Stick a Flag In It

I'm about to tell someone to stick a flag in it.


I'm the orchestra rep for the Fine Arts Boosters at Oldest Daughter's high school.  Besides the obvious bad choice to represent ANYTHING that has the word "fine" in it (other than Fine Cut Cocaine, Fine Piece of Ass, or Library Fine) the fine people on Fine Arts Boosters have obviously not heard from our elementary school how disorganized I am and moved ahead with their choice anyway.


(NOTE to the 17 Mandatory Reporters who read this blog - I do not, nor have I ever done, cocaine.  I did drink Diet Coke addictively, but quit two months ago. I once had a fine ass, and I have been slapped with library fines, but I don't believe that was since my Nancy Drew days in the 70's.)


As part of the requirement of being a rep on Fine Arts Boosters, one has to be in charge of putting flags up around the Quad Cities for the local Optimist's Club.  I did the flags on Veteran's Day last fall, so I thought, "How hard can it be?"  But I wasn't in charge last fall, I was just a regular volunteer.  If I am in your volunteer/non-profit/service organization, for the love of GOD, do not let me be in charge.  I am a big idea person, not an organization person.  I'm the "let's get a 9 foot Christmas tree!" with 8 foot ceilings and a VW Jetta for transport on December 22.

Somehow I did manage to get volunteers to help.  I did get the Activites Director to give me the keys to the high school cargo van on Friday.  I did contact the Optimist Club guy in charge of flags ahead of time.  I did NOT mapquest the address, and realized that on Sunday evening as Current Husband was driving the cargo van to get 87 flags and said, "Where do I turn?"

Um.  Wherever Tremont crosses 53rd Avenue?  And then to some storage unit north of that?  But step on it, cabby, we need to be there in 10 minutes.

CH looked at me adoringly, and said, "WTF, Julie, you didn't get the address?"  I got the particular storage UNIT, I just didn't get the street address or general vicinity in the Quad Cities, with a metro population of over 300,000.  How far could it be?

After a few panicky phone calls, I located the storage unit.  We got our 87 flags loaded and were given vague instructions and some maps.  We left, parked the van, and went home until the alarm went off at 5 a.m. on Monday, when I hit snooze and groaned, "WHY!?!? One of my precious days off work, WHY DID I VOLUNTEER TO DO THIS!?!"  We woke up entire family and drove to parking lot to act cheerful and enthusiastic when other volunteers showed up.  One bitched at me because I didn't make more than 2 copies of the maps, and said that he would've had everyone at the school at 5 to leave at 5:30.  I smiled and said, "Next time you are SO in charge of this, I will happily be your minion!"  I don't offer up minionship lightly, but what the hell?  You get what you pay for, dude.  Isn't this about being an AMERICAN?

We gave everyone a sugar donut and some methamphetamene and left.  It's actually a little bit fun to be out at dawn, sneaking into people's yards, and instead of rolls of unspooled toilet paper, we're leaving flags.  Surprise!  You're patriotic!  They paid for it, so not that surprising, but I like to tell myself it's a random act of flagging.  And really, the American flag is pretty kick-ass, and it's awesome to see them lined up along the streets.  It felt like a good deed.  God Bless America, indeed.

 Oldest Daughter, patriotically vadalizing people.

Then, at 6 p.m., just before we were set to go back out and collect the flags, the sirens went off for a thunderstorm warning.  Shit on a Wheat Thin.  The rules on this were not specific.  If it is raining, do we collect flags?  I saw lightening - technically, I think we are liable if someone is tragically electrocuted while volunteering for me.  Call off the volunteers!

Wait.  Thunderstorm has passed over.  Warning has been lifted, it was only rain.  Call back the volunteers!  We head out on the town, and collect the flags, even though they are a little wet.  Damp, really.  And they're made of nylon, how bad can it be?  Well, bad enough that after an hour of picking up and rolling flags, the Optimists reject us at the Home Base storage unit.  REJECTED!  A real Optimist would think, "I'm sure these flags will dry!" We had to drive the school cargo van with our 87 damp flags back to the school.

For those playing along at home: 
87 damp flags don't dry in a closed van over 24 hours.

