It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 72.5

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 anyone who lives within 10 miles of me.



Today's topic: The Pussy Wagon is Full

Confession - I'm a total tease.  Today isn't whorish, full of or showing any vaginas.  I'm on Day One of my "time" and no one around me is getting sex.  NO ONE.  I'm sorry men expecting porn, you may now go back to searching for the nude Scarlett Johansson photos.  For everyone else...

CAT PORN.

I think I've mentioned before that my neighborhood is crawling with pussy. 

Well those days have come to an end.  Last weekend when I was at my hooker convention in Nebraska, the animal control wagon pulled up and got loaded up to the gills in pussy.  Someone finally called the po-po and reported that our street had literally 30+ cats running around, and when there is that much pussy on the street there is bound to be infection.  Hide your husbands, hide the kids.  The street was lined with cat traps.

Most of our family was happy with this news, not so much because we are cat haters (but some of us are) but because it is hard for one neighborhood to feed, sustain, medicate and deliver 30 cats to music and dance lessons.  However, it upset Youngest Daughter.  She started freaking out, and Current Husband, who was running the asylum in my absence, couldn't figure out why.  Finally, he talked her off the ledge, and she got a coherent sentence out: 

"GET GEORGE IN THE HOUSE, THEY'RE ROUNDING UP PETS!"

Does this look like a feral cat to you?

Youngest Daughter perhaps had a point.  To calm her down, and to be sure we didn't lose The Best Standard Poodle Ever, CH called George the Superpet into the house, where he watched the feral cats get loaded up and carted off with a look that could only be described as satisfaction.
Thank you, Animal Control!  Our tax dollars at work, freeing our neighborhood from this:

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, have a great weekend!

I'm Having a Shot for Breakfast

Hello Wifers!

I'm finally back home from the Hooker Convention, which was very fun but tiring.  Hooking takes a LOT of energy.

I arrived at home around 11 p.m. to some happy kids and an even happier Current Husband.  He was actually waiting on the front step when I pulled up.  Of course, I'm all monthly today, CH's luck just ran out.  Not to mention my bitchiness.  George the Superpet is happy though, because this is the time of the month that he hopes someone leaves a bathroom door open so he can rip the garbage apart looking for treasure.  I'm sorry George, I love you, but sometimes dogs are pretty damn gross.

Today, my parents stopped by on their way home from Ohio (they came to the Hooker Convention too, but to see relatives, not for the hooking) and we went out for dinner at Texas Roadhouse, which is sort of our joke because their permanent residence is in Texas, so they drive to Iowa to eat at a Texas Roadhouse.  I know, it's SUPER funny if you're here.  Well, not even then really.  I was a complete glutton and pounded back a 6 ounce filet and loaded baked potato and a Ceasar salad and those damn rolls and a margarita, while my vegetarian daughters ate salad and potatoes and watched me kill myself.  Mongo like steak!  CH looked at the kids like, "Just sit quietly and no sudden movements, it's her time of the month and she is holding a steak knife."

We got home and I decided since I was gone all week, I would do some work in our basement.  We are getting our basement finished, and CH and I decided we would save some money and tear down the current walls ourselves.  How hard can it be?  Well, kind of hard, actually.  I was picking up big chunks of drywall and MOTHERF***ER, I grabbed a rusty nail and punctured my finger.  I had to call Mom and find out if I HAD to get a tetanus shot tonight or if I could wait until tomorrow, because Mom is a nurse, and she said, "I can't remember if it's 12 hours or 24 hours that you need to get it.  And I can't remember if it's 5 or 10 years since you've had your last booster if you need to get another shot.  I'm sure you'll be fine, but if you wake up and your fingers are all twisted, go to the ER."

So Reassuring.

This is from the nurse who would make Hamburger Helper for lunch on Saturday, leave it in the pan on the stove all day, and then warm it up again for dinner, so I'm not always sure if I should be taking her medical advice, but I call My Friend Paige The OB too often about stupid shit like this, and besides, I think her service is blocking me after I drunk dialed them, so I'm taking my chances and waiting until morning.

