It's Whoreticulture Friday! Daylight Savings Time Edition

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 people who read this post last year.


Today's topic: Real Housewives

I'm a bad blogger.  I recognize this, and according to AA, admitting I have a problem is the first step to recovery.  However, Charlie Sheen followed the AA program, so apparently I'm still 14 steps away from declaring I am a warlock with tiger blood, so that's a relief.  (BEING Charlie Sheen would give me topics for Whoreticulture Friday for the rest of the year. Sex with the goddesses?  VD from the goddesses?  Denise Richards? HEIDI FLEISS!?!?)  Anyway, after extensive traveling the last two weekends I sort of went into blogger meltdown and haven't done much writing-wise.  I'm sure you hardly noticed, but still.  Apologies.

Since it is Daylight Savings Time, I'm going to spring back to Friday and pretend this post is still on time.

I'm not a Real Housewives watcher.  Honestly, I'm not much of a reality TV watcher because I tend to get so frustrated with or embarrassed for the people on the shows that I just can't take it.  Project Runway is my only exception, mostly because the show is more about the talent than the personalities.  Besides, I think, "those people are just the Hollywood types who are trying for their 15 minutes of fame".  Then I went out for margaritas with a friend last Thursday and realized they are REAL.

These women are conservative compared to what I saw Thursday. 

My friend and I went to Los Agaves, a Mexican chain restaurant in the Quad Cities, for a few overdue margaritas.  We're mid conversation when suddenly my friend stops talking and her jaw drops.  She says "Behind you. Look behind you and tell me you see what I see."  I turned, and there they were.  The Real Housewives of the Quad Cities.  Women in crotch-skimming hemlines, six-inch heels, makeup by Tammy Faye Bakker, and hair-up-to-there.  There were about eight women.  The youngest could get away with saying they were Jersey Shore castmates, and they inspire second looks and gawking.  The oldest was a woman who had to be in her 50's, tottering on her skyscraper heels, lycra skirt, and was just...sad. 

I'm not saying you can't wear whatever you want.  Really.  Do it.  But if you don't want the entire Hispanic wait staff at Los Agaves to stand around the corner, pointing and saying things in Spanish about your coochie, follow these pointers:

1. If you feel all breezy in the vajayjay, your skirt is too short.
2. If you have on more makeup than Zsa Zsa Gabor, don't act surprised when people look for the other 13 clowns to get out of the Volkswagen after you.
3. If your 'do is tickling the top of a room with over 7 foot ceilings, it is too high.  And you are probably a fire hazard.
4. If you are showing over 75% lean breast, you might end up in a sandwich.  And not a delicious one.  Slathered in mayo...if you catch my drift.  And maybe you like mayo, and that's okay, but that particular mayo is NOT going to be back to condiment your next sandwich.
5. If the entire staff of a Mexican restaurant is catcalling at you, it might be time to wrap a tortilla around your burrito.
6. If your grandchild is texting you during your second Blow Job shot, it's time to go home.

We were two thirds of the way through a pitcher, and my friend needed to visit the ladies' room.  Two of the Hoochie Mamas had just headed that way, and my friend couldn't resist the opportunity to see what they were talking about.  After she left, the two women in the painted-on dresses walked by, and my friend came back disappointed.

"They didn't talk about anything, one of them left the toilet unflushed and the other one took a dump.  Total waste of my time."  Hmm.  Not something they cover on Real Housewives.  I can totally see why.

Happy Daylight Savings Time!  Have a great week!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 47

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:
Sexy Halloween
It's that time of year...full of black (feral) cats, Reese's peanut butter cups, and pedophile-friendly Halloween costumes.  When Oldest Daughter forces me to listen to her Love In This Club radio station, I get to listen to ads for Halloween costumes. 

"Hey Partiers!  We have the sexiest Halloween costumes in town!  Sexy schoolgirls, sexy police officers, sexy house cleaners, sexy mothers, sexy nursing home residents...we've got them all!  And guys, you can buy your costume here too!  But bring your girlfriend so we can outfit her in the tightest, shortest costume her body will allow!"


I have to say, I really loathe sexy costumes, because even though I am single-handedly bringing sexy back, I am against exploitation as a hobby.  At least outside of the privacy of my own home.  However, anyone can see that these costumes exist to serve dual functions, therefore making them worth every penny of the $80 or more price tag.

 This costume gives its wearer the obligation
to spend her night telling everyone in the bar
about the crimes against Native American women,
including rape, smallpox, and alcoholism
...and to BE SEXY.

In this costume...well, in this costume

you are just going to hell. To BE SEXY.

If you are the luckiest girl in the room,

this one might land you in bed with Hugh Hefner,

six other women (including twins!)

and the worst crabs you've ever seen.

So Effing Sexy!

This costume is not only advertising

that you will cook, clean for,

and sleep with up to seven men,

or that height is not an issue for you,

but it also says, "Welcome Pedophiles and

Men Who Collect Disney products!"  SO SEXY!

