Happy Easter!

Since I'm probably rushing around trying to find my shoes to get to church and figuring out how to cook ham without giving people trichonosis, I'm re-printing an older Easter post from what I can now refer to as "The Early Days" of the blog.  Happy Easter, and I dearly hope you have eaten fewer Reese's peanut butter cups than I on this blessed day.

The Son has started baseball, which means we spent an inordinate amount of time in large, grassy areas.  As we are pulling out of the ballpark, we see a costumed Easter Bunny standing in the middle of a huge field where presumable volunteers were throwing a gazillion eggs and candy all over the place.  I shudder.

ME:  "Did you know I was the Easter Bunny once?"
HIM:  "Really?  Like in a costume and everything?"
ME:  "Yes.  When I was Marketing Director at the mall, we had an Easter Egg Hunt, and my bunny bailed at the last minute, so I had to suit up."
HIM:  "Whoa, cool.  What was that like?"
ME:  "Extremely hot and sweaty and painful.  The kids beat me up.  I've tried to block it."
HIM:  "Did you make them mad?"
ME:  "No.  They were non-believers intent on disproving the whole Easter Bunny thing."

It's true.  I was the Crayola Easter Bunny at the Pentacrest in downtown Iowa City in 1995.  Freshly engaged, I thought perhaps with marriage and potential children in my future I should try to soften up toward kids, since they had always sort of annoyed me.  I donned the fur suit, which was hotter than the pits of Hades, and started sweating it out.  Let me just reassure you now that while some of the minor details may have faded, this is a Hand-To-God true story.


I walked over to the field with the assistance of one of the mall cops, because you can't see a damn thing out of those bunny heads.  You can't hear in the bunny head.  You can't walk in the bunny feet.  The Crayola outfit comes complete with pastel-hued overalls with a huge pocket on the front, and white furry feet that are about two feet long.  It's just a train wreck waiting to happen.

 Photo of actual costume.  But my feet were bigger.  

Now you can feel my pain.

When the kids saw me, they went apeshit crazy.  I was like the Beatles after Ed Sullivan, but with candy instead of sex appeal.  I stumbled over the field, little arms from invisible children hugging my legs and tripping over my enormous feet.  I tried to pat them on the head, but managed to poke more than one kid in the eye or punch them in the face.  I couldn't tell if they were screaming in joy or pain, I just knew I Must.  Keep.  Moving.  

 But at least I wasn't THIS guy, because that looks hot.  

And someone might accidentally shoot you.

After a while, the toddlers made way for the fourth graders, who ganged up on me and kept saying, "I know you're not real".  Since my Crayola Easter Bunny costume didn't have a moving jaw, I opted for Mute bunny so as to not ruin it for the believers, and I was more like Helen Keller in this costume than I thought possible, so I just waved and patted at the hecklers while the mall cop tried to shoo them away.  And kids listen so well to mall cops.

 Now picture every one of these kids 

with a club and a taser gun.  Scary, no?

"You're NOT REAL!  I Don't BELIEVE YOU!"  Then the poking and shoving started (the kids, not me).  Sweat was pouring down my back, and I could swear my overalls were sagging.  I started to hyperventilate.  Is this how I was to die?  By asphyxiation in a full fur body suit with long floppy ears and a cute cotton ball tail with a pack of fourth graders kicking the crap out of me like a bunch of skinheads?


Then, it happened.  A kid actually stuck his hand down my overall pocket and started groping around, saying, "You got any candy in there, bunny?"  

That.  Just.  Did it.

"ENOUGH!"  I growled through my enormously disproportionate head.  "You kids need to move away from the Easter Bunny RIGHT! NOW!"  

 Don't.  F*ck.  With.  My.  Pocket.

I stood in my most threatening costumed fantasy creature pose, pastel overalls trembling, sweat pooling in my pants.  I now looked like the rabid Tourettes bunny who had just wet himself.  "You kids had better move along," the mall security guard said quietly and slowly.  The kids went eerily silent, and walked away.  "Um, are you okay in there Julie?"  

"Just get me back to the mall, Bob.  I need to get back to the mall."


The Easter Bunny left a little early, soaked in her own sweat and feeling violated.  She can't remember much from the rest of the day, except that it involved tequila to dull the burning rage she had toward grade schoolers.  I'm not going to say that's the last time I got into a costume, but I will tell you it's the last time I got in one without a sidearm.

As for those kids who touched me?  Let's just say I still have the costume, and the Easter Bunny makes a visit to their houses every damn year.  Bock bock, Easter Bunny.  Bock, bock.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 57

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: I'm lame. Ditto.


