Bad Santa and Coal in My Stocking

First and Foremost:  

I am finally switching the blog to WordPress!  So welcome to the new followers, and I'm so sorry, but your Blogger follow will cease to have meaning after July 1.  However, I hope you will come with me to WordPress, where the commenting is easier and hopefully there are fewer glitches from the administrative end.  Can I get an amen?

I will be posting on both blogs until July 1, and then I'll be switching over solely to WordPress.  Here is the link to the new address - http://www.adayinthewife.com/.  Please make a note of it.

I've been pretty busy for the past week - not only did all of the batshit crazy house projects happen, but I also managed to stalk (and perhaps frighten) an author last weekend at my writer thingy.  Photos were taken, but by a guy named Jim from Tulsa, Oklahoma, and I'm going to wait and see if he comes through with the digital pics he took.  BECAUSE WHY WOULDN'T A GUY FROM TULSA I'VE KNOWN FOR LESS THAN 24 HOURS HONOR HIS PROMISE TO SEND THE PICS HE TOOK OF ME WITH ANOTHER WOMAN?  You have nothing if you don't have faith, people.

Another man I've frightened in the past few weeks is my neighbor, John.  He's a great guy, a bachelor, living in the house he grew up in, but I do suspect he is one of the Feral Cat Club in the neighborhood, where I seem to be the only non-member.  When we first moved into Current House, John made the fatal mistake of giving George the Superpet a Milkbone every time he drove out of the driveway, which runs right next to our backyard fence.  Now, if George hears John's car starting, he begs to be let outside, at which time he barks as though he is going to rip out John's kidney, but I know what George is really saying is "Where is my Goddamned Milkbone?" because George is a now complete Milkbone junkie, thanks to John.  If you're going to start handing out the crack, you can't cut your homies off, because those crackheads will cut. you.

John looks a little bit like Bad Santa.  He drives a sensible SUV, but he has a bottle green convertible Corvette that he takes out on the weekends.  He has a boat.  He likes whiskey.  John love of his boat and Corvette is in direct proportion to his dislike of taking care of his yard.  Including the poison sumac patch he was indirectly cultivating, where I believe the particularly festering neighborhood feral cats would crawl to die.

Neighborhood pack of feral cats waiting for daily 4 p.m. feeding across the street. Honestly, you can't make this stuff up.

If you'll recall, I had boob issues a few weeks back. Web MD diagnosed me with a rare form of ductal cancer, and my Book Club started a Casserole Chain for me and my High School Friend Paige The OB-GYN couldn't diagnose me over the phone because I had accidentally torn the top of my nipple off, so I went in to my doctor. 

DR: "So what seems to be the problem?  You have a sore on your...uh.."
(She is checking chart to be sure this is why I'm there.)
ME:  "My nipple.  It stuck to my bra, and I accidentally tore it off, but now I think it's poison ivy."
DR:  (not following my logic) "Why do you think that?"
ME:  "Because I got poison ivy the day after I tore my nipple off. And now I'm on Prednisone and that's why I'm blowing up like Jerry Lewis."
DR:  "Okay.  Let's take a look at it."

And then it's one of those awkward moments when you're laying on a table all National Georgraphic with your arm up over your head like you're in an oil painting.

This is how I do ALL of my breast exams.

And your doctor is feeling you up, in a purely clinical way, and making small talk with you, like "Is baseball season still going for you guys?" and I'm all, "It must be because you just stole second!" and then I ask about her kids, because really, enough about me.  Then she looks really closely at my nipple, sits me up, high fives me, and says, "Congratulations, you are the first patient I've ever seen with poison ivy on their nipple!"  This is why I love my doctor.  Let's turn a festering sore into a victory. 

She gives me cream and asks about my yard.  We determine that George the Superpet is getting oil on his coat from the poison sumac, which is then getting on my hands, and because I'm so allergic to poison ivy/oak/sumac, if it touches my skin it immediately gets into my bloodstream and BAM! Itchy sores everywhere.  My doctor tells me we should offer to cut the patch down for John, because as long as it's up, my yard is booby trapped.  Seriously.  She says that.  So I have to say, "LITERALLY" and she doesn't even laugh, she just looks down and says, "I can't believe I just gave you that opening."  Me either, Doc.  It's like you don't know me at all.

