It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 79

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 anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or parents of my children's friends. Or the Pope.

Today's topic: Condom Tracking

I love it when Wifers are looking out for me.  Today's Whoreticulture Friday Public Service message (because that's what it is) is brought to you courtesy of Cassie Boorn, social media goddess, recently in the Oprah universe.  Current Husband and I had the pleasure of having lunch with Cassie one day last winter, and she has likely been scarred ever since.  This is probably why she thinks of me when she sees shocking or mildly replusive things in the media.

Like this:

Where did I wear what?  My shoes? My lipstick?  A condom?!

That's right.  Planned Parenthood has a hip, happenin' new program called "Where Did You Wear It?" which consists of condoms that have QR codes on them, which are logged in on a special website that tracks where the user had sex on an interactive map. 

Oh yes they did. 

Here is how Planned Parenthood describes the program:

“Did you just use a condom to protect yourself against unintended pregnancy, HIV and other sexually transmitted infections? You go, tiger! Sex that (is) safe, should be shared,” declares the Web site.


The interactive map also includes comments from users. For example:


"A 20 something guy and a girl whose relationship is just for fun and have already talked about safer sex and STDs used a condom in the bedroom to prevent an unplanned pregnancy. It was ah-maz-ing – rainbows exploded and mountains trembled."


And:


"A 30 something guy and a guy whose relationship is non-existent and have not yet talked about safer sex and STDs used a condom at a party because their partner told them to. It was fair- a work in progress."

I think it is important to make a few points here.

1.  When, exactly, are we scanning in our QR codes?  Is it pre-unrolling, pre-coital, or, Dear God No, POST-COITAL?  That is One. Dirty. Code.

2.  Is it really productive to rate the sex?  "Rainbows exploded and mountains trembled?"  I call bullshit, My Little Pony.  "It was fair - a work in progress"?  Ouch.  I don't want THAT on the internet.

3.  Do people need to see where I've had sex?  Would a bubble over my parent's garage and the track equipment shed at my high school show up on a Google search by prospective employers?

4.  Do I need to see where OTHER people have had sex?  "Hey, let's go see Hunger Games!  But not at Rave Theaters, there are five QR codes checked in there."  I would be tempted to buy a box of QR condoms and drive around town checking them in.  School Administration Building - "Superintendent not that great, but I'll cut him some slack because it was in a stranger's Corolla."  My local grocery store, "Meat counter - special on Tube Steak - Best cut EVER!"  

What?  I like food.

Do I love this program?  Of course I do, I love anything that gives the blog material, particularly on Fridays.  But don't get the idea I'm anti-condom.  Oh hell no.  I LOVE condoms.  Particularly for any of my children when they are of an appropriate sexing age, like 26.  Viva la condom!  But be sure to check in so we can all Google your sex.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend! 

Seminars I'd Like to Attend

NOTE:  I spent 45 minutes writing this post, hit Publish, and an error message came up and said, "Sorry!" and it was gone.  So now I'm re-writing what I can remember from it, but just understand that the first one was probably brilliant and would've led to a book deal.  This one?  Meh.

A couple of years ago, I was fortunate enough to attend the Erma Bombeck Writing Workshop.  It was pretty awesome.  I met Christian Lander of "Stuff White People Like" fame, Danny Gallagher the comedian and writer, Gail Collins of the New York Times and author of the amazing book, "When Everything Changed", and some pretty kick-ass chicks as well, including Janet Frongillo, author of the upcoming book, "Mommy Mixology", available for pre-order on amazon.com.

Seriously, "A Cocktail for every Calamity"?  That's just brilliant.

EBWW is only held every two years, and sadly, I can't go this year because I now have a full-time job that seriously impedes me from doing fun things.  I know Janet will be there, and so will The Bearded Iris, who is completely hilarious and has some mad effing dance skills.  On April 19, which is my birthday, I will be sitting down to watch my lovely daughter on opening night of her high school musical, knowing in my heart that Iris and Janet and loads of awesome mom bloggers will be tucking into their first round of drinks.  Of course, I wouldn't be anywhere else but the musical with Oldest Daughter.  But a tiny little part of my heart will be sad.

