Sunday, March 27, 2011

Seeking Stove Assassin

I know I haven't posted since last week, Mom, but you and the two non-English-speaking co-workers you coerce into reading this blog are going to have to accept some news - Whoreticulture Friday and I are on a break.  Like Ross and Rachel.  And maybe we can see other days of the week, but then we really want to be together, but circumstances beyond our control just somehow keep us apart.  Maybe in the future, when I'm making a commitment to Wednesday, I'll accidentally call it Friday, and then Wednesday will storm out on me and go back to England and I'll stare out of a window with the U2 song "With or Without You" playing and it will ruin that song for me forever.

I'm not saying I'm quitting Whoreticulture Friday.  I ain't quittin' you.  But I think we need to see other days of the week for a while.  Every once in a while I'm sure I'll go on a binge and drunk dial you and we'll end up together for the week, but it's going to be an open relationship.  Like Bill and Hillary.

Last week was kind of hectic at Current Full-Time Job, and I had a few days where I might have considered kicking a kitten and needed a Xanax intervention if I took Xanax, so by Friday night I paged Dr. Blue Moon and Orange Slice and I planned my strategy for NCAA basketball watching.  (My bracket, by the way?  Totally blown since the Sweet 16.  I needed you, Ohio State and Kansas.  I needed you both bad.  But I am now all VCU and Butler, because who can't get behind a Cinderella story?)  The strategy included more beer, guacamole, cheese, blue corn chips, and some homemade buffalo wings from the Barefoot Contessa cookbook.

Saturday morning (okay, around 10 when I actually got up) I made cinnamon rolls from a tube and coffee and laid out the ingredients for my feast.  I melted the sweet dairy butter and added the cayenne pepper and kosher salt and Frank's Hot Sauce until it was melted and buttery and delicious.  I took out the wings, pulled the saran wrap off, and...

Sweet Baby Jesus, these are rancid!!

But wait!  There's more!  So was the milk, and the mayo, and the dip...are you getting the theme here??  Yes, my damn refrigerator was as lukewarm as the public's support of Chris Brown's new album.  I know you aren't supposed to play favorites, but my fridge was my top appliance.  My dishwasher is a lazy sack of crap, the microwave doesn't have a rotating tray (Hello!  When did they stop making those, 1995?) and the stove is a flat surface, which takes about 20 minutes to boil water and then 1 hour to cool down.  Since we moved into Current House, I've been dying to replace all of the appliances - except the fridge.  Et tu, Frigedaire.

Did I worry about the fridge?  No.  I drove to the store for more wings and $5 of lottery tickets.  I started formulating ideas about the kitchen.  Here is a transcript of my brain on the way to the store.  The fridge has been known to be dead for about 10 minutes:

"Okay, so as long as the fridge is a goner, I might as well replace it with French doors and a pullout freezer below, and I want the model with the ice maker/water dispenser I used to have at Previous House.  I suppose I should get it in stainless steel because even though it shows fingerprints the resale will be higher in a kitchen with stainless appliances.  As long as the fridge is being replaced, I might as well get a gas stove, new microwave, and dishwasher with stainless tub like the one at Previous House, and they all have to be stainless steel because they all need to match.  Resale, of course.  And I'm sure it will be cheaper in the long run to buy them all now because we'll get some kind of 0% interest deal if we spend over $3000, which we are sure to do.  Maybe I can get my British/Australian installer back, he was fun.  Then, as long as the fridge is out and the other appliances too, we  might as well rip out the vinyl floor, replace the questionable plywood flooring underneath left by Previous Owner, and then tile it in my beloved black/white checkerboard squares.  Wow, this fridge thing is a bummer, but I'm sure it will work out for the best.  Yay, me, and my new kitchen!  For resale value!"

By the time I got home, I had mentally prepared to spend approximately $8000.  And have a party celebrating my new kitchen.  Current Husband, on the other hand, had been Googling "Broken refrigerator" and had The Son using a blow dryer to defrost the coils in the freezer.  Apparently they can freeze over with frost, blocking the cold air that goes up into the fridge to keep everything cold.  By Sunday afternoon, the fridge was fixed.