The last time I had it - big patch on my chest, and all under my chin and second and third chins, and pretty much everywhere else, which is why my doctor made me wear a tube top dress and NOTHING ELSE.  You're welcome, neighbors.

I see John in the yard and I say hi.  He walks over and we chat, and I say something along the lines of "Do you care if we have The Son chop down your Poison Sumac garden?" and he says something like "Oh my gosh, it has poison sumac in it?" and I say something along the lines of "Yeah, George rubs on it and gets the oil on him, and then gives it to me.  I've got it on my chest and arms right now".  He pauses and looks at me, and says, "I'll take it down today."  I protest, because I know he wants to get to his boat, but he won't relent, and spends his day taking the stuff down.

It wasn't until later that day, as John is slaving away in the sun, that I realize I told him George gets the oil on HIM, and that I now have it all over my chest, and I know he has a visual of me rubbing my nakedness all over my oiled up Standard Poodle.

And then I wonder why the neighbors don't talk to us.

The Baffling Case of the Oprah Moment

Today I'm going to go all Nancy Drew on your asses and go undercover on an investigation into the secret self inside us all.  I have a little friend love I want to share with y'all, and I'm sure it will embarrass my friends, but welcome to the world of CH and my children, dears.

 Friday I was going to a hooker show, and en route I picked up a friend of mine from college.  I won't embarrass her here, (ANGIE), but I walked in her house and my jaw dropped.  Not only is she gorgeous, inside and out, but so is her house - and she does all of her decorating and makes a lot of her accessories.  Right in the front door was this kick-ass lamp that had a burlappy-linen shade, and there was a big letter "P" painted on it (last name).  She made it.  Right around the corner was a big framed print that had all of the addresses at which her family had lived in the past 20 years (she moves as much as I do!), and it was cool and edgy and sentimental.  Yep, she made it.  Beautiful photo arrangements and art and accessories, all made by her.  She is an undiscovered treasure, and I hope she either opens a store or starts selling on etsy or begins decorating people's houses, starting with mine.  Talent, talent, talent.  In the words of Vince Vaughn, She's money and she doesn't even know it.

I have a great posse of friends in my previous town of Mount Vernon, Iowa.  Some of them I talk with regularly, and some of them I don't talk to nearly enough and am WAY overdue for some time with them, but everyone gets tied up with kids and lives and such, so I know it will happen eventually.  Today I was missing Mount Vernon and all of the creative people I know there who always bring the funk.  My friend Tommie is an amazing photographer, and she has a show at Cornell College in Mount Vernon, so I loaded up The Son and we drove to see it.

 She is too legit to quit.

The show was amazing - an abandoned warehouse in Burlington from (I think?) the 30's and 40's that still has cans of pineapple and toilet bowl cleaner ("Also works on automotive radiators!") and coffee beans on the floor, and she took photographs of the place with its natural light.  Amazing.  The pics I took of the pics are crappy because A) I am not a photographer, and B) there was a glare on the glass, so you'll have to take my word for it, they are fantastic.  Then I went to her store, where she had these lovely baubles that she made:

I know, right?

You can like her store site on facebook at "fuel....art and espresso"

Remember when I talked about making spaces for yourself in your house or wherever to feed that creative side?  I had Tommie take pics of her studio a while ago for your viewing pleasure.  She has an incredible eye, as you can see from these pics.  This is a room behind her garage.  I shall live here:

A bed in the studio.  Because you just never know.

But if I stay out here I might steal all of her stuff.

I left her house and drove to her store, where I walked out with a cappucino, a homemade cookie as big as my head, a bag of coffee beans, a kickass bracelet, and a smile. 

I drove to my friend Jana's house, and saw her new bathroom and some things she's done in her house to change things up, and I wish I'd taken a pic of her mantel.  The entire fireplace area is painted ruby red with a mantel she had made by an ironworking dude in town, and then had a large yellow pear sculpture that is the twin to my pomegranate, made by a local MV artist, on said mantel.  It is very dramatic.  This woman is amazing - she has a Biology degree, has a published science textbook in Spanish that she wrote, she can knit amazing socks and mittens and sweaters, makes funky screenprinted sachets, is an amazing cook (she HATES it when I rave about her cooking, but really, it is the shizzle) and worked for a taxidermist. 

While I was there, another friend of ours, Elizabeth, who lives down the street, came over to borrow cumin.  She is a photographer and adventurer and made a documentary on the Lincoln Highway and has taken her children to India and Turkey and has her junior doing a semester in Germany right now.