(I also spent about 20 minutes on picnik making an awesome graphic with a human heart showing how much of it would be sad and thirsty, but that wouldn't load.  Pisser!)

Since I can't attend EBWW, I am concentrating on what types of educational enrichment opportunities I should find for myself.  After ten minutes of introspection, I've come up with this list of Self-Help Seminars I Should Attend In 2012:

1. Past the Power Button:  How To Use Your Computer
2. Beyond the Basket:  Getting Family to Fold Within 48 Hours of the Dryer
3. Vegetarian Cooking, Or How To Make Food Look Like It
4. Vaccum Cleaner Shopping:  Not An Annual Activity
5. Sheets, And How They're Changed More Than Six Times A Year
6. When The Dog Knows Too Much
7. High Noon:  After Five Years, It's Time to Move On From Twilight
8. How To Operate Your Husband of 17 years
9. Making Your Malbec Bottle Last Three Days So You Don't Look Like An Alcoholic
10. Getting More Personal Time Out of Work Time
11. Speaking Teen...Whatever.

If anyone knows where I can sign up for any of these workshops, I would appreciate the link.  If you have any of your own, please add in comments (Such as:  How To Get Blogger To Post Your Damn Comments).  Otherwise, I'll hold these in my house and wing it.  Registration begins June 1. 

Tower of Terror

I'm going to be Vague-y McVaguenstein on this post out of necessity and to prevent everyone from unfollowing, but you know how you hear that old saying "Life is like a terrifying amusement park ride, and you just try to hold on for dear life and not puke or lose a flip-flop?"

Yeah.  That's where I am.

I want a little less of this:

And a little more of this:

Slightly less of this:

(although, Auntie, you are divine in this photo)

Ramp up more of this:

Less:

More:

Okay.  That was a good session.  I'm going to knock off half a dozen cookies and a Prilosec and go to bed. 
Sweet dreams, dear Wifers!

Creeping on Eagles

Welcome to my new obsession:  Eagles.

Alcoa Davenport Works placed an Eagle Cam on their campus a couple of years ago, and they monitor a pair of Bald Eagles who live there year-round.  Last year two eggs hatched, one baby lived.  This year, three eggs have hatched, and all three babies are alive to date.  I don't see any wedding bands or photos in the nest, so I'm fairly certain these eagles are not married, so while they are ruining the sanctity of marriage, they seem to be doing okay with the kids so far.

I've been creeping on this eagle family for the last four days, and I'm completely obsessed.  I pull them up first thing in the morning and sporadically during the day.  My boss would've been appalled at how much I checked in on the eagles on Friday at work.  He knows I do it because he walked past my desk once and it was up, and he said, "Eagles!  Has the third egg hatched yet?" so who knows, maybe he is spending his day stalking eagles too.

Would you like to stalk eagles 24/7?  Click HERE.

It's like a little sampling of American life - the parents take turns hunting and taking care of the babies.  The babies fight amongst themselves.  The parents occasionally get irritated with each other, and seem to occasionally get exasperated with the babies.  They snack on a mid-afternoon meal of three-days-old field rat and listen to The Black Keys, just like my family.  It's eerie.

When I tuned in, there were two babies and an egg.  The older baby, whom I refer to as Yellowbeak, or Asshole, was always pushing aside the middle child, whom I call Blackbeak.  I would get so upset everytime little Asshole eagle would push past Blackbeak and take the raw fish or mouse, and I just wanted to pull that kid aside and give him the what for.  He's a big bully, and what does he learn?  Pushing everyone around gets you a gullet full of food.  But I guess he's older so I'm going to cut him some slack.  And?  Blackbeak occasionally acts like he's riding the short bus - as in mom and dad are tearing off chunks of fresh squirrel head and feeding Asshole and Blackbeak is looking in the opposite direction going "Duhr, I wonder where I can get some fresh squirrel?

(DO NOT TELL TODD HOT NUTS EPSTEIN!!  He might start drinking again.)