 I don't know about you, but the nurses I've seen in the last 10 years are more likely to be wearing SpongeBob scrubs, but this costume will reap rewards beyond the $65 price tag.  Not only are you seen as nurturing, and as a working girl, and possibly Swiss, but you are likely carring antibiotics.  A win-win in this getup. 
Because it's SEXY!

And isn't that really what Halloween is all about?  Bring sexy?  I think CH is going as Ernie and I'm going as Bert, which says, "Give me the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and I might share, but no one is getting laid tonight."  So. Very. Sexy.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and a Sexy Halloween to you all!

Channeling Jerry Lewis

Last night The Son had a baseball game (which I now enjoy and yell things like "Nice cut!" and "Be a hitter!" and "Good eye!" like the other crazy mothers.  I'm sure they'll take me to the dugout soon and wipe the blood of a sacrificed umpire on my head and the conversion will be complete).  During the game, I had to hold napkins on my lap so I could occasionally blot my chin, which was dripping oily blister juice, and put them between my damp blistery chest and my t-shirt since I was sticking.  Really, I'm too damn sexy for my shirt.  So sexy it hurts.  Really.  It hurts.

Last night before I went to bed I covered myself in gauze strips and band-aids so as to not stick to clothing or sheets, but after a restless night of gauze slippage, I declared that a Total Fail.  This morning, Current Husband walked around the corner into the kitchen, jumped and yelled "AHH!" when he saw me standing in a black strapless bra and underwear, gauze strips hanging off of me, hair up in a pony tail, groggy-eyed and taking my first sip of coffee. 
ME:  "WHAT."
CH:  "Nothing, you just startled me."
ME:  "What startled you?  I'm always in here."
CH:  "Uh, the crusty gauze strips are a little scary.  Like Frankenstein."
ME:  "I can't HELP this, you know."
CH:  "It's time to see a doctor."

And so I finally bit the bullet and made an appointment at 11:30 a.m. today.  When checking in at the front desk, the receptionist took a good look at my huge is-it-nuclear-radiation-or-is-it-herpes rash and didn't really want to take my insurance card.  "OH, your copay is $45?  Keep it, I'll just mark it on the chart.  You can write your check here."  Because obviously she expected me to come out of the office in a HAZMAT suit and unable to write checks.

I went back to the exam room and they did the vitals, and then the PA came in.  She looked at my chin and very seriously went "Hmmm" and "wow".
PA:  "So this is the only place you have it?"
ME:  "Oh no, there's more."  (I open my shirt to reveal Alaska after a statewide forest fire)
PA:  (flinches and puts her hand over her mouth) "OH MY GOD, why did you wait so long to come in here!  Oh my God...where else?"
ME:  (lifting shirt up) "Well it's here on my stomach, and there are these strips down the sides of my abdomen, and I have it on both hips, those are starting to weep, and then I have new bumps on my arm and my thigh, and I'm concerned about these new bumps on my cheeks..."
PA:  (has backed away and is writing a prescription)  "You are going on some hardcore Prednisone.  And the next time you get even a small bump that looks like this, you are a High Reactor - you need to call us and we will get you on something immediately.  Do you understand?"
ME:  "Prednisone?  Will this make me blow up like Jerry Lewis?"
PA:  "It is a small price to pay to get rid of it."


And then the seriousness of the situation sinks in.  This woman is willing to let me look like Jerry Lewis to get rid of this stuff.  Holy crap, I could look like this:

I am now moving away from this:

And getting terrifyingly close to this:

Because my understanding is that Prednisone makes you blow up like someone is shooting air into you.  Hello, poolside!


The PA said, "Do you have anywhere you need to be this week?" and I said "No, this week is pretty slow."  She said, "Good.  I want you to wear a tube-top strapless flowy dress, with no bra or underwear.  You need to let these sores dry up and heal without friction on them."  Then she added, "Oh, and with the Prednisone?  You'll need to EAT.  And I'm not talking about a Diet Coke and a bag of crackers.  I mean actually EAT something."

Okay, now tell me the BAD news.  Because you are one People magazine and a Project Runway marathon away from making me the happiest girl alive.

Here is what I was wearing the day I got into the chipmunk-clearing sumac:

I am sure that I whacked the mutant poisonous evil sumac, smacked at a bug on my chin, then used my right hand to adjust my left bra strap and then pull up my shorts, thus giving me blistering creepiness on my chin, left chestal region, and right hip, and then the oils just started spreading from there.  Here is my post-trauma outfit:

That's right.  It's Julie Ho, Don's wife.  

I just need a scotch on the rocks, rollers in my hair, and a ciggie in my fingers and the look will be complete.  And?  I'm not wearing any underwear.  And let me just tell you that this picture doesn't even do the patches justice.  There is a huge red ring around each of these darker red areas, and they are scabbilicious.  And they seep oil constantly, which is why I have my hair in a ponytail, because my hair keeps getting caught in it.  My God, I'm gorgeous.  And the farmer's tan from gardening?  Even better.  Producers of Real Housewives of Iowa?  I'm waiting by the phone for my call.


