Get In The Van. I Have Candy. Part 2

So, Part 2.
(Remember, sequels are NEVER better.)

We try to take a weeklong family vacation every summer so that I may make Shutterfly photo albums lovingly captioned with snarky descriptions of our hi-larious times together.  This way, when the kids are in their 30's and complaining about their bad childhoods, I can throw my stack of family fun and nutty hijinx on the table and say, "What now, you ungrateful bastards!?  You got nothin' on me and I have the Shutterfly books to prove it!"

As I mentioned in the last post, there was a lot of drama and even more Dramamine on the first leg of our trip.  (Fear not, Gentle Readers, the worst part of the trip is now over.)  We drove through Southern Illinois, which honestly makes Nebraska look a little exciting, and lo and behold, we saw a sign for Metropolis.  Wha?  You mean SUPERMAN's hometown?  Current Husband is a huge fan of The Man of Steel, so SNAP! We fell right into the Tourist Trap.

Poor YD was still not feeling great. 

But c'mon, honey, rally!  It's Superman!

It's a bird!  It's a plane! 

No, it's my new gigantic knockers!

Able to leap bored housewives in a single bound? 

I certainly hope so.

(And?  When am I going to learn to

suck in my gut for pictures?)

At 11 p.m., we finally rolled into our friends' driveway in Atlanta.  The family we visited moved from our hood over a year ago, and they're the kind of people who will not only let you fly your freak flag, they will raise your freak flag if it isn't up already.  Needless to say, good time were had by all.

The kids played the "I'm the floating head creeping

in the back of your picture" game all week.

We occupied the kids so we could go out drinking.

(Oh put the phone down, they did it to themselves.)

And YD organized a game of Marco Polo,

but apparently she misunderstood the rules.

We really went to Atlanta just to visit our friends, so we didn't go out too much, and besides, it was about 175 degrees outside, plus humidity, which brought the heat index to 280 degrees.  The only thing that could cure our Beiber fever was a bartender with cold chardonnay and a moustache tattooed on his finger.  We were in luck.

He is known in Downtown Decatur as Chardonnay Tony.  

We stayed up talking into the night.  (Back to the friends, not Chardonnay Tony.) We awoke in mid-morning, and drank the best French press coffee ever. (Me and Tony.  Obviously.) We ate.  We drank.  We lounged.  Then we drank a little more.  We watched the funniest damn PBS special ever, which my friend Angie gave to me and has absolutely changed my life, simply called "Ferrets".  It about ferret breeders and the biggest ferret show in the country, The Buckeye Bash.  Here is a little snippet for you, but I HIGHLY recommend you buy your own copy:

That damn ferret song goes through my head all the time.  Then I made them watch this classic movie, because doesn't EVERYONE sit with friends they haven't seen in a year and watch ferret videos and cheesy 70's movies?

Oh yes, Barbra.  My love for you is ageless and evergreen.

And thank you for covering Kris Kristofferson's nipple.

There are so many terrific things about spending time with people you love, but of course, all good things must come to an end.  We pulled away from Hotlanta and headed for the hills of Tennessee, where we enjoyed our Family Stalker Adventure in Nashville.  Stay tuned for Part 3 of "Get In The Van, I Have Candy".  It's like you are trapped on vacation WITH me.  The call is coming from inside the van...get out!

   

What I Remember of Eclipse

Last night was a night of penance.

Oldest Daughter and a friend of hers spent an entire day last week cleaning to prepare for my open house, so I promised I would take them to the midnight showing of Eclipse last night.  I know.  The sacrifices I make for my children are enormous.  

I think a hallmark of really good parenting is creating rewards for your children that actually benefit you.  It's the ultimate in multitasking - they're happy, you're happy, everybody's happy.  Some examples of this method are:

1. "If everyone does a good job with their chores, we'll get Dairy Queen Blizzards."
2. "If you're all really good, we'll let you go to Grandma's for a couple of nights."
3. "If you clean my house for the Open House, I'll take you to Eclipse."

I'm a hero, and I get ice cream, a night alone, and some Edward time.  I'll put that in the WIN column.