If you don't hear from me again, it's because I turned into Cujo overnight and I'm frothing at the mouth and have trapped my neighbors in their '84 Ford Escort and am on a first-name basis with the pack of 39 feral cats who live on my street.  I'll miss you people.

I Don't Know How She Does It

I attended a very lovely graduation party last weekend, and no less than three people gave me crap about not posting on my blog, which is flattering that they care, of course, but then I start getting antsy and my chardonnay seems less crisp and cold and I start thinking about all of the things I need to do that aren't getting done, and as I looked at every woman at this very large party, every one of whom was impeccably dressed and seemed to have their shit together, I thought,

"I don't know how she does it."

I say this about approximately three in every five women I meet.  Single, married, working, at-home, multiple children, no children.  They all seem to know what they are doing.  Here is what I know for sure - I like food, I have children, my clothes are probably wrinkled and/or inexplicably stained, and I am always Beverage Impaired.  After that, it's all a crapshoot.

I recently read Tina Fey's book, Bossypants (which I loved, by the way).  In it, Fey says the bolded statement above is the worst thing you can say to her.  Here is an excerpt from her book:

"How do you juggle it all," people constantly ask me, with an accusatory look in their eyes. "You're screwing it all up, aren't you?" their eyes say. My standard answer is that I have the same struggles as any working parent but with the good fortune to be working at my dream job. Or I just hand them a juicy red apple I've poisoned in my working-mother-witch-cauldron and fly away.

About six years ago, a friend and I sought the answer to the "How Do Good Moms Do It?" question like Indiana Jones searched for the Holy Grail.  Was it through the use of well-organized binders with color coding and menu plans?  Was it through gluten-free, sugar-free, and video game-free lives?  Was it through carefully scattered vintage postcards and framed family photographs, organized by season and decade and kept in hermedically sealed Rubbermaid Tubs in the storage facility sectioned off by month and seasonal holiday themes?  Was it through the generous and abundant use of Xanax?  Perhaps only truly good mothering was to be hired off to an army of housekeepers and tennis/golf/sailing/engineering lessons with the "right" coach and college-aged nannies on speed dial.  Because we know people who have done all of these things and more, and on the surface, they all seem to be Norman Rockwell families with The Answer. 


We also talked about the book "I Don't Know How She Does It," by Allison Pearson, at great length.  I've been all the flavors of professional motherhood - full time working, part time working, owed my own business from a store, owned my own business from home, full time at-home mom, and guess what?  The employment situtation does NOT make the mother.  I was, and am, the same type of mom no matter how many hours I spent working outside or inside the home - disorganized, well-intentioned, funny yet slightly manic depressive and a totally incompetent housekeeper.  In the words of the great philosopher Popeye, "I yam what I yam."

"I Don't Know How She Does It" and the like do women a disservice by basically saying you ruin your children by working outside the home.  You can also equally ruin your children by devoting your every breathing moment to them by being at home all the time, or worse, re-living your childhood through them.  I know women who are really awesome volunteers at the school, who do it for the betterment of the school and the kids, and I know women who use their "status" at the school as a tool to bully other moms and make them think they are "less than", which really pisses me off, because aren't we all just trying as hard as we can?  Give a sister a break!  However, Betty Freidan also did women a disservice by essentially putting forth in "The Feminine Mystique" that women should say To Hell With All That and leave the home behind them.  Where is the happy medium?  Why can't we work and donate store-bought cookies without judgement?  Why can't we be at home and blow off one volunteering "opportunity" without judgement?  Why can't we be without judgement? 