I'm sure many of you are thinking "Ditto? Oh goody, it's a post on Patrick Swayze in "Ghost"!" but unfortunately, Wifers, I am not that clever this evening. This day started at 6:30 a.m., I hit the ground running, and it's 9:40 p.m. and I just got home from running kids and I haven't had dinner and I'm on Day 3 of God's Punishment for Eve and no one did the dishes and I'm gearing up for one of my famous "Martyr Mom" performances in about 10 minutes.


SO. I'm going to re-post last year's Teddy Bear post from Valentine's Day. Because I liked it, because I need to remind Current Husband not to get me a teddy bear, and because I am lame-O. However, I will leave you with this one small Oldest Daughter Teen Nugget Of Wisdom before I plagarize myself - we were talking about cliques at school, and she said that it was the majority opinion that many of a certain group of girls in the school are 'whores'. I said, "I thought most of those girls go to church regularly" and she said, "Mom, the only difference between the church girls who are whores and the non-church girls who are whores is that God is watching the Church Girls with more disappointment." From the mouths of babes....

Happy VD, Wifers!

Today's topic:  I love Teddy Bears!

Valentine's Day is upon us, the most whorish of all holidays, because if you don't find a meaningful way to profess your love to the one you're with, you could get dumped.  And while I love flowers and sex, I actually don't like to get either on Valentine's Day because it feels so contrived.  I do, however, love seeing the commercials that come out around VD to let us know how exactly we should be sharing our feelings with each other.  

I've learned that you can never, never go wrong by giving an overpriced teddy bear in lieu of a professional massage or nice jewelery or a lovely dinner or a nice bottle of wine.  That bear will be there forever, reminding you that someone cared enough to get you a stuffed animal.  And nothing gets a guy laid faster than a grown woman getting a teddy bear in boxer shorts or with a parrot on its shoulder delivered to her office in front of her peers.  When you pull up in your 1988 Econoline van with the blacked out windows to pick her up she won't be able to keep her hands off that bear...or you.  That bear says, "This guy is a keeper".  Because what woman older than 25 DOESN'T have a teddy bear on her wish list for Valentine's Day?  We all do.  Every one of us.

DISCLAIMER:  To those of you receiving a teddy bear for Valentine's Day, that's super, really, and you are probably getting more than I will, but I can't help but poke some fun.  Teddy bears are sweet.  Like puppies.  I'm just a bitch that way, and I am sorrier for it than you will ever know.  CH is likely going to read this and return my teddy bear, and I won't get anything but "I read your blog, you insensitive bitch".

A Valentine's Teddy Bear says "I am mature" or "I think you're 14" or "I'm almost ready for commitment" or "I love you almost as much as my mother" - but it can say so much more.  For just $50-$300, plus shipping, you can decide what message you want to send this Valentine's Day:

 

The "I Plan to Abuse You" bear, $49.95.

 

The "Be in My Polygamy Compound" bear, $49.95.

  

The "Devil Worshiper Who Still Needs An Adult Diaper" bear, $59.95

The "I'm Not Giving Up Porn After We're Married" bear, $200.

The "I Actually Love Another Woman" bear, $65.95

 

The "I Am More Masculine Than You Think I Am" bear, $59.95

 

The "I Still Play Dungeons & Dragons" bear, $74.95.

  

T

The "I'm Actually Gay" bears, $200.

 

The "I'm Likely To End Up in Prison" bear, $75.95

 

The "I Expose Myself to Children" bear, $95.95

 

The "I Hate You So Much I Bought You a Redneck Bear" bear, $49.95

The "Date Me Or The Puppy Gets It" bear, $54.95

The "Stick Your Hand In My Candy Bag And See if You Find a Sucker" bear, $125

 

The "Guess What's in Her Right Hand" bear, $250

and last but not least,

 

 

 The "I Don't Know How To Tell You Your Coochie Stinks" bear, $300

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and Happy Valentine's Day!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 53

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.




Preface:
Last week, I had this REALLY funny e-mail conversation with one of my co-workers.  I e-mailed him that he should watch Flight of the Conchords, and he told me to watch something, and then I asked if he listened to The Black Keys and he said, "The Black what?  Hmm.  No.  But I have a picture of me with these cool guys I happened to be hanging out with in a bar in Chicago in 2006" and it was a picture of him with the two guys from The Black Keys.  Then I sent him the link to The Bloggess, (for which he STILL hasn't thanked me), and then he sent me a link to this funny blog called Salami Tsunami. 