Don't get me wrong.  I'm happy to not spend the money.  But in the words of Air Supply, I'm all out of love with the old kitchen now.  I have New Kitchen on the brain.  The clock has started.  It's only a matter of time before something else dies and I am forced to completely remodel my kitchen around the dead appliance.   Consider yourself warned, CH.

Does anyone know how to accidentally break a flat surface stove?

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Girl Scouts - The Second Oldest Profession

Girl Scout cookie season has come and gone, and here I sit at the computer with a fresh muffin top rollin' rollin' rollin' over the top of my pajama bottoms.  Effing Girl Scouts and their irresistible crack in a box.

Let's get in the Way Back machine and talk about the root of my initial bitterness with the Girls in Green.

When I was of Brownie age, I wanted to sign up.  I mean, please.  Who wouldn't want to belong to something called "Brownies"?  I would join a group TODAY called Brownies.  Perhaps I will start a club.  It will be open to women over the age of 30, and we will earn badges in things like "100,000 Taxi Miles on Minivan/SUV" or "Fastest Drink Maker" or "Least Conflicted Children" or "Best Camoflauged Eye Bags".  We'll call ourselves something snappy like "Shrimp Cocktails" or "Mocha Lattes" or "Post-Bloody Marys", and once a year we'll sell fellatio tickets to our husbands/boyfriends.  Who wouldn't give it up for a good cause?  The cause  - a Group Retreat somewhere sunny next to a pool.

Time to get off the Tangent Train - the Brownies wouldn't let me in.  The story was that I lived too far out of town, but I think it had more to do with the fact that I looked like Laverne DeFazio.  I was crushed.  No cookie sales for me.  sniff.

Fast forward past years of therapy to deal with my non-Girl Scout life, and I've just given birth to my first child.  We've been home from the hospital for about 48 hours, and the hormones are out of control.  I'm standing in the kitchen, weeping and looking at my Play-Doh post-baby stomach, when someone knocks on my door.  It's a little Girl Scout, with the 12 boxes of cookies I had forgotten I ordered.  Current Husband came home from work, and I'm sitting on the kitchen floor, holding the baby, with an empty box of Shortbreads and another empty box of Peanut Butter Patties.  I had ingested about 10,000 calories, and I don't believe I've known a moment of satisfaction like that one since. 

All was forgiven, Girl Scouts. 
You saved me in my time of need.

I've never looked back.  I cannot resist a Girl Scout cookie order.  I used to tell myself it was because I support the Girl Scouts, and that I just can't say no to a girl with a green sash at my door with an order form.  This year, however, I realized that I did not order ONE BOX of GS Cookies directly from a Girl Scout.  All 22 boxes (seriously), were ordered from adults.  Parents of the Girl Scouts, who were sent out by their little dictators to sell! sell! sell!  For this reason, I am suggesting that the Girl Scouts change their cookie badge to a Pimpin' Badge, because little sister is sending out her girls (and men) to bring home the money.  They sit at home playing Wii and waiting for their stable to bring back the goods.  My proposed Pimpin' Badge will look like this:
Yo. Here's your boxes of Thanks Alot.

Because those cookies?  Are full of Flava.

God Bless you, Girl Scouts.  You are the epitome of the American Way.

Monday, March 21, 2011

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 musical: Avenue Q

The other day I was behind a car with a bumper stick that read, "Friends Don't Let Friends Drink Starbucks", and I had to laugh.  I do love me some Starbucks, but I would really prefer to drink Rocket Fuel from my friend Tommie's coffee shop in Mount Vernon, Iowa.  She has awesome coffee and kick-ass scones and cookies baked by her mama, Pat, and it is a complete funkatorium of art and antiques and badass tshotckes.  Here is her facebook page, I'll wait.  Fuel... art and espresso. You might have to be signed in to Facebook to link up.  If you see something you like and it is smallish, I'm sure Tommie will happily ship it to you.

