It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 67

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: No Sale, J. Lo
Hello Wifers, and Happy Independence Day weekend!  I'm in the urban mecca of Nebraska for the next week, in an area next to a flooding river that has iffy cell phone reception, so forget about laptops.  But I do know something I want Independence from this weekend, and it's J Lo's song "On The Floor".  I know J Lo has a smokin' bod and piles of money and talent.  I conceed this.  And her music pre-Marc Anthony was great. 

Additionally?  Her love don't cost a thing.

Really.  It don't.

 
Here's my issue - I thought Jenny from the Block was adorable, particulary with all of the gratuitious shots of her badonkadonk in bikinis and briefs, with Ben Affleck tricked out all street with his tats showing and kissing her ass, literally and figuratively.  But I bought it, Jenny (from the BRONX!).  I was buying what you were selling.  Sold.

I mean, she's gorgeous, really, and as an American Idol judge she is America's Sweetheart. But DAMN. With two teen-types, our car radio is locked on Top 40 Pop, and I have to hear that stupid song three times an hour, and I've heard it so many times now that I've gone all philosophical on it. I'm starting to miss Barney.  As I hear on the radio over and over and over and over....it's a new generation...of party people.  Presumably J Lo is not part of that new generation.  Here is J Lo as the new and improved Mother of Twins Clubber:



What I take from this video is that if, as a mother of babies under the age of two, you aren't carrying a transparent mesh spiderweb bodysuit in your diaper bag, then get off the floor.  Oh, you mean you aren't clubbing with Pit Bull?  Getting your drinks up, and if you are criminal, particularly, killing it on the floor?  Dancing with string bikini-clad models painted in gold glitter?

No Sale, J Lo.

Am I saying mothers of babies shouldn't sing or dance or continue their career?  No.  But as an entertainer, J Lo has to be believable, and anyone starting their song with "it's a new generation of party people" is essentially saying, "Well, my generation has moved on and I'm too old for this shit."  Aren't most of the target audience of this product-featuring video (Swarovski! BMW! Crown Royal! If you look closely, the crotch of her spiderweb suit says "Dr. Stan Liebermann, OB-GYN") young enough to be Jenny from the Block's kids?  Because if in real life a 41-year-old woman walks in the club in a mesh bodysuit and yells, "Don't stop keep it movin' get your drinks up!"  The people in the club are going to yell, "MOM! Go home, you're embarrassing me!"  (Or at least that's what happened the last time I did it.)

We've gone from this adorable photo op:

To this slightly awkward video shoot:

And while I would love to be as gorgeous (and rich!) as J Lo, I think it might be time to hang up the clubbing boots, glitter, and Snoop Dogg chalice.  I don't want to judge you Jenny, I'm not fooled by the rocks that you got.  I know you're still Jenny from the Block.  But you need to be keepin' it real.

And?  I seriously can't listen to that song one more time.

It's Tragic, But I'll Miss You All

What started out as a terrific weekend is sure to end tragically for me.  I should've known. 
Things were Too. Damn. Perfect.

First, I read The Bloggess's post on her 5' Metal Chicken, Beyonce. 

Honestly, one of these days she is going to

force me to stalk her. More than I currently am.

And it was funny.  And then it went viral and she has over 2000 comments on it, with about 50 of them from crazy men who are telling her to obey her husband, and that she is a dumb wasteful bitch, and is she donating the same amount of money to charity that she spent on her chicken?  (This, toward the woman who single-handedly raised over $42,000 in gift cards for those in need at Christmas last year.)  They were funny to read until I had a couple of drinks and then I was just pissed off.  So I started posting counter-comments to those comments.  It's really nothing to be proud of, but it was fun while it lasted.  I love the Bloggess, and even on my puny little blog I got one comment once that was so nasty and awful, and even though it was months ago I can still recite it word for word.  (Someone out there is NOT a fan of Whoreticulture Friday, and CH has been invited to bend her over so he can enjoy sex again.  I've left a number of messages to take her up this offer, but oddly no callbacks.)