And then my ego took over the reasonable, thinking, logical side of my brain, and I did it.  The thing I swore I wouldn't do.

"So, Snarky Co-Worker, if you click on this link, you are promising to never, ever pass it along or share it with anyone else at work or I will key your car."  And I sent him a link to this blog.  Oh, the narcissism!  Is it not enough that there are 245 followers here?  Is there really room for any more!  Particularly when I start slacking off on posting three times a week!?  And when will people learn not to use work e-mail to pass on questionable material!?!

Co-worker laughs, on e-mail, so it was like "ha ha, LOL, :o or some electronic chortle, and says, Of course I won't pass it on! and then he promptly does a REPLY ALL on our e-mail exchange to send me and my boss some artwork we needed for a box for the hooking supplies.  OH. SHIT.

I promptly speed walk to his office, poke him hard in the chest, and scream whisper, "THANKS ALOT, JIM BOB MCGEE, YOU SENT THAT TO THE BOSS!" and he turns five shades of green and says, "No I didn't" and turns to his computer, pulls up the e-mail, and starts repeating, "fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck".  Then I feel bad because he is getting a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and I say, "Oh, it's okay, I'm sure he loves vagina cupcakes" and laugh nervously, even though we all KNOW they were not vaginas.


Today's topic: An Open Letter to my Boss


Dear Sir,

I understand that through an unlikely string of events there is a chance you may have been given a link to my blog.  On Whoreticulture Friday.  If you have already read the blog, then I am sure you already realize that it is being written not by me, but by the ghost of Marliyn Monroe, who we all know was on barbituates and can't be held responsible for what she writes.

I ask you, who looks like the more likely candidate to be the author of a blog series called "Whoreticulture Friday":

 Mr. President-singing Playboy covergirl sexpot, OR

Respectable marketer of hooking supplies?

That's what I thought.

The topic of last week's post was Pussy Posting.  Clearly, this was not related to genitals in any way.  That would be crass, even for Marilyn.

Such a cute little pussy.  Nice shag, too.

If the ghost of Marilyn was trying to offend you, she wouldn't post pictures of kittens, she would post pictures of George the Superpet sexually molesting my mother at Christmas to the horror of the children because she had the misfortune of sitting in his chair.

Down boy!  Bad dog!

Perhaps, Sir, you were puzzled by the pictures of the colorful cupcakes.

(Photo credit to the person whose name I can't track down who will punch you in the vagina if you dare re-post the photo of her vagina cupcakes without permission.)

Obviously, Marilyn posted this photo because I am planning a Georgia O'Keefe-themed party for Youngest Daughter's birthday in April.  Georgia O'Keefe cupcakes!  Yummy and enlightening!  Let's culture up, second graders!

By Georgia O'Keefe. 

Not a colorful vagina.  Art.

I see it in chocolate with rainbow fondant.

By Georgia O'Keefe. 

Titled "Through the Eyes of an OBGYN on Peyote".



By Georgia O'Keefe. 

Titled "Sorry, We Are Fresh Out of Epidurals".

And so, Gentle Employer, I think you can see that it was all a big misunderstanding.  A post on that crazy and mysterious Internet, posted by some random woman who is actually not even alive and on barbituates, about kittens and art.  I think we have all learned something here.

Never send links to your occasionally porn-themed blog to anyone you will see on a daily basis or with links to your paycheck, particularly male marketing gurus who hang out with The Black Keys.  Even if it WAS an accident.



It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 45

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. Because there are many things I don't need you people to know about me. SO STOP READING, CO-WORKERS. You know who you are.

Today's topic: Mommy the Sex Toy Dealer

First, I must apologize for no blog on Wednesday a.m., but The Son sprained his foot badly at football practice, and we did the whole Convenient Care/x-ray/crutches thing and he is out for the rest of the football season, and I was just not really in a bloggy place that night, so sorry for slacking!

Today already feels like one of those days when I am going to lose followers, so let me say before I begin this edition of Whoreticulture Friday that I really enjoyed the time you spent on my blog, I apologize in advance for offending you, and you will be missed.

So.  I was approached last week about selling sex toys on my blog.  Oh yes, Wifers.  Cock rings for everyone!  It's like Christmas, if Christmas was absolutely not about Jesus and we all had Spanish Fly instead of eggnog.  

(Today is also starting to feel like one of those days when I will be going to hell, so let me say to Jesus that I really enjoyed the time I was in your favor, I apologize in advance for offending you, and I will really miss heaven.)