To prepare for our Eclipse night, OD and her friend decided to make t-shirts to commemorate the occasion.  Everyone there would have Team Edward or Team Jacob shirts.  At the tender age of 13, young women want to feel like they are participating in a Pop Culture moment while equally shunning it at the same time.  What's an angsty teen to do?  My daughter and her friend decided to make Team Billy t-shirts.  Billy, for the non-Twilighters, is Jacob's father, and one of the Quileute elders.  He is in a wheelchair and says he is "Down with the kids" and Charlie, Bella's dad, says, "Yeah Dude, you're the bomb".  He's a pretty minor character.  Their shirt choice was the perfect non-conformist, "I'm involved yet above all of this" solution.

 And?  They put fuchsia streaks in their hair.  

Because Team Billy is just that crazy.

Leaving for the show at 11 p.m.  I vetoed my Team Billy shirt.

We left for the midnight movie, located five minutes away from my house, at 11 p.m., thinking we had plenty of time.  Wrong.  The entire parking lot was jammed with cars, and there were Twilighters everywhere.  The theater had five midnight shows going, and all were sold out.  The lines to wait to get into the theater to sit were snaked down the hallways, and I was surrounded by texting teens.  There were moms there, yes, but the predominant audience member was a teenager wearing a tight t-shirt, short shorts, flip flops, and a glowing phone with their fingers flying over the keyboard.

Much to my chagrin, we had to sit in the third row of the theater, and the girls behind me kept putting their feet up on the back of my seat.  I thought about yelling at them, but instead, I took a bag of contraband candy out of my purse and said, "Hey, I have an extra bag of candy, and my girls don't want it...do you?"  They took it, and didn't put their feet up on my seat again.  I literally caught more flies with honey.   The movie began, and every girl in the theater started screaming, including the ones over 40.  

Edward.  It's been too long.

The movie was pretty good.  Edward's makeup has greatly improved since the first movie, and Jacob never disappoints.  The sex talk between Charlie and Bella was funny, and the Cullens got to go all badass, which was great.  In New Moon, my big distraction was Spot, the ring of hair around Rob Pattinson's nipple.  In this movie, it had to be Jasper's hair.  WTF?  Did a stylist really do that on PURPOSE?  He looks like Jack White from the White Stripes, which is great if you are actually Jack White.  Otherwise, you look a bit like a cross between Johnny Depp as Willie Wonka and the pedophile that lives down the street.  

My angsty teens said Eclipse was the best Twilight yet, but it was late, and I'm old.  I'm going to have to see it a few more times before I can make that kind of judgement.

Edward's Back...And His Front

"Do you really have any idea how important you are to me?  Any concept at all of how much I love you?"  Edward pulled me tighter against his hard chest, tucking my head under his chin.

I pressed my lips against his snow-cold cheek.  "I would get a better idea if you would fix the dishwasher, my handy little vampire."

"You compare one small tree to an entire forest...wait...did you say fix the dishwasher?"

"Yes.  You sit at the table and stare at me the entire time I'm washing the dishes.  For claiming to be so observant, you've really dropped the ball on noticing I am not loading and unloading a dishwasher.  Maybe get up and lend a sister a hand?  And that garbage isn't taking itself out."

 Edward leaving after dishwasher hose bursts.

Worthless bloodsucker.

This weekend, the kids and I watched New Moon.  I ordered it from Amazon, but they gave a free one-day digital download when you ordered the DVD, so at 11 p.m. CST we were able to crowd on the couch and watch it on my computer.  I still love it, even though time has colored some of it in Velveeta-hued shades of cheese.  We can't all be brie, darling.  

(Spoiler Alert!)  So we're crammed on the couch, Oldest Daughter, The Son, Youngest Daughter, and me, all trying to get the best view of the computer screen, and the scene comes up where Edward is in Italy and steps out into the sun with his shirt off.  

YD:  "Why is he naked?"

ME:  "He isn't naked honey, he's showing his skin in the sun."

OD:  "SHHH!"

SON:  "What is wrong with his chest?"

ME:  "What do you mean?"

YD:  "He is TOO naked."

SON:  "He has that one hairy spot on his chest..."

ME:  "SPOT!  You see The Spot!"

OD:  "SHHHH!  Leave The Spot alone!"

SON:  "What do you mean, 'The Spot'?"

YD:  "Why is Edward naked?"

And this is how I know these are my children.

First, YD understands that Edward is, indeed, almost naked.  It's one thing to read the book when he takes his shirt off in Volturra and gets nearly sparkly.  It's quite another to see Rob Pattinson's V-Line in front of you.  Let's take an Urban Dictionary moment:

V-Line:  Usually refers to a guy's ripped obliques, which are like plainly visible arrows pointing to his happy place.