Coffee addictions aside, Current Husband and I made it out to see Avenue Q.  It's kind of a shock that I got him out, musicals aren't really his thing, but when he found out I was chatting up the guy next to me at Mamma Mia, he decided to get some culture.  No matter that I was talking to the guy next to me and his husband, still, I was mixing it up at a musical.  CH's danger siren went off.

Avenue Q is pretty hysterical.  Some of it is a little bit "Hey, we're swearing!  Isn't that hilarious!" but other parts are priceless.  Here is my favorite song:

Because really, everyone IS a little bit racist.  The other one I really love is called "I Wish I Could Go Back To College", which honestly almost made me tear up, but really.  I do.  My life now is great, but there were moments in college that the fun just didn't seem like it could ever end.  *sigh*

So let's address the creepy factor here.  As evidenced in this video, there are times in the musical where two people run a puppet, and usually it's a spare woman.  You find yourself paying less attention to what is going on, and instead look at that chick and think, "Is she really necessary?  That guy couldn't run both puppet hands?  What a lazy jackass."  The spare puppeteer walks around a step behind the main puppeteer, trying to convey the puppet emotions without actually saying anything.  She ends up looking like a sign language interpreter who isn't really signing to anyone.  I was a little fascinated by her.  Does the rest of the cast exclude her from things because she isn't "really" a cast member?  Does she sit outside of the main puppeteer's dressing room and weep until it's time to go on?  Do the puppets get a better seat on the tour bus than she does?  These are questions I need answered in the Playbill.

CH was very excited about our seats, because they were in the balcony, and they were seats 1 and 2 in our row, which were the only two seats in that row.  He thought that made them more ideal.  When the show started, we figured out quickly that the audio wasn't very good, so we couldn't hear about 50% of what was said.  I already know the songs, so I know when to laugh, but CH just got more frustrated with the whole thing.  It necessitated another drink at intermission.

What did I learn?
  1. Everyone IS a little bit racist.
  2. The Internet is for porn.
  3. Naked puppets having sex can be just as graphic as real people having sex.
  4. I want to go back to college.  Just for a couple of weeks.  Or for a mulligan if I could end up with the same husband and children.
  5. I'm losing my hearing, along with mobility in my knees.
  6. Season tickets to musicals would make CH an alcoholic.
In sum, Avenue Q gets four furry paws up.
Happy Monday, Wifers!

Friday, March 18, 2011

It's Whoreticulture Friday!
Issue 60

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 people who read this post last year.

Today's topic: Massages and blockages.

This was spring break week for the kids.  Since I don't want to take crazy vacation days because I need to see The Black Keys this summer, and we are hoping to take the kids on the lifetime pilgrimage to Graceland and then Atlanta this summer, I only took Monday off.  Current Husband took the kids, plus another teen, to the Wisconsin Dells to party like a rock star, if the rock star was underage and liked waterslides.

I sacrificed and stayed home to work.  By sacrificed, I mean had a delicious meal of Spicy Basil Noodles with one friend one night, and a spa night and meal with another friend the next night.  It was tough, but someone had to do it.  On spa night, I opted for a facial and a pedicure, while my friend took the one hour massage.  During our post-rubbing analysis over a couple glasses of ice-cold Blue Moon, we had a massage discussion.

HER:  "The person was great, but she spent a lot of time on my butt."
ME:  "You have a nice butt.  I would probably spend most of my time there."
HER:  "I was starting to wonder if she would move in."
ME:  "I don't think people in the Quad Cities give Happy Endings."
HER:  "You might be surprised.  I wonder if someone has ever been giving a guy a massage,
          and then suddenly he has an erection."
ME:  "You know that's happened."
HER:  "Yeah, because any guy, if you rub him anywhere near there, has to get a hard-on.
          I don't think they can help it, it's automatic."

