don't you come over and we can dye our vaginas!"
GAIL:  "Awesome!  I'll bring the champagne and the rhinestones, let's tat those bitches up!"
ME:  "Don't forget the outline for the PTA fundraiser."
GAIL:  "Got it right here."

Apparently, the owner/founder/colorist for My New Pink Button was concerned that her kitten had started looking like an old bleached out feral alley cat.  Naturally, she went online to research her desired coochie color, and found THOUSANDS of people online who had the exact. same. problem.  Which makes me weep a little for the world.

She developed her product.  I will assume that some of the blends maybe didn't work out.  Whose labia burned with those mistakes?  How many vaginas suffered so you could have a perfectly pink pita pocket?  Just like when you were head cheerleader?

Let me take a moment to say that the founder of My New Pink Button is gorgeous, and probably smart, and found a product that apparently people want.  Her packaging is great (ba-dum-dum!), and I love the names of the different colors of product.  They also apparently help with cosmetics for post-op breast cancer patients, and perhaps this product makes people feel good, and improves their self-esteem, and for that I say bravo.  The company seems legit, but a little tongue in cheek (eeew, I know, right?), and I can appreciate some humor. 

But I have trouble getting past the words "labia dye". 

I have a question for the Pink Button people - why stop at pink?  What if I want to go a little farther on the color wheel?  Maybe I want a Purple People Eater.  Or Green Eggs and Ham.  Or maybe I want to be a slutty Smurfette.  Or perhaps I don't want to stop with my labia.  Maybe I want to be Rainbow Brite in my Hinterlands.  What if I want a turquoise uterus?  Then where do I turn, Pink Button people?  Where?  I see a huge gap in the market that needs to be filled. (These jokes just make themselves up.)

Move over Easy button.  There's a New Pink Button in town.

Because feminism was about choices.  Betty Friedan didn't make all those cake mixes so we could live with pale vaginas.  She wanted us to have choices.  She wanted our buttons to be able to be both Easy AND Pink.  Now we can finally have it all.  Yay, feminism!  Make mine the color of Watermelon Sherbet!  With sprinkles!

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  May your buttons be easy and your labias be as pink as they wanna be!

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Psycho

Many of you have probably heard about "The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" and author Amy Chua, the uber-competitive mom who says in her Wall Street Journal article, "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior" that Chinese mothers are superior because they A) don't care about the kid's self-esteem, B) believe their kids owe them everything, and C) Chinese parents believe that they know what is best for their children and therefore override all of their children's own desires and preferences. This could explain the lack of a "Chinese Mothers" section in the Hallmark Mother's Day card department.

Amy is a law professor at Yale University, and the author of a couple of books, which for ONCE does not impress me. She is seemingly hell-bent on breaking her children and spending one day of the week on the therapist's couch for the rest of her life.  Her newest book, "The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother" is a diatribe about how horrible "Western" parents are for caring about our children's "happiness", and how the only way to "win the prize" of successful children is to choose their extra-curricular activities and force them to practice instruments for hours on end while withholding water and bathroom breaks if necessary.

Subtitled, "How to Lose Friends and Terrify Minors."

There is also this little gem (and I quote):  "Chinese mothers can say to their daughters, "Hey fatty—lose some weight."  Because as we all know, A) daughters totally respond to their parents calling them fatty, and B) there are no fat Chinese kids.

PERSONAL MESSAGE TO AMY CHUA: 
YOU WIN. PLEASE STOP.  I'M PURPOSELY MAKING MY CHILDREN SLACKERS SO YOURS CAN SUCCEED.  I'M BEGGING YOU, STEP DOWN! 

Can I give your girls a hug and take them to Dairy Queen?

Generally, I think it's wrong to judge mothers.  Just because something is right to you doesn't mean it's right for everyone else.  Kids are different, families are different, circumstances are different.  Children of working moms are just as happy (or dysfunctional) as children of at-home moms.  Some sugar is okay, but try not to make the main course of every meal a Ding-Dong.  It's okay if you can't eat off the floor, because who would?  Even though I'm taken aback by Amy's mothering methods, my real problem with her is her total narcissism and smug assertion that she is the best mom in the world and all of the "Western" moms are soft losers whose kids won't be FIRST at everything or suffer the consequences.  So I guess what I want to say to Amy is, "Suck it, bitch."

Photo taken 5 minutes after Amy Chua

removed my left kidney with her

bare hand and ate it.

However, Chua and I have quite a bit in common.