As many of you know, bloggers get approached fairly regularly to whore out products on their blogs.  Most of these proposals are scams, and no one ever gets paid.  Unfortunately, the adult sites seem to be the only legitimate companies paying people to advertise for them.  This say a LOT about the Internet.  Since 66% of my blog posts are about kids and families and 33%, or more namely, Whoreticulture Fridays, often are about sex, I will probably not be advertising for this company.  However, since they gave me a topic, I will promote them for free today, provided they don't sue me for posting some of their photos.  Sounds like a fair exchange, no?  Eleven Creations, by reading further in my blog, you are agreeing to let me post some photos, okay?  Good.  I'm glad we got that settled.

So the company is Eleven Creations, and they seem legit.  Too legit to quit, even, because they've been in business for 18 years, which means that they started up right about the time I started harassing Current Husband to marry me because it seemed like he was getting the milk for free and therefore not purchasing the cow.  Moo.  Let's take it slow, like foreplay.

They say this is for the big finger.  

So THAT's what we're calling it these days.

This finger talk makes me harken back to New Year's Eve, 1992, when CH and I were spending the night with a very good couple friend.  We had all been drinking and playing Taboo (an excellent, and innocent, game), and the clue was Moonlighting.  The woman, who was drunk as a skunk in a funk, started telling her husband about how she had forgotten to tell him that she watched a porn the other day at home, called "Moonlighting", and that she had masturbated using "TWO FINGERS!"  CH and I hadn't known them that long, and we looked at each other like, "Best New Year's party EVER! Tell us more!" because we knew we'd talk about it for years, and the husband was trying to shut her up and saying to us, "Um, she didn't really do that, she'll be so embarrassed tomorrow" but we knew the truth because their gifts to each other were still under their Christmas tree and Santa brought him the banana-sling type underwear for men who are hung so we already knew they were funky that way, and then we woke up the next day hung over and he made us biscuits and gravy and Lord did we ever both want to throw up but we didn't because it would've been rude, especially after the underwear and masturbation thing.

Oh, are you still here?  What was I talking about?

 Oh yes.  Cock rings.

Did you hear that?  It was the sound of people Unfollowing me.  Sorry folks.  Pray for me.  I would like to say that while I find it irritating that the model on the box (pun intended) looks like Megan Fox, I love that her boob is a little on the saggy side, like she's dropped a couple of calves.  That is a 40-year-old boob, my friend.  Also, I always find it irritating when things are purposely misspelled.  "How It Workx"?  Come ON.  So you are selling cock rings and bondage tape and Spanish Fly.  Is it necessary to lower yourself to BAD SPELLING?  Be a classy, educational sex company.  I don't want to know HOW IT WORKX.  I want to know How It Works, and what Freud might have thought about it.  Make me feel SMART for using your cock ring with the pulsating tickler, batteries included. Or at least for reading the box if I'm not actually going to use the product.

Bondage tape. Pretty in Pink.

This purports to be the best selling couples product, but I'm guessing that the best selling couples product is actually a tie between Ben & Jerry's Super Fudge Brownie Chunk and Tylenol PM.  As a public service, I will tell you that if you go to Eleven Creations, stay away from the DVD and Love Dolls sections, unless you just haven't seen enough rectums today.  I, for one, haven't seen a rectum in five years since I changed my last diaper, and I have no plans to go on a Scavenger Hunt for one anytime soon.  I'm not judging, I just know I'll be reaching for either the Ben & Jerry's or the Tylenol PM tonight.  But you other couples go have your fun.

So there you have it.  My brush with fame in the sex trade.  I'm sure I would have made over $10 in commission by the end of this post, just on the Bondage Tape alone, but it just isn't my thing.  I appreciate the offer, EC, and it's nice to be wanted, but contrary to popular belief, I'm not the selling-sex-toys-on-my-wifey-blog kind of girl.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

My True Gap Rewards

On Saturday morning, I packed up Youngest Daughter and we took off on a five-hour car trip to Omaha, Nebraska.  I grew up outside of Omaha, but once my sister and I started having children, my parents decided to move 24 hours away to the Southernmost tip of Texas.  After 13 summers of 110 degree temps coupled with 100% humidity, my parents decided to buy a house on the Elkhorn River near Omaha so they could summer up north.  And who doesn't dream about a summer home in Nebraska?

One of the few benefits to this very long, very drawn out car ride is the Gap Outlet located about 90 minutes to my west.  I am a total Gap Girl - my uniform is khaki pants, capris or shorts, coupled with various colored t-shirts and cardigans.  Armed with my $10 Rewards coupon and my Gap Visa, I pulled into the outlet center.  Fifteen minutes later, I was checking out with around $100 worth of stuff, when I see other shoppers pulling out a computer printout with their Friends and Family coupons on them for an additional 30% off.  DOH!  I forgot about that!  And mine is sitting in my computer inbox, all lonesome.  No worries, the guy at the register tells me I can get a price adjustment within 7 days of purchase.  I'll just swing back in on my way home, and voila!  Let the savings commence!