I called Rod the Optimist.  He made it VERY clear on the phone that if the flags are not 100% dry, they will not take them back.  Well THAT'S not very optimistic.  I said, "Okay, thanks!" politely on the phone, hung up, and thought, "Where the fuck do you think I'm going to unfurl 87 flags to dry, ROD?  I have a job!  Memorial Day is OVER!  The school wants their cargo van back!"

CH and I drove to the school and checked the flags at 5 p.m. tonight.  Nope.  Not dry.  This is where things really went south, because CH and I were on different paths here.  I was on my normal, passive aggressive "we are in charge, so we have to get the flags dry, I don't like it either" and CH was all "Optimists run the program, this is their problem, they should be clearer on their take-down instructions in bad weather."  We explain our differing positions in tense, adult voices.  We stare at each other in silence.  I open the cargo van and start taking flags out to line up along the high school tennis court fences.  CH stares at me and starts muttering about how this is so much bullshit, his volunteer shift ended 24 hours earlier.  I respond in an intelligent and mature way - I cry.  I'm not a big crier, so CH was kind of stunned.  He's not exactly sure what to do with me in that state, so he got very quiet and helped.  I should definitely cry more often.

The Son, as our family unfurled, dried, and re-furled 87 flags tonight.

Because who likes personal time?  Not us!

I'm now taking some personal time off work at lunch tomorrow so I can return the flags to the Optimists, and return the school cargo van before they call the police.  But the next time someone wants me to volunteer this summer?

They can stick a flag in it.

DISCLAIMER:  This blog in no way demeans the American flag or the raising or care of said flag.  This blog does not condone the use of cocaine or methamphetamine, or crying as an act of manipulation.  This blog does not encourage anyone to TP yards or steal the high school cargo van.  This blog does not imply that drinking an extremely large margarita on the rocks with salt is an appropriate way to end a school volunteer event, nor to start the next morning.  This blog does not promote the use of expired milk, and lists 'fisting' as a soft limit.

Sorry Jen, I'm Un-Stalking You

I MAY be stepping in a big steaming pile of poo with some hardcore fans to say this, but I've been thinking about it for a while, and I can't it hold back any longer.

I'm Un-Stalking Jen Lancaster.

There.  I said it.  I'm out of the closet.  This has been a difficult decision, one in the making for over a year. 

My college friend, known here as "Pat", turned me on to Jen about five years ago.  Pat is pretty cutting edge on her pop culture, and knows I appreciate edgy, cool stuff, so she sends tips my way.  She sent me an e-mail in late 2007 that said, "If you're not reading Jen Lancaster, you need to - you are like a version of her with kids."  I clicked on the link to Jennsylvania, and I was hugely flattered that she would say that at all.  I was hooked.  Jen was awesomely hilarious.  I immediately began stalking her, because OF COURSE we would be besties if we met in real life!

I read "Bitter Is The New Black".  Hi-larious.  I want to be a writer.  I can relate.
I read "Bright Lights, Big Ass."   Completely Awesome.  She's like Every Woman.
I read "Such a Pretty Fat."  Love, love, love.  Who likes to exercise?  I love food.
I read "Pretty in Plaid."  I crushed on Jake Ryan.  I got all the '80s references.  Funny stuff.
Then "My Fair Lazy" came along. Hmm.  Not so much.  Not bad, but not like the others.But I still loved Jen, because she was Jen.  I went with Pat to Chicago to Jen's book signing, where we got completely shit-faced drunk and I nearly passed out in Borders waiting for her, but had the besttimeeversomuchfun.  You can read here, but try to respect me in the morning.  It was fun!  Because we were hanging out with Jen!




Then came "If You Were Here".  The fiction book that wasn't fiction, it was more like "Jen and Fletch's crazy hijinks, under false names, with some exaggerations."  But it felt disingenuous.  I felt like she thought she was being smarter than her readers, and it wasn't really fiction, it was creative non-fiction.  I was distracted during the whole book thinking "Yeah yeah, the dog Daisy is Maisy and Tracey is Stacey and Maya is Jen, just own up to it already!"

But it was Jen, so it was okay.  Sort of.

Then her blog started turning ugly. 