One time when I watched the eagles, the mom started panting with her beak open.  Like the smartass that I am, I went to Twitter, hashtag #alcoaeaglecam, and said, "Mama Eagle is a Mouth Breather - not the most attractive trait in an eagle in my opinion."  Within about 15 minutes, I had three replies on Twitter:

Oh, you can't see that?  Because in my world of technological genius, I took a screen shot and saved it, but not big enough.  I'm such a social media hot shot, huh?  All three interactions were these serious explanations, like "She is cooling off, much like a dog pants".  After the third one, I was kind of feeling like I needed to explain that it was a joke, so I did a response, which was, "People, I was just kidding about the mouth breathing.  However, I DO think she has sleep apnea."  Then I posted, "Also, undercooked squirrel and fish can expose the kids to harmful bacteria.  Just sayin'."  Funnily enough, none of the Twitter eagle experts got in touch with me again, and I was probably blocked from at least three Twitter accounts.  (If you Tweet, my handle is @juliethewife.)

I'd been waiting for the third egg to hatch and had finally decided it was a dud, and then yesterday Youngest Daughter started yelling that the baby was hatching and we all ran to watch it pop out!  (Oh, did I mention I have the whole family on it, and we essentially keep vigil to see what the eagles are doing?  Yeah, it's now a family problem.  I'm sorry, no time for math homework, we're watching nature online.  Don't even have to get off the couch or put down the Cheetohs!)

All three babies seem to be getting food, everything was going well, today they even had a special treat of two turtles and the empty turtle shells sit in the nest.  I checked on them at 3 p.m., everyone looks good, nest is crowded with three babies, two adults, two dead squirrels, a field rat, two turtle shells and half a fish, and when I check them at 4 p.m. the nest is EMPTY.  COMPLETELY EMPTY.  And I freaked out a little bit.  What do I do when I freak out?  I go to Twitter.

 Seriously.  Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery.  At least there were a number of EagleGeeks out there with me who had the same problem, and seemed to be just as traumatized.  When I checked back a couple of minutes later, everything was back to normal, with the birds and turtle shells just as they were.  If it wasn't for Twitter, I would've thought I was crazy.  But I also wondered if maybe it's time to start distancing myself from the eagles.  If the parents end up going all Darwin on Blackbeak and push him out of the nest, I'll be depressed for days.

Time to pull back on the Eagle Stalking and get back to hooking.  Until the Eagle has Landed.  And then maybe I'll take another peek.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 78

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 anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or parents of my children's friends. Or men missing their balls.

Today's topic: Eunuch Erections

Tonight, Current Husband hosted Poker Night at our house.  It's funny, because when I have Book Club at our house, I clean, shop for groceries, set up the basement with chairs, get the liquor, make the food, and greet the guests.  When CH has Poker Night?  I clean, shop for groceries, set up the basement with chairs, get the liquor, make the food and greet the guests, but I don't get the benefit of The Book Club Buzz, which honestly makes me a little bitter.

After the poker party started, Oldest Daughter descended from her room to get things straight.

OD:  "Soo...this is a drinking party, right?"
ME:   "No, they are playing poker."
OD:  "But they're drinking."
ME:  "Yes, but they're playing poker."
OD:  "Would they play poker if there were no drinks?"
ME:   "....................................."
OD:  "Yeah, that's what I thought."
ME:  "They would still play..."
OD:  "Too late, Mom.  This is pretty much Book Club for guys, right?"
(She has me.  I know the jig is up.)
ME:  "Yes, but the Book Club moms are smarter."

Youngest Daughter has a gift - whenever there is an adult activity in the basement, she suddenly has 20 reason to go downstairs.  After her fifth trip into the basement, I tell her No More.  Then she needs her iPod.  Which is, of course, in the basement.  I tell her I will get it.  I descend into Poker Night in the temporary Testosterone Bunker.

On about the fourth step down, the smell of chicken, Maker's Mark, and a vaguely gassy scent hits me, much like it smells when I take the children to McFarty's Whiskey House for dinner, Home of the Jack Daniels Future Hangover Meal.