I drove home from this soul-replenishing visit and thought about all of the amazing women I know.  Women who are brilliant and creative and edgy and fan-fucking-tastic, all the while being humble and truly good and kind people.  Just, wow.  They are inspirational, and make me strive to be better.  And I'm not the only person who knows women like this - we all do.

Oh my God, I'm having an Oprah moment.

Sweet baby Jesus, that was scary.  Let's get Julie back to normal - um, they all have great racks, too.  Except Elizabeth, but she has a huge personality.

So go forth, Wifers!  Create your space in your home, even if it's just under a couch where you secretly eat Oreos and listen to ABBA.  Find your happy place - but not in public, you may get arrested.  It is contagious.  Well, hopefully not what you find in your happy place, but if it is, contact your physician. 

UPDATE on Monday a.m. - I'm wanting to respond to Peruby's comment, lest anyone get the wrong impression from this post....I'm not saying people need to DO more - Good Lord, there are days when I'm not able to use the bathroom for 12 hours - but more about making sure you take a little time for yourself, and carve out a little space for you.  Because joy comes out of that space you make for yourself, whatever that may be.  And out of the four women featured, only one of them is making money from those things they love. I work an average of 45 hours a week and travel a lot in the fall, but I make time for the blog, which usually takes about 5 hours a week, and I don't make a dime from it.  But it's MINE.



Day 4 - Ponies and Unicorns

I spend a lot of time bitching.

It's sort of what I do.  Usually it's in some kind of smart-ass, trying to be funny way, and sometimes it's serious WTF, why doesn't anyone else see the dirty dishes/laundry/floors/bathrooms?  Today, however, was all Unicorns and Ponies, and since I'm blogging every day in August, I'm going to tell you all about it. 

I got up, and Current Husband had made a pot of French press coffee, which was dark and rich, like my men.  I had some delicious fresh fruit salad in my fridge, which made me feel good that I was doing something healthy.  Yay, points for responsible adult living!

I got to work on time.  It wasn't nearly as hot today.  It's Thursday, so it's close to the weekend, always a good thing.  I had ironed pants for a change.  My hair looked okay.  Work went well.  I got a coat of paint on the shelves for The Son's room (Tomorrow's blog?  My incredibly abysmal carpentry skills.)  I had a lovely time in the last few days with a good friend who is visiting, and her shiny happy daughter who stayed with us.  It was my mom's birthday and we had a nice chat.  My co-worker mentioned that she needed a donut, and I surprised her by going out and buying donuts.  (Yay for unrefined sugar products!  That was a total win-win.)  Another co-worker brought his brand new baby boy to work, and he teared up when a group of us gave him a large gift card.  My lovely neighbor texted pictures of her adorable new baby (born yesterday!) to me and we made plans to have some celebratory wine together when she gets home from hospital.  And?  I get to hold said adorable baby!  And give him back when he cries and go home and get a good nights' sleep!

I left work a few minutes early to get my hair highlighted and cut.  My gal handed me a glass of pinot grigio when I walked in the door, sat me down, and went to work.  She always does a scalp massage in the middle, which I love, and my hair turned out great.  I went home to find CH had made dinner for the kids, and 10 minutes later I walked out the door to have a margarita with a friend I hadn't seen in over a month, and we had a great time catching up.

Was it a perfect day?  No, because those are really rare.  But for all of the days that I feel down or like things aren't going my way, I have a day like this and think that life is Pretty Damn Good.  The simple pleasures of French press coffee and scalp massages and good talks with good friends.  The joy of seeing a family with a newborn baby and all the hope and love that goes with it.  The relief of having a haircut go well!  No unexpected curveballs!  A sugar donut!

That was today's Day in the Wife.  I hope you have a Pretty Damn Good day too.

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.

Girl Scouts - The Second Oldest Profession

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yo. Here's your boxes of Thanks Alot.

Because those cookies?  Are full of Flava.

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

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 55

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats. Or the ghost of Liberace.


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

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

Get your things in order.  The Mayans were right. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 40

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 bosses. Really, I wrote this at home. I save trolling the Internet for porn for the workplace.