Then I spent the rest of the weekend reading the entire Hunger Games trilogy, which was, indeed, AWESOME.  I highly recommend if you haven't read it, because your teens probably have.  When did YA get so kickass?

Then I met an old friend in Iowa City at the coffee shop that made me fall in love with espresso circa 1995, Java House.

And at a charming metal bistro table in the outdoor cafe, this was breakfast:

The cinnamon rolls?  Made out of croissant dough.  Bliss.

I'm sitting there trying to do some writing before my friend arrives, and this pesky bug starts  buzzing around me.  It's sort of moth-size, so I don't pay a lot of attention to it, until my leg hurts and I look down and this mo-fo is biting me. THROUGH MY JEANS.  I try to kill it, and soon I am flailing around the outdoor cafe, looking like another multiple personality disorder patron of Downtown Iowa City.  It is life and death.  I finally kill it, and then decide I have to take a picture of it in case my friend has to take me to the emergency room and then they will know how to treat me.

Die, motherfucker. And tell your friends.

It was HUGE.  Size meant something.  It was about as big as a dime, looked like a mosquito, and had tiger stripes on it.  It was also wearing a Limp Bizkit t-shirt and had a patch over one eye. 

So this is the part where you think I'm exaggerating.  But here is proof that The Wife may have sipped her last chardonnay:

 Yes people, that is the bite,

the size of a dime, administered through my jeans.

But it's even worse than I thought.  I couldn't really SEE the bite before, but now this photo shows some alarming evidence that the bite is causing blue veins to pop out of my leg, and stretch marks to appear.  Even more indicative of some horrible insect-vermin-borne disease is the apparent shelf of cellulite that has developed, and is now melting off of my thigh like some iceberg that has fallen prey to global warming.  If you look closely, you can see a small polar bear on there, looking for food and mating grounds.  The bottom of this shelf seems to have turned green and is cracking.  That's it.  I have gangrene.  Shit.

Well people, it's over.  This was a fun ride.  I'm getting dizzy right now, and all of the Quarter Pounders I've ever eaten are flashing before my eyes.  Wow.  Long list.  My Quarter Pounder habit might actually be prolonging my life.  Not done yet.  There is hope after all.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 66

Hola Wifers. First let me say that I am dragging a little bit this morning because Todd “Hot Nuts” Epstein held a benefit concert last night for the Walnut Growers of America, and Current Husband and I were both a little tipsy and crowd surfing, but we learned something important:


Squirrels will drop you. And it hurts.


Todd performed onstage, accompanied by Mike Moran, The Iowa Goatsinger, at Mojo’s in downtown Davenport. I know it’s a little unheard of to have goats and squirrels performing together because they are both total divas, but since there isn’t an Iowa Squirrel Singer, and Mr. Moran is particularly talented and knows “Blackbird” by the Beatles, he was an excellent choice. Here they are performing together:

 

But then Todd started drinking.

And making love to the crowd.

And was asked to leave.

So we were at the police station late bailing him out, and by the time we got home I was too tired to blog. But, it IS Whoreticulture Friday, and I have an obligation to society.

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: Don’t Poke Momma Bear

I have a great boss, and I worked out a sweet deal where if I come in to work a half hour early all week, I can take off at 12:30 one day that week so I can play like I’m an at-home mom again and take the kids to the pool. Last week was the first time I’ve used this arrangement, and it was heavenly.

People magazine, sunshine, Diet Coke and happy kids.

It takes so little to make me happy.

However, getting ready for the pool? Whole different deal.

We’re running around in the whole “Got your towel? Got the sunscreen? Got your goggles?” mode, and literally at the last moment I realized the hedge needed to be trimmed before the garden party. The kids are going out the van, and I’m all “I’ll be right there!” as I’m pulling out a razor and some shaving cream. But DAMN. This was my first trip to the pool this year, so I was in East German Woman mode. I had to make an assessment:

• I’m 42.
• I have prolific family heirloom varicose veins.
• I’m married.
• My skinniest days are behind me.