Sarah Jessica Parker is starring in the movie version of "I Don't Know How She Does It", which is already a tiny bit disappointing because it is now American, whereas before it was set in London, and I do love me a British accent in my films.  Here is the trailer:



So after six years of careful study, here is my conclusion...are you ready?  The working moms generally love to work outside the home, love the paycheck, wish they had more vacation or could work out a schedule of three or four in-office days a week.  They feel guilty when there is a child event and they get to see other moms who don't work in action.  The at-home moms love being at home but some days are going stark raving mad and just want to dress up in something nice and feel respected, and feel guilty when their daughter raves about the mom who is the doctor.  There is a consensus in both camps that they would like it if someone else would PLEASE CLEAN UP THE DAMN KITCHEN.

The best nugget of parenting wisdom? 
"To each her own."

News Flash - there is no "right" way to do it, and anyone who tells you that she's got it down pat is completely delusional and should be given a pitying hug and a chocolate.  Every home has a closet with No Vacancy for skeletons, and for the people who look perfect, you don't know what goes on behind closed doors and applause to them for making it look so awesome, but realize that they cry themselves to sleep sometimes too.  The best thing that could happen is that we all stop being our own worst critics.  By the way?  Sometimes those people who look like they have The Answer actually do - sometimes they are honestly happy, well-balanced people, and we can all quit mocking them for being happy.  (But we can still be a little bit jealous, that's okay.)

And so, I propose The Ovarian Revolution. 

The first rule of the OR is that you don't talk about the OR.  Oh, wait, wrong club.  The first rule of the OR is Love Thy Ovaries, Love Thy Self.  Sorry guys, but we DO actually do more than you do, and we should stop the self-flagellation and go out and buy ourselves a drink and get a pedicure.  I'm willing to bet OPI will name a color after the OR, like "O-Vary Pink" or "Good in the Kitchen, Better in Red" or "Volunteer Violet" or "Working Mom Wine".  Then we should all get on a comfy couch and watch an Italian film and dream of Tuscany.  We'll always have Tuscany, darling.

Ovarian Toes Unite!  This rant is over.

Don't. Say. It.

Have you ever had a day when you wake up and discover you are out of coffee while remembering that you are on Day 2 of Another Period On Your Great March Toward Menopause and you realize you are late and still have to make the kids appealing yet nutritious lunches, only to find that the little buggers ate all the snack packs of chips over the weekend but left the big empty bag in the cabinet, thus giving the appearance that you are NOT out when you went to the grocery store the day before?  AND you forgot the coffee?

Have you ever had a day when you drove to work yawning the whole way and remembering that you are somewhat iron deficient during that time of the month and that you need to schedule both a pap smear and mammogram because they are both overdue and yours always turn out irregular, thus making you THINK you have cancer and writing goodbye letters to your family, only to thankfully find on the third test that you don't, in fact, have cancer yet, and you're so relieved that you forget to delete the letters and your husband finds them months later and thinks you're suicidal and he's totally missed all of the signs.  And then you get to work and the first middle-aged man you see says, "How's the Hooker today?" and in your mind you say, "A fucking hooker on the verge of homocide, you jackwad" but then you realize that not only have you joked about the hooker thing but that you are having your period and might black out while kicking him over and over with the steel-toed Danskos you just HAPPENED to wear to work that day and your review is next week so maybe not such a great idea?

Have you ever had a day where you shoved so much food in your mouth while thinking, "I'm having my period, I NEED THIS!" and at the same time thinking "Holy shit I'm getting fat and I'm seeing college friends in July and high school friends in November, I need to eat a tapeworm" and then saying out loud, "I'd like a Whopper Jr. and a Diet Coke...with sprinkles" and pulling ahead to pay?

Have you ever had a day when you were irrationally pissed off and could lead a co-worker who looked at you wrong around by the short hairs, making him sing "Sweet Caroline" and tell you you're Number One?  Have you ever had a day when you looked at all of your friends' vacation pictures on Facebook and then spent an hour at work researching flights to island resorts and pre-ordering your umbrella-and-pineapple laden drinks?

Have you ever had a day when you complain to your husband about your lower back pain, your bloating, your upgrade to purchasing Ultra Super Lamb size tampons, but if he was to say, "Geez, who's having their period?" you would shove the rest of your king-sized Symphony bar in your mouth and drop-kick him in the giblets? 