When I get to the bottom step, one of the guys turns and says, "Julie will know this.  Can a eunuch get an erection?"  Apparently there is a heated debate going on about what happens when a man is castrated.  Does he want to have sex?  Can he have an erection?  An orgasm?  And apparently, I am seen as something of a local authority on eunuchs.  All the men go silent and look at me.

"Well guys, of course a man without balls can have sex.  Many do, every day, sometimes in this house.  All men WANT to have sex, it's part of their genetic makeup.  I would guess that since the balls only control the happy juice but not the involuntary constricting of the blood vessels around the soprano's member, it wouldn't affect erections.  And I'm sure he'd still have an orgasm about five minutes sooner than he should, just like normal men, but his apology might be in a higher pitch.  I'm not a doctor, but I do write an occasional blog about these things that five people read, so rest assured you have the correct information."

And then I googled it.  I was right enough.

Whoreticulture Friday:  Misinforming people about sex-related topics since 2009.  You're welcome, America.

A Tale of Four Movies

This is kind of a big movie week in our house.  At least it is for me, and really, who cares about the others.  This isn't A Day In All Of Our Lives blog, is it?

First, I did get Current Husband and The Son to watch Breaking Dawn, Part 1 with me over Spring Break.  Current Husband wondered which people had implants and was then disappointed by the lack of a big bloody hunting/fight scene (QUOTE:  "I was so relieved they got that wedding out of the way fast, but the blood never came.")  The Son was traumatized by the sex and the birthing, which is honestly good news for me.  Maybe they should start showing Breaking Dawn in Health class in middle school.

Second, I got Oldest Daughter to watch Breaking Dawn, Part 1 with me on Sunday night.  We saw it in the theater together, but it was nice to watch it again with her.  Although I'm sure you're seeing a theme in which I watch Twilight movies and don't really give a shit who watches with me, but it seems pathetic to watch them alone.

Oh.  Hi Rob.  What are you doing here again?

I watch this movie for the articles, I swear.

Third, Hunger Games comes out this week.  Seriously can't wait, this movie is going to kick ass, as evidenced by the fact that they cast Lenny Kravitz as Cinna.  Woot!  I bought six tickets today so CH and I can go, and we'll let Oldest Daughter and The Son each bring a friend.  So what happens?  The Son tells Youngest Daughter about it while they are walking home.  When, oh when, will these children learn to keep secrets from each other?  Were we going to lie to YD about the rest of us going to a movie without her?  OF COURSE WE WERE!  I'd come up with a separate but equal option that doesn't involve her watching children fight other children to the death, take out the part about all of us eating ourselves sick with popcorn and peanut M&M's (seriously, if you haven't eaten this artery-clogging concoction then you haven't truly lived), and pick her up after the show with Skittles in hand.  Easy.  Now I'm going to have to spend my entire week explaining to her why she can't see Hunger Games. Thanks a LOT, Mr. Full Disclosure.

Fourth, the Breaking Dawn, Part 2 teaser came out today, and it is truly that.  Watch closely, it lasts 15 seconds:


Next time, just flash Jacob tearing his shirt off and show Edward flexing his back muscles (I still can't get over seeing Spot, the one nipple of his with a donut of hair around it, in New Moon), and whisper, "Twilight!"  You've got me.  They could just show a flash of Charlie saying, "What the fu..." and the release date, and people would go crazy.  (Do you hear me, BD2 people?  I would LOVE to see that teaser!!)  I thought this movie would come out in June because that's how they've released Twilight  movies, but NOOOO.  It's not coming out until NOVEMBER!  WTF, people!?  That's eight months away!

I hope the DVD player is ready, because that leaves time for a LOT of BD1 showings.  Wanna watch with me?  I'll make popcorn and peanut M&Ms....

I Am the Guacamole

Something interesting and odd happened yesterday - I checked my ADITW gmail account.  I don't do that often because Mom knows my cell number and her non-English speaking co-workers have no desire to contact me, so that  pretty much covers everyone.  Yesterday, however, in between the pitches from a cleaning brush company (hi, I don't clean) and Twitter comments, there was what looked like a legit e-mail from someone from a legit looking company who is doing a documentary on couples and relationships and seemed to have actually read the blog and wanted to talk to me.  Huh.  Weird.