Is a little Growly Momma Bear Bush my biggest problem? But then I thought of the children.

• Children are frightened by bears.
• The pool is full of children.
• My daughter is a teen and my appearance is occasionally tied up in her emotional well-being.
• My other daughter is 8 and might ask loud questions, such as “Mom, is there a bear in your pants?”

Damn it. Let’s get whacking.

After a few minutes, I realize that in order to really tame this beast, I need to be more bendy. When did I start growing hair there? Can’t…reach…knees…locking…and there are places NO ONE should go into blind with a razorblade. This is where I discover a real need. Yoga for personal grooming. Potential poses include:

• Shave Dog
• Bridge to Bikini Line
• Camel Toe
• Down Bear
• Bald Taco
• Baked Drumstick

In the meantime, Mamma Bear got tamed somewhat and the kids had their pool day. Just in case I missed anything, I positioned a People magazine on my lap and made sure I didn’t lay on my beach chair with my legs spread (which is my normal beach chair position. As a matter of fact, I normally take up two, or even three, chairs.)

When I got home, CH was all excited to see me in my swimsuit, which honestly makes me concerned for his vision. I stripped off the suit to expose my developing sunburn, and he was all, “You know you want it” and I just turned to face him, pointed down, and said, “Do not poke Mamma Bear. You might get bit.”

CH is a survivalist. He backed away from Mamma Bear this time. But I know he’ll be back when the cubs aren’t around and it’s less dangerous. Rowr.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday! Have a great weekend!

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 movie: Midnight in Paris

Okay, I know today is actually Tuesday, but really, I'm so far behind that on my To Do List it is still Monday, so I'm going to put this in the Win column.  On a side note, still best time ever because I got to leave work today at 12:30 and take my kidlets to the pool, where I sat on a chair and started Hunger Games and drank a gi-freaking-normous fountain Diet Coke and got a small sunburn.  Lovely.  I know I will regret the Diet Coke and the sunburn someday, but for a few hours I felt like I was 17 again.  Except that my legs looked less like Barbie legs and more like turkey drumsticks and these three kids kept calling me Mom.  At one point, the Depeche Mode song "Personal Jesus" came on at the pool, and I was truly transported.  But do I want to be back in high school?  Never.  College?  Maybe.  But now is pretty good too.  Which brings me to the topic at hand.

Last night I had the double benefit of seeing a friend I haven't seen in a while and going to the movie "Midnight in Paris".  I normally avoid Woody Allen movies because of the whole "gettin' down with Soon-Yi" thing, but this one had Owen Wilson in it and it is about writers and Paris, so game on.

And? It has a cool poster.

The movie was terrific.  Owen Wilson is the same, affable, yearning character he always is, Rachel McAdams is gorgeous but cutting, and I love Michael Sheen in anything.  (Marion Cotilliard is great too, I loved her in La Vie En Rose, but she lost me when she started spouting off about how the US government was complicit in 9/11.  I mean, puh-lease.)  The theme in the movie is wanting to be somewhere else.  Owen Wilson is a writer who wants to be in another time, and he ends up in Paris in the 1920's with Hemingway and the Fitzgeralds and parties galore, and he lives the life of an American in Paris.  Lovely.  The scenery made me want to be a foreign exchange student.  But one starts to explore the idea of being somewhere else.  Do we all yearn to be a part of another time?  In another place?  Do the people who live in that time and place yearn to be elsewhere?  What does it mean to be happy where you are?

Besides getting all philosophical, I drank a large Diet Coke and ate half a bag of buttered movie popcorn, which, combined with the raw broccoli and dip I had before I left home, very burpy.  I am sure the people sitting around me were thrilled about that turn of events.

In sum - my legs look like drumsticks, I still like Depeche Mode, and I have horrible gas after eating broccoli or movie theater popcorn.  That is all.