FACT:  One of Amy's daughters was so upset about being essentially tethered to the piano until she learned a piece that she actually chewed on the piano.  After my kids' last piano lesson, they told me their teacher took out a block of sharp cheddar, peeled the wax off, and started gnawing on it during their lesson, and it had teeth marks in it where it had been gnawed before.  Amy's daughter has played Carnegie Hall; my children can play "The First Noel".

FACT:  Amy called her daughter "garbage" after said daughter purportedly disrespected her.  My minivan is full of garbage after we leave McDonalds, where I get my children Happy Meals.  I literally buy their happiness.

FACT:  Amy's children have never been "allowed" to be less than #1 in their class, with the exception of gym and drama.  My children have never been allowed to be #1 in their class in gym, but sadly, they seem to headline the drama department.  How to stomp out that success in a subject not of my choosing!!!!?  No more Hamlet, you theatrical loser!

FACT:  Amy revels in her Chinese heritage, and uses this heritage to intimidate her children.  I am part German, and when stressed, I find nothing more effective than screaming at my children in German, because they know that Hitler was evil and insane.  "Get in the van!  SCHNELL!!! SCHNELL!!"  "Achtung!  Ve are late for dance!" and then when they silently sob in their car seats I yell, "Stoppen sie sobbich, du bitte bratzen!"  (Since they are just children, and therefore stupid and malleable, they don't have to know I don't actually sprechen sie Deutsch, I can just make it up and tell them HOW IT IS, damn it. Strike one for German Mother Superiority!!)

So thank you, Amy.  You have given me the gift that I never thought I would receive. 
You made me feel like a Good Mother. 
Drinks are on the house.

Monday Minivan Media

Picture yourself in the front seat of my Venture minivan. (Oh yes. You're already green with envy over my life of obvious excess.) We both have a grande skinny vanilla latte, and we have a little time to kill. We could be waiting for our kids, or for our meth dealer to show up. No matter. We're here, in the van, together. Let's talk pop culture. I promise to give you a 1000 word review where less than 10% is actually about the topic. It's like having an actual conversation with me.



Today's book: "Room" by Emma Donoghue

It was a busy weekend in our house.  In my world, weekends should begin on Friday after work, when I take off my work clothes and put on flannel pj's and a t-shirt, and then I should be able to stay in said outfit until Monday morning, when I get ready to go to work.  So you like pina coladas and gettin' caught in the rain?  Well I like a nice malbec and sleeping in until 10.  I also like movies, ordering out, reading books, and morning coffee.  This weekend had a little more going on, and I still have a freelance article due tomorrow, but guess what I'm doing?  Blogging.  Because I haven't procrastinated my paid work long enough.  Plus, I have the hooker job tomorrow, so the paid writing won't get done until about midnight tomorrow night, when I'm panicking and past deadline.  Just like college.

I'm also sore.  My in-laws visited and we had Christmas, and my husband was the recipient of a shiatsu massage chair.  This idea came about when we visited them at Thanksgiving, and I sat in their shiatsu massage chair next to the wood stove and fell asleep in the middle of a conversation.  It was lovely.  And mildly humiliating.  So when they gave Current Husband the chair, I promptly sat in it and spent the next two hours there.  I'm all about too much of a good thing, and last night before I went to bed it felt like I had been worked over by sugared-up preschoolers with metal bats at a pinata party.

Dear God, make it stop. 

Today, I had to buy dog food and chips before the Packers/Bears game (chips for people, dog food and rawhide bone to keep massive pony/pet from blocking the tv screen) and it was all I could do to heft a 20 lb. bag of Purina in the car.  Thankfully, this was my weekend off from the IronMom competition.

The book for my book club this month is Room, by Emma Donoghue.  I first heard of this book earlier this year when NPR did a story on Independent booksellers and how they select books for their stores, and they were all raving about Room and how everyone was buying it to sell in their shops.  It's the story of a 5-year-old boy and his mother, who have been kept captive in a garden shed since the mom was abducted seven years earlier.  This book was at the publisher when Jaycee Dugard was found with her daughters in the shed in California, and the author has said she was completely freaked out by that and didn't think she would want Jaycee to read the book.

One would think this is a creepy read, but it isn't.  It's all told from the perspective of the little boy, so Room is the only place he has every known, and he spends all of his time with his mom.  He mind doesn't think about the creepiness of it, or understand their situation.  I couldn't read The Lovely Bones because I just didn't think I could go there, and I had some misgivings about Room for the same reasons, but I really love this book.  Then I read the book jacket, and saw that Emma and I were born in the same year, yet she has written numerous books and won awards, and then I had to eat 18 Oreos and read People magazine to quell the depression I always feel when people my age are doing things I want to do and I can't seem to get my ass in gear. 