Or you started crying because:

• You overcooked the pasta.  
• The scanner wouldn't work for a project you need done by Thursday.  
• The dog's paws were covered in mud and he walked in the kitchen. 
• You thought about all the lonely people, and where DO they all come from?

All within a four-hour time period?

You didn't? 

Oh.  It must just be me.  Never mind.

Just two or three more days to go, then.

Nobody Does It Better

No one can ever say I'm not a giver.

I've always been the court jester.  Unfortunately, it hasn't always been intentional.  But for all of my unpredictability in fashion, grooming, class, or manners, I've always been consistent in making those around me look better.  You're welcome, those around me.

In grade school, high school, and college, I could be counted upon to be the most obnoxious person in the room.  Sometimes it's charming.  It certainly got my friends married faster..."well, she does burp, but her friend Julie burps louder"...."she was drunk, but her friend Julie was drunker"..."she can pack away the food, but did you see her friend Julie?"  As I've said before, Current Husband and I were both on a mission to pick the most inappropriate person to marry, and by some strange blessing, we ended up actually being pretty good for each other.  (CH loves his women gassy, drunk and gluttonous, which has the little-known side effect of occasionally ending up in marriage and pregnancy.  In this case, in that order.)

As I mentioned in my last post, I have a history as a working girl, which mainly sounds like I spent my time drawing a paycheck with my breasts out.  You would think that kind of job description pays more, but in my world they call it "Marketing" or "Event Planning".  So far, I've managed to keep my breasts covered at the new job.  For now.  However, I've been reminded rather quickly what my typical working existence is like.

TWO NIGHTS BEFORE
I select my outfit.  Feel extraordinarily organized.  I go to bed.  At 1 a.m., feeling of euphoria goes away as I start getting abdominal cramps, which always mean I am having an allergic reaction to some as-yet-unidentified food or spice.  I take two Benadryl, because I know what is coming.  Unspeakable things happen in the next three hours, and I end up going to sleep at 4 a.m. sitting up on the couch, drenched in sweat and down 8 pounds.  Large black circles form under my eyes.

NIGHT BEFORE
Going to bed early because I only got about four hours of sleep previous night.  Look at outfit I selected and realize shirt has stain on front.  Nice catch, Julie!  Select another shirt.  Program coffee.  Get abdominal cramps again.  This is weird, usually the food allergy thing happens at 1 a.m. or so.  Oh no.  It can't be....it is.  My period.  Early.  Now I will be going to my first day of work on Day 2.  Thank you, Eve.  Hope the apple was delicious.

MONDAY MORNING
Wake up not feeling like I can wear white pants, swim or go horseback riding.  Fortunately, my job requires none of these things.  Shuffle into kitchen for strong, hot, delicious coffee, and WHAT THE HELL!?  The timer was set for p.m. and not a.m.  Turn coffee pot on to wait for 10 horrible minutes.  Have time to look in mirror and see acne outbreak from period.  Get dressed for work and leave five minutes later than I planned.  Get in car, and halfway to work look down to see dime-sized chocolate mark on front of pants.  Fortunately they are black, so I spit shine.  Walk into new job with stained pants, acne, huge raccoon rings under my eyes, and bleeding like a stuck pig.  Human Resources person is out sick, so I have no e-mail, phone, benefits, or instructions.  I get to inconvenience the first person I see, who is not expecting me but has to take me to my desk.  En route to my desk, I ask this person, "Where is the nearest bathroom and caffeine dispenser?"  I finally have vital information.

MONDAY NOON
No one has asked me to lunch.  CH offered to take me to lunch, but I thought I would be in HR, so I said no.  Since I didn't go to HR, I don't have an operating phone or e-mail, so I can't Phone a Friend.  I'm told to call someone about something, and I have to ask the person next to me how to use the phone.  I make the call.  I ask the question. 