Happy Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday, and go see the movie, and then yearn for Paris.  And maybe the 1920's.  But take it easy on the popcorn.

What great movies have you seen this summer?  Any recommendations?

Get Me On Vh1, I Had The Best Week Ever!

Okay, I'm just going to say it - I'm a terrible mother.  My kids were gone all week last week, with one at a cello camp in northern Iowa and the other two at grandparent for the ENTIRE WEEK, and I loved it.  Instead of using it as an opportunity to go through their diaries or throw out meaningful things they got from classmates three years ago or get rid of their favorite shirt that no longer fits, I used the time to practice my gluttony skills.  I ate my way through the Quad Cities regional gastronomic district.  Let's recap the road to my first bypass surgery:

If music could still play on this blog, it would be "The Way We Were" by Barbra Streisand.  So much wine.  So much cheese.  So much delicious seasoning.  So much sleep.  It was terrific.

Then we picked up the kids and within an hour they were fighting and someone got hurt and someone had an upset stomach and someone forgot something at Grandma's house.  Goodbye, Kid Free Week.  But then we got settled in and everyone started laughing, and George the Superpet was happy again, and there was frolicking and donuts.  And there is nothing wrong with that.

I think Current Husband is sort of happy the week is over, because Mother Nature prevented him from a week of fornication.  Instead, he was subject to digestive disturbance due to my need for dessert and drinks. I also managed to get an entire dinner party to pound out the rhythm to "We Will Rock You" in a mockery of CH.  (Note to readers, do not take me to dinner parties.)

The kids were shocked when they came home because the house was not clean, and the sink full of dishes.  It's not so much that they house being a mess surprises them, but the kids are expected to do the dishes every day, with stern warnings about how dirty dishes draw ants and mold and syphillis.  The Son said, "Mom, you didn't do ANY dishes while we were gone?"  I just shrugged and said, "It wasn't my week."

Today we were back to business.  The house was cleaned, the dishes done, laundry started, and Home Depot visited for essentials. 

Bonus?  I once again have someone to hold

my purchases while I pull the van around.

In sum, I suppose the point here is to say that no matter how much sleep, fun, wine, and delicious food one might enjoy while their children are gone, nothing beats having small indentured servants to clean and mow and load five bags of mulch.

Okay, eating and drinking and ribaldry does indeed beat that, but I'm glad to have them back, partially because I gained about 30 pounds while they were gone, and the madness had to stop.  But oh, such delicious, saucy madness.

Happy Father's Day to CH and to my father, Grumpy, and to all the rockin' Dads out there.  Have a great week!

The Post Where I Rub It In

Let me preface this post by saying I love my children.

What's not to love?

That said, OMG, this kid-free week is the

Best. Week. Ever.

Seriously.  Why don't I send them away more often so I can love them more?  The night we drove home from dropping them off at their respective posts, Current Husband and I stopped for ice cream.  Lovely.  The second night, we went to the grocery store together, picked out some steaks and asparagus and wine and little mini apple pies and cinnamon ice cream and had a fantabulous dinner and then watched True Grit.

Ah.  A film about death and punishment. 

Isn't it romantic?  Hold me...



CH then stayed up to play Modern Warfare on XBox 360 and I went to bed to commence with reading "Commencement".  Bliss.

Today we met for lunch, and tonight we attended a fine arts meeting for the school, and then went out for wine, stuffed mushrooms, bruschetta, tiramisu, white chocolate bread pudding, and Irish coffees.  I'm getting a quick blog post in, he's playing more Modern Warfare, and I'm going to bed to hopefully get another 50 pages read in my book. 

Have I mentioned how KICK ASS this is?

I'm truly not wishing it away - I love the kids, and I don't want them to grow up and move out.  I will cry like a big baby when they graduate.  Some of my friends have kids who are starting to graduate, and honestly I get a little choked up thinking about THEIR kids graduating.  But.  There is something magical about having a little time to oneself.  Pair it with some booze and delicious desserts and repeat.  SWOON.