I loved her blog, Jennsylvania.  It was funny and snarky and wonderful.  Jen has always done a great job of being funny while poking a little fun at herself.  She's always bitched a bit, but shown some compassion, or tried to understand the other side.  The whole point of Bitter was to show how she had been this materialistic bitch who got her comeuppance, and now she was a writer and happy without the crazy high maintenance life she had been leading.  In the last year, I feel like her blog has become this personal venting area where she can throw around her celebrity to bully companies into doing what she wants.  Some of the gripes she has are legit, but they all just feel so...so....BITCHY. 

She goes after commenters on her FB page personally and then outs them to her other 54,000 followers, who then go crazy on that person too so they can impress Jen.  Usually these individuals get called out because they've expressed an opinion, sort of like how Jen does, but the backlash on these people who are called out is horrible.  I can't believe the things people will post to total strangers, just because someone famous tells them to.  If for some crazy reason she finds this blog post, she'll probably announce on her FB page "If you don't like it JULIE, then stick it!  That's why I've blocked you!"   Look on her page right now, she did it to someone named Krista last week. And that is her right.  But it just smacks of meanness, and while I love me a little bit of bitchy and bitter, I'm not interested in being one of the Mean Girls.  I don't visit Jennsylvania much anymore.

It seems, dare I say it, like she's gone full circle back the Jen in the beginning of Bitter, who had it all and ordered her minions around without thinking about the reprecussions, because she was better than them.  I like the old Jen, who was funny and snarky and fun, and who invited us all in the good times with her.

Her new book, Jeneration X, is out.  In the past, I would have pre-ordered the hardcover copy on Amazon and waited to see where I could drink a chardonnay in her honor on the book tour.  The other day, I walked past the book in Barnes and Noble, paused, and then kept walking.  Maybe I'll buy the paperback.  Maybe not.

I'll miss you, Jen Lancaster!

Karma is a Bitch

I've been dealing with my restraining order ever since I stalked The Mayor, so things have been a little hectic on my end. I unplugged last weekend, and let me tell you, all of the people who say, "OMG, it was so good to get away from technology" obviously aren't using it right.  It SUCKED.  Hello, I didn't hear about Robin Gibb until today!  The Bloggess posted and I didn't even have a shot at Firsties.  #MyFaveSexPosition was trending on Twitter and I missed it.  Seriously, what did people DO before the Internet? 

When I was pregnant with my Oldest Daughter, I was all haughty with organic goodness, and said things like, "I'm going to have a natural labor", which clearly indicated I had never BEEN in labor.  My High School Friend Paige the OB, medical expert on other posts, told me "Jude, epidurals exist for a reason.  In this day and age there is no reason for women to birth babies like Ma Ingalls in a cabin with a pot of boiling water and a leather strap."  Or something to that extent.  I waited until Baby #3 to have an epidural, and I nearly wept with joy when it took hold.  I could've read a People magazine and had a pedicure while pushing.  I guess I'm telling you this as some kind of metaphor for going without Twitter or Facebook or blogs. 

ANYWHO, I'm checking in to say hi, and to tell you that I'm driving to Dubuque, Iowa tomorrow to ANOTHER casino hotel so I can take a website marketing seminar for my hooker job.  (Hookers are all about the internet these days.)  There is a chance I won't make it back, so I'm here to tell you all that I love you before I get my Venti Quad Skinny Vanilla Latte at 6:30 a.m. and head out the door.  You may be asking yourself, "Self, why is she so effing negative?  I don't read this blog for that shit."  Well, Wifers, I have a good reason.

I'm being haunted by the ghost

of Benny the Baby Duckling.

Not Actual Benny.  Because he is dead,

and therefore no longer photogenic.

So I'm driving to pick up some kids the other night, and I am taking the ramp onto the Interstate, and this bird is in the street, walking.  I'm all, "Get moving, Bird" and thinking it will fly soon, and then I'm bearing down on it, going "FLY DAMMIT FLY!" and then, too late, I realize it's an adorable little duckling.  I don't feel my tires go over it, but how could I?  It's so tiny and fluffy and trusting of the large one-ton metal cube seemingly coming to pet it.  I look in my rearview mirror, and there is a DUCK DOWN.