We interrupt this Whoreticulture Friday
for an intestinal blockage.  No shit. 
(HA!  GET IT!?!?)

I started this post last night, as I usually try to do on Thursdays.  Then CH took an Aleve and it went down his airpipe, and I briefly thought he was going to die, and then, even though he repeatedly assured me he was okay, I had to call the doctor on call to be sure he didn't need to have his lungs aspirated, which he did not.  But it sort of took the wind out of my sails on Whoreticulture.  "I'll do it tomorrow," I thought, while I watched CH sleep and looked for signs of respiratory distress.  (He made it.)

Then I'm at work, and it's Friday afternoon, and everyone else seems to have left for the day, and I never took a lunch, so I thought, "Hey, I'll blog for a little bit."  I tried to start blogging, and then this very nice co-worker man comes in to my office area, I'm the only cubicle-dweller left, and we started discussing a co-worker's medical issue.  (Productivity at work today peaked around 2 p.m., and then I think everyone just sort of phoned it in.  If you are my boss, or think you are my boss, you are mistaken.  Go to  There is nothing to see here.)  Before long, I found myself victim to a 40-minute detailed description of his intestinal blockage.  Really.  Did you know if a doctor wants to "Run your Bowels" it means they cut you open and take out your bowels and hang them on hooks so they can examine your entire colon?  Now I do.  It's not something easily forgotten. 

Current Husband and I went out for drinks and then to see the musical production of "Avenue Q", and while I was eating my bruschetta and drinking vodka cranberries (River Baron vodka, made here in the Quad Cities and fabulous) I wasn't thinking about Whoreticulture Friday, or about whether or not guys get erections during massages, but instead about what that bruschetta might look like in my colon if it was hung out on hooks in the ER.  It made me think, "I hope if they ever have to Run my Bowels I am caught with broccoli in my colon, and not two boxes of Dots damming up a strawberry cheesequake Blizzard."

I'm sorry if I've failed you in the Whoreticulture department, people, but think of it as a public service.  Here is what we've learned:
  1. Sometimes it is good to stay home while everyone else goes on vacation.
  2. Guys probably get aroused during massages, but it's unintentional.
  3. Be careful when swallowing pills.
  4. Don't tell casual acquaintances about your bowels.
  5. Eat healthy food if you think you'll be going into the hospital.
You're welcome, America.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, have a great weekend!

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

I've Got Four Minutes

I took Monday off work because the kids are on spring break this week, and I wanted to sit around in flannel pj's, drink Starbucks, and put together a 750-piece puzzle with the kidlets, which we did in four hours.  We are totally hardcore when it comes to our puzzles.  Oldest Daughter DJ'ed so I could hear her latest musical offerings (she currently has a huge crush on The Fray), The Son showed us some breakdancing moves, and Youngest Daughter made a mixture of Dots, Sour Patch Kids, Gummy Life Savers and Twizzlers for our snacking pleasure.  It was so awesome that I missed my days of being a relatively unemployed freelance writer, hanging out at home with George the Superpet and the kidlets. 


However, the lure of hooking pulls me back, and Current Husband took the chilluns to the Wisconsin Dells.  I texted him today to ask if he was having any luck hitting on single moms in bikinis, and he replied "Beluga whale in a seal colony", which is untrue but made me laugh.  He's a funny one, that CH.  I stayed home because the Hooker job only allows me 10 vacation days a year, and I've used two, and CH and I are going to see The Black Keys over Fourth of July weekend (YAHOO!!!) and that will take two vacay days, and with my six remaining days we want to do a couple of trips with the kids this summer.  I only have four (FOUR!!) summers left with my oldest at home, so it's quantity time with a nice dose of quality.