What I am currently digesting.  Nom-nom.

We talk to the kids every day, they are doing great, so that is helpful.  We know we will see them all on Saturday, so that is helpful.  We are sleeping soundly, so that is helpful.  We are eating delicious food and drinking delicious wine and getting some project done.  This whole damn thing is a win-win.

I guess I have no real point here except to brag about my gluttony, so I'll sign off.  But I'll sign off all warm and fuzzy and rested and well fed.  HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!  I love camps and grandparents!  And it's only Tuesday!

Have a great week Wifers!

The Asylum is Empty

Be careful what you wish for, 'cause you just might get it.

A few months ago, Oldest Daughter was told by her cello instructor that she should go to a music camp at a private college in northern Iowa.  After I got over the tuition stroke, I said, "Sure, great" because it all works into my theory that there aren't many pregnant or meth-addled teen cellists.  Then I had a crazy thought.  Current Husband's parents live in northern Iowa.  Perhaps they could be talked into taking the other two children during the same week.  CH and I could have the week ALONE.

By some small miracle, it worked.  This morning, we drove nearly four hours to take OD to her camp.  We checked her into registration, and took her things up to her DORM ROOM, and as we climbed the stairs my throat started constricting and a whisper in my brain started chanting, "Four more years! Four more years!" It didn't help matters that on the drive up I read an article in Parade magazine about teen binge drinking on college campuses, which all parents who want to panic can read here.  http://www.parade.com/health/caregiving/index.html

Then I started thinking about me in college, and I kept thinking, "She's not ready!  She's just a baby!"  But the baby bird pushed the mama bird out of the nest and made me leave her and pray that there is no hanky panky at orchestra camps.

We then drove The Son and Youngest Daughter to CH's mom and stepdad's house, where they will stay until mid-week, and then they will be switched to CH's dad and stepmom's house, where they will stay until we drive back up next Saturday to collect OD.  All of the kids will have a fun-filled week.  I thought I would as well, until I Aunt Flo dropped in a week early this morning, so no Brown Chicken Brown Cow as previously planned.

We got home, and the house is so....quiet.  I can think in complete sentences.  I can eat ice cream without anyone asking for a bite, or better, for me to please get them some.  It's weird.  It's 9:30 p.m. now, and normally I would be on my last nerve trying to get them to finally go to bed, but the only thing I can hear is the dryer running and CH playing Modern Warfare on XBOX 360 without The Son telling him how to play.  Is this what the empty nest holds in store for me?  I'm not completely sure I like it.

But while I'm trying to figure that out, I'm going to cut this blog short and get in bed, early, and try to finish the book Commencement by J. Courtney Sullivan.  I highly recommend it so far.

Happy Monday, and have a great week!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 65

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: Hair of the Dog

Okay, not really.  But I never miss an opportunity to promote this up-and-coming band, Nazareth.  My best friend from middle school was so badass that when she would get mad at her parents, she would go to her room and blast this song.  I would sit on her rainbow bedspread, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, amazed at her balls.  Her parents would sit upstairs and smoke and drink in silence and watch the clock, because she was the youngest of four and they were basically waiting until she moved out to make her room into the hot tub sex den.



Think about how often these dudes got laid in those outfits.

So, back to the topic.  Sort of.  A few things happened in the past few weeks that made me think of unsightly body hair.

First.  My daughters had a dance recital, and they are adorably talented and while I've seen Oldest Daughter at work and know she is a ballet rock star, this is the first year Youngest Daughter has actually known the dance and didn't just look cute and wander around confused in her $80 outfit.  YD did hip-hop, and did a splits-in-the-air-touch-your toes move, no shit, and I was all, "Who is that kid and why is she flexible and coordinated?" because that is so NOT my DNA.  However, her father is an '80s break dancer, so I'm waiting for "Baby's First Head Spin on Cardboard" to put in her book.