Honestly, I freaked out a little bit.  First because obviously, it's an adorable little duckling and all I can think about is it's mother in the ditch yelling, "BENNY, NOOOOOOO!", but really, what kind of mother lets her kid play on an exit ramp?  Second, I'm thinking about how when Current Husband and I bought a VW Jetta about 10 years ago, we were driving it home for the first time and I joked, "Wouldn't it be funny if we hit a deer right..."
and BAM! We hit the biggest raccoon I've ever seen in my life.  It was the size of a burro or a small bear, and it had a propellor hat and was eating a fudgesicle.  After that, the Check Engine light never went off in that car, for the entire time we owned it.  After the third trip to the VW dealership, the mechanic seriously said, "We've done all we can do.  I think you need a priest."

So now I have the ghost of Benny with me, and bad shit has gone down ever since.  About an hour later, I dropped my favorite Starbucks mug:

It slipped out of my hands in the house, and I watched in slow motion as it dropped and shattered all over my hardwood floor.

Then I got a sinus infection and found out that they don't treat those with Xanax or Vicodin or Kahlua, but instead with horse steroids that can't be taken with alcohol.

Then my favorite white t-shirt got a stain on it, and my favorite brown capris got a big grease stain right on the butt.  Don't ask me how.  Really.  Don't.

Then my company announced they were switching servers and I couldn't take my laptop home for the weekend, and I swallowed a large bug.

Et tu, Benny?

Have a good day, Wifers, and for God's sake, watch out for the ducklings!  I'm a killer! 

Messing With The Mayor

Yesterday, I completely messed with Iowa State Head Basketball Coach Fred Hoiberg's head. Honestly, I feel a little bad about it, because he's a good guy, but I still laughed about it as I drove away from the casino hotel where we met.


If you are, or have ever been, an Iowa State fan, you know The Mayor.  He's the epitome of what Iowa State sports is all about - grace, class, hard work, smarts, and a sense of humor.  Pretty much every Iowa State fan is in love with him, but not in a 50 Shades kind of way.  (Well, maybe some of them, but not I.  After all, I have Current Husband.)


I was a Chi Omega with Fred's wife at Iowa State in the late 80's and early 90's, back when I could hold my liquor and only had one chin.  I don't KNOW Carol that well, because she was two years younger than I in school and I was just as self-absorbed then as I am now, but I know her well enough that if I saw her I would give her a hug and think about how gorgeous she is but then be mad about it because I can't get all jealous mad because she happens to be a really NICE person too.  Damn you gorgeous people who are also good people...you make it impossible to begrudge your happiness and good fortune.  Seriously.  Throw us a bone.  Kick a puppy or something.


So yesterday I find out that Iowa State is doing a Tailgate Tour where the coaches show up and you can meet and greet.  I signed The Son up for one of Fred's basketball camps at ISU in June for his birthday, and it's a surprise, so I thought, "COOL!  I can get Fred to autograph something for him, and that's how we tell The Son he is going to the camp!"  The problem is that I work, and the event was in the afternoon at the local casino.  You know, good wholesome fun for the family.


I sort of slip out the back door at work and peal out of the parking lot to the casino.  I walk in and Fred is being interviewed by the local news stations.  I wait my turn, and then I pounce on him.  I walk up, shake his hand, say my name and say I know Carol.  Fred, who is ever the gentleman, says something polite, and I say, "Where is your hot biscuit wife?  Doesn't she get to come on these things?"  He looks a little taken aback.  Hot biscuit?  That's kind of familiar.  I ask him to sign my card - the Iowa State people only brought football stuff, and come on, NOTHING basketball?  So I end up with a Cyclone TV promo postcard that I shove at Fred to sign.  He looks at me like "You want me to sign this promotional postcard for a TV network?"  Um, yes.  Because I came unprepared, and that's the kind of mother I am.  Deal.


As he's signing it, I say something about his brother's band in Omaha, the Southpaw Bluegrass Band, and how he should get me backstage passes.  I say this because I think it's a really funny concept that people probably try to use Steve to get to his more famous brother Fred, so I thought it would be hilarious that I'm trying to press the ISU head basketball coach for tickets to his brother's bluegrass band in Omaha.  For the record, I am the only person out of the two of us who thought that was funny.