Did you read between the lines here?  I am home.  ALONE, save for George the Superpet, who is really good at cuddling.  I am so rarely home alone.  Last night after work, I met a very dear friend whom I haven't seen in a while, and we had deliciously cold white wine and some spicy basil chicken noodles at a Thai restaurant.  Outstanding.  Tonight, I am meeting another very dear friend to have a facial and a pedicure with a gift card I've been carrying around, and then we are going out for a margarita!  Whoo-hoo!  Then I go home to cuddle with George the Superpet.  Tomorrow night I am staying home and cleaning and going through things of the kids' while they are gone, hello Goodwill, and then they are home late. 
I miss my lovely family, of course, but HELLO!

Sheer. Bliss.

Nothing like a few days of decadent fun to recharge your batteries.  So take a little time for yourself, Wifers, if you can.  It's spring!  Time to bloom.

Have a terrific week, I'm raising a muy delicioso margarita in your honor tonight!

Sunday, March 13, 2011

It's Whoreticulture Friday!
Daylight Savings Time Edition

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 people who read this post last year.

Today's topic: Real Housewives

I'm a bad blogger.  I recognize this, and according to AA, admitting I have a problem is the first step to recovery.  However, Charlie Sheen followed the AA program, so apparently I'm still 14 steps away from declaring I am a warlock with tiger blood, so that's a relief.  (BEING Charlie Sheen would give me topics for Whoreticulture Friday for the rest of the year. Sex with the goddesses?  VD from the goddesses?  Denise Richards? HEIDI FLEISS!?!?)  Anyway, after extensive traveling the last two weekends I sort of went into blogger meltdown and haven't done much writing-wise.  I'm sure you hardly noticed, but still.  Apologies.

Since it is Daylight Savings Time, I'm going to spring back to Friday and pretend this post is still on time.

I'm not a Real Housewives watcher.  Honestly, I'm not much of a reality TV watcher because I tend to get so frustrated with or embarrassed for the people on the shows that I just can't take it.  Project Runway is my only exception, mostly because the show is more about the talent than the personalities.  Besides, I think, "those people are just the Hollywood types who are trying for their 15 minutes of fame".  Then I went out for margaritas with a friend last Thursday and realized they are REAL.

These women are conservative compared to what I saw Thursday. 

My friend and I went to Los Agaves, a Mexican chain restaurant in the Quad Cities, for a few overdue margaritas.  We're mid conversation when suddenly my friend stops talking and her jaw drops.  She says "Behind you. Look behind you and tell me you see what I see."  I turned, and there they were.  The Real Housewives of the Quad Cities.  Women in crotch-skimming hemlines, six-inch heels, makeup by Tammy Faye Bakker, and hair-up-to-there.  There were about eight women.  The youngest could get away with saying they were Jersey Shore castmates, and they inspire second looks and gawking.  The oldest was a woman who had to be in her 50's, tottering on her skyscraper heels, lycra skirt, and was just...sad. 

I'm not saying you can't wear whatever you want.  Really.  Do it.  But if you don't want the entire Hispanic wait staff at Los Agaves to stand around the corner, pointing and saying things in Spanish about your coochie, follow these pointers:
  1. If you feel all breezy in the vajayjay, your skirt is too short.
  2. If you have on more makeup than Zsa Zsa Gabor, don't act surprised when people look for the other 13 clowns to get out of the Volkswagen after you.
  3. If your 'do is tickling the top of a room with over 7 foot ceilings, it is too high.  And you are probably a fire hazard.
  4. If you are showing over 75% lean breast, you might end up in a sandwich.  And not a delicious one.  Slathered in mayo...if you catch my drift.  And maybe you like mayo, and that's okay, but that particular mayo is NOT going to be back to condiment your next sandwich.
  5. If the entire staff of a Mexican restaurant is catcalling at you, it might be time to wrap a tortilla around your burrito.
  6. If your grandchild is texting you during your second Blow Job shot, it's time to go home.
We were two thirds of the way through a pitcher, and my friend needed to visit the ladies' room.  Two of the Hoochie Mamas had just headed that way, and my friend couldn't resist the opportunity to see what they were talking about.  After she left, the two women in the painted-on dresses walked by, and my friend came back disappointed.