Today's topic: Auto Erotic Crime

Oh holy crap.  I've really done it this time.  It's midnight, officially Friday.  Here is what I needed to do before the clock struck 12, in no particular order:

• e-mail my sister
• shower
• finish a freelance job for a corporate client
• blog
• finish "The Girl Who Played With Fire"
• get lunches and coffee ready for tomorrow morning
• pay bills

Since I've always had lifelong issues with prioritizing, here is what I've been doing for the last three hours:

• finishing "The Girl Who Played With Fire"

Damn you, Steig Larsson.  (Since he has died, I will rescind that comment.)  I keep telling myself that all of the sadistic sex in the books turns me away from them, and then I keep coming back, like a mom to soccer practice.  It is midnight.  I've finished the book, and nothing else.  What shall I do next on the list?  Blog, of course.

The problem is that I have to finish all of the other things on my list because I'm driving five hours to Nebraska (hold your snarky comments, I am a native, Go Big Red) on Saturday morning to visit my parents and sister and friends for about 20 hours before I have to drive five hours back home in time to go back to work.  Ugh. I really hate weekends like that, and while I used to road trip with the best of them (14 hours to visit future CH at school?  No problem!  This is why God made Mountain Dew and the song Radar Love!), I can no longer tolerate driving more than about 2 hours before my granny hips start to hurt and I get tired and ready for my meds and pureed peaches and sponge bath from the nice nurses.

With my eyes to the road trip, it was interesting that my friend Heather e-mailed this story to me tonight:
WOMAN NABBED FOR AUTO EROTIC SEX CRIME


Go ahead.   Take a moment to read the story.  You won't regret it.  


Are you done?  Good.  Can you believe this story?  WHO SPENDS THE MONEY TO GET THE WINDOWS TINTED ON A PONTIAC?  What is wrong with her?  That is a crime against the auto industry.  The Pontiac was perfect exactly the way it was when it rolled off the assembly line in 2008, there was no need to desecrate this fine vehicle in this manner.


I can relate to everything else she did.  Who among us hasn't unbuttoned their pants on a long car trip?  I don't know about you, but as soon as that Quarter Pounder Value Meal hits that stomach acid, I start to blow up like Mama Cass.  It's time to release the hounds.  And hey, as long as your pants are unbuttoned and you are driving across a boring stretch of road, say I-80 between Des Moines and Omaha, what better time to kill some clock and take out your vibrator?  If you have to make the drive, you might as well enjoy the ride - am I right or am I right?  Because if you are watching porn, it's almost IMPERATIVE that you use your vibrator.  Really people, this is elementary.  If I wasn't meant to watch porn while I'm driving, then why did the car makers start INSTALLING DVD players IN the cars?  And if I'm not meant to watch porn off of the laptop of my companion, then why did they make passenger seats in the front by the driver?  Everyone knows the co-pilot does nothing but distract a driver, whether by changing the station to Sean Hannity or falling asleep and drooling on themselves or turning on a XXX movie on their laptop.  Porn, of course, is what I almost always want to watch after taking a hit off of my crack pipe.  I mean Christ, have YOU ever driven across Western Iowa and Eastern Nebraska?  Sometimes all the Fountain Mountain Dew in the world just ain't gonna cut it.  And what makes me want to hit the crack?


You guessed it.  Tinted windows.  Because when your car is that dark and private, it just doesn't make sense NOT to smoke some crack, eat a Quarter Pounder (they ARE crackalicious), unbutton my pants, and use my vibrator while watching porn on the lap of my passenger.  While driving.  Because I am a MOTHER, dammit, and we are MULTI-TASKERS.  I bet she signed her kids' planners and returned some library books and applied mascara in that 15 minutes too, but the police didn't write those things up because they are not technically "illegal".  


So three cheers for Colly Crackberry.  Way to keep it real.  We at Whoreticulture Friday honor you.

A quick shout-out to Current Husband - today was our 15th anniversary!

 How many wives blog about their privacy-loving husbands?

 You lucky son of a bitch.

 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 35

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.


Today's topic: Just Beat It


First, my apologies.  CH and I took out some of his clients for dinner on Thursday night, which is when I normally write Whoreticulture Friday.  Then today, we had a terrible storm that knocked out our power for over five hours (about 30 minutes after unloading $100 of food in the fridge), rendering me Internet-less.  I think I have about 30 minutes until it is midnight, so this MIGHT still publish on Friday...