Like them on Facebook!  I'm going to try to

catch a show this summer when I'm home.

Then I ask Fred to say Happy Birthday to my son on the card.  He graciously agrees, thinking, "Who the hell is this person?"  I say, "Isn't your son's 13th birthday soon?"  He looks at me cautiously and says "Yes", and I go for broke and say, "Your daughter is a couple of months younger than (OD), and your son and my son (same name) were born close together, but I stopped at twins".  Fred Hoiberg blinks, and smiles.  He is clearly thinking, "Either this woman is a total stalker and I need to call security, or she's my cousin and my mom is going to call me tonight and chastise me for not knowing her.  Shit.  I hate these tailgate tours."


He had a line of people and media waiting, so I left to speed back to work and hope I wasn't missed.  I called CH and told him how I unintentionally messed with The Mayor's head.  I'm sure everyone acts like they know Fred, because they see him on TV, and I've only met him maybe twice in my life when he was either a senior in high school or a freshman in college, so there is no way he would know me.  But in my babble, I dropped enough info that I should have just gone all the way and said, "You really need to cut back on the Lipitor, I found another empty bottle in your trash last week."


This morning, the owner of my company walked in to my office, said "Do a little gambling yesterday afternoon, Julie?" and put THIS on my desk:

Photo courtesy of the Quad-City Times.

I was on the front page of the Sports Section today.  A BIG picture.  A place I truly never thought I would be in my life.  Life section?  Sure.  Police report?  Maybe.  Sports?  Um, no.  Perhaps now my job will be in the Employment section.


So there I am, in all my stalker glory, on the front page of the paper, playing hookie from work on my "secret" mission to get an autograph for The Son.  I got texts all day long about this.  And my son's friends told him all about it at school.  "Um, Mom?  Did you go see Fred Hoiberg without me?"  No.  I was at McDonalds getting a McFlurry.  Doesn't that dude look JUST LIKE Fred?  Weird.


I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor.  I have issues.  Your wife already knows that.  Go Cyclones!

CH, You Were Right

You were right, Current Husband.

Did you see that? Savor it, because it's not going to happen again.

I'm sure you're all saying to yourselves, "Self, did she say CH was right?  Because I just don't see how that's possible."

Well, BELIEVE ME, I understand your confusion.  How did this happen?  How did I sink so far?  Let's get in the Way Back Machine to yesterday, when it was MOTHER'S DAY, and therefore all about me.  I was doing a little Hitler-esque directing of gardening activities, because it was my day and I could make everyone tap dance to Candyman while wearing bear costumes if I damn well pleased, but I didn't.  I made the children rip out five errant thorn bushes in the front yard, because as much as they whined and pleaded, what child doesn't secretly love shoveling out thorn bushes?  Right?  Schnell, schnell!  Diggest sie bushes, mein Leibchen!

It was a little sunny out, and I was sweating right through my tank top and ripped up short jean shorts from college (Your shorts, Denato, the ones that got you kicked out of that bar in Florida), and I decided to leave the minions and shop for flowers at Home Depot for the children to plant.  While there, I did a naughty and bought one ice-cold Diet Coke.

Poison!  It's poison, I tell you! 

Beautiful, delicious poison.

So I drink a little - only my second sip in SIX EFFING WEEKS - and CH rides my ass about it when I get home.

CH:  "You didn't."
ME:  "I did."
CH:  "You were so good!  Don't do it!"
ME:  "Oh quit being such a ninny!  I used to drink two cans a day, one little sip won't hurt me."
CH:  "Yes it will."
ME:  "It's Mother's Day, and I'll drink it if I want to drink it."
CH:  "You're going to hate yourself."
ME:  "I don't have a problem, I can quit whenever I want."

And I took a big drink just to show him I could.  He shook his head sadly and walked away.  I was fine.  I conquered this.  I can have a little bit, but I'm not a slave to Diet Coke.  Diet Coke doesn't own me, I own IT!

Until today.  When I started having the terrible gas and the digestive turbulence again.  But CH didn't need to know about that.  Until we were in the dining room and one of the kids walked by and said, "EWW, who smells?  Is that you, George?"