"They didn't talk about anything, one of them left the toilet unflushed and the other one took a dump.  Total waste of my time."  Hmm.  Not something they cover on Real Housewives.  I can totally see why.

Happy Daylight Savings Time!  Have a great week!

Monday, March 7, 2011

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 musical: Mamma Mia

I think I've figured out the smell from last Friday.  George the Superpet is extremely shaggy, because I don't get him groomed in the winter because I feel all guilty taking away his coat.  It's like saying to your cute, defenseless kindergartner, "Hey, I know you have this really awesomely warm sheepskin coat, but since it's about 10 degrees outside, I'm going to make you go outside in just a tank top and pee in the yard."  So George still has his very thick sheepskin/poodle coat on, but it's been thawing, and even though I picked up five grocery bags of poodle poop the other day, the dog still poops every day, and he has apparently been acting as a large Poodle Swiffer in my backyard, collecting mud, bracken, and the remains of the 30 or so feral cats from the backyard in his shagginess.  He's been banned from my bed, which makes him very upset, and I'm calling a groomer tomorrow.  He weighed in at 111.2 pounds at the vet last week, but I bet 10 pounds of it is his coat.  Poor George.

So last Saturday, I loaded up the girls and drove to Omaha, Nebraska.  It's a five hour drive from my house, and until Des Moines it's okay, but the stretch between DSM and Omaha is enough to make you want to drive straight off of a cliff.  If there were any cliffs between Des Moines and Omaha, which there are not.  It's very flat and devoid of much, so even if you wanted to drive into something, you couldn't.  It's especially awesome when your 7-year-old says, "How much longer, I can't take it any more" about every 15 minutes.  You can't even bribe the children because it is the longest stretch in the world without a McDonalds.

I grew up in Nebraska, and live in Iowa, so I can say mean things about them because it is said with love in my heart.  It's kind of like how I can say, "It drives me nuts how my husband can just sit on the couch all night and watch TV" but if you say, "Doesn't it drive you nuts how your husband sits on the couch all night and watches TV" I will be forced to say, "No, I encourage it.  It keeps him from screwing the neighbor like yours does."  This is how I am about Iowa and Nebraska.  If you say, "It's so boring to drive there" I will say something like, "It's beautiful in its sparseness - ever hear of Willa Cather?  Try driving through Kansas."

We got to my parent's house, which is actually just a summer cabin on the Elkhorn River, and of course, my mom wasn't there.  She was shopping with my sister, which is where she usually is when I show up.  This time, they were shopping for three queen-size inflatable mattresses, because my sister's house was full of natural gas as their furnace broke.  Oh, and I was on Day 2 of my period.  If only we had a leper and a whore and this story would take on Biblical proportions.

My mom was taking Oldest Daughter, my sister, and me to Mamma Mia at the Orpheum Theater in Omaha for OD's birthday.  We sat around talking until we realized with a panic that we were late, we raced to the restaurant only to find that the wait was too long and we ended up at Panera Bread to eat fast before the show.  Mom had accidentally deleted the tickets from her e-mail, so we had to drop her off for the Will Call window at the front of the theater.  We dropped her off for the tickets, found a parking garage a couple of blocks away, prayed for a crime-free night and settled in for the show.

She is not in ABBA, nor is she a Mamma, and it is not set in Italy.
She is laughing at us, not with us.

Mamma Mia was terrific, with two notable exceptions:  A) the girl playing Sophie was very ANIMATED and THEATRICAL to the point of distraction, and B) Colin Firth was notably absent from the role of Harry.  I moaned loudly about the lack of Firthiness in the show, and during intermission my mom very loudly told us all a story about the last time she was in the Orpheum Theater: 

"Suzanne from work and I came here to see a movie, it must have been about 30 years ago or so, and I looked across the aisle and there was this guy jacking off, and it was the only time I've ever seen someone do that in public.  He was REALLY into it.  But the Orpheum has really changed since then, it's so much nicer."