I grew up without brothers, so the whole male species was a bit of mystery to me.  At the beginning of seventh grade I knew about a kid walking around with a boner during the school day, and while I vaguely understood that his boner wasn't an obvious blunder or stupid mistake, I wasn't exactly sure of the purpose of it.  Why?  It wasn't like he was going to have sex in Biology class.


WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG FOR A BRIEF MOMENT OF IMMATURITY:
Go to Webster's Dictionary and click on the Audio of the word "boner".  It makes the 13-year-old in my giggle.  Okay, the 41-year-old too.

Masturbation isn't exactly something one talks about while dating, or even really after initially getting married.  I think around the five year anniversary mark, when you sort of run out of things to talk about, the topic may come up (no pun intended).  When The Son was little, other moms in my coffee group with similarly-aged boys would laugh about how "Little Timmy found his penis yesterday!" or "I changed Charlie's diaper and he wouldn't stop grabbing his penis" or "Jacob had an erection the entire time I bathed him yesterday, it was a little awkward".  (What made it even more awkward is that Jacob was her brother-in-law.)  The Son?  Nothing.  No finding, no grabbing, no woody, no interest.  Which was perfectly fine by me.


Fast forward to The Son at the age of 10.  Every summer we send him to a camp over an hour away so he can spend a week with his buddy from the previous town we lived in.  Last summer, we picked him up at the end of the week, and on the way home we grilled him about what happened at camp.


US:  "So what did everyone do?"
SON:  "We swam, rode horses, did some archery, climbed the tower, you know."
US:  "How was the food?"
SON:  "Terrible.  But I made it."
US:  "How were your cabin mates?"
SON:  (Pause)  "Well....they were a little weird."
US:  "What do you mean?"
SON:  "During the rest time after lunch, they would take off their pants and try to grab each other's junk."
SILENCE.  DISBELIEF.  FORMING COMPLAINT LETTER TO CAMP IN HEAD.
US:  "What?"
SON:  "You know.  Like hit each other in the jingles."
US:  "Did they like this game?"
SON:  "Oh yeah, they played it every day.  J and I would just go outside the cabin and play cards until they were done.  We thought it was really weird."
US:  (Relief)  "Well that was probably the best thing to do."


And then we let it drop.  Because how do you tell your 10-year-old son that he just witnessed a week-long Circle Jerk?

Circle Jerk, as defined by Urban Dictionary, the go-to resource for Whoreticulture Friday:

1.) When a group of males sit in a circle, jerking each other off.

2.) *NOT* when a group of males stand in a circle to jerk off onto a cookie or anything of the sort. That retarded frat game is called "Limp Biscuit"... which kind of indirectly explains why the band of the same namesake is so fucking horrible.

3.) When a bunch of blowhards - usually politicians - get together for a debate but usually end up agreeing with each other's viewpoints to the point of redundancy, stroking each other's egos as if they were extensions of their genitals (ergo, the mastubatory insinuation). Basically, it's what happens when the choir preaches to itself.

4.) A game on MXC that's based on sumo wrestling. Beware the Green Teabagger.

Yes, Definition 1 is correct, although I do plan to beware the Green Teabagger.


We sort of let the whole thing go away.  The Son is a kid who likes to question things.  He is a gatherer of information.  And he isn't afraid to broach uncomfortable topics, so I'm quite sure he would have felt comfortable asking about the Junk Punching game if he had any questions.  I told CH this was his department, as I have no knowledge in the masturbatory habits in the human male.  Not to say CH does.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.


So this year, The Son goes to camp again.  On the way up, I tell him that if anything...um...WEIRD is going on, he can leave to play cards or whatever.  He nods and looks out of the window.  Today, I got a letter from The Son from camp.  It is titled, "Dear Homies".  He says "the food is terrible, but I make it through the day".  And then this passage - "The guys in my cabin are nice, not like the last ones without pants."

Whew.  Because those bad cabin mates?  They can just Beat It.


Happy Whoreticulture Friday/Saturday, and have a great weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 27

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.

Today's topic: Choking the Chicken.