"Own up, bitch, I'm not taking the heat for your stank."

Grr.  "Yes, it's George."   CH looked up from his computer with a smug look on his face.  "I told you," he said softly.  But not so softly that I couldn't hear it.  Or that he wouldn't pay.

Not much later, while he was laughing at innapropriate things on It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, I had a bad moment in the bathroom.  It happened as I was starting Sarah Silverman's book, "The Bedwetter".

Oddly enough, I was reading the foreword, where she says that you are probably reading this book while pooping, but that she appreciates you sharing your most intimate and vulnerable moment with her, and that if you take the book one poop at a time, you'll get through it.

CH is in the bedroom, yelling, "I can smell that!  It's the Diet Coke, you know."  Mother.Effer.  Does he have to rub it in?  So I flush, but the memory of my moment is still there.  So I take a notecard and write "I love you" and tape it to the seat.  But then he goes in and doesn't see the notecard, and sits on it, and then it falls into the toilet. 

"JULIE!  DID YOU PUT A NOTE IN HERE?!?"

"Um, no.  George must've done it."

"Seriously?  Must I get blamed for everything? 

There'd better be a treat in this for me."

The joke was on me, as I had to use two bobby pins to fish it out (which I did throw away, Mandatory Reporters).  I'm glad we could share this moment together, Wifers.  It's like you were with me the whole time.  I blame the Coca-Cola company.  Their poisonous chemicals make me so crazy that I overshare.

I hate it that he was right.  Mondays.

Happy Mother's Day, Wifers!

I'm one of those people who never really thought much about having kids.  I didn't particularly enjoy babysitting, nor was I that great at it (but I did like babysitting you, Jason and Little Julie!) and I didn't really aspire to be a mother at any point until I was pregnant with Oldest Daughter.  Honestly, that was kind of an oops after a night of drunken ribaldry with Current Husband, just before our first anniversary, but I sort of rolled with the punches.  And then she was born, and DAMN.  She was pretty cute.  And I loved holding her and taking pictures of her, and I GOT it.  I went on to be a mother of three, plus a sweet baby we would've called Adelaide that I miscarried, and even though I don't know how GOOD I am at it, I really get a kick out of my kids.  They are smart and funny and interesting people, sometimes in spite of me, and I am so incredibly blessed every day to have them in my life.  Even when I'm yelling at them for being late or not telling me about an event at school or not doing their homework, I still know.

My people.  First two rows. 

Always a fun ride.

Today was just awesome - I slept in shamefully late, and got gifts from my peeps:  A fleece sock monkey blanket from OD that she made herself, a free and complete cleaning of my office from The Son (which I desperately needed), and a metal Bloggess-like rooster from Youngest Daughter, and a Starbucks gift card from CH.  Best gifts ever.  CH took us all out for breakfast.  We came home and they helped clean the house for an hour, and then they let me direct all of them in gardening and yard work and fetched a few Blue Moons for me.  Our neighbors had us over for an awesomely delicious and fun meal, and then, there was pie.

Absolute bliss.

Who knew when I was 23 that this would be the type of perfect day I would crave, but so it is.

Happy Mother's Day, I hope your day was fantastic, whether you are a mother or you just have a great one!

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 people with latex fetishes.

Today's topic: Fifty Shades of CH

For the past week, I've been on blogging hiatus while I check out porn.  LIKE ALL OF THE OTHER GOOD MOMS AT MY KIDS' SCHOOLS.  Don't give me that look, Ms. Soccer Mom.  I know you've been all tingly with bondage tales.  The windows in your Sienna are all steamed up.  As a writer of a Whoreticulture blog, it's irresponsible for me NOT to know what is going on in the playrooms of America, and therefore I am required to read these tomes.  For you.  For those of you who have not read Fifty Shades, here is the synopsis:

"When literature student Anastasia Steele goes to interview young entrepreneur Christian Grey, she encounters a man who is beautiful, brilliant, and intimidating. The unworldly, innocent Ana is startled to realize she wants this man and, despite his enigmatic reserve, finds she is desperate to get close to him. Unable to resist Ana’s quiet beauty, wit, and independent spirit, Grey admits he wants her, too—but on his own terms.