ME:  "So can we count on you to donate again this year?"
HER:  "What are the dates?"
ME:  "Uh...um....I don't know.  I'll call the contact and get back to you."
HER:  "Why don't I look it up in the file and call you.  What's your number?"
ME:  "Uh...um...I don't know.  It's my first day here."
HER:  "Can I e-mail you?"
ME:  "Uh...um... I don't know.  Can I call you back?"

SUCCESS!  I have now made my predecessor look like an absolute genius!  She probably got a raise for no reason at that moment.  I decide I need a Diet Coke.  I ask my boss where to get them.  She says she will walk me down to the break room to show me where it is.  We are chatting amicably, and then I put my money in the machine.  I make my selection, but when I see that ice cold bottle of Diet Coke come down the chute, I can't hold back.  I reach for the little door and pull, as my boss says, "Oh, you don't want to..." and then I have jammed the machine.  My boss has to grab the door and rock it back and forth for a few minutes, fighting the vending machine for my Diet Coke.  I stand and look at her, shamed.  She wrenches the door open and hands me the bottle, thinking, "Who have I hired?  What have I DONE?" 

MONDAY, FOUR P.M.
I've made four trips to the bathroom with my purse, which means I should be presented with my new t-shirt that says, "HEY EVERYONE!  I'M HAVING MY PERIOD!"  My boss decides I should go downstairs and help another department get a marketing piece out that is past deadline.  I am taken to a room and put on a machine that folds letters.  The person who shows me how to run the machine is very nice, and she leaves me to do my task.  About 30 minutes later, I try to leave, but can't get the door to work.  Shortly, someone comes in and says, "It's a good thing I was here...you can't get back in the building from this room without a badge!"  Since I didn't go to HR, I didn't get a badge, so I couldn't enter my security building.

Let's recap:

• stained clothing
• meth addict eyes and acne
• bleeding
• doesn't know own phone number or e-mail address
• breaks vending machine
• locks self out of building

Nobody does it better.  It makes me feel sad for the rest.  Be thankful, co-workers.  You have no idea what I've just done for your bonus structure.

p.s. Happy Birthday Mom!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 25, UPDATED

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Cupcake porn.

It's coming...it's coming...it's coming...pant pant pant ...
but I am awaiting permission to use a couple of photos.  Of vagina cupcakes.  Because if you use pics of vagina cupcakes without permission, particularly ones made with rainbow fondant, someone is going to show up at your door and punch you in the uterus.  But they are well worth it people, and may possibly put you off of eating cupcakes for a spell.  AND, I am so excited, Graham the Australian Dishwasher Installer is coming over at 11 to install my new dishwasher!  I have been without one for FIVE FRIGGING MONTHS and I am dying over here to fire it up!  Photos of Graham, if he lets me, on the blog Monday.  Whoreticulture Friday?  Later today.  On Friday.

9:37 a.m. 
I've spent the morning cleaning my house so Graham the Australian dishwasher installer doesn't think I'm raising my children in filth, which, essentially, I am.  But does he need to know that?  No.  He is installing my dishwasher, and I need him to think I'm at the top of my game.  I hope he lets me take pictures of him.

I haven't heard from the one vagina cupcake girl yet, but I think I have a solution, so let's carry on with this thing.   There is a seedy underground in the bakery world, and I'm finding it focuses on one main area - cupcake porn.  Lest you think I am trolling the internet for bakery snuff films, let me explain how I found genitalia pastries.  Current Husband was making some breakfast for himself, and said, "Hey, come look at this bagel, it looks like a vagina!" and I'm thinking "Is he coming on to me?  Because I haven't had my first cup of coffee" and he says, "No really, look at it" and I did and yes, it did slightly resemble a vagina:

 CH promptly slathered it with cream cheese and wolfed it down.

I, on the other hand, passed on breakfast.  Not that I have any problem with bagels, and I can totally see how women can get really sick of long johns and all of their baggage and move on to bagels, but I just wasn't hungry anymore.