The other 50 dance numbers during the 3-recital gave me time to think about these girls' bikini areas.  Some of these outfits were pretty much bikinis and foot undies, and I prayed, "Please God, for their comfort and that of their audience, PLEASE let someone have told them about waxing."  Let me give you an example:

Much like this, without the pants.

At this point, Current Husband leans over and says, "I'm glad the girls were in the numbers with clothes."  I'm half German, so if I don't pluck my eyebrows every 20 minutes they grow together.  You can imagine what happens in bikini-land, and my vagina tells me it is allergic to wax, flame, or electroshock therapy.  This is why I now tell myself I'm not a dancer.  It's not lack of coordination, it's lack of bush coverage.

Second:  I had a massage, and Chad, my awesome masseuse, was subjected to my pre-game disclosure.  This happens every time, and now he just politely waits until I'm done purging all of my personal hygiene sins.  Sometimes I just don't shave my legs when I should, not because I don't want to, but because I sleep in and then I don't have time, and I go to work and wear pants so no one will know and forget I have a massage and won't be wearing pants.  My philosophy is that if I just TELL Chad that I'm sorry I haven't shaved in four days and I know my heels are gnarly and my varicose veins are worse than the last time I visited and I still have that Eastern German mole on my back, he won't pity me in his head while he is forced to rub these parts of my body down.  I will OWN IT.  But what he's probably thinking is "Julie, meet Wax.  Wax, strip Julie."  Then I just pray I won't get gassy during the massage, because I'm not going to own that.  The problem with gas during a massage is that if you clench, he will see it, or worse, feel your muscles tense up.  Sometimes I think Chad is subject to more torture than my OB-GYN.

Third.  I had coffee with a friend of mine, and she told me she was having dinner with her husband when he said, "I can't take it anymore, I have to pull that" and it was a hair in her mole on her arm.  I told her that while it is a pain that I'm getting more hairs around my nipular region, it sure is easier to pull them now that I can just pick my boob up off of my stomach, pull it up to my face, squint, put on my reading glasses, and pluck the hair.  When did getting older equal getting hairier?

I guess this post has no real point, other than the fact that hair is inconvenient and weird, unless it is on your head.  It doesn't have much to do with whoring either, because who wants to do someone with German bush, varicose veins, gnarly heels, a mole on their back, and nipular hair?

Oh, right.  CH!  Because when you get to his age, your vision is going anyway.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!

I Want To Be A Crappy Housewife

First I'd like to address how craptastic Blogger is - apparently very few people can actually comment on my blog, and I get e-mails all day from people who are like, "What the hell?  I had something really funny to say and I lost it!" and then I'm all "What the hell?  I want to read some funny comments and Blogger ruined it!" and oddly enough I'm tracing the latest issue with commenting back to when I took off the word verification. 

Then I started noticing the ads for the dating sites and Hot Mormons Who Want to Do You, and I realized that I no longer really control my own damn blog.   I notice that some days I have hundreds of page views, and no comments, which doesn't really add up.  If it's any consolation, there are days I can't comment on my own blog.  I'm looking for a new host site, so I can crash the whole thing and start over with just my mom and her two non-English speaking co-workers reading it.

Before we go any farther here, you really need to see this to make sense of it all:



Oh yes.  This is the kind of thing that just makes my day.
Thank God for Norwegian pop-star-wannabes.

There are so many layers of wrong here, but I'm going to tell you Tonje, from watching that video, I'm thinking your only three career options in life right now are:

1)  Badly kept and bitter mistress.
2)  Customer Service Rep
3)  Crappy Housewife

I can see that instead of being a crappy housewife, you prefer to be a crappy lip-syncher.  I particularly love the two douchebags who get out of the Corvette (when is the last time you saw a Corvette in a music video???) in their work boots and stainless steel chains and Fresh Prince hats, they are mouthing something no one can hear, and then give the worst rap ever recorded on You Tube in front of six of their closest friends.