We drove to my parents' place, saw my sister and her daughter, and had a lovely time.  There is nothing like falling asleep in a second floor room surrounded with open windows, hearing the cottonwood leaves rustling in the cool nighttime breeze.  Perfect sleeping weather.  Add that to the fact that YD spent the night at her cousin's house and I had a full bed to myself, and I give the night an A++.  I woke to Mom brewing coffee and the birds singing....it's too much bliss!

I was lucky enough to see two of my high school friends (the ones who removed my skin tag) and I have pictures, but I can't post them because my laptop is still virused out and I don't know how to upload pics on our main computer...or I am too lazy to figure it out.  Anyway, my friend printed a Gap 30% Friends and Family coupon on her computer.  After a couple of hours at the pool with them, I took off with just enough time to make it into the door of The Gap to do my biznez with them.  I start driving and just outside of Omaha, YD falls asleep.  Could it be going any more smoothly?

About 30 minutes away from The Gap, YD wakes up and starts whimpering.  Her stomach hurts.  When are we going to stop?  I tell her we are stopping in 30 minutes and she can make it, because YD frequently invokes the Hurting Stomach privilege in the car to force us to pull over and eventually get her a snack and drink.  Soon, YD is actually crying.  "You know all of those times when I lie about my stomach hurting?  This is NOT ONE OF THOSE TIMES!"  I tell her we will pull over in 10 minutes, and I start scouting the road for prospective pull over sites.  I have nothing.  I'm in Eastern Iowa on Interstate 80 with about five billion truckers driving 18-wheelers 20 miles over the speed limit with a narrow shoulder.  It's getting worse.  I'm thinking to myself, "Stay calm.  She is not really that sick, it's just car sickness, and when she gets out of the car she will be fine."  

I look at the clock.  The Gap closes in 15 minutes, and I can only do this transaction at this particular Gap Outlet, which is 90 minutes west of my house.  YD is whimpering.  The exit appears.  Thank you, Jesus!  We pull into the parking lot with 10 minutes to spare.  I get YD out of the car and ask her how she is doing.  She says she's okay, but her tummy still hurts.


ME:  "Do you need to go to the bathroom?  Will that help?"
YD:  "No.  It just hurts."
ME:  "Does it hurt like a stabby pain or a dull pain?"
YD:  "It just hurts."
ME:  "Is there anything that sounds good, like a water?"
YD:  "No.  Nothing sounds good.  It just hurts."
ME:  "Can you make it into the Gap?  Mommy will NOT SHOP.  I am only returning these pants.  Can you do it?"
YD:  "Let's go before they close."
Atta girl!


We go in, and I go to the young clerk.  I say to her, "I want to return these khakis, and then I want to use this coupon to get my 30% off adjustment on the balance."  I know this is what I said.  She took the khakis, returned them, and then rang them up again at 30% off and handed them back to me.  "There, you saved $6!"  Thanks for playing, but that's not what I said.  This turned into 5 minutes of me explaining what I wanted.  The manager had to come over.  She said, "Who told you to come back?" and I said, "I don't know who it was.  It was the guy who had a Gap nametag and was on that side of the counter."  The woman smiled at me in pity and said, "Well next time, just ask if we have an extra coupon, because he could've just rung it up for you with the discount the first time."


Oh.  Thanks.  Because I left Nebraska early just so I could drive four hours to make it here on time with my carsick kid.  No worries.  NEXT TIME I will know what to do.  And I will start doing that in every store I visit.  We finally got the transaction done, and YD and I walked out of the door into the parking lot, where she stopped in her tracks and power vomited all over the Gap Outlet parking lot.


YD looked up at me, her eyes bugged out a bit, vomit in her hair, on her legs, on her shoes, on my shoes, and she said, "I thought that lady would NEVER stop talking."


And that, my friends, is my true Gap Reward.  Because the mom who drags her carsick child into the Gap to save an extra $25 in the middle of a long car trip perhaps deserves to be vomited on.  So sorry YD, and from now on, I will believe every stomach ache is a real one.

 

Hooked on Acid

Some people are hooked on the classics.

Some kids are hooked on phonics.

Today, I became addicted to acid.