Day One of our White Trash Journey together. 

Committing to love guacamole forever, no matter how bad it gets.

When I spoke to E-mailing Documentarian, with her fetching British accent, I asked her almost nothing about her project and just started talking, because that's how I roll.  "Oh, we're going to talk about ME?  Okay, let me start at the beginning...I was born in Nebraska to a poor but proud family."  I told her that I wasn't sure what kind of project she's working on, but my relationship is about wanting to snuggle in bed one night and hold the pillow over his head until he stops kicking the next, so if you want to highlight imperfection with possible future homicide, we're your couple.  We're like bipolar love. 

Unfazed, she asked what the key to our relationship is, or something like that, and I said one thing is that we can tolerate each other and know how to check the other person to keep them from embarrassing themselves, like when I'm telling the story about the time we had sex in my parent's garage.  When I start with "There was this time before we were married that we had to find an inflatable raft..." and he knows to step in, stop me, change the subject, and pry the drink out of my hand.  That essentially, we have each other's backs.

This is the point in the conversation when it became abundantly clear that I am guacamole.

Look at it!  It's so festive!  It makes you want to have a party, no?  Guacamole is a party food!  It's what you serve when you want to add a little spice.  But guac is best served fresh, and after a few hours it gets a little dark around the edges and starts to not look so good, and while everyone was RAVING about the guacamole a couple of hours ago, suddenly no one wants to eat it anymore and the hostess is starting to dread cleaning the bowl. Essentially, most people don't want guacamole around unless they are having a party, and then they kind of tire of it.  I've had a number of friends over the years who just hit their limit on how much guacamole they can stomach, and I can't fault them for it.  It's not salsa or cheese dip.  You can only take SO. MUCH.

But not Current Husband.  He LOVES guacamole.  Can't get enough of it.  Even when the guacamole doesn't want guacamole anymore, he's like, "Holy shit, is there MORE of that guac?  Scoop me up some of that kick-ass guacamole!"  Now that we are aging, he knows he shouldn't have guacamole and is in the bathroom downing Prilosec and Tums and moaning, but he still loves the guac.  And how can I not love a guy who loves guacamole so damn much?

So to you, CH?  I salute you.  You can put your chips in me anytime.  But be warned, British documentarian....we are not Oscar material.  TruTV material, perhaps.  But nothing classy.

Out of the Meat Locker and Into The Night

I’ve established that Oldest Daughter is in New York City at the moment, living the dream, seeing the hookers, thinking that eating canned beans and ramen for a life of art is better than a cello scholarship.

Art is good, honey, just don't get Sid and Nancy artsy.

(BTW, Gary Oldman is CRAZY good in this 1986 movie.)

Yesterday on my drive home, I was debating with myself if sending her to The Big City was the best idea, (because it’s really best to keep your children in the dark and make them conform to your agenda for them – hello! That’s why we have therapists, people!) and then I had an epiphany: Oh My God, she’s gone! We can openly eat MEAT!

 OD is a vegetarian, but not for ethical reasons – she honestly doesn’t seem to like animals that much – but because it grosses her out. The texture, the look, the taste, it’s just not her thing. Not caring about animals much doesn’t keep her from freaking out a little bit when we eat meat. She doesn’t want the platter of pork chops near her plate, she can’t stand the sight of ground beef, and she had kittens the night I put a whole roasted chicken on the table. Don’t misunderstand, these reactions don’t stop me from putting meat in front of her, we just have to listen to her complain about it. But not last night.

Me at the store in my favorite cap.

I drove to the store and bought all kinds of red meat. Last night I browned two pounds of hamburger and made walking tacos, and the smell of post-cow wafted through the house. I put the entire skillet of meat on the table, and the rest of my family sat down and ate walking tacos in peace. And they were delicious. At this very moment I have a crock pot of beef stew going, and I will savor its red-meatiness without having to listen to how gross it is. I think I’ll accompany my stew with a glass of red wine to really savor the carnivorousness of it all.  Sweet meat freedom.