Before you go getting all judgemental, I have news for you Tonje:

Being a crappy housewife is the
BEST. GIG. IN. THE. WORLD. 

Since long sentences are hard for you, let's bullet this one out:

• You don't have to show up at a crappy job.
• You don't have to shower that often.
• Fuzzy bathrobe and rollers, standard.
• Scotch on the rocks for breakfast.
• Dog shit on the floor? Leave it.
• Chicken pot pie is the best you can do.
• People EXPECT you to swear.
• Those dishes might actually wash themselves. 

It's my understanding that the expectation level of a crappy housewife is pretty low, but the rewards are very high.  I'm going to tell you right now that when Breaking Dawn came out, I spent two solid days drinking merlot, ordering pizza and shushing people, and it was among some of the best 48-hour periods of my life.

So Tonje, as your American friend, let me ask you to reconsider.  Being a crappy housewife might be just the ticket.  You are one unplanned pregnancy away from your dream job.

We Interrupt This Blog Post

School was out for my kids over a week ago, and I can tell you I haven't finished a sentence since...What?  The Twilight: Breaking Dawn preview is on the MTV Awards? ...Okay, I'm coming in to ...yes, I'll get you some cranberry juice.  But you're old enough to do it your...yes, but even if you're small, you're tall enough to reach the...yes.  Yes, I would be mad if you spilled it all over the kitchen.  I'm getting it.  I SAID I'M GETTING IT!

So Breaking Dawn has it's preview clip, and I'm all excited except it doesn't come out until November, and that isn't nearly soon enough for...What?  No, boys don't have maiden names.  Even if they're vampires.  Edward's name was Masen.  When he was a human.  Now it's Cullen because of Carlisle.  I guess it's like a maiden name, but Edward isn't a maiden.  It was just his name before he was a vampire.  Because that was his name.  Because Carlisle's name is Cullen, and he's the leader.  It's like Carlisle adopted him.  No, it wasn't a maiden name.  I see your logic, but it...Oh for Christ's sake, it was his maiden name!  No! You cannot have any more cranberry juice!

And this pretty much sums up my summer so far.

I've done so much time answering the Mom Crisis Hotline in the past two years that I started thinking I have a hearing problem.  I truly could only hear about half of what they were saying, and then it trailed off into the ether.  I would squint (because isn't that the LOGICAL thing to do when one can't hear?) and tilt my head and say, "What? I can't hear you!" and the offending family member would roll their eyes and sigh and loudly repeat what they said.  I actually went to an audiologist about a week ago to get my hearing tested. 

I went into the office, and the audiologist called me back into a tiny room full of toys with a window in it.  I noticed right away that she is a big enunciator and a power smiler.  She indicated that I should sit in the kindergarten chair and explained that she will do the beeps in my ears and I should raise my hand if I can hear it, and then she is going to say words and I should repeat them.  She then had me put on my Disney character earphones and the testing began.

I kept thinking I was hearing beeps, so I just kept throwing my hands in the air (and waving them like I just don't care).  Then she had me repeat words.
HER: "Apple"
ME:  "Apple"
HER:  "Seashell"
ME:  "Seashell"
HER:  "Hypochondriac"
ME:  "Hypo...what the hell!?"

She walked out of the booth, smiling, and showed me a chart. I took this as a sign to remove my Disney headphones.  "Here is normal hearing - this line right here.  Here are your scores, and you can see that they are all significantly above that line.  So your hearing is fine.  If you still think you are having problems, call us in six months."  She stopped and smiled at me.

"So...you're saying my hearing is actually above average?"  I asked in disbelief.

"Yes."  She continued to smile.  "Thanks for coming in. Have a great day!"

I went home and shared my results with my family.  "Okay people, not only do I NOT have a hearing problem, I am a GIFTED listener.  So you all need to quit mumbling and talking to me while I'm vaccuming or standing next to the running dishwasher or while I'm on the phone with someone else before you convince me that I'm completely insane!"

