It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 71

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 people who represent Carolyn Keene's estate who might sue me for trademark infringement, as we are now in Nancy Drew Month on A Day In The Wife.




Today's Book: The Clue in the Crumbling Wall (again)


Oh people.  I have a real treat for you today.


So Current Husband and I have been getting the basement ready for our big remodel down there so we have a place to send the children with their friends and to play instruments.  This will mean an upswing in the sleepovers again, but I'm okay with that.  I'm ready.  Plus, I will get another full bathroom in my house, which will kick butt.


Here is what the basement looked like a few weeks ago:

Now it is worse.  All the walls are down, all the framing is gone, and all of that white drywall on the ceiling is gone.  We are having the whole ceiling painted white with the exposed beams and ducts and everything, so I guess I am going with the IKEA look, but it will look more open and cheerful and whatnot.  Which this basement needs, along with a good scrubbing with bleach after what I found.


PREFACE:  This is from the files of "Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction".  I swear this is all TRUE.  It is somehow fitting that I have a blog with Whoreticulture Friday and this was in my ceiling.  Carry on.


So the kids and I are cleaning up chunks of drywall from the floor, and I see a letter in the rubble. "Oh, an old letter!" I say to the kids.  "This is like 'If These Walls Could Talk' on the History Channel!"  The kids are only mildly interested, because, as evidenced by our "Chicago: City of the Century" experience, they are repulsed by history.  It turns out that this disinterest is a good thing.


The letter is written on a sheet of paper from a company notepad from the late 50's or, more likely, the early 60's.  I say this because it's from US Steel Corp, which closed it's Moline location some time ago, and it says "Call 4-5616" and the phone company stopped using five digit phone numbers in the Sixties.  The letter was folded into a giant postcard of Marilyn Monroe.  This all fits beautifully into Nancy Drew month, because my letter in the ceiling was written during Nancy Drew's time!  Coincidence?  I think not.

Carson Drew was NOT mailing anything like this.

Or was he?

For only 3 cents, you could spread Marilyn Monroe all over.

I think, "How quaint.  It's in a vintage postcard!  I love vintage."  And then I start reading.

I know it's a little hard to read, so here's what it says:

"This WHIP will help you to come and also punish you for willingly screwing another woman.  It gives me pleasure to whip your ASS - now return to your room - don't forget to kiss me goodbye between my legs - return Charles to his room Sheila.
Good morning, Sheila.  Bring Charles to me in garments #2 - garter belt - hose - long gloves - net blouse - earrings - makeup.
Good morning Charles, here are your things to wear - you will look dainty - all right you may rise and dress - you look lovely - I hope she sucks you off today - I would love to suck you too - come let go (??)
Good morning Charles, you look sweet, you may rise - Sheila you hold him from behind by hugging him and don't let him move - I want to suck him - he needs relief - Glub Glub - you respond quickly Charles"

Um.  Glub Glub?  I'm going to vomit now.  Needless to say, I did not share this lesson in historical porn with my kids.  Whose grandparent wrote this?  It was stuck in my basement ceiling!  Here are the emotions I felt while reading this:  Shock, disbelief, slight revulsion, laughter, and then "Oh Dear God there was a sadistic bipolar rapist killer in my house and I need to bleach the whole thing down."

I also thought of The Bloggess and Copernicus the Homicidal Monkey  - "A hug is like a strangle you haven't finished".

The men who read this think it's a woman who wrote it.  The women think it's a man.  My vote is definite man.  The handwriting looks more man-like, women had nice writing back then, and this letter has no emotion, all S&M bipolar multiple-partner role-playing stuff - HELLO!  That's a man.

If Blogger will let you comment, send in your vote - Is the author of this 1960's S&M porn a man, or a woman?  We'll leave it up to the people.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

The Suprise Puppy Caper

Hello friends!  Thanks for your sweet comments in the past week about me Mum, who is slightly unhappy about breaking her pelvis.

Let me just say that it is very worrisome to find out your parent has broken something major.  It's very odd to see your parent looking vulnerable and scared, and it freaks you out a bit.  Here are some things I learned from this experience:

1. Have a sibling who is a First Responder.
2. Don't make jokes in the hospital room, not usually a very receptive audience.
3. If your father speaks of loading people up with sedatives and a catheter, make sure your doctor knows NOT to release you to his care.
4. Having an audience to use the bathroom isn't fun for ANYONE.
5. I'm still allergic to Nebraska.

In The Secret Bungalow Mystery, Nancy finds out that trusty Hannah Gruen twisted her ankle while caring for the Drews' home and personal effects.  Nancy runs home to care for Hannah, which means making her a light lunch of delicious chicken salad on a croissant and mandarin oranges, and excusing her from the day's housekeeping duties.  Nowhere in that book does it mention that Nancy helps Hannah get her pants off or go to the bathroom, because that would be a little uncomfortable in the Mad Men era.

Fortunately, Mom is on the road to recovery.  Youngest Daughter and I both got sick in Nebraska, I think because we are both allergic to Goldenrod, the state flower, and cottonwood trees.  We came home on Sunday night and we brought this:

Meet Shiloh.  She's a 6 month old Labradoodle.