So tonight I had a totally different topic in mind but I needed some help so I walk into my bedroom and Current Husband is lounging in his comfy pants, one hand on the remote and one hand sort of stuck just in the top of his waistband, eyes glazed over and watching TV.
ME:  "Don't judge my Whoreticulture Friday topic, but do you have any weird stories about..."
CH:  (still looking at TV) "Choking the chicken?"
ME:  "Wha...No.  No, it was not about choking the chicken.  It was about..."
CH:  "Pullin' the Pud?"
ME:  *sigh* "Why don't you tell me all of the slang terms you know for masturbation."
(I can be very Zen.  I will use his current energy flow to my advantage instead of fighting it.  My hormone of choice is EstroNinja.)
CH:  "Okay!" (Now he's excited about the blog.  This rarely happens.) "Um, there's..."
AND HE DRAWS A BLANK.  No pun intended.  I guess that would be "Shoots a Blank" to be a pun, but I'm a lover not a fighter.
ME:  "How about Spanking the Monkey, or Shining the Brass Knob?"
CH:  "No, you can't use Shining the Brass Knob, that's a blow job."
ME:  "I don't think so.  It sounds more tactile than oral."
CH:  "Whatever.  It's a BJ."
ME:  "I'm going to Urban Dictionary."
And THAT, folks, is a snapshot of the marriage of The Wife and Current Husband.  Your welcome, Hallmark, on ideas for next season's anniversary cards.

FRONT

To the man whose brass knob I would shine any day.

INSIDE

But that's NOT a blow job!  Happy Anniversary anyway!

Don't you love how Hallmark can get away with a lame joke by saying "anyway"?  

We invited the fire department to your birthday

...to put out the candles!  Happy Birthday anyway!

 Hallmark, you crazy sonofabitches.  Back to whacking off...

I called a couple of friends and said, "Do you have any weird or crazy stories about masturbating?" and they all pretty much said, "I have stories about masturbating, but they are generally disturbing more than entertaining."  And then I realized I have the most awesome friends that they don't bat an eye when I call them at 9 p.m. and ask them about beating off.  So we're back to Urban Dictionary, the Official Go-To Guide for Whoreticulture Friday.

Masturbation- The act of touching oneself to produce a favorable feeling in the groin area. Usually accompanied by some sort of mental, visual, or audio stimulation to assist in reaching climax.

But you already knew that.  I like the examples better:

No honey, I don't want to tonight, I'm tired from watching Oprah. Why don't you just go masturbate? 

That dumb broad got me all worked up and left me; so I had to spit-shine the old water pump manually if ya know what I mean.

Sometimes, when I wake up, I have an erection, so I have to beat off until it goes away. Sometimes, it comes back so I beat off again until it goes away. Once, it kept coming back so I just chopped it off. It hurt bad.

After Urban Dictionary, I Googled "Masturbation", and as I hit Enter, I cringed as I thought about all of the porn sites that were now going to spam me.  What really surprised me is the sheer number of "How To" sites on masturbation.  Really?  Is it that hard?  Couldn't anyone learn the basics by watching "9 1/2 Weeks" or "American Pie"?  If you are a little behind the curve, here is a whole list of sites from About.com, but for the REAL thrill, you have to visit Wikipedia.  There are a variety of pictures, from the artsy, by Gustav Klimt, to the incredibly disturbing sex offender self-portrait by Egon Schiele.  Even better, there are incredibly smooth and Brazilianed people "demonstrating" it.  For Science, OBVIOUSLY. 

I did get a couple of interesting masturbation stories, but those all involved a vibrator, which I will save for another Friday because THAT is deserving of it's own post.  Since you are all so well-versed on masturbation, today's post will serve to help broaden your knowledge of alternate terms for masturbation.  Feel free to add your own in the Comments section. 
 
YAY!  It's an interactive blog!


jacking off * jerking off * wanking off * hand job * spanking the monkey * beating off * spanking the monkey * beating the ugly stepchild * choking the chicken * flogging the donkey/dolphin/log/hog * spit-shine the water pump * flagging the mule * slapping the salami * beating the meat * rubbing one out * pocket pool * buffing the banana * walking the dog * roping the pony * beating the bishop * burping the worm * wonking your cronker * bleeding the weasel * corking the bat * pumping the python * buttering the corn * pull the weasel * tug the rope * polish the knob * do the 5-finger shuffle * slide the snake * toss off a batch of orphans * peek-a-boo the mole * pay the babysitter * plant the carrot * stroke the one-eyed monster * burp the baby * choking the man in the pink turtleneck * jacking the beanstalk * yankee-ing the doodle * waxing the wood * caulking the cracks * tickle the pickle * shizzle the nizzle * cream-filling the donut * cleaning the pipes * juicing the Twinkie * punching the clown * shaking hands with Dr. Jolly * roughing up the suspect * feeding the geese * shaking the shark/Pringle can/shit/bottle/change/gadget/iPod

Consider yourself educated, America.  Doesn't it seem like ANYTHING can be a term for masturbation?  Now go on and Fill Your Friday or Greet Your Weekend or Call Your Mom.  It can be creepy, or a drinking game.  Your call.  Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 12, Resolution #9

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.

Today's topic: Natural Harvest Cooking

Alright, today's topic is especially cringe-worthy, even for me, but it is totally real.  And I am so incredibly immature that I can't stop laughing about it, even though I found this site about 6 months ago.  So eat your lunch/breakfast first, take a deep breath, and carry on.  Are you ready?  Let's do this.

Yes, Grandma, you are reading that correctly.

This amazing recipe collection is compiled by the esteemed Semen Chef Fotie Photenhauer, who states,

"Semen is not only nutritious, but it also has a wonderful texture and amazing cooking properties. Like fine wine and cheeses, the taste of semen is complex and dynamic. Semen is inexpensive to produce and is commonly available in many, if not most, homes and restaurants. Despite all of these positive qualities, semen remains neglected as a food.

This book hopes to change that."

And to this, I say, "WTF FOTIE!  Do you mean to tell me ejaculatory fluids are COMMONLY available in my favorite restaurants?  What restaurants are you patronizing?  Here are my guesses:

• Jack In The Box
• Fuddruckers
• Spank 'n Shake
• The Crusty Crab
• Orange Jizzius
• Choking the Chick-Fil-A
• Happy Joe's
• The Sans Pants Eatery

 I have four main issues with Fotie's blowhard assertions.

1. Really, Fotie?  Food made from semen...that has wonderful TEXTURE?  Fotie, I get the impression that you have never actually tasted semen.  I haven't myself, but all of my slutty friends say it sucks.
2. And readily available and inexpensive?  I mean, yes, semen is all over the place in my house.  Get a black light in here and it's like, 'DAMN, someone cap Mount St. Helens!'  But semen harvesting seems difficult at best, and if you don't think there is any cost involved, you are sadly mistaken.  I would guess that 4 ounces of semen around these parts costs about the same as a six-pack of Bud Light and a half hour shoulder massage, with the occasional monthly Netflix charge thrown in.
3. Commonly available in most restaurants?  Are you telling me someone is jacking off in my food without my knowledge or permission?  I need to read the menus more thoroughly.  And not order ANYTHING with any type of cream sauce and make sure I never dated the chef.  
4. I am grateful for semen, truly I am.  I have three lovely children because of this wonder fluid.  But in my house, at least, it will remain neglected as a food.  Just ask CH.  As I always tell him, we're married now, that's a dating ritual.

What, you might ask,can one find in this 61-page tome of spunk eating?  I am SO glad you asked:

High Protein Smoothie

Unlike other high protein drinks, this one does not use animal proteins such as eggs or whey for nutrition. 

(No. This smoothie uses semen. So preferable to eggs, really.)

1 cup diced kiwi

1 ripe banana

1 cup of soy milk

1-3 tablespoons of fresh semen

Ice cubes (not to be confused with the rapper, Ice Cube, who would likely bust a cap in your ass if he were to drink one of your smoothies.)

Throw everything into a blender and liquify.   

(Don't you mean "toss off into the blender, Fotie?)

Chef's Note:  This is a great drink to experiment with.  Try substituting peaches or strawberries for the kiwi.

(Um, Fotie, don't you think we've experimented enough here?  How about substituting some yogurt for the semen?)

If you doubt the existence of this book or recipe, here you are: High Protein Smoothie, Natural Harvest.  You're welcome.

More than the recipes in this book, I love the reviews.  People are really funny.  It gives me faith that we can come together unite as a nation.  Here are my faves:

"Amazing"
We raised 400$ for a church during the bake sale becuase people could not get enough of the cream cheese cookies we made. Thanks Semen cookbook!"

"Finger Lickin' Good"
Highly recommended!! I made the Ribs w/ Tangy BBQ sauce for a party last weekend. Wow. They were finger lickin' good. My girlfriend couldn't get enough of them. We washed them down with Donkey Punch, another crowd pleaser."