So I guess that was the worst part about reading this book.  If you've accomplished all you've wanted to, and you don't want to be published, and you won't feel despair at her excellent writing and character development, then by all means, read Room. 

I give it five lattes.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 54

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. Or the ghost of Liberace.


Today's topic: The Vajacial

Somehow January has become Vagina Month.  I'm not sure why.  Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I am so effing cold that I can't feel mine anymore.  Tonight in Iowa it is -20 with windchill, and since I'm wearing about 20 layers of clothing, talking about a Vajacial is about as close as I'm going to get to one.  So let's get it on.

First, let me give a shout-out to the sisters of Chi Omega, because I get more Whoreticulture Friday topics from them than anyone.  I guess in between the videos on how to set a table and and hand-holding songs of sisterhood, we were all just a bunch of dirty hos, and honestly, I love them a little more for it.  Thanks today go to Stacey in Minneapolis, whose vagina is presumably colder than mine. Go eff a moose, darling.

A Vajacial is a facial for your smelly gal.  They were "invented" by Stript Wax Bar in San Francisco, where it seems that someone has spent a LOT of time trying to perfect the puss.  Here is some press on the topic, I hope you can read it:

Catharine Zeta-Jones is saying,

"I can't move, I'll crack my pussy masque."

I doubt you can read it, so here is the highlighted part - "Stript Wax Bar in San Francisco offers the 50 minute - we couldn't make this up if we tried - Vajacial, a facial-like service with a papaya enzyme peel, a mask, and a Vitamin C lightening cream."

Stript offers this service for $60, and you must have a Brazilian first.  Hmm. So for a total of $120, plus tip, someone can stare at my vagina, slather it in creams, masques, and wax, rip the hairs out of the follicle, and tweeze out ingrown hairs.  I am going to pay someone to torment and humiliate me.  How about if I give myself a paper cut on my tongue and fart out loud in the office for free?  Better yet, why don't I have Current Husband do all of this tonight and I will get an orgasm out of the deal, and no one has to know about it?  (Except that I just blogged about it. Is nothing sacred?  No. No it isn't.)Because hand to God, if someone is gettin' jiggy with my jay-jay for $120 plus tip, I had better see the clouds part and hear the angels sing.

Some in the press have referred to this vaginal facial as a "peach smoothie".  Sounds cute, until you see an image of a peach smoothie.

This peach smoothie looks like someone

needs to spend a little more

"me" time in the shower.

Because in my world, peach smoothies

should be more...peach.

CH asked what I was blogging about tonight, because he is always looking for the "Can we practice that at home" angle on Whoreticulture Friday.

CH:  "What's today's topic?"

translation: Will I be getting laid?

ME:  "Vajacials.  They are vagina facials."

CH:  "What does that mean?"

translation:  Is there any girl-on-girl action?

ME:  "Someone puts creams and masques on the vagina and generally diddles around with it to make it look like it's 18 again."

CH:  "I am totally going back to school for that.  I've found my purpose."

Which is a lovely thought for men across America, but really, wouldn't you get a little pussied-out?  You know someone would come lumbering in there with some nasty scent,  at the tail end of their period, or with some piercing disaster, and then you would be off vagina for weeks.  Months, even.  And I don't know about the rest of you, but if someone was tweezing individual ingrown hairs out of my chia pet, I would probably pee myself a little bit from the pain.  I've borne three children the ugly way, so I pee a little over smaller issues than tweezing short and curlies.

Before Stript Wax gets ahold of your kitten.

I have one other question about the Vajacial - what's up with the Vitamin C lightening cream?  Why do I want to go all Michael Jackson down there?  Do I really want to alter the pigmentation of my dealio?  I know there is anal bleach, and I guess I sort of "get" that, but is there really a problem with marbled vagina skin?  Is it patchy?  I guess I just don't spend enough time gazing at mine.  Perhaps instead of lighter COLOR, the lightening cream is like thunderbolt - you know, LIGHTENING cream, Ka-POW, all over your vagina!  And then I am writing my check for $60, no questions asked.


There's CH, volunteering from the other room. 


So do tell, Wifers - are you up for a Vajacial?  There is no judgement at Whoreticulture Friday.  Would it be worth your $60?  And what would your desired results be?  And why do I want lightening cream?  I will wait for your wisdom.


Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

How to Party Like a Dead Squirrel

Tuesday was a cold, miserable night in the Quad Cities, but inside of Azteca on Cumberland Square, hearts and paws were warmed by a slew of cheese, margaritas, and squirrel sisterhood.

Families were trying to enjoy their meals, when suddenly, THIS appeared on the table in their midst:

A taxidermied squirrel in a sombrero,

and the women who love him.

Con Queso and guacamole and a couple of pitchers of margaritas appeared, and soon eight women were seated around their taxidermied friend.  Todd's very own Crazy Eight of fans had appeared.  Let the margaritas be poured.

This photo was taken to a chorus of "Check please"

from the surrounding tables.

Sadly, we were two moustaches short, but there were enough trophies and door prizes to go around.  The distance award went to Angie P., white sweater, who drove from Chicago ONLY to attend Todd's party. And see her mom (wearing the finger moustache). And take care of some other important errands.  But I'm sure Todd was the real reason.  Angie is a first-time squirrel partier, longtime squirrel fan.

Me, Angie, Harolyn, Debbie and Todd. 

Harolyn is blinded by the glare from Todd's fabulousness.

Most of these Todd fans did hadn't met, but wait until you hear the spooky Kevin Bacon degrees of seperation.  Ready?  Angie (white sweater) is a friend of mine from college who grew up in the Quad Cities, and her mom Harolyn (finger moustache) still lives here. Harolyn attended Julie M's (pink sweater) wedding way back. Julie M (pink sweater) and Peggy G's (striped sweater) kids both attended the same school, Peggy G's husband works at the same company as Lani (head in sunflowers) whose husband is friends with Jessica (black sweater) who happens to know Angie's cousin Tammy in a different town who also Harolyn's neice, and Harolyn brought her longtime friend Debbie (brown sweater) who is a Todd follower, for whose daughter I wrote a humorous poem for her rehearsal dinner about 12 years ago but never met, and who also lives on the same road at Peggy.  Got it?

Whatever, Julie, keep talking, that's more margaritas for us!

Inevitably, talk turned to laser procedures and waxing.

Peggy's moustache became afraid and tried to run away.

Lani's took off at "laser procedure".

Things were going swimmingly, and then Todd had a little too much to drink and started stripping.  We all tried to stop him, because friends don't let squirrels strip naked, but apparently Todd's nuts are hotter than any of us thought, because he ended up paying the tab with his earnings.

I believe the $20 was left by a guy with an Internet Squirrel Porn fetish.

And now you have the rest of the story.  Perhaps Todd will have parties in other towns this year...Chicago?  Omaha?  Minneapolis?  St. Louis?  Denver?  He is not a Flying Squirrel, so it will be limited to the Midwest, but we'll see where his nuts lead him over the summer.  Thanks to the fabulous Crazy Eight for a terrific night!  The margaritas were muy delicioso, but the company was terrific.  Un Saludo, Crazy Eight.  Muchos gracias!

Monday Minivan Media

Picture yourself in the front seat of my Venture. (Oh yes. You're already green with envy over my life of obvious excess.) We both have a grande skinny vanilla latte, and we have a little time to kill. We could be waiting for our kids, or for our meth dealer to show up. No matter. We're here, in the van, together. Let's talk pop culture.  I promise to give you a 1000 word review where less than 10% is actually about the topic.  It's like having an actual conversation with me.





Today's book: "Open" by Andre Agassi


My Monday post is a little on the late side, because A) That’s how I roll, and B) Andre Agassi monopolized my time. Tennis players. What a bunch of prima donnas.




Our family spent five lovely years living the quaint Iowa town of Mount Vernon, home of Cornell College. If you are in the vicinity of Mount Vernon, I strongly recommend a drive-by (without guns) where you can shop at the unique stores and eat at the unrivaled Lincoln Café and have coffee and homemade cookies at Nest/Fuel. (Can you tell I used to be on the Tourism Board in that town?)


ANYWHOO – The Son has the cutest friend ever, whom he met in pre-kindergarten, and they are still best buddies. When they were 4 years old, they had their first sleepover together at our house. I didn’t have any brothers, so the whole “boy” thing was a little foreign to me. The Friend had been over for about an hour when these two completely adorable little blonde boys come running up to me, out of breath, and The Friend says, “Mrs. S, can we run around in our underwear?” They both stop, and look me expectantly. Um. I guess there are no mandatory reporters able to see in the windows, so sure, go for it. Both boys strip down to their Bob Builder/Batman tighty whiteys and start just running like hell through the house. I had no idea if this was appropriate play or not, but I watched in fascination for about 20 minutes. Boys. Who knew?