You're welcome, everyone in Loge seating section 2.

Inside the Orpheum Theater,
where no one masturbates anymore.

So the show ended and we drove home and mom wanted to know why everyone was going to bed?  Aren't you going to stay up and have a drink?  Um, Mom, it's 1 a.m., and I have to drive five hours tomorrow.  Stay up with me, I never see you.  Okay.  So I stay up with Mom and have a drink, and when I just can't stay up any longer I crawl into the air mattress and promptly roll into the middle with OD  because the mattress is already deflating, and it's freezing cold in there, and just as I get warm one of the kids gets sick.  All of the adults get up to sit with the sick child, and when that seems to be okay, we all go back to bed around 2:30 or so.  Then I wake up in a panic at 4 a.m. because it's almost dawn of Day 3 of my period and sometimes there is an emergency.  I woke up at 8 a.m. with the same kind of emergency, and at that point mom was up with coffee having her morning smoke, so I decided to stay up with her and eat chocolate cookies for breakfast.  Because we are ALL about health in my family.

At 11 a.m. I packed up the girls and we left, just in time to hit a small snowstorm in Des Moines, and then Youngest Daughter got carsick in Williamsburg and then in West Branch, so I'd like to take this opportunity to say Thank You to McDonalds for having the cleanest restrooms on the Interstate. 

All told, it was nice to see my family, and we loved Mamma Mia.  But Sophia can tone it down a little bit.  And the Orpheum Theater is lovely, even though Colin Firth would have certainly perked everyone up a bit.  The end.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

It's Whoreticulture Friday!
Issue 58

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 people who read this post last year.

Today's topic: Swinging.

Have you ever walked into your house and said, "Something in here smells".  Maybe no one else smells it, maybe they do, but it starts bugging you so much that you start exploring the house looking for the smell.  Tonight, my house smells like George the Superpet needs a gland expressed, or he is just waaaayyy overdue to be groomed, but I almost can't think about anything else.  It's making me crazy.  Just so you know I'm a little distracted by butt smell as I'm writing this.

I can't believe I haven't posted a Whoreticulture Friday since February 10.  I owe you all an apology.  I think it's because I took a vow of celibacy in Calcutta on Feb. 7 and it interferes with my sexual thinking.  So screw that.  Lately I've been on the listening end of some steamy gossip and it's time to chat.

Current Husband and I have lived in five different communities in the time we've been together, and lately, all I hear about is swinging everywhere we've lived.  At Urban Dictionary, the go-to source for information on Whoreticulture Friday, swinging is defined as:

A lifestyle of non-monogany where sexual relations occur outside the established couple. Swingers tend to refrain from romantic attachments with their outside partners, thus differentiating themselves from PolyAmorists. There is some overlap between the two communities, though the closeness of the comparisons are generally not acknowledged. 

This sort of freaked me out because it was so serious.  Most entries on Urban Dictionary say things like "the act of slapping a woman in the face with one's limp penis".  I grew up in the Seventies, and let me tell you, there was some swinging going on in my parents' circle of friends.  I remember a LOT of drinking, Kenny Rogers on the 8-track, disco lessons, and Wally Wilson in his tighty whiteys and nothing else, beer gut hanging out, saying "Who's the lucky woman who gets some of THIS!?!?"  My sister and I were supposed to be sleeping, but who can sleep with The Hustle blaring until 2 a.m.?  We'd sneak out of our rooms and peek over the balcony to watch the drunk adults.  Fun.  But I thought all of that sexual craziness ended with the 80's, cocaine and AIDS.  Not so.  MSNBC estimates that 2-10% of all current married couples swing.