No, silly, I'm not talking about the drugs!  I'm talking about paying someone to purposefully rub acid all over your face to peel off dead skin!  Doesn't that sound better?  (Let me preface this post by saying that OF COURSE I am going to Parent Teacher Conferences, don't beat me up.)

Let's get in the not-so-way-back machine.  My attorney, who is a fantastic friend even when she isn't bearing gifts, gave me a lovely gift card to my favorite spa (well, okay, my ONLY spa, really, and usually I just get my hair cut) Five Star Salon & Spa, which I highly recommend if you are winging through the Quad Cities area.  My attorney intended for me to get a pedicure, but when she discovered I had never experienced the facials at Five Star, she steered me on the proper path to Frank Costanza's Serenity Now.

I called and booked my appointment, and found that the special of the month was a free upgrade to a facial peel, and would I like one?  You had me at Free.  I was feeling the bliss already, and then I took a moment to look at my calendar.  I thought I had bucked the system...in addition to the new full-time job, Monday is cello, dance and football, Tuesday is football and maybe another cello session, Wednesday is piano and dance, Thursday is football, and Friday is usually full of one of their social obligations.  I know, you're saying "Well that's your own damn fault, your kids are overbooked".  As much as I would love to agree with you, we let them pick two activities outside of school, and one has to be music and one has to be exercise-related.  Two activities times three kids equals pain in the ass at night.  It is my fault and I acknowledge that fact, but it makes it hard to book anything during the week, plus there is always homework, dinner, and that ever-elusive family time.  I booked the appointment, happy that most of our activities start NEXT week and I had dodged THAT bullet, and 48 hours later discovered I had booked my appointment on my kids' elementary school curriculum night.

Crapola.

I called the spa the next day, so sorry, the only day I had open in the next two weeks was already booked solid. Hmmm.  Facial vs. Curriculum Night.  Curriculum Night vs. Facial.

"Is there ANY chance I can get in next Tuesday?  It's Curriculum Night at my kids' school."  I asked.

"I'm so sorry, we really are booked that night."  She smiled apologetically and looked at me for an answer.  Should I give it up?  I could always try again in September.  Oh.  Nope. September is booked with things I will go into later.  But October has possibilities....

"Damn.  This would be the first Curriculum Night I've missed."

"I'm curious...what do they DO at Curriculum Night?" the girl asked.

"Well, you meet the teacher, they talk for 30 minutes about what your child will be learning, and then you look around the school."

"Have you met your kids' teachers?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Have you looked around the school?"

"Um...yeah."

"Have you had other kids in these grades?"  

"yes," I said meekly.  "I'll keep the appointment."  I am so going to Mommy hell.  The girl smiled broadly and patted my hand.  "You won't regret it."

And she was wrong.  I did regret it.  Terribly.  I was being eaten up with guilt.  First I run out and get a full-time job.  Then I make OD watch her younger sibs for the last two weeks of summer.  Then I sort of stopped cooking.  Now I'm bailing on the first parent night of the year.  To get a facial.  June Cleaver stood next to me, her gloved hands crossed, tsking and shaking her head.

I also started worrying about the acid on my face for the facial.  Every time I get my lip waxed, I sport this pink Hitler mustache for a few hours afterward.  I told my co-worker I was getting a peel, and she said, "That sounds like it's going to hurt".  Yes.  Yes it did.  As I left work today I told her that if I showed up for work in a burqua tomorrow, something had gone terribly wrong.

I know.  Just like Samantha.

I walked into Five Star tonight still feeling bad about missing the school event.  "I should be at the school," I thought.  They called me upstairs, and A met me as I was finishing my water.  "Hi!" she said.  "Hi.  This is what I want to look like when this is over."  I held up this month's Elle magazine, which was sitting on the waiting room table:

 "You wouldn't believe how many people say that," she said.

So now I'm a bad mother AND unoriginal.  

 The facial began, and I stared at the ceiling and thought about my kids.  And then I thought about how great the cleanser smelled.  And then I thought about how nice the steam was on my face.  And then I thought about how lovely it is to have one's face massaged.  And then she put on the acid, and I thought, "That isn't so bad," and she said, "How is it?" and I said, "I can feel it tingling" and she said "Great, I'll let that work for a few minutes" and about 30 seconds later it morphed from tingling to a slight burn to a bigger burn to a rather burny burn and I thought "My God, this is what Bella felt like when Edward injected the venom in her heart, where is she?  Make it stop!" but I sat like a good, rigid, uptight girl who wants to look like Julia Roberts and won't look a gift card in the mouth.