She is Mom's dog, now our foster dog for the month.

Shiloh and YD play.  And Shiloh ate Harry Potter the Lego.

 Shiloh and George the Superpet play. George is a bit fat and out of shape.

The only mystery this week is how long will George the Superpet be able to last.

The Mystery of the Broken Pelvis

I was so obsessed with YD's ice cream the other day that I didn't even bother to put a Nancy Drew reference up.  Total slacker.  So that post is now "The Case of the Missing Nancy Drew Reference."

I actually thought about our favorite ginger bitch yesterday, because I got a call on my cell phone at work from my sister in Nebraska, who was driving to my mom's house because she got a call on her cell from my dad in Texas, who got a call on his cell phone from my mom, who had just tripped over a dog leash holder in her yard and broke her pelvis. 

Youngest Daughter and I are reading "The Bungalow Mystery", and in it, Nancy and her friend Helen Corning, who is engaged to Jim, were in a small boat when a storm hit and their boat crashed into some rocks and they went in the drink and had to kick off their sensible shoes and swim in their dresses to the shore, and then find help.  I was thinking about how resourceful you needed to be before cell phones.  Instead of blowing up Carson Drew or Mother Figure Housekeeper Hannah Gruen's respective cells, Nancy had to hike around and then break into a bungalow for hot chocolate and blankets and then take Helen Corning home (so she could write a letter to Jim about the incident) and drive home before anyone knew she almost died.  Whoa.

So.  Yesterday.  My mom broke her pelvis and it is extremely painful and of course I am terribly worried about her.  But in my family of origin, you deal with a crisis in one of three ways:

1. Get into a yelling match with another family member.
2. Drink heavily.
3. Make inappropriate jokes.

I usually go with #3, followed by #2, then #1.  Dad usually starts with #2, then #1, then #3. It's unfortunate, but something my family accepts about ourselves.  In the spirit of #3, allow me to recap yesterday's communications with my family.

THE SCENE:  Julie in Iowa, Natalie in Nebraska with Mom, Dad in Texas.  You should know that my parents are married, but occasionally live in different states.  It's for the best, really.

My cell phone rings at work.  I answer.
ME:  Hi!
NATALIE:  Hi.   Mom fell and probably broke something.  I'm driving over there now.
ME:  Did she call you?
NATALIE:  No.  She dragged herself into the house, and called Dad on his cell phone.  Then Dad called me on my cell phone, and then I called 911 and am driving over there now.
ME:  Why did she call Dad first?  He's in Texas!
NATALIE:  I'm not sure.  And I don't exactly know the address out there (it's a cabin on a river in the boonies) so I'm meeting the ambulance to lead them in.
ME:  Well don't call Dad to call Mom to call you to call me when you find out some info.  Call me directly.
NATALIE:  Okay.  911 hung up on me.  I think I made them mad.  Or they know Dad.
ME: Keep me updated.

*call ends*
(I'm guessing they know Dad.)

phone rings 20 minutes later
ME:  Hi.
NATALIE:  Okay, so I walk in the house, and all I see are her tennis shoes and the ends of her jeans on the floor. 
ME:  Oh my God.  Like the witch in The Wizard of Oz under the house?
NATALIE:  Yes.  And then I walk around the corner and she is curled on her side, smoking like crazy.
ME:  How did she get to her cigarettes?
NATALIE:  I'm guessing she dragged herself in the house, got her smokes, then called Dad.
ME:  Because she has priorities.  And she knew she couldn't smoke in the ambulance or the hospital, so she was smoking what was left in the pack as fast as she could?
NATALIE:  Exactly.
ME:  Okay, call me back from the hospital.
*call ends*

I call my Dad.
DAD:  What.
ME:  So what happened?
DAD:  She let out that Goddamned Dog and then tripped over the spike the leash is hooked on.
ME:  So it wasn't actually the dog.
DAD:  I knew that Goddamned Dog would break her hip.
ME:  But it's her pelvis.  And it wasn't the dog.
DAD:  I'm getting rid of that Goddamned Dog.
ME:  What is your plan?
DAD:  I guess I'm going to drive up there and get the Goddamned Dog and bring her back here. 
ME:  I meant regarding Mom.
DAD:  Well, I'm going to see if they can give her as much pain medication as possible, have them put a catheter in her, and put her in the back of the car to drive back to Texas.
*pause while I let this horrible plan sink in*
ME:  Um, Dad, I don't think they will release her with a broken pelvis to take a 20-hour car trip.
DAD:  Plus I will have to have that Goddamed Dog in the car. 
ME:  But I think it will be bad for her to take a 20-hour car trip with a BROKEN PELVIS.
DAD:  Someone has to take care of her, and I can't stay in Omaha for 4 weeks.
ME:  We'll figure something out.
DAD:  That Goddamned Dog.
Dad hangs up.