So here we are, seven years later and now about an hour apart, and they still get together three or four times a year and do boy things. I often liken them to St. Bernard puppies, big, hungry, and rolling around and bumping into each other, with huge paws and wide grins. Cutest thing ever.  So The Friend's Mom and I have a little tradition where we exchange books when we exchange boys.  The Friend's Mom has given me books like "Olive Kitteridge" and "The Time Traveller's Wife" and the like.  I've given her "Twilight" and "New Moon" and "Eclipse".  So it's a pretty even exchange.


Last time, she gave me "Open", and I didn't get to it.  I tried to give it back to her on Saturday, (along with my book "Room" for her to read), and she said, "Are you sure?  It was one of the better books I read last year..." and then she had me, because I cannot turn away from a book when it's been recommended twice.

He actually looks like he's pleading with you to read it.

Okay, okay, sheesh. You had me at sad millionaire.

I also felt compelled to read it because all his life, Current Husband has been told he looks like Andre Agassi, or at least his poorer, trashier brother.  Maybe like a Billy Carter or a Roger Clinton.  Except CH has baby blue eyes and his ears aren't pierced.  For a while, if CH was called Andre, it made me Brooke Shields, so I was okay with it.  I picked it up Saturday night and read it pretty much solid until Sunday night at 11 p.m.  Then CH forgot to take it with him to give back to the Dad to return to The Friend's Mom, so the whole "ruining my weekend with Andre" thing was pointless.

"Open" is actually a terrific book, riveting, honest, yadda yadda.  Andre isn't afraid to lay it out there and make himself look like a neurotic, needy super-mega-athlete.  Or maybe he didn't do that on purpose, but there it was.  I loved the stuff about his hairpiece, and his dad was pretty scary.  He wins a bunch of Grand Slams, divorces Brooke Shields, and marries Steffi Graf.  The end.  I have a subscription to People magazine, so I knew all of that, but it was STILL interesting, so that says something.

ON TO TODD'S PARTY:

Todd the Taxidermied Squirrel party is tomorrow night (Tuesday) from 7:30-9:30 p.m.  I wish we could Skype, but I will be off-site and don't know how to manage technology outside of the home.  I found a little sombrero for Todd tonight, and other little surprises, and there will be pictures.  I'll try really hard to post them tomorrow night after the party, but it might be Wednesday night because my pesky hooker job gets in the way of my dead squirrel fun.

TODD PARTY, AZTECA in Cumberland Square, BETTENDORF, IOWA,

7:30-9:30 p.m., first pitcher of margaritas and first order of chips, guac and cheese on Todd.  Be there and be a Nutcase.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 53

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. Or the ghost of Liberace.




Preface:
Last week, I had this REALLY funny e-mail conversation with one of my co-workers.  I e-mailed him that he should watch Flight of the Conchords, and he told me to watch something, and then I asked if he listened to The Black Keys and he said, "The Black what?  Hmm.  No.  But I have a picture of me with these cool guys I happened to be hanging out with in a bar in Chicago in 2006" and it was a picture of him with the two guys from The Black Keys.  Then I sent him the link to The Bloggess, (for which he STILL hasn't thanked me), and then he sent me a link to this funny blog called Salami Tsunami. 

And then my ego took over the reasonable, thinking, logical side of my brain, and I did it.  The thing I swore I wouldn't do.

"So, Snarky Co-Worker, if you click on this link, you are promising to never, ever pass it along or share it with anyone else at work or I will key your car."  And I sent him a link to this blog.  Oh, the narcissism!  Is it not enough that there are 245 followers here?  Is there really room for any more!  Particularly when I start slacking off on posting three times a week!?  And when will people learn not to use work e-mail to pass on questionable material!?!

Co-worker laughs, on e-mail, so it was like "ha ha, LOL, :o or some electronic chortle, and says, Of course I won't pass it on! and then he promptly does a REPLY ALL on our e-mail exchange to send me and my boss some artwork we needed for a box for the hooking supplies.  OH. SHIT.

I promptly speed walk to his office, poke him hard in the chest, and scream whisper, "THANKS ALOT, JIM BOB MCGEE, YOU SENT THAT TO THE BOSS!" and he turns five shades of green and says, "No I didn't" and turns to his computer, pulls up the e-mail, and starts repeating, "fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck".  Then I feel bad because he is getting a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and I say, "Oh, it's okay, I'm sure he loves vagina cupcakes" and laugh nervously, even though we all KNOW they were not vaginas.