But the New Moon movie people did Rob no favors by flaunting Taylor Lautner's shirtless visage in front of us the entire movie.  Rob, who should be impressive without a shirt, suddenly looks like a scoop of vanilla ice cream next to a Hot Fudge Sundae.

Second, my children seem to be the only other people who noticed Rob's unbalanced nipple hair.  As I mentioned in my post after seeing the movie in the theater, from Whoreticulture Friday, Issue 7, Rob had such disproportionate nipple hair I lost my New Moon focus:

"So far I seem to be the only person who noticed that in New Moon (Oh my GOD will she quit talking about New Moon? No. No she will not.), when Rob Pattinson took his shirt off, one of his nipples had some whackadoodle hair job or something around it. It's like one nipple got the JFK hair and the other one got the Jackie. It was distracting for me. Urban Dictionary calls this a Nipple Brow or a Nipple Beard. I've started calling him Spot, much to Oldest Daughter's chagrin."

 Holy crap, she's right!  This one IS bushier!

All I'm looking for is validation.  I can't be the only person who notices these things.  I mean, come on...they didn't stick him out there naked so I would listen to his dialogue.  So pay a little attention to the details, okay?

Eclipse is coming out on June 30, and since Edward shouldn't be shirtless in this one, all I ask is that they keep his lipstick under control and I'll be happy as a clam.  That is all.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 19

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: Titty cheese.


I nursed all three of my children, and was happy to do it.  There is something magical about nursing a baby - the closeness, the bond, the toe-curling pain when a greedy little piggy latches on to your cracked pre-mastitis nipple...but I digress.

Current Husband never tasted breast milk.  He was a little grossed out by the whole leaky pipes deal, particularly since we tended to have a lot of icky nursing pads in the garbage, which honestly smell like rotting roadkill if not taken out promptly.  I have friends whose husbands happily relieved their engorged breasts during nursing if the babies were full, but CH was never that guy.  

Therefore, I will not be taking CH to Klee Brasserie in Chelsea, NYC, because of this article in the March 9, 2010 New York Post.  (Observations by me are in blue, lest you think they are part of the NY Post story and I somehow end up getting sued):

Wife's Baby Milk in Chef's Cheese Recipe
This Chelsea restaurant has gone from brasserie to brassiere.
Chef Daniel Angerer is letting diners at Klee Brasserie munch on cheese made from his wife's breast milk.
(Say what, hoobastank?)
"It tastes like cow's-milk cheese, kind of sweet," he told The Post.
The flavor depends on what the cheese is served with -- Angerer recommends a Riesling -- and "what the mother eats," said Angerer, who once bested Bobby Flay on TV's "Iron Chef."
Breast milk doesn't curdle well due to its low protein content, so a little moo juice has to be added to round out the texture, Angerer said.
(WAIT!  DID HE JUST RECOMMEND A WINE TO ACCOMPANY HIS WIFE'S BREAST MILK?  Uh, Chef, I just made a mousse out of the 4000 mounds of winter dog shit in my yard, do you have a wine recommendation?  Hey Chef, I'm banging your wife, is there a wine you would recommend?  Chef, I have a human liver and some fava beans, do you have a nice Chianti you could recommend?)

"Just wait until you see the innovative ways 

I plan to cook the baby poo...."

After blogging about his efforts with the human cheese, customers started demanding a sample, he said.
"The phone was ringing off the hook," the chef said. "So I prepared a little canapé of breast-milk cheese with figs and Hungarian pepper."
(When people call me demanding my biohazardous body fluids, I tend to lean toward the figs and Hungarians myself.  It's a no-brainer.)
The response has been generally positive from those who've tried the cheese, although many customers are too squeamish to attempt it.
(Like me.  Hungarian pepper freaks me out, too.)
"I think a lot of the criticism has to do with the combination of sex and cheese, but . . . the breast is there to make food," said Lori Mason, the chef's wife.
(Wait...we get to have sex with the cheese?  Do you call Daniel "The Breast" at home?)

Since the restaurant began offering customers a taste, Mason has been inundated with creepy queries, she said. (Like, "Hey, would you make some cheese for me out of your wife's breast milk?")
"Some people who clearly have issues have . . . e-mailed me saying, 'I wasn't breast-fed as a child, so can I taste your breast milk?' " she said.
Mason politely declines the offer.
"I'm not here to walk people through their psychological problems," she said.
No Lori, of course not.  Your psychological plate is full with strapping on the double breast pump for your morning and evening milking schedule for the restaurant.  That Titty Cheese ain't gonna make itself!  And no Funyuns for you today, it might taint the milk, and we wouldn't want Mayor Bloomberg sending back the appetizer, now would we?
That said, Mason is now prodding her husband to make gelato.
Prodding him, is she?  So the gelato isn't going to be made out of HER bodily fluids...tit for tat, indeed!
After inquiries from The Post, health bigs said yesterday that even though department codes do not explicitly forbid the practice, they have advised Angerer to refrain from sharing his wife's milk with the world.
"The restaurant knows that cheese made from breast milk is not for public consumption, whether sold or given away," a spokeswoman for the city Department of Health said.
 The End.

Don't get me wrong.  If Dan and Lori want to make Titty Cheese at home and serve it on Ritz, that's great.  And if he wants to make Titty Tiramisu or Titty Tarts or Titty Yogurt at his restaurant, as long as he labels it for exactly what it is and doesn't slip it in (oh yes, I just said that) other dishes, go for it.  And perhaps the argument can be made that it isn't that different from getting a cow's bodily fluids and pouring it on our Trix.

So why does this all seem so...so...icky thump to me?  Is it picturing the source?  Is it that a cow can't look at me and say, "This would be great in custard...moo."  Or is it looking at Lori's lovely dimpled face and thinking "I'd really rather have a margarita with you than eat cheese, or anything else, pumped out of your breast"?

I am sure Daniel and Lori are lovely people, and their baby is a sweet little biscuit.  All I know is that I am suddenly feeling a little lactose intolerant.  There is something magical about nursing a baby, but there is something porno about eating Titty Cheese with figs and company and then paying for it.  To each his own, fo shizzle.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 16

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: Telling Victoria's Secret.

Shopping for clothes for Oldest Daughter used to be so easy, mostly because I didn't have to do it at all.  Not only does she have three grandmothers, but she also has an aunt who is a mere two years older than her, so we were in Hand-Me-Down Heaven for a long time.  When she was about six we were in Von Maur (local awesome department store) and I saw a cute pair of girls jeans.  

ME:  "Do you like these, honey?" 
OD:  (looking confused) "Yes."  
ME:  "Would you like them?"
OD:  "What do you mean?"
ME:  "I'll buy them for you, but I won't if you don't like them."
OD:  "I don't get it." 
(I'm getting frustrated, my last coffee infusion is wearing off and I don't actually like shopping.  I know, I'm a freak.)
ME:  (speaking slowly and carefully) "DO. YOU. WANT. THESE. JEANS?" 
OD:  "Yes?"

And then it hit me.  I had never purchased clothing for her, at least not with her present and old enough to care about anything other than breast, bottle, or snack.  She didn't actually know what I was doing.  Ouch.  I've spent a lot of time since then trying to make up for that deficiency.

Now that she is nearly a bona fide teenager (March 2 she gets fitted for her chastity belt) shopping has changed.  Last Christmas, I got a lovely Victoria's Secret gift certificate from my mother-in-law (she thinks they quietly sell birth control) and I took OD to shop with me.  OD was absolutely mortified. 

OD:  "Oh no.  Not here.  You aren't buying BRAS, are you?"
ME:  "Yes.  And thongs.  And I need you to to fasten them for me."
OD:  (hiding behind a rack of sweatpants that say PINK on the butt) "I'm not going with you.  You can't make me go in the bra room."
ME:  "Fine.  You have your cell phone.  Go to the bath and body section and call me if you need to.  And don't leave with strangers."
OD:  "MOM!  You ARE the stranger!  Get this over with!"

And so OD crept into the bath and body room, crouching behind different displays, her shifty eyes darting around.  I watched her for a moment like one might watch a raccoon in the daylight to see if it has rabies.  I was concerned.  I grabbed a lacy DDD bra and yelled across the store, "HEY OD!!  How about this one?" and waved it at her.  She turned, gasped, and dove behind a cabinet covered in hot pants with PINK on the butt.  She was okay.