This incident left me thinking:

1. Is CH like the kid in The Sixth Sense, but instead of seeing dead people, he sees vaginas?  "Look at that tire, it looks like a vagina."  "Look at that coffee mug, vagina." "Duct tape - vagina. "
2. Are there lots of food items that look like vaginas?  Oh yes.  Yes there are.

  I Googled "Vagina Cupcakes", 

and I hit the motherload.

The best ones, far and away, are the rainbow vagina cupcakes.  They are bright and cheerful and have personalities.  The person who made these cupcakes has apparently had her photo of them stolen a million times, because she will essentially stab you in the Fallopians if you use it, so I will send you to her instead of posting the picture.  They are gorgeous, check them out by clicking here:

Platter of Vagina Cupcakes, coming up!

Aren't they pretty?  It's like Rainbow Brite.  Wouldn't OB-GYN's love it if more vaginas looked like this?  Wouldn't it make their jobs more exciting?  The question is, would you eat one?  And what flavor would these be?  Because I would lean toward Red Velvet, just on authenticity.  Or Strawberry.  It would depend on the time of the month.  But never, ever chocolate, because that would seem less like sexy and more like a medical issue.

Think Rainbow Brite is the only variety of Vagina Cupcake available?  Think again!  Here is a snatch of what's available at another blog, at www.craftster.org, member name "squidknit":

 How about those little ball-bearing clitorises?  

And this crafty baker said she did varying 

degrees of bush to represent all vaginas.

Cute, but again...could I really open wide and take a huge bite out of this?  And the sprinkles?  Could I have those in my mouth?  In the spirit of equality, I will say that I would also have a very hard time taking a bite out of THIS:

 Holy shit, what did you do to that delicious cake!?!?

 And really?  Do those blue veins indicate some kind of STD?

At least a circulatory problem.

These photos come to us courtesy of www.bachelorettesuperstore.com, where they have all kinds of naughty items described lovingly in this pretty cursive font.  Here is a somewhat nicer penis cake photo from their site:

Would I let a penis with googly eyes near my Precious Lady?

If I ate the one on the right, would I be a Purple Penis eater?  Are these The Penises of Sesame Street? Big Bird, Oscar the Grouch, Cookie Monster, Bert and Ernie?  This is what I think about when I see stuff like this.  (I know, it's sick, but I can't turn it off.)  I think what this photo really illustrates is that it doesn't matter how much you doll it up, dicks are just ugly, and not that delicious.  From what I've heard.  My favorite penis cupcake still goes to this big winner:

Clowns with erections.  It just doesn't get creepier than that.

I want to know a couple of things - 

1. Have you ever made porno pastries?
2. Could you eat a genital cupcake, or would you succumb to the "ish" factor? 

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!  I'm going to have a carrot.  NO!  A banana.  NO!  A donut...Aw, crap, I'll just have another cup of coffee.

 

 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 23

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Teen Emergency Room 101.


I normally write Whoreticulture Friday on Thursday night, and then it pops up in the morning when Mom checks the blog on Friday, because what mother doesn't say, "I dearly hope we pay out-of-state tuition for our daughter to get a double degree in Journalism and Political Science so she can use it to make really good homemade soup and a weekly blog called Whoreticulture Friday!  Yay college!"  But last night, I was coming up empty.  Actually, I had a great blog about this woman who slept with everyone in our neighborhood when I was a kid, but suddenly it felt a little wrong.  I'm not ready to spill that one yet.  We'll see if it ever comes out of the box (no pun intended).

Late last night, I sent a 9-1-1 emergency e-mail to a small group of friends asking if they had any good WF topics.  When I checked my e-mail today it was spilling over with masturbation, bikini line work, sexting, swimsuit shopping, and the shoe size/penis size myth.  I now have enough material for a month, thank you classy ladies.

However, as soon as I went to bed last night, I was whining to Current Husband about my lack of topic, and God spoke to me through the TV (aka one-eyed monster, Jamie!).  I woke up, refreshed and ready to write, and then Oldest Daughter came to me with a stomachache.  Since she can be a drama queen, I told her to take an Aleve, