It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 58

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: Swinging.

Have you ever walked into your house and said, "Something in here smells".  Maybe no one else smells it, maybe they do, but it starts bugging you so much that you start exploring the house looking for the smell.  Tonight, my house smells like George the Superpet needs a gland expressed, or he is just waaaayyy overdue to be groomed, but I almost can't think about anything else.  It's making me crazy.  Just so you know I'm a little distracted by butt smell as I'm writing this.

I can't believe I haven't posted a Whoreticulture Friday since February 10.  I owe you all an apology.  I think it's because I took a vow of celibacy in Calcutta on Feb. 7 and it interferes with my sexual thinking.  So screw that.  Lately I've been on the listening end of some steamy gossip and it's time to chat.

Current Husband and I have lived in five different communities in the time we've been together, and lately, all I hear about is swinging everywhere we've lived.  At Urban Dictionary, the go-to source for information on Whoreticulture Friday, swinging is defined as:

A lifestyle of non-monogany where sexual relations occur outside the established couple. Swingers tend to refrain from romantic attachments with their outside partners, thus differentiating themselves from PolyAmorists. There is some overlap between the two communities, though the closeness of the comparisons are generally not acknowledged. 


This sort of freaked me out because it was so serious.  Most entries on Urban Dictionary say things like "the act of slapping a woman in the face with one's limp penis".  I grew up in the Seventies, and let me tell you, there was some swinging going on in my parents' circle of friends.  I remember a LOT of drinking, Kenny Rogers on the 8-track, disco lessons, and Wally Wilson in his tighty whiteys and nothing else, beer gut hanging out, saying "Who's the lucky woman who gets some of THIS!?!?"  My sister and I were supposed to be sleeping, but who can sleep with The Hustle blaring until 2 a.m.?  We'd sneak out of our rooms and peek over the balcony to watch the drunk adults.  Fun.  But I thought all of that sexual craziness ended with the 80's, cocaine and AIDS.  Not so.  MSNBC estimates that 2-10% of all current married couples swing.


It turns out that I must be some doily-crocheting-granny, because I think about 20% of the people I know apparently do some kind of swinging.  I've been finding out about ALL KINDS of swinging going on in different groups we've run with in different towns we've lived in.  Women flying to other cities to meet strange men they've met on the Internet for sex.  Couples having sex with partners other than their spouses in ...eww.. port-a-potties. Hubby on hubby and wife on wife, menage a tois, swapping, you name it.  ALL OF THESE ARE ACTUAL INCIDENTS THAT HAVE HAPPENED WITH PEOPLE I KNOW.  Normal people.  Who have lots of sex. With other partners.


Part of me feels relieved that I don't know about any of it, because frankly, I'm not interested.  I have enough problems.  And I have a phobia of other people's bodily fluids.  But part of me is a little insulted, like, Oh, so NONE of you wants to have sex with me?  Thanks for nothing, you discriminating little hump bunnies.  Because I have got it going ON, and you don't even know what you're missing.  I'm more flexible than I look, and just because I have to occasionally pluck hairs off my stomach and I have the double chin of someone twice my age does not mean I can't knead you like a loaf of bread.  But don't ask CH because I think he wishes the bakery was open more often lately.  Yours are the only buns I want, baby.


I don't judge the swingers - if both spouses are willing, it isn't cheating, but remember, the walls won't talk but everyone else at the party will.  CH is all the man I can handle (take me to bed now, Goose, or lose me forever!), and really?  You know you aren't going to end up with Gavin Rossdale, you are definitely going to end up with Wally Wilson in his tighty whiteys, and that is sort of a fantasy killer.  Seriously, who has the time or energy for this?


Do you think the MSNBC stat is on the money or way off base?  I'm dying to know, America.  Remember, it's in the name of science.  But there is such a thing as Too Much Information, and that's MY job, so keep it vague.


Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

WTF Kate Gosselin!? Resolution #5

Okay, that's IT!!!

I've had it with the Gosselins. I never watched the show, but my kids did. (By the way, we allowed the kids free reign with the TV before our 'let's not have cable anymore' moment last fall, and instead of trying to find The Simpsons or MTV or porn, my kids would stay up until the wee hours on weekend nights watching The Food Network and Jon and Kate plus 8. Weird, huh?)

I get People magazine. There, I said it. I have a subscription so I don't have to stick it under the other groceries in the check out lane. Instead, I have it delivered to my home in a brown paper wrapping. But at least I don't get US or InTouch, because I have standards when it comes to my celebrity gossip. So every Friday, I let George the Superpet/dog/horse lay inside the front door so he can go completely batshit crazy when the mail carrier comes to the door, thus announcing that my People magazine has arrived and making the mail carrier wet herself. Sometimes the worst thing that happens in my week is that People doesn't arrive until Saturday, which means it is a particularly good issue and someone at the post office decided to read it before sending it out.

ANYWHO, my People magazine arrived on Friday, and Kate Friggin' Gosselin is on the cover, AGAIN!!! What was the breaking news story with Kate and her batch of adorable spawn and her lowlife-mid-life-crisis-American-Beauty husband? She got HAIR EXTENSIONS.

Yes, you read that right. Hair. Extensions.

And not just any hair extensions. Let me share the wealth of information about said extensions, because at $100+ per year for a subscription to this magazine, you're damn skippy I'm going to read every word. Kate Gosselin had celebrity hairstylist Ted Gibson (known for tending to the tresses of Angelina Jolie and Anne Hathaway!) work her 'do, and he said that after they finished giggling for 15 minutes about whether or not to cut her bangs, he did her color and extensions at what would normally come to a $7000 bill in his salon.

Not a typo. Seven Thousand Dollars. For extensions. Which I am sure Kate got gratis, because that's how she rolls, and Ted got about $20K in free publicity. Jon Gosselin has yet to weigh in on Kate's new look, but his on again/off again psycho love, Hailey Glassman, said she just adores Kate's new 'do, saying "she's like fine wine, better over time." To which she I believe she added, "And I'm like a fresh can of Bud with the date on the can, which is what her ex-husband is into drinking right now. Not old. Young and fresh, like me! With real long hair and actually 22 instead of trying to look like it!" Hailey's dad, by the way, is the plastic surgeon who gave Kate her free tummy tuck, so they met long before Hailey started bedding her husband. But Hailey apparently hit her expiration date because Jon has now dumped her and moved on to a much older, more mature 25-year-old who is also assuredly into Ed Hardy.

It's enough to make you beg for cold decaf coffee, lunch with the Pussycat Dolls, a full-on Brazilian, a subscription to Cat Fancy, ANYTHING, just to make it stop. Which I am actually considering doing to my People magazine subscription. It's sad when People makes you feel like maybe you are above that kind of "news". Because I am really not that far above it. I just want grainy pics of The Edge and Gavin Rossdale (which thank God there were some) and to look at dresses and houses I cannot afford, and see reviews on books I will never write. Is that so wrong?

It also makes me think about people who have eight children. There are the McCaughey's in Iowa, who had the McCaughey Septuplets plus one girl who became an insta-nanny to her siblings twelve years ago. The Gosselins, who were able to turn their six children plus two into a media empire. And who can forget Octo-Mom, who clearly has an Angelina Jolie fixation and eight babies plus six previous babies? Did none of these people watch Eight is Enough? Because Dick Van Patten would have sat their asses down and said, "Listen, don't do it, or you'll end up married to Betty Buckley and be responsible for the careers of Grant Goodeve and the Karate Kid and Buddy on Charles in Charge. They'll have delusions of grandeur. Stick with two kids and business degrees."

Don't get me wrong. I know people with very large, loving families (One of them has ten kids!) who can actually care for those children. I know people who are actively trying to have a baby who have struggled with infertility. I have friends who have darling babies solely because of in vitro. I'm not in any way against in vitro, or other methods of having children, and I know I have been incredibly blessed with my three awesome ninja kids. But the people I know who rely on science are responsible about it, and have doctors who are responsible about it with them.

It has to be tempting to have eight kids and have someone buy a house and a large van and nannies and tummy tucks and extensions and all the free Ed Hardy clothing and accessories one can grab. It can perhaps make one forget about all of the food and diapers and bathing and personal attention all of those babies will need. Who needs hugs when you have a production crew to get your fruit snacks? All one needs is a doctor willing to load you up with fertilized eggs and a production deal with a cable network and bam! Just add water and you have a Chia-Celebrity!

But as tempting as it would be, I'm not going to calve eight babies. That is SO First Decade.

RESOLUTION #5: Give birth to nine children.

My three children are now old enough to care for babies while I flit around the country doing interviews and getting my hair done. I would explain to them that we HAVE to do this to take care of our family, and that it will be good experience for them, with the added bonus of getting to be on the TV and in the tabloids and having no private time, ever. Maybe they can grow up to get their own reality show! We can call my show "The Wife Without a Life: A Dozen in the House Until I'm Nearly Sixty," subtitled, "Now, Where's My Free Shit?"

And then Kate Gosselin? You can get YOUR People magazine in the mail and see my face on the cover with my new free $5000 lip wax, and say "Not The Wife again! That's IT! I'm canceling my subscription!" Because that is the REAL reason I'm birthin' those babies. Vengeance will be mine, along with an upper lip as smooth as nine babies' bottoms.