Can I just take a moment to address the PINK issue?  Maybe I'm alone here, but I just can't bring myself to wear anything with PINK across the ass.  Why?  Because for some reason every time I see someone's butt with PINK on it, I get a crystal clear anatomical picture of a clitoris in my head.  It's gross, I know, and I can't explain why "nether parts" and "pink" go together like "gynecological" and "exam" for me, but they do.  And I giggle every time, because it is Junior High Forever in Julietopia.  (To the friend with PINK on the butt of her VS sweats:  I just want you to know if you're reading this that I do not think about your clitoris when you wear them, and if I was a size 2 I might want to draw attention to my butt too. Smooches.)


I pick out some things and get in line for the fitting room, and my cell phone starts ringing.

ME:  "Hello?"
OD:  (whispering) "Mom!  Where are you!"
ME:  "In line for the fitting rooms.  Where are you?"
OD:  (whisper-shrieking) "FITTING ROOMS!  You're trying things on!?!"
ME:  "Yes.  It could be a while.  You can hide out in the fitting room if you want."

Surprisingly, she agrees.  She half-hides behind me.  We are in line behind three high school girls, who all look a like they're scheduled for a rainbow party (Urban Dictionary is the go-to reference guide on Whoreticulture Friday) in a couple of hours and need to get a move on.  They are all holding thongs and skimpy push-up bras (not that there's anything wrong with that), they all have Gucci or Chanel purses the size of a Yugo (because shouldn't ALL 16-year-olds be able to fit their possessions in a purse to hop a Greyhound if necessary?), and they are all talking like this:  "So I'm all I don't care what you do and he's all whatev and I'm all fine and he's all see ya and I know that bitch Hailey is halfway in his pants already..."

OD is not making eye contact with me.  She is visibly sweating and looking at the ceiling, the floor, underwear with PINK on the butt, anywhere but the trampy teens and me.  After nearly 13 years together, OD knows me well enough to know these girls might as well be dangling a Krispy Kreme in front of my face.  Sometimes, if I think I've got some really funny material, I might just feel compelled to say it.  Even if it's under my breath.  Or in the form of a song.  Right now "Gypsies Tramps and Thieves" by Cher and "Crazy Bitch" by Buckcherry are duking it out in my head.  I  bite my tongue.  This is supposed to be Girl Time with my daughter, and I should treasure it, because someday soon she could be one of these fake-Chanel-bag-thong-whatev hos.  Don't judge, Julie, don't judge.  We get in a fitting room.  Crisis averted.


In the room, I take my shirt off.  OD promptly faces the wall and starts rocking and moaning.  This has become her personal hell.  I take off my sad bra and put on the new spectacular bra.  It's a moment of personal triumph.

ME:  "Look, OD, isn't it great?"
OD:  (Sighs.  She is defeated.  She turns.)  "Actually Mom, that is a nice bra."
ME:  (Victory!  Hallmark moment!)  "I know!  I'm getting this one for sure."
(I unclasp the bra and release the hounds.  OD gasps.  I look around for a rat or a serial killer in the room.)
OD:  "Mom...why are your...you know...areas THERE so big?  Please tell me mine won't get that big..."
ME:  "What?  My boobs?  What do you mean?"
OD:  "You know...this..." Makes circular motion in the nipular region.
ME:  "Mine are probably the same size as Grandma Jan's."  (Sorry Mom.)
OD:  "Oh no.  I so do NOT want that."  She slumps down on the bench, sad.
ME:  "You are also getting our varicose veins and the family gobbler, so enjoy your youth."

We didn't say much else that day.  I bought her a Double Chocolate Chip Blended Creme from Starbucks to try and cheer her, but at that moment she could not be consoled.  Her future body was laid out in front of her, as clear as the silicone that would perhaps be necessary to fix her middle age issues and bad genes.  And really, it's not like the nips are salad plate-sized or anything - they are perfectly normal breasts, show some respect for the old girls!  They lured your father in and nursed three children and can still look reasonably respectable in the right bra.  They need to be revered like a Triple Crown-winning racehorse put to pasture for the rest of her days, or like Babe, the sheep-herding pig.  Well done, pig.  Well done.

What did we learn that day?  

1. Trampy teens like quality lingerie too.
2. PINK is plastered on a LOT of ass.  Pink.  Hee hee.  Admit it, you'll think of it.
3. There are no secrets in the Victoria's Secret fitting rooms.