Today's topic: An Open Letter to my Boss


Dear Sir,

I understand that through an unlikely string of events there is a chance you may have been given a link to my blog.  On Whoreticulture Friday.  If you have already read the blog, then I am sure you already realize that it is being written not by me, but by the ghost of Marliyn Monroe, who we all know was on barbituates and can't be held responsible for what she writes.

I ask you, who looks like the more likely candidate to be the author of a blog series called "Whoreticulture Friday":

 Mr. President-singing Playboy covergirl sexpot, OR

Respectable marketer of hooking supplies?

That's what I thought.

The topic of last week's post was Pussy Posting.  Clearly, this was not related to genitals in any way.  That would be crass, even for Marilyn.

Such a cute little pussy.  Nice shag, too.

If the ghost of Marilyn was trying to offend you, she wouldn't post pictures of kittens, she would post pictures of George the Superpet sexually molesting my mother at Christmas to the horror of the children because she had the misfortune of sitting in his chair.

Down boy!  Bad dog!

Perhaps, Sir, you were puzzled by the pictures of the colorful cupcakes.

(Photo credit to the person whose name I can't track down who will punch you in the vagina if you dare re-post the photo of her vagina cupcakes without permission.)

Obviously, Marilyn posted this photo because I am planning a Georgia O'Keefe-themed party for Youngest Daughter's birthday in April.  Georgia O'Keefe cupcakes!  Yummy and enlightening!  Let's culture up, second graders!

By Georgia O'Keefe. 

Not a colorful vagina.  Art.

I see it in chocolate with rainbow fondant.

By Georgia O'Keefe. 

Titled "Through the Eyes of an OBGYN on Peyote".



By Georgia O'Keefe. 

Titled "Sorry, We Are Fresh Out of Epidurals".

And so, Gentle Employer, I think you can see that it was all a big misunderstanding.  A post on that crazy and mysterious Internet, posted by some random woman who is actually not even alive and on barbituates, about kittens and art.  I think we have all learned something here.

Never send links to your occasionally porn-themed blog to anyone you will see on a daily basis or with links to your paycheck, particularly male marketing gurus who hang out with The Black Keys.  Even if it WAS an accident.



Monday Minivan Media

I miss the days of the auto play with playlist.com on this blog.  I really put a lot of time into figuring out which song would go best with the theme for the blog post that day, so much so that Vanilla Ice gave my laptop a virus.  Of course, back then I didn't have a job and this blog was about all I had going on outside of my mom life, so picking out a song was of paramount importance and could take another hour of time.  I don't really have that luxury anymore.  BUT.  That doesn't mean I don't get out once in a while, and since I really love movies and music, I am going to dedicate Monday's blog in January to my Minivan Media report.

Picture yourself in the front seat of my Venture.  (Oh yes.  You're already green with envy over my life of obvious excess.)  We both have a grande skinny vanilla latte, and we have a little time to kill.  We could be waiting for our kids, or for our meth dealer to show up.  No matter.  We're here, in the van, together.  Let's talk pop culture.

Today's movie:  The King's Speech

I saw this movie last week with one of my Mount Vernon homies, and it was awesomeness to the fourth power.  It had the trifecta:

1. Colin Firth
2. Gorgeous vintage sets
3. British people

I am an unabashed Anglophile.  It started with the Beatles and continued with Princess Diana, then paused for a moment at Sid & Nancy (a movie I LOVED, but it made British people look a little dirty and prone to junkie stabbings), and then came back full-on with the A&E version of Pride and Prejudice.  I love Brits so much that when Hugh Grant got his hummer from the prostitute in LA, I thought, "Unfortunate, but I'd still let him colonize me." 

Current Husband will not abide my travel into England because he knows damn well that the moment I step into Heathrow and someone says something like, "Spare a pound, miss?" I might be tempted to sleep with him.  "Fancy we get a flat together and go round for a pint" and it's over, I'm staying.

Call me Mummy and you can eat my crumpet.

The acting was terrific, the story was fantastic, and the movie was as rich as shortbread at tea with the Queen.  Here is a clip if you haven't seen it yet:  The King's Speech trailer.

Even Helena Costume Drama was excellent (that is a friend's brilliant nickname for her, but I would love to take credit) and I don't ever WANT to like Helena Bonham Carter in anything, because she was The Other Woman when Emma Thompson was married to Kenneth Branagh.  Kenneth left Emma for Helena, and Emma wallowed in depression for a year before her mother told her to get out of bed and pull herself up, for God's sake, and so Emma did and made a movie called Sense & Sensibility, where Emma won an Oscar and eventually married the man who played the hot but scoundrelly (and noticably younger) Willoughby.  SO, I'm always wanting to dislike HBC and say, "See, that bitch that helped break Emma's heart is a posuer", but guess what?  HBC is always good, and I can't help but admire her as an actress.

Colin, are you quite sick of that gorgeous Spanish wife of yours? 

Because I'm married to Tim Burton and I'm sure he won't mind.

As an important side note, I did have a large Diet Coke and eat buttered popcorn and peanut M&Ms concurrently, which added to my movie-viewing pleasure considerably, even though it cost $45.  Also, no one behind my talked on their cell phone, or yelled out one-liners at the movie screen in that age-old contest called "Who's the Cleverest Person in the Theater!?" where everyone is a loser.

The King's Speech rating: A+

Guys - while there are no tits, there are some nice bits of vulgarity.  No guns, robots, or Megan Fox, but it is more endurable than a romance and you'll get points for going.  You'll feel smarter when you leave, and can brag that you saw it and talk about the historical perspective without acting like you're really interested.  It's a win-win.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 52

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. Or the ghost of Liberace.


Today's topic: Pussy Posting

Before I get started, there is an agenda item today:
Todd's Taxidermied Squirrel Party has been CHANGED.  ALREADY.
It is now Tuesday, January 18, from 7:30-9:30 p.m., because a couple of people from my book club e-mailed me and said ,"WHAT THE HELL!?! THAT'S THE NIGHT OF BOOK CLUB!" and I said, "Sheesh, I forgot, I didn't know you miss me when I'm gone!" and they said "We don't, we want to go to Todd's party."

Hand to God, true story.  Just wait until I host the next Book Club, bitches, where I will pick "The Love Slave" and serve only soy crisps and carrot juice.

"In the hands of Karim al Malina, master of the erotic arts, kidnapped Celtic beauty Regan was to be schooled in carnal pleasure--and made a fit consort for a king. But pupil and teacher broke the cardinal rule of their relationship--and fell in love."

(Let me tell you a little embarrassing secret - my boss at the time lent me this book, soon after she lent me her electric breast pump, I actually read it, and I was forcing CH to have sex with me after about page 40.  Creepy book fact.) 

SO.  DID ANYONE NOTICE THE PICTURE SOMEONE POSTED OF THEIR VAGINA ON MY BLOG THE OTHER DAY?

I like to check the blog every so often and read the comments, which I love - I am a total comment whore, by the way - and I glance at the sidebar, and there, in the little pictures of the followers, there is a little shih tzu.  No....it's an Italian guy's head.  No...it is someone's VAGINA.  So I click on this follower, and I see the postings on the page.  They are things like "Korean sluts are hot and wet for you" and "College pussy for the taking".  I'm thinking, "Why is this person following me?  Do they think they will get customers for their clearly illegal international porn ring?"

Then I got mad.  I make it a policy not to pick on random people on the internet, but if you are posting a pussy shot as your icon, you are literally begging people to say something.  If you want to spread your wings on my blog page, at least make it interesting.  I don't want to see some random va-jay-jay.  Make it look like a cupcake, or dye it purple and shave it in the Prince sign or make it look like a standard poodle.  But if you are just posting an out-and-out pussy pic, you are wasting my time, and that of my readers.  I know for a fact that Grande Mocha and Muffintopmommy aren't putting up with that crap for a second.

TIP:  My readers now find regular vaginas uninteresting.

Case in point.  Remember these?
Click here for The Ghost of Whoreticulture Friday past.

 So, gentle pussy, I didn't block you because you posted a crotch shot.  I blocked you because you bored me.  I ask you, Where is the Vajazzaling?  Where are the dreadlocks?  Where is Waldo?  Because if a normal, bushy vagina with slightly uplifted thighs is all you've got for me, you need to go back to the stirrups my friend.

Get Nutty With Todd, Jan. 25

Hey Wifers!

Do you like margaritas?

Do you think guac rocks?

Are you pleased by cheese?

Do you have inexplicable feelings of

warmth toward taxidermied squirrels?

Then do I have news for you!

It's time to get nutty with Todd!

Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein

cordially invites you

to his First Annual Quad Cities
 Taxidermied Squirrel Party!

WHO:  You

WHAT:  Margaritas and chips and guacamole

WHERE:  Azteca in Cumberland Square in Bettendorf, Iowa

View Larger Map

WHEN:  Tuesday, January 25, 7:30-9:30 p.m.

WHY:  If you have to ask why then perhaps you aren't quite ready for a Taxidermied Squirrel party.

Come late, leave early, it's all good at a squirrel party.  Your appearance is your consent to be misquoted by and photographed for the blog.  You will be forced to wear a nametag.  It doesn't have to be your real name, but you must consent to be called the name on your nametag for the duration of the Taxidermied Squirrel Party.  Pictures with Todd are free and encouraged.  Todd will not be available for dancing. 

IMPORTANT:
Taxidermied Squirrel Parties are not for everyone. They are not for those with liver problems. Taxidermied Squirrels are not for women who are nursing, pregnant or may become pregnant by the taxidermied squirrel.


If you party with Todd, tell your doctor if you feel any new muscle pain or weakness. This could be a sign of rare but serious squirrel side effects. Tell your doctor about all squirrels with whom you fraternize. This may help avoid serious squirrel interactions. Your doctor should do blood tests to check your liver function before and during the Taxidermied Squirrel Party.

Common side effects from hanging out with Taxidermied Squirrels are diarrhea, upset stomach, muscle and joint pain, and changes in some blood tests.  Those with syphilis, pinworms, or chronic halitosis may experience enlarged nuts after interacting with the squirrel.

For those of you I haven't met, I will be the woman sitting at a table with a margarita and a taxidermied squirrel.  I will order the first pitcher of margaritas, guacamole and con queso, which you are welcome to watch me drink and eat.  All are welcome, except for dogs, cats, wolves, sharks, hunters, hillbillies, tires, or other natural enemies of the squirrel. 

 

See you there.  If you have the nuts for it.

I've Eaten and I Can't Get Up

Sweet Baby Jesus.


Since December 22, I have only worked three days.  The last 12 days have been some of the best I can remember in a long while, and most of that has to do with food.  I mean family.  Yes, family.  Family and mealtimes.  And Jesus.  Because he is the reason for the seasoning.


On the first day of Christmas, my winerack gave to me
A wineglass of cold chablis.

On the second day of Christmsas, my kitchen gave to me
A pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Thank you, Italy.

On the third day of Christmas, Starbucks gave to me
Three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Am loving the polka dot mug.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my microwave gave to me
Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Bless you, inventor of microwave bacon.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my minivan gave to me
Five donut rings....Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Seriously, once you've had Donuts & More,

you'll never go back.  I can't.  I won't.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my oven gave to me

Six kisses cookies baking, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

  

Which I had to check to make sure they weren't poisonous.

That's just good parenting, people.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my fridge gave to me
Seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings!  Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

The dessert drink of champions.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my bathroom gave to me

Magnesia-a-Milking, seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

Oh Dear Lord.  I am SO sorry about the gluttony. 

Really, I am.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my living room gave to me
Nine hours of dancing, Magnesia-a-Milking, seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

If you get the children Just Dance 2,

be prepared to get your Outkast on.

Having no rhythm is not an acceptable excuse.

 On the tenth day of Christmas, my dining room gave to me

1000-piece puzzlers puzzling, nine hours of dancing, Magnesia-a-Milking, seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

What Dementors or gangsta rappers do over the holidays.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my bedroom gave to me
Eleven hours of sleeping, 1000-piece puzzlers puzzling, nine hours of dancing, Magnesia-a-Milking, seven ice cubes swimming (in Kaluha), six kisses cookies, five donut rings! Four strips of bacon, three french vanilla lattes, pan of lasagne and a wineglass of cold chablis.

If I had this bed, I would sleep 12 hours next time.

(Thank you for the image, Sunnyspot.)



On the twelfth day of Christmas, my closet gave to me -

The bad news that I am going back to a size 12 because I ate my way through the end of 2010.  Tonight I made steak and potatoes and asparagus for dinner, and tomorrow it's back on the Medifast until I can put my skinny jeans back on.  But it was such a delicious holiday, and honestly, I wouldn't change a thing about it.  Not one cookie would go back on the plate, no Blue Moons back in the fridge, no Thai Basil Noodles (or the homemade Spicy Thai Noodles!) left uneaten.  So before I go back on the soy wagon tomorrow?

One more wineglass of cold chablis.

Happy New Year!