By Viscous Semenian

"****Dinner Parties****"
I won't be asking people to come to dinner anymore...I will be asking them to come AT dinner !!

AND MY FAVORITE:

By Jenna Shannigan

"Any used copies?"
Does anyone know where I can find a used copy of this book? It would be the best Christmas present for my boyfriend (he's a chef), but I probably can't get the copy in time for Christmas without paying quite a bit extra for fast shipping."

Which generated this response:

"I have a used copy, but the pages are all stuck together... Honey, I don't think you WANT a used copy of THIS book!"

But Fotie is well-intentioned, and he truly wants us all to discover and delight in the culinary gift that is semen.  He gives this warning on the third page of the book, right after he thanks his unnamed friends for contributing to and tasting his gastronomical delights:

"NOTE:  This cookbook is written for consenting diners of semen.  Please do not add semen to your guest's food without informing them beforehand."

RESOLUTION #9:  Quit serving my guests the Spunk martinis.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!  And don't forget to send your questions to Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein at todd.hotnuts@gmail.com.  The First-Ever Taxidermied Advice Squirrel blog is being built at toddhotnuts.blogspot.com

The Happy Spot

All of you mandatory reporters and Department of Human Services folks can sharpen your pencils and get out a new manila folder, my family might be back on your radar in the next week.

I blame it all on Current Husband (CH) and his plan for cable domination.

CH had one of his "There HAS To Be A Better Way" moments and cancelled our cable, thinking we could figure out how to watch everything we like on the Internet. To his credit, the kids are watching much less TV and reading more books. To his great dismay, I've been missing Project Runway and Mad Men. This is to his dismay, because during the scheduled times of my shows, I walk around the house with a glass of wine and a cleaver and mutter under my breath about missing the things in life that bring me joy. Because of him. But at least he isn't pretending to send one of the kids up in a "science balloon" or pimping me out to Wife Swap, so there's that.

But I digress.

Since we no longer have the Toxic Twins that are Disney and Nickelodeon in our home, the only TV the kids are really interested in is PBS. My youngest has been enjoying catching up with Clifford the Big Red Dog. The other day, in between giving children a ride on his Big Red Back and accidentally ripping up Mr. Bleakman's garden, Clifford wanted Emily Elizabeth to scratch his Happy Spot, which would make Clifford's leg move. This entertained my youngest daughter to no end. She couldn't get enough of watching Clifford move his leg when scratched.

A few days later, I'm in my bedroom folding clothes. CH is laying on the bed, enjoying football and watching me be his domestic slave, when our daughter runs into the room, jumps on the bed, and starts scratching CH's back. Suddenly, I stop folding CH's boxers and look up in horror. What did she just say?

YD: "Where is it, Daddy?"
CH: "Lower, it's lower..."
YD: "Is THIS your Happy Spot?"
CH: "No, lower...that's it...you got it!"

And then CH starts shaking his leg and Youngest Daughter shrieks in glee. She jumps off the bed and runs from the room to find someone else's Happy Spot. She is happy. CH is happy. I am alarmed. I decide to kill CH's buzz.


ME: "Um, honey, what is that all about?"
CH: "She liked that Clifford show, so she finds the Happy Spot and I'm Clifford."
ME: "You DO know how this is going to sound at school, right?"
CH: "Uh, NO."
ME: 'I spent the weekend in bed with Daddy rubbing his Happy Spot!"
CH: "Oh no."
ME: "Oh yes."

Every Monday morning, the first graders do a chart that shows what they did over the weekend. It is like a flower, with the main activity in the middle and the activities associated with the main activity branched off. Here is how I pictured Youngest Daughter's Weekend Chart: Rubbed the Happy Spot - with Daddy - in his bed - his leg moved - he's a dog - our special game.

I had to take action. The only way to get Rubbing the Happy Spot off of the school chart was to come up with a better activity. And this is why you could find my family at the IMAX theater this afternoon watching the last Harry Potter movie, with my youngest daughter in a formal dress and her favorite fake Uggs, an owl hat someone knit for her, three boxes of candy on her lap, and a Sprite in her hand. Because money might not Buy Me Love, but sugar will buy her silence, and if diversionary tactics keep the DHS off my doorstep, my work here is done.


Clifford The Big Red Dog using some kid's head to rub his Happy Spot.