It turns out that I must be some doily-crocheting-granny, because I think about 20% of the people I know apparently do some kind of swinging.  I've been finding out about ALL KINDS of swinging going on in different groups we've run with in different towns we've lived in.  Women flying to other cities to meet strange men they've met on the Internet for sex.  Couples having sex with partners other than their spouses in ...eww.. port-a-potties. Hubby on hubby and wife on wife, menage a tois, swapping, you name it.  ALL OF THESE ARE ACTUAL INCIDENTS THAT HAVE HAPPENED WITH PEOPLE I KNOW.  Normal people.  Who have lots of sex. With other partners.

Part of me feels relieved that I don't know about any of it, because frankly, I'm not interested.  I have enough problems.  And I have a phobia of other people's bodily fluids.  But part of me is a little insulted, like, Oh, so NONE of you wants to have sex with me?  Thanks for nothing, you discriminating little hump bunnies.  Because I have got it going ON, and you don't even know what you're missing.  I'm more flexible than I look, and just because I have to occasionally pluck hairs off my stomach and I have the double chin of someone twice my age does not mean I can't knead you like a loaf of bread.  But don't ask CH because I think he wishes the bakery was open more often lately.  Yours are the only buns I want, baby.

I don't judge the swingers - if both spouses are willing, it isn't cheating, but remember, the walls won't talk but everyone else at the party will.  CH is all the man I can handle (take me to bed now, Goose, or lose me forever!), and really?  You know you aren't going to end up with Gavin Rossdale, you are definitely going to end up with Wally Wilson in his tighty whiteys, and that is sort of a fantasy killer.  Seriously, who has the time or energy for this?

Do you think the MSNBC stat is on the money or way off base?  I'm dying to know, America.  Remember, it's in the name of science.  But there is such a thing as Too Much Information, and that's MY job, so keep it vague.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

Happy Birthday Oldest Daughter!

Well folks, this is going to be a quickie, but now that I'm a bona fide hooker, that's how they do it in my profession, if you know what I mean.  Actually, the type of hooker I am tends to do it very slowly and meticulously, and with strands of high quality wool and a hook, so I guess you get what you pay for.


Today is Oldest Daughter's 14th birthday, and I'm DYING over here!  All of a sudden I have four summers left with her, and frankly that scares the bejesus out of me just a little bit.  We've done pretty well over the past 14 years, Current Husband and I, but we still have four years left to really screw things up.  Lord, hear our prayer.

Here is the first baby I ever birthed:

Cute, no?  Just a few days home from the hospital.

I had no frigging clue what to do with this baby.  They handed her to me at the hospital and I thought, "Man, they will give ANYONE babies to take home with them, won't they?"  At least before you get a driver's license they make you do a driving test.  Shouldn't you be forced to try out raising a baby for a few days with an instructor sitting in, clipboard in hand?  I have many stories of that time, but OD has forced me to agree not to share any of them.

Here she is now, cello player extraordinaire:

Dang.  I really love that kid.  Even when she's all up with
the teen attitude, but don't tell her I said that.

So when OD was about 6, I was pregnant with Youngest Daughter.  OD and The Son asked about babies and how they come out, and I gave them a rough idea of what was going to happen.  At that point, OD decided that she would not bear children.  If she was going to have children, she would adopt.  And she would have a job first.  If anyone asked her anything about getting married or having babies, she would tell people, "I won't do that stuff until after I'm 25 and I have a good job."  Tonight, OD sent this link to me, which could be her:

So Happy Birthday, My Dear Oldest Daughter.  I hope it was as terrific as you are.

On a side note, I had another odd gas station experience tonight.  I had to prepay because my debit card got bent and it won't work in machines anymore.  I went into the station, and it was empty, so I grabbed a water and some cough drops and stood at the counter to wait.  This fabulous guy walks in with glittery star earrings, a star necklace, and gold glitter nails, apologizes for making me wait, and then says, I kid you not: "You have fantastic hair.  Love it.  I'm going to give you a discount on your gas." Then he hit a few buttons, and I saved .44 on my $30 gas purchase. I was stunned.  My hair apparently kicked so much ass today that it saved me about 1.5% on gasoline.  What gas crisis? 

May your day be full of happy randomness!