Shocked yet thrilled by Grey’s singular erotic tastes, Ana hesitates. For all the trappings of success—his multinational businesses, his vast wealth, his loving family—Grey is a man tormented by demons and consumed by the need to control. When the couple embarks on a daring, passionately physical affair, Ana discovers Christian Grey’s secrets and explores her own dark desires.
Erotic, amusing, and deeply moving, the Fifty Shades Trilogy is a tale that will obsess you, possess you, and stay with you forever."

That last part?  I'm going to call a Bullshit Foul.  This will not obsess you, possess you, or stay with you forever.  It will shock you, mostly with the poor writing and repetition of cause and effect scenarios, and honestly, I'm now flipping through the sex parts until it says, "Come, Ana, give it to me!" and then she "shatters into a million pieces" for her orgasm, so I can get back to the story.  Because didn't we ALL come EVERY SINGLE TIME during the two or three times a day we were having sex within the first two months of losing our virginity?  And experimenting with butt plugs?  Exactly.  Since this is Every Woman's story, I'm going to give it to you, baby, Wifer Style.

PRESENTING.....Fifty Shades of CH

I walked into the smoky bar at Iowa State University, and I saw him.  Of course, I tripped and stumbled because I'm incredibly beautiful and smart, but just can't seem to keep my balance!  He was prematurely balding and drinking a beer while playing pool.  The way he held both his pool cue and his beer was a testament to his ability to use both hands.  I was intrigued.  He looked past me while my roommate introduced me to him.

 

"Hi," I said.

 

"Hey," he said.  And then I lost my balance and put my butt right against the front of his jeans.  Oh!  How embarrassing.  Now I'm going to have to have sex with him. 

 

He controlled the timetable, because he was the dominant in our relationship, and he had just ordered another pitcher of beer and had four more quarters on the pool table.  He masterfully hit his balls all over the table, thrusting the stick against the balls again and again until they slammed into the pocket.  My inner goddess was thirsty and my inner harpy was reminding me that I needed to be at my internship at the Des Moines Register early the next day.  I left with my roommate, leaving Master and I both unfulfilled.  A dark shadow passed in front of his eyes, and I felt myself filling with an unease that was making me both wary of him and willing to let him lock me up in various bondage cuffs and spreaders.  Then I realized someone was doing shadow puppets with their hands in front of his face, and it wasn't really his eyes, because who actually sees emotions flit around in someone's pupils?

 

I did stumble into bed with this domineering, smart (ass), successful (Scrabble playing), wealthy (with information), God-like(ing), (remote) controlling man, and then I tripped down the aisle into marriage.  After numerous occasions of some very hardcore, Missionary style 20-minute sex sessions, I became pregnant with our first child.  She was born every inch the smart, beautiful, clumsy person as her mom (and will get an internship at a publishing house and unexpectedly rise up to take over the senior acquisitions editor job from her boss within two weeks when he is dismissed for trying to have sex with her) and as soon as she was born, SCREECH!  All of that crazy bondage sex was over.

 

Oh CH...you are a mystery to me still.  You are like a cocktail weenie wrapped in croissant dough with Velveeta on top - so hot, a fast snack, and bad for my thighs.  I see you, and get all aroused about how you don't mow the yard.  You see me, and your blood gets all tingly because I murmur sexily about how I do everything around the house while you watch TV.  And the fucking.  Oh, the fucking.  Let me count the ways:

 

"Let the fucking dog out!"

"Why do I have to make the fucking coffee??!"

"What's this $75 charge at your fucking hair place!?"

"Is there another fucking orchestra concert THIS week too?"

"Will NO ONE fold this fucking laundry!"

 

Mmmm.  I'm getting hot just thinking about it.  No really.  I'm getting hot.  Will you get your fucking leg off of me?  Thanks. 

 

The End. 

 

I know, right?  It makes you want to go have sex with someone!  Now get crazy and take your panties off to go grocery shopping!  It's totally acceptable now.  You're welcome, America.

 

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend.



It's Whoreticulture Monday! Issue 1

Yesterday, I picked up a copy of the much-discussed "Fifty Shades of Grey".