UPDATE - I get home from work and walk in the door and get bitch-slapped in the face with the smell of burned stew.  HELLO!  CAN NO ONE IN THIS HOUSE SMELL BURNED MEAT?  It turns out that with OD in NYC and YD at a friend's house, there are two men and a dog in the house.  Of COURSE no one can smell it.  I open the crock pot, and apparently I cannot Fix It and Forget It, for it will burn.  I have been a bad wife, because my crocking is full of coal.  But do I panic?  Oh hell no.  I get the boys in the car and drive to Granite Cityfor a meaty sandwich and to join their Mug Club.
 

Delicious.  After my mug, the boys drive me home, and I talk them into watching Breaking Dawn, Part 1 with me.  (Do not test me, I'll get you to watch a Twilight movie.  Your lion WILL fall in love with my lamb, baby.)  They complain about it the whole time, and when it's over talk about how bad it is, and then say, "We'll go with you when Part 2 comes out in the theater." 
I got my meat, my icy cold mug, my sparkly vampire.  We're going to put this one in the WIN column.

I'm a Helicopter Mom and I Can't Get Up

Today my kids all started Spring Break, which honestly just makes me jealous of them.  I want a week where I get to sleep in and have no responsibility what.so.ever.  We just took our Disney trip, so vacation days are a little precious, and therefore, I am working next week.  Oh, to be a kid again.  (Except be of legal drinking age.  And past the acne crap.  And able to swear and own a dog.  Adulthood does have its benefits.)

Oldest Daughter, who is a freshman in high school, has other plans.  Today, she left on a Fine Arts Department trip to New York City, which I really wish I was on.  Over the next five days, the group is going to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, 30 Rock, Times Square, Ground Zero, Wall Street, Broadway, and they will see a show and watch the NYC Philharmonic, and then she took her cello because they get a clinic with the Philharmonic.  Pretty awesome trip.  I grew up in Nebraska in the 70's and 80's, where our idea of a field trip was Omaha, Lincoln, or if you were really crazy, Kansas City.  Needless to say, I've never been to New York except to fly over it and spend eight hours stuck in La Guardia Airport. *le sigh*

For the past week, people kept asking if I was nervous about her going.  I even had someone mention how they couldn't do it because they've heard about too many fatal bus accidents with student groups (Um...THANK YOU?!?)  But I was totally not nervous about her going at all, just really stoked that she was doing it.

Until today, when I went a little tiny bit Womb Ranger on her.

We drove to the 3 p.m. student meeting before the buses took off at 4 p.m.  While the teachers and chaperones are making their announcements, I'm looking at the other kids.  They have pillows.  They have water bottles.  They have snacks.  OD wouldn't let me equip her with these things.  She said they would be a pain and in the way.  I insisted.  She dug in.  I finally caved and thought, "Whatever, it's your hunger pains and cramped neck."  But at the meeting, my palms started sweating and my heart started pounding and I  leaned over to her and whispered, "You NEED a pillow and snacks.  Can I get them for you?" and she said, "MOM.  NOT. AGAIN.  Let it GO."  Then she gave me the Teenage Death Ray look.  I ceased pleading.

But I REALLY wanted to get them - it felt like I was putting her on a bus to NYC without supplies, like I was sending her off to be a teen runaway.  I could see that she was really eager to be with her friends, and for me to be on my way.  I hugged her and walked to the car and CRIED.  Because just one damn bag of Chex Mix would've made me feel like a good, providing mom.  Like she still NEEDS me.  And I know she does, but DAMN, kid, throw your old mom a bone!

Of course I texted her about two hours later.  "Do you wish you had snacks/pillow?"  She replied, "Yes on snacks, no on pillow.  I love you."  I was right about the snacks, and she still loves me.  I guess I need to just relax.  Where is the pamphlet at the hospital after labor about the emotional toll these kids take on you?  That bus better have a very good driver.  And maybe some Chex Mix to share?

Nervous tics and pinot grigio until Wednesday....

Who Left Their 15-Year-Old In My House?