In what was probably two minutes but felt like twenty, Firestarter came back and wiped all of the liquid propane off of me.  She then put a fabulously hot washcloth around my face, and some cool pads on my eyes, and she massaged my neck, shoulders and arms, and I thought about how much I love my attorney friend, but in a purely platonic way.  As quickly as it started, it was over.  Over?!?  NOOOO!!!!!

I looked in the mirror, and didn't see any open wounds or even red burns.  I actually saw glowy looking smooth skin.  Even my one throwback-to-thirteen zit I was sporting by my nose looked pretty and decorative.  I wasn't Julia Roberts, but I was a pretty damn good version of Julie The Wife.  I turned and asked Firestarter the one thing I needed to know:


"What are you doing during Parent - Teacher conferences?"

Because if I'm going down, I'm going down in flames.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 37

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 DAUGHTERS OF FRIENDS, YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!  GO BACK TO FACEBOOK!  NOW!  I MEAN IT!  Or so help me God I will tell your mother.

Today's topic: MILFs

The other day, I checked my junk mail, and next to the usual items concerning the hundreds of medical transcriptionist jobs in my area, the low Viagra prices, and the strangers proposing lucrative business arrangements, was a new type of e-mail for me, and it immediately got my attention:

Subject: - sexually explicit -MILFs!

Single Mothers Looking To Date!

We wanted to let you know right away that there are thousands of MILFs in your city that are looking to meet new people for one night stands and threesomes. These MILFs are beautiful, fun, and extremely sexy!

PRESS HERE to see how beautiful these MILFs look: (MUST BE 18 and OLDER)

You can DATE these MILFs this week!!!

WHOA.  Thousands of MILF's, in MY city, and not only do they want one night stands AND threesomes, but they are extremely sexy and beautiful!!!  And fun!  How DOES my computer do it?  I was just thinking about how I would love nothing more than to spend an evening in a skanky-threesome-one-night-stand-sure-to-be-festering-wounds episode with other women who have used uteruses (uteri?) just like mine!  This was indeed my lucky day.  (You know what's sad?  There's a man who read that last sentence who just felt the stirrings of an erection.  You know it's true.)

What's that?  You don't know what a MILF is?  Let's check Urban Dictionary, the go-to source for Whoreticulture Friday (copied with typos intact, clearly written by a professor):

MILF: "Mother I'd Like (to) Fuck" :mothers, whether married, separated or divorced, that a male individual sees as physical attractive enough to want to have sexual intercourse with them. Just cuz their moms doesn't mean that they don't need a spark in their love life. If they've ever breastfed,they have really responsive nipples and a core of erectile tissue in their breasts. The ones in good shape have worked at regaining control over their vaginas (Kegel exercises).MILFs are usually real careful about birth control, they know accidents happen but they take responsible steps. They want to fuck with abandon, with no romantic complications for their under-19 family.

A MILF is any mother that is sexually desirable.

"A core of erectile tissues"? OR this one:

MILF: Some hot ass mom of a friend's that you wanna do so badly

When you're going out to basketball practice and you see ur best friend's mother bending over to pick some flowers and she's got a thong on Got MILF?

I personally heard about MILFs for the first time in the movie American Pie, when Stifler's Mom was putting the make on Finch.  Meet Jennifer Coolidge, America's MILF:

 "I got some scotch...aged 18 years, 

the way I like it."

However, I was familiar with the concept much earlier.  My high school posse of friends had reunited (and it felt so good) for a weekend about ten years ago (forgive me girls if that is wrong).  Nearly all of us had kids by then, we were probably around 30, and this was a rare night away from the families.  We went out for dinner, feeling spry, and a college-age guy waited on us.  We joked around with him for a while, getting a little tipsy, and then a LOT tipsy, and at one point we said something to him like, "We're moms on the loose!  If you're lucky we'll invite you back to our room!"  And he was visibly shocked and like, "Uh, no thanks."

And that just did it.

After a few moments of stunned silence, we lit into this poor guy.  I remember saying to him, "You go home to your little frat boy roommates and tell them that six EXPERIENCED women invited you back to their hotel room with them, and you refused!" and as he walked away I was saying something like, "We have over 75 years of sexual experience between us!  We can do things you haven't even HEARD of yet!"  

Did he need to know that experience included getting stuck between the bed and the wall, or having a puppy accidentally end up licking someone's balls, or not being able to get the handcuffs off?  No.  It needed to sound provocative, not disturbing.  (And by the way people, only ONE of those things happened to me.)  He was missing out!  On something we weren't even offering, really, but it stung to be shut down.  We were MILFs, for God's sake, before MILFs were even invented!  