Tonight, I finished it. I have to blog about it now whilst I'm thinking about it, because DAMN. It's definitely Whoreticulture Material. So here it is, the first-ever Whoreticulture Monday.  Hide your children, hide your husbands.  The cuffs are snapping on.

If you didn't see Saturday Night Live this weekend, here is the ad you missed, which had me howling with laughter:


While I didn't straddle a washing machine or take a bath or utilize any "microphones", there were definite squirm-worthy moments.  Unfortunately for CH, Sunday afternoon with kids running all over the place isn't really the appropriate time to take advantage of those moments.  Fortunately for him, this is a trilogy.

I'm not going to ruin it for you by saying that it's chock full 'o sex and bondage.  I will say that when I started reading, I got a little pissed.  First, it's such an OBVIOUS rip-off of Twilight.  She's brunette, clumsy, smart but has somehow never dated.  She seems oblivious to every guy wanting her. Her mother is harebrained, her father is taciturn.  She loves Brit Lit.  He is god-like, long fingers, plays piano, powerful, is wealthy, is bad for her.  It's set in Washington State.  She works in an effing HARDWARE store.  I did have a commenter tell me the book came from a Twilight Fanfic site, which is where people write their versions of events with a Twilight theme, so maybe if you know that in advance you won't be so damn irritated about it like me.

In my opinion, the writing is very poor.  The author desperately needs a thesaurus.  If I read the words "harpy" or "inner goddess" one more time in my life it will be too soon. But she wrote a book and I haven't, so who am I to judge?  There are some parts that are admittedly hot, but I found myself so mad at the heroine during most of the book that I couldn't quite get in the appropriate mood.  Why does she stay?  Why is being dominated by a man so glorified?  Why would a woman EVER give up her right to free will?  Sex is great, but it isn't everything.  I was honestly disturbed by a lot of the story, and had trouble getting past my prejudices.  I swear, Betty Friedan is spinning in her grave.

 "Can you BELIEVE this bullshit?  Why did I even bother."

But.  As much as I rolled my eyes (oh, spank me) and muttered under my breath (Run, Dumbass, RUN!) I finished the 500-page tome in about 36 hours.  And now I have to buy the next one, because who doesn't love to watch a trainwreck?  I won't watch Kardashians or Bachelorettes, but I'm going to go Fifty Shades Darker.  Damn it.  I hate myself a little bit for it, but really, there had better be some big Woman Power in this one or I'm burning my bondage cuffs.

If There's A Will.....

As part of my ongoing "Drive 100,000 Miles In My Own City" program, I picked Youngest Daughter up from a friend's house the other day to get her home and take Oldest Daughter to her next destination.  As I was driving down the street, an old Cadillac pulled out in front of me, and proceeded to drive about 10 mph. 

I don't want to tailgate.  I really don't.  But DAMN IT ALL if I don't have a schedule to keep, and if we are all following the speed limit it will make things so much easier.  I'm getting frustrated with the Caddy when they drift left into an imaginary turn lane in the middle of the two lane street.  Yay!  They are turning left!  OH SHIT!  BOO!!!  They are actually turning right into a driveway by swinging their big ass Caddy into the middle of the street first, with NO EFFING TURN SIGNAL, and right in front of me!  I hit the brakes, all was well.

YD:  "Mom, did you almost hit that car?"
ME:  "Yes.  And this is why when you drive you should ALWAYS use your turn signals!"
YD:  "I'm glad you didn't hit that car."
ME:  "Me too!"
YD:  (contemplative) "I mean, I don't even have a will, and I have $28 and a
        bunch of dolls that I will need to leave to people."
ME:  (shocked) "Did you say a will?"
YD:  "Yeah.  Those things that tell people when you die who gets what."
ME:  "Maybe you should write it down and get it notarized."
YD:  "What's notarized?"
ME:  "It's when someone has been trained by the government to know how to decide if a document has really been signed by the person who is listed as signing it.  And you have witnesses too, like some of your friends who can verify that you said what you did."
YD:  "I'm not sure which friends I would have sign it..."
ME:  "You'll want to be careful about that, because if they find out they're getting your Lalaloopsy dolls they might push you in front of a car."
YD:  "You know, I'm too young to be worrying about these things."
ME:  "Agreed."

I wonder who is getting the $28....