Because I am clearly not old enough to have one. 
In my mind I'm 23.

Last Friday, this sweet little (slightly jaundiced) peep...

turned into this sweet one-year-from-sixteen:

They're so cute when mildly violent.

So now I have this 15-year-old in my house. 

About eight birthdays ago she was happy to get this:

Now she is mildly excited to get this:

And the son is pretty psyched to be giving the gift.  He was hoping she would be uncomfortable getting this from him, so he ended up disappointed.  OD doesn't show emotion.  That is SO middle school.

Instead of a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese or Incredible Pizza or American Girl, Oldest Daughter decided she wanted a small teenage dinner party at our house.  I made homemade crab rangoon and then ordered all the rest, because I only give about 30% effort at home anymore, and we opened the door to three girls and two boys.  (Technically only two girls, one was late.)

They all acted very mature and grown-up, until the boys decided to start putting Chip Clips on their noses.  OD said, "One of you is going to get hurt" right about the time that Boy 2 (non-boyfriend guest) started bleeding from the nose.  He was very polite and somewhat shamed as OD is standing outside the bathroom door yelling, "You have to blow the clot out.  Trust me, my brother gets these all the time."  Unfortunately, this extremely sweet boy wiped his bloody hands on my snowy-white guest hand towel.  Damn you, Chip Clips, and your irresistable clamping abilities!  It's not a party until someone is bleeding. 

The Boyfriend gave her a fish, which she now loves with all her heart. 

His name is Demetrius Philbert II. 

I hope he makes it until Easter, because my understanding is that fish have short lifespans.

My Affair With Walt DisneyPart 3

So we are nearly done with the Disney thing, as I know you're all repeatedly bashing your head against your desk/laptop/toddler.

During the Wishes fireworks deal in Magic Kingdom at night, they project huge pictures on the castle during the show. OD and The Son had a picture as large as 2/3 of the side of the castle, but I didn't get the shot because I was on acid.

 
(WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG FOR A RANDOM TANGENT. The Son got an Iron Gym recently, and he just did a bunch of pull-ups on it, and then sauntered through the dining room where I am typing and said, "That's the most I've even been able to do. Puberty's hitting me like a freight train" and walked out of the room.  REMINDER - never mention the blog or anything in it in front of my kids if you know me - this happened recently and YD nearly gutted me like a fish.)

Getting ready to see Belle at dinner, after OD did her hair and makeup.

Ariel, the nicest princess of them all - the other princesses at Norway dinner were kind of bitchy. I know, standing and smiling for pictures will suck the sweet right out of you, but at $35 for a plate of the worst beef tips ever just to meet a princess, a little nice will go a long way. YD didn't notice - they were all wonderful in her estimation, so I guess it was worth $140 of bad beef tips.  (No.  Not really.)

Safari Daddy and Little Belle on the way to dinner  - Rock Star Moment.  Everyone walking by would say, "Well hello Princess!"  Hello, ego booster.

CH and I, a couple of cold Blue Moons in our hands, safari hat is off, and some of the best seats in the house for the Fantasmic show (thank you, Tour Guide Mike!).  This was our last night at Disney, and I'm a little verklempt thinking about it now.  So relaxing.  So warm.  So Not-Going-To-Work.  *sigh* On second glance, we both look a little high in this picture.  Which we are not.  Drugs are highly discouraged at Disney.


So now we come to the Low Point of our trip.  Leaving.  We got up at about 6:30 a.m. and took a cab to the airport.  Our cab driver texted and made calls while he was driving, drove about 80 mph, and by the time we got to the airport, YD was carsick.  We walked in the airport, and ran to the bathroom, and she threw up.  We gave her some Dramamine, which we planned on giving her for the plane ride because she gets a freaked out about that, and she threw that up.  And then another.  And then started telling me how now that she was throwing up, she just knew that it wouldn't stop and that it was going to happen on the plane and that the plane was going to be really bad and that she was sick and she just didn't think it was going to work out.  We left the bathroom and she threw up in a brown paper sack I had, we made our way back into the bathroom, and I am holding said bag in one hand and holding her hair back in the other, when I notice the brown bag is leaking on her back.  Oh Dear God.


I start freaking out because I can see that she is working herself up into a panic.  We MUST board this plane.  I am using my soothing voice, telling her how it's all going to be fine, and the Dramamine will kick in soon and she will feel so much better.  She tells me she is NOT going to be fine, and she is sick now and the plane is going to be awful and then she throws up again to let me know she is not screwing around.  I start persuading her that if she has a little bit of Sprite or ginger ale on the plane her stomach will settle down and she'll be okay!  I will buy her:  gum, a teen magazine with Selena Gomez and Justin Bieber in it, a stuffed animal, a pony, Justin Bieber, but we have to get on THIS PLANE! 


They are boarding our flight.  YD will not leave the bathroom.  She has dug in at stall #4.  She will not leave because she will not throw up on the plane.  I use the happy voice, I coax her out of the stall, I tell her it's in her head now, that she's got herself so worked up she is making herself sick.  We are in line to board, and she says, "Oh yeah, well I am going to throw up now" and grabs the (new) brown bag out of my hand.  She throws up.  I am a terrible mother, because I no longer feel bad for her, I'm just exhausted.  I say - really, I say this, and I'm not proud of it - "Go ahead.  Keep throwing up. Maybe if we're lucky you'll poop your pants, too."  She looks up at me.  I stare back at her.  We are both out of ammo.  We clean up and get on the plane. 

It's important to note that at this point, there is a woman on the other side of the planter at which we are parked and having our vomit discussion.  I know she hears the poop comment. A few moments later, I see her slowly turn her head, as in, "Oh my God, I HAVE to see the bitch who made the poop comment, but I don't want to draw her attention." 

YD gets an airsickness bag, I get a Bloody Mary.  She is asleep before takeoff, and I'm shaking with my new case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Curse you, texting cabbie!  We arrived at home in the Quad Cities without incident, and were greeted with great joy.

  And thus concludes My Affair With Walt Disney.  I love you Walt.  I'll be back.

George the Superpet misses me when I'm gone. Although he had fun at the neighbors with their two labs and small, spunky daughter.

My Affair With Walt DisneyPart 2

For those of you who didn't see SNL this weekend, I love this skit, and it is appropro to this post:


For the record, I absolutely love Kristen Wiig, and I am ready to be her body double and life stand-in whenever she needs me.  Her Cinderella reminds me of one of my neighbors.

So let's wrap up this Disney thing - here are the highlights:

Upon arrival, the old dude loading up the Disney Magic Express photobombed my kids.  Check out the rabbit ears he threw on Oldest Daughter.  My kids were in awe.  As was I.  Well played, old Disney dude.

Daytime view from our balcony overlooking Epcot...the nighttime view was the Illuminations show over Epcot with lasers and fireworks.  I had a cold glass of chardonnay and my familia around me on two nights that we just took in the show from our balcony.

Me, kicking everyone's ASS on the Buzz Lightyear ride!  Look at my intensity.  Don't kid yourself, I WILL shoot you.

Pretty happy kid.  I was SO cynical about Disney, really I was, but it is a little bit magical.  There, I said it.  Are you happy Walt?

Oldest Daughter and The Son, enjoying their soaking on Splash Mountain.  Sit in the front, Suckers.

CH, showing that just because he wears a senior citizen safari hat doesn't mean he isn't batshit crazy.  Notice OD and The Son, who purposely staged their picture like they were having a serious conversation and oblivious to the five-story plunge.  Because my family is normal like that.  We plan our ride pictures.

The body on the left is BEFORE you have children.  The body on the right is AFTER three children.  We won't even talk about the incontinence.

But getting back to the picture, this is OD and I after our River Rapids ride with our wet butts.

OD and The Son, mad because the Rockin' Roller Coaster had a two hour wait.  This is the only ride we didn't make it on, because the first day we were there and we had fast passes it was broken, and when we came back it had the long wait.  Guess we'll have to come back.

Since there are so many pictures in this post, I have to break it up into two.  Look for the final (Thank God) installment of Disney Monday night.