An Open Letter to the Woman in the Town & Country Minivan

This is an open letter to the woman driving the ice blue Chrysler Town & Country who drove people to the Middle School today.

Hello, Ms. Ice Blue Chrysler Town & Country Minivan with the LG Phone Glued to Your Head:

I woke to find a lovely, powdered sugar snow on the ground. It was a glorious morning, in that I remembered to set the timer on the coffee pot last night, Oldest Daughter got out of bed without hurting me, and Current Husband got up to shovel. I watched with delight as CH shoveled, scraped my windshield, and started the van, thus securing for himself another year of marriage. As Elliott said to Drew Barrymore about ET, "I'm keeping him."

I skipped to the van with OD, singing songs about snow, bluebirds trailing behind me with ribbons and holly in their beaks. The van was warm and toasty. Gavin Rossdale was belting out "Love Remains the Same" from the backseat. Oldest Daughter was smiling. All was well in the world. (Except for the wars, economic collapse and flu outbreak. But Gavin was not singing about that, so I stuck with the mood.)

We picked up our other Middle School Passenger, Oldest Daughter's Friend. We took our usual route to the Middle School, with OD and ODF making fun of Gavin (and Shakira, because we always poke a little fun at Shakira on Mondays). Suddenly, YOU, woman in ice blue Chrysler Town & Country (T&C), decided to back out of your driveway right in front of me. AAAHH! Hold on girls, we might have a minivan smackdown! And I've been told the brakes on my van are holding at about 25% of the brake pad left! Oh, but T&C looked up from her cell phone at the last moment and stopped, thus avoiding some Monday morning ugliness. Whew. All is forgiven, T&C. It could happen to anyone. Now hang up your phone.

We proceeded to the stoplight and turned right to get to the Middle School. I turned into the right lane, because that's what I learned in driving school. As I turned on my signal (I am a HUGE fan of turn signals, T&C, I recommend them to every driver) to get into the left lane so I could turn left into the school, I see in my side mirror that you are gunning the engine on your van so you can pass me in the left lane. You must have told the person on the phone, "Ooops! I an getting ready to hit this van again! I am such an ass!" and you seemed to slow down when you realized you were going to cut me off, AGAIN. I got into the left lane and turned into the school. All was orderly and law-abiding, again. No worries, my friend. Mr. Bluebird back on my shoulder.

There are two lanes in our Middle School 'Gauntlet of T-Pain' dropoff. Most people drive through them in an orderly fashion, realizing that everyone in line is in a hurry. We all have places to go. But not you, T&C. You must have been saying on your cell phone, "I am having chest pains and need to drive myself to the ER, but I must drop off my Middle Schooler first, and then I will actually PASS people in a two lane roundabout dropoff!!! I hope to live!!!" I watched you actually try to cut me off for a THIRD time, in a two lane drop-off where they have actually hired a police officer to make sure people don't pass other cars for the safety of the children. Even Gavin Rossdale, from the back of my van, said, "What a bitch!" The bluebirds were squawking, and I don't think it was about happiness. Fortunately, a small, vulnerable 12-year-old lugging a tri-fold display on animal cells stepped in front of your van just as you said in your cell phone, "I am going to beat everyone else out of here because I have just decided to donate my kidney to someone whose life is on the line!" Alas, T&C, you were foiled again.

I pulled out of the Middle School and got back into my happy place with Gavin. He suggested we stop at Starbucks and get a coffee. We pulled up and I walked in to get our order. I was standing back, allowing the people ahead of me to order without invading their personal space, when wouldn't you know it, YOU WALK IN AND CUT IN LINE!!! STILL ON YOUR CELL PHONE!!! This is when I lost. my. shit.

All morning I had been jockeying for position with you. I woke up with bluebirds on my shoulder and Mr. Gwen Stefani warbling love songs and a happy middle schooler, and then you revved up the T&C and plowed through my happy place like a tornado in a trailer park. I could take no more. I suppose you thought you were going to get that last Vanilla Bean Scone? Not today, my friend, not today. The rage bubbled up inside of me, and I let you have it.

ME: "Um, excuse me? I'm in line."
T&C: (Hold on Monica, some bitch is talking to me) "Huh?"
ME: "I'm in line."
T&C: "Oh." And you stepped back. Still talking on your phone.

That's right, beyotch. Don't mess with Texas! Stay down! Eat sand! Feel the fury!

I got back in the van, handed a soy chai latte to Gavin, and he said, "Way to stand your ground, Passive Aggressive Mom. Now let's go home, before she walks out of there with her coffee."

Well said, Gavin. Well said. Zip-a-dee-doo-dah this, T&C.