So there I was.  Another classy situation, where a tipsy Julie berated a young man for not wanting to participate in an orgy with semi-drunk nursing mothers with attitudes.  I will defend my friends' honor.  The waiter came back, a little apologetic, probably because the tip had not been paid yet.  Were we mad?  No.  We're moms.  We were disappointed in him.  So we spanked him hard and then we put Baby in the corner and cuffed him to the Time Out chair.  Naughty monkey.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

My Apologies to St. Joseph

Have I mentioned we are trying to sell our house? Yes? Okay, then you may recall that a sweet Catholic friend gave me a statue of St. Joseph to bury in our yard. 

I wanted to bury him with Bailey's, but CH said that was sacrilegious, and I reminded CH about the priest who was drunk a lot when CH was an altar boy, or my Catholic neighbor who drank vodka in her morning coffee when I was a kid, but he still thought it was wrong and would offend God.  Raisins seemed like the obvious second choice, because they are nutritious, they keep you regular, and the Sun Maid Raisin Girl is a hot biscuit and could keep St. Joseph company while he focused on selling my house.

I was so wrong.

After my first open house, where we had over 20 different groups of people come through and look, I didn't get any calls in the first few days.  I couldn't understand it - everyone talked about how much they loved the house!  Then, I found this:

Yes, this is the EXACT, UNDISTURBED scene I found in my flower bed.  St. Joseph's home-selling contemplating spot had been disturbed by some rat bastard chipmunks, and to make matters worse, the Sun Maid Raisin Girl had been defiled.  How much must St. Joseph endure?  NO WONDER my phone wasn't ringing!  The connection had been severed.  I took St. Joseph out, cleaned him up a little bit, and apologized.  Then I reburied him with this:

Because St. Joseph could probably use some new threads, and I'd just like to see you TRY to get $10 off at Aeropostale, you rat bastard chipmunks.  Can't eat a bargain, can you!?!  And, WORRIED MUCH ABOUT GOING TO HELL, CHIPMUNKS?  Because you have disturbed a holy place.  I suspect my chipmunks are Baptists.

But then I really started thinking about the situation, and I was troubled.  Was his tomb truly disturbed, or had he pushed the boulder away from the entrance of his crypt and forced the Sun Maid Raisin Girl out because she was a tart?  Was this a miracle?  I'm a lapsed Methodist, so I'm not well versed in the rites of Catholicism.  This is why I have Catholic drinking reading buddies.  After speaking with them, I decided to cover my bases:

A)  Call up my Catholic friends for support.  This is my friend Angie, a fellow college Chi Omega.  She is a very good Catholic girl, and she agreed to meet me for coffee and send some of her Catholic ju-ju my way.  Just look at her!  Isn't she adorable?  It makes you want to grab your rosary, doesn't it guys?  Well fuggetaboutit, she's taken by a good Catholic boy.  That's right.  I double dipped.

B) Make George the Superpet read the entire Catholic version of the Bible.  It was exhausting work, but I gave him a Beggin' Strip for every Book he read.  He learned a lot, and it's sort of irritating because now he barks every time I sin.  BARK BARK BARK all day long.  Enlightened dogs are SO overrated.

  Do you see the Blessed Mother on my toast?

C)  Pray until I get a sign.  I prayed the prayer that comes in the St. Joseph box.  It's kind of a long prayer, but full of nice things to say, and you feel like you've done something pure and good when you are done.  After the second or third time, my toast popped up, and lo and behold, the Blessed Mother, the Virgin Mary, appeared to me on a slice of split-top wheat.  It wasn't a huge surprise, because another Catholic friend sent me the Virgin Mary template to make Holy Toast, and I used it for the first time (the Virgin slice?) while saying the prayer, because it seemed like the right thing to do.  However, all of the praying made me very hungry.

Uh oh.  Father forgive me, for I am about to sin....

 Not on my Medifast plan.  The devil made me do it.

 George the Superpet was very hungry 

after all of that reading.

JIF is his kryptonite.

As soon as I reburied St. Joseph with the gift card and had coffee with my Catholic friend, the calls started coming in.  I've shown the house a bunch this week, and there are some seemingly interested people.  Plus, we had another busy open house today.  But I'm a little nervous because I ate the Mary Toast tonight, and I feel like God may frown upon that.  So let me take this moment to apologize.  I am weak, Lord.  Tomorrow is first day of the rest of my life.  And even though I am a Methodist, I respect my Catholic friends, especially because they always bring wine when they visit.  George the Superpet is barking again.  Wish me luck!