Appreciate yourself as you are now - it can always get worse. Happy Whoreticulture Friday!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 7

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: Nipples

If you go to Wikipedia and look up "nipple", this is what comes up:
In its most general form, a nipple is a structure from which a fluid emanates. More specifically, it is the projection on the breasts of a mammal by which breast milk is delivered to a mother's young.

(And by the way, Guys Who Like Online Porn But Don't Want To Get Caught, Wikipedia and the Urban Dictionary are excellent sources of material for you. Go to Nipple on Wikipedia and you will find a very large photo of a breast and nipple. You're welcome.)

Ish. Even that simple, scientific definition is a little out of my comfort zone. For some reason, nipples gross me out. I can trace this to four specific areas of repulsion:

1. The name is creepy.
Just say it. Nipple. Nipple. Nipple. It makes me think about chewing on a piece of gristle. (Some psychologist is having a Freudian orgasm over that statement right now.) The other words latched on to nipple aren't that attractive either: Areola. Lactiferous ducts. Tara Reid.

2. They're not particularly pretty.
Maybe this is just my experience. I guess I haven't seen too many nipples in person, but most of them look like naked mole rat babies stuck to the front of an otherwise okay breast. The exception to this would be my friend who had implants and showed me her work. They were spectacular. You know who you are. I give you Five Nips Up on that job.

So far I seem to be the only person who noticed that in New Moon (Oh my GOD will she quit talking about New Moon? No. No she will not.), when Rob Pattinson took his shirt off, one of his nipples had some whackadoodle hair job or something around it. It's like one nipple got the JFK hair and the other one got the Jackie. It was distracting for me. Urban Dictionary calls this a Nipple Brow or a Nipple Beard. I've started calling him Spot, much to Oldest Daughter's chagrin.

Maybe my nipple repulsion comes from not loving my nipples like I should. Once, when I was at a legally acceptable age to be showing them off to anyone, a boyfriend told me I had large nipples (Sorry CH. You know it wasn't you. Because I know you are a huge fan.) Now that I am 40, I finally feel comfortable enough to say to that guy, "Only in relation to your dick." Wow. That felt good. Whoreticulture Friday can be very therapeutic.

3. Nipples tend to protrude.
I am not a fan of the "Turkey's Done" look. In high school and college, I would go to great lengths to make sure I was not giving out any Pointers in public. Then I started having babies, and nipples became The Magic Crying Stopper, so I didn't care where or when I whipped them out. Your baby's baptism? Yes. In the mall bathroom? Okay. In my store, while ringing up a customer? Tricky, but can do. Now that I am 40 and gravity is working against me, my nipples seem to be appropriately shamed and look more toward the ground than they used to.

Urban Dictionary is a treasure trove of information. Not only did I learn the following terms on Urban Dictionary, I found that for a low price, I could have them printed on coffee mugs. (I smell a Christmas present for the In-Laws!)

Nipplapolis: When someone's (usually an older lady, sometimes older men) nipples are very noticeably erect through their shirt.

Nipple Botton (sp?) Dress: A dress with a botton (it seems like they mean button) sewed on under the fabric on each breast so they will stick out and look like nipples under her dress.

Nipple Bonk: When a person has an erect nipple caused by cold weather or excitement.

Please note that every Urban Dictionary phrase on here today comes only from the "B" section in Nipple definitions. That's right. There is a whole section with every letter in the alphabet. I told you it's a resource.

4. Nipples are just plain weird.
Admit it. You know someone with a weird nipple story. Maybe it is your mirror. I have a friend, (whom I know is reading this right now - hi you!) whose husband has one nipple that is always erect, while the other one isn't. Just one. I told her he has passive aggressive nipples. She told me she has a third nipple, which is actually pretty common (just ask Marky-Mark!) We were at a party, and she was telling the group about how after she started having kids, she had this mole by her breast. She asked her doctor about it, and voila! Third nipple.

Since I always try to bring the subject back to me, I went to my OB the next week (let's pause for a moment to pity not only my OB, but my OB friend who always get asked awkward questions) and said, "Hey, is there any chance this weird mole by my breast is a third nipple?" and he looked at it and said, "Yes, I think it is" and I said "YES!" and pumped my fist in the air. He looked at me, perplexed, and then went on with invading my personal space.

So, what have we learned today? Nipples sound, look and act funny, and Robert Pattinson needs a new personal groomer.

Back off bitches, my resume is already in the mail.