TEXT EXCHANGE WITH MY SISTER
ME:  Coming on Friday. Will take GD dog back with me.
NATALIE:  I go to Vegas Sat a.m. for work, can't change it. Dad says he's taking GD dog to kennel. He's pissed and told me to shoot her.
ME:  Who?
NATALIE:  The dog, not mom.
ME:  You never know.  Did u know he wants to fill her w/painkillers, catheter, drive her back to TX?
NATALIE:  Who?
ME:  Mom, not the dog.
NATALIE:  He always has great ideas.  Mom wants him to stay in TX.
ME:  He's probably already to Dallas.  Restraining order?
NATALIE:  Mom would have to file it.
ME:  Shit.
*end*

I'm pretty sure Nancy Drew would not have these issues with Carson Drew.  Mom is okay, but in pain.  They can't do surgery or a brace or screws or any of that, we are on the painkillers and patience program.  I am driving to Nebraska on Friday, because I am totally out of vacation at work, and I'm spending the weekend with her to convince her that staying in a Skilled Care Facility for one week does not mean we are having her committed.  I'm calling it "The Elvis Presley Resort and Spa for Pelvis Rehabilitation."    I keep saying, "Mom, if I had a broken pelvis, and someone offered to cook and clean for me in a place where I have the remote and can read books all day, I would totally take it.  Plus, you should take a deck of cards.  You could make a killing over there.  Probably pay for your whole hospital stay."

So far, she is not buying what I'm selling.  Wish me luck!

Freezer Rules

An Open Letter to My Family:

It has come to my attention that we need a remider on Freezer Rules and Fridge Rules.  As the purchaser and main preparer of the food, I now declare myself the Mommy Tse Tung of all things in the refrigerator or freezer.

"Woe to the child who defies the rules of the fridge."

1. If you open a Gatorade or juice box, it must be finished in one sitting.  There shall be no open containers of dyed drinks in the refrigerator, or one shall wear the consequences.
2. If there are but three grapes left on the bunch, or three strawberries left in the box, the eater shall eat them and throw away the container.
3. Do not leave a tablespoon of milk in the container so as to not have to be the one who rinses out the gallon.
4. Prison rules apply to any ice cream treats left in the freezer.  If one has any leftovers from Dairy Queen, Whitey's, Coldstone, or Maggie Moos, consider it abandoned once it hits the freezer.  At that time, any homesteader may lay claim to the treat.

As I did tonight to your leftover Peanut Butter Galaxy from Maggie Moos, Youngest Daughter.  If Darwin were an ice cream barista, he would totally side with me that after two days in the freezer, this bad boy belongs to me.  And if you ask about your ice cream that you abandoned, I will inform you that I throw away ice cream after two days because it goes bad.  The fact that I throw it away in my stomach does not need to be revealed.

I think this clears up the World According to The Wife.  Please let me know if there are any questions or concerns.

Sincerely,

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 70

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 people who represent Carolyn Keene's estate who might sue me for trademark infringement, as we are now in Nancy Drew Month on A Day In The Wife.

 Today's Book:  The Clue in the Crumbling Wall

Seeing Nancy and Bess and George crouching in the bush, next to the metaphorical Crumbling Wall, makes me realize that I'm worried about Kim Kardashian's vagina.


As a matter of fact, I'm worried about a number of Hollywood vaginas that are attached to small women who are married to big dudes.  I don't watch Kardashian shows, or read Kardashian articles, and I care so little about or for her that I didn't buy this:

It takes a lot to get me to pass on this week's People magazine.  But this ridonkulousness?  Did Kim marry Kim?  There are gowns, guests, glamour, and a wedding album...was there a groom?  Does anyone care?  Kim might not be having second thoughts, but her vagina is.

Rudimentary anatomy tells me that his penis is bigger than her head.

Where is he packing that thing? Is she carrying it in her purse? 

With her now-defunct uterus?

Kim and Kris aren't the only ones with this problem.  Just look at the probable penis size and compare it to the corresponding hidey-hole.  Remember Sesame Street?  "Which of these things is not like the other..."

Eva and Tony...she finally said "Back that truck up and

No, you don't get your security deposit back."

Shaq and Shawnie, she got him to quit breaking her backboard.

Will and Jada. 

Still gettin' jiggy wit it, but she is standing awkwardly. 

 Probably because her vagina hurts.

I know that some of you will say "I would be getting all over that bull penis" (you know I'm thinking about YOU, Wall of Pain!), but really?  Would you?  Because I'm thinking I might be smiling in the moment, but then be walking like Yosemite Sam for a week, and be just as pissed.  Or pissing myself.  It depends on how much the wall actually crumbles.

Nancy Drew would be scandalized.  She would consult with her father, Carson Drew, and then have a five course meal with fruit salad in compotes for dessert, and then discuss it with Hannah, the maternal housekeeper for the Drews.  But that would all be for naught, because only Ned could help her crack this case, and then Nancy would know that her walls were crumbling because of Ned's leaning chimney.

Happy Weekend Wifers!  I hope your walls get some crumbling, if you want them to.  I'm personally going to solve The Mystery of The Silent Alarm Clock.