In the interim, I'm too sexy.  Too sexy for my shirt.  I hope our dinner guests Friday night have strong stomachs and enjoy eating with Jabba the Hutt, because I may just be in my Princess Leia bikini to serve.  

Well played, chipmunks.  Well played.  You little bastards.

Instant Halloween Karma

Halloween is over, and now I'm stuck with 800 pieces of candy and probable Type 2 Diabetes. I don't even want to know how much unrefined sugar I have flowing through my veins. And I'm still creeped out by Mark David Chapman, but I'll get back to that.

I'll be in Arizona at the end of this week and gone for 10 days in Texas for Thanksgiving, and I'm doing NaNoWriMo, so this month is going to be tough, and I apologize in advance for the crappy sloppy seconds writing the blog is going to endure. For those who aren't familiar with NaNoWriMo, it's a writing marathon where over 100,000 writers commit to writing a 50,000 word novel in the month of November (National Novel Writing Month). I've written 896 words so far. You need to write about 1700 words per day to keep up. Ouch. (For any NaNoWriMos who need a writing buddy, I'm Snarkypants.) I may post some of it here, if I'm not too mortified.

So Halloween is over. This year, my seventh grader still wanted to Trick or Treat with a friend. Since I'm still trying desperately to keep her young and immature, I looked around for a costume at stores, as a homemade costume would be mortifying at her age. I did not go the store route, because costumes in her size all had stickers on the front that said "IMPREGNATE ME". Hey preteen girls! Would you like to be a sexy cop? Or a sexy chef? Or a sexy crossing guard? Or a sexy S&M film star? And then next year you can be an incredibly unsexy baby momma working at the BP store selling lottery tickets and cigarettes to your meth dealer and GUESS WHAT! THAT costume isn't just for Halloween, it's for the rest of your life! Yay for you! She ended up being a Barbie, and we live in interesting times when the tamest costume you can come up with for your daughter is Barbie.

My son wanted to be Uncle Sam. So easy, right? No. The store costumes available to him were Mass Murderer, Blood-covered Zombie, Serial Killer, Ultimate Fighter, Dark Side Superhero or Star Wars. Hello, Goodwill. We ended up putting red stucco tape down the sides of white basketball warm up pants, duct taping a navy blue blazer from Goodwill, and cutting up a serial killer beard to make an Uncle Sam goatee and eyebrows. He won the costume competition at the school's Fall Fun Fest (not to be mistaken for a Halloween party, because that is too pagan and devil-worshipping for the public school day), but now the expectation for next year is even higher. I'm guessing he will want to be the Invisible Man. You can do that, right Mom?

I like to dress up to walk with the kids, because they think it's fun and it gives me a chance to indulge my complete immaturity. My youngest daughter was dressed up as Dorothy, from the Wizard of Oz, so I talked my good friend into being Galinda to my Elphaba. She's a partner in a large law firm, so it usually takes two glasses of wine to make her stop thinking about umbrella policies and liability claims, and by the time we were walking around the neighborhood, Galinda was waving her wand over the adults and telling them all of their wishes would be granted at midnight. She became Sexy Good Witch, and she did not take off her crown or my old prom dress until well after midnight. I told her to wear it home and make someone's wishes come true; it wouldn't be the first time that dress was hitched up around someone's hips. (Just kidding Mom!)

So Galinda and I are preparing to sweep the neighborhood, and this boy comes up the walk at her house looking like a Vietnam Vet. She gives him a King-Sized Hershey bar and he looks at her with dead eyes and says, "Just one?" And she says "Happy Halloween!" and shuts the door. We gather our children and leave the house.

A few blocks later, we see Vietnam Vet kid, and he is waving a silver gun around, demanding candy from people at their doors. Everyone is looking a little frightened, and we all notice how the kid is probably 11 or 12, is trick-or-treating alone, and has no adult supervision. He gets the candy at the door, turns and smiles a little evil smile and saunters to the next house. We are troubled, but forget about it as we are chasing six kids across streets where adults still insist on driving large trucks that say "Stump Removal" on the side and gun their accelerators every time a small child gets in the way.

We trick-or-treat at my house, where Current Husband is dressed up as The Edge, clearly hoping to get lucky. We get candy, and I drop off the dog, who has been dressed as The Cowardly Lion and has eaten about 25% of the brown yarn off of his mane and three dropped Starburst in their wrappers. CH says, "Have you seen the guy who killed John Lennon?" Uh, what? CH got a good look at the kid when he came to our door, and he was wearing a camouflage jacket that had the name "LENNON" on the front. CH said the kid waved his weapon around and was singing Imagine on the way down the walk. WHAT!?!? The kid was dressed up as Mark David Chapman, Lennon's assassin!!! Aaaah! As a huge John Lennon fan, I was going to have to find this boy and steal his candy. And take his most likely real gun. And micro-chip him.

Galinda and I swept the rest of the neighborhood, but we didn't see Mr. Future Juvenile Delinquent again. But as I ate my 15th Reese's Peanut Butter cup, accompanied by a lovely Shiraz, Watchin' the Wheels go round and round, I consoled myself with the fact that Instant Karma was gonna get him. And knock him in the head.