Current Husband looks at the kids, and then looks at me and says, "Well mmmmmmrphm do that muurphgringler." And they all start laughing.  I'm thinking, "was that a joke or have they all purposely been fucking with me for over a year?"  I still don't know for sure.

What's that honey?  I'm blogging.  I'm not sure, I checked the account on Friday.  You want me to check RIGHT NOW?  Sure, I'm all over it.  Yep.  Still the same balance as on Friday.  No, they don't change anything over the weekend.  I didn't understand any of your words after "a thousand".  No, my hearing is fine, you have to speak up.

This is my first summer working full time in five years, and I'll be honest with you, it sucks balls.  If I hadn't been off the last five years being the Head Counselor at Camp Kidlet, I wouldn't probably notice so much, but now when I get up in the morning and drink my coffee and look outside and feel those warm summery breezes, I think, "Damn, I could have been home hanging out with the kids today."  Even though they never let me finish a sentence and they are giving me early onset Alzheimers and making me think I have a hearing problem, I still miss them during the day.  Because even if they are crazy, they are MY KIND OF CRAZY. 

What?  I already tucked you...but we went over that already.  Okay.  Okay, I'm coming in.  What?  I can't hear you.  No, you can't have any more cranberry juice.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 64

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: The Flapper

This week, the most awesome thing happened - I got invited to an adult bris.  For you non-Jews or people who just don't get interested in things related to genital parties, a bris is the ritual circumcision of an 8-day-old baby to solidify his covenant with God, and to do as Abraham did.

Technically I am not going to a legit bris, as the man is nearly 50, he's a lapsed Catholic, and he's doing it for health reasons.  But still.  If a guy is getting his foreskin cut off and there is liquor in food involved afterward, well then Mozel Tov at the faux bris.

The only thing that's a little squirm worthy is that I wasn't aware that he is uncircumsized because I wasn't there on "Gentiles Show Their Genitals Night" in the hood, and now I have a penis visual for him.  I am not sure if I can talk to him without staring at the crotch of his pants.  I will probably be thinking,

"There's a party in your pants
and everyone's coming!"

and I'll think it so long that it will sound funny in my head and I'll blurt it out and once again realize that things that sound funny in my head are frequently not.  Funny.  (Did anyone else notice I said 'head' twice in a foreskin post?)  Perhaps I should show him a photo of my naked vagina so we are on equal footing.

Actually, the flapper shedder isn't even aware of the bris yet.  I think this is a Surprise Bris, which cranks up the novelty level.  He's just getting old and like women in menopause whose uterus falls out and dries up (It's REAL, people, check this post for reference), apparently a man's dick toupee dries up as well and can chafe and crack and cause issues that cannot be solved with a tube of Chap-Dick.  So he'll be going to outpatient on one evening, and then the next day, "SURPRISE!  We all know what your dick looks like!"  I plan to come up with a list of awkward and personal questions to ask, such as:

1. Does your dick hurt?
2. Does this mean you are no longer cock-blocked?
3. Can I put some frozen peas on your pod?
4. Was the Doctor hot?
5. Did you save the foreskin?
6. Can I see it? 
7. Can I have it?  Because it would look great next to my stuffed squirrel.

I also plan to randomly shout out things at the party, like:

1. FORE...skin.
2. Off With His Head!
3. Let's all have a moment of circumcision.
4. Sheath! Don't be tho othended.
5. No more yanky my wanky! The Donger need food!
6. Freebird!

My other problem?  What does one get for someone at their faux bris?  Certainly not condoms because those will just remind the penis of the foreskin that got away.  Underwear with a soft panel inside?  A hat?  I know....Liquor.

I'm thinking Southern Comfort.

And now I shall leave you with one of my favorite movie bits - it's The Penis Song, from Monty Python's Meaning of Life, sung by Eric Idle.  I've actually been known to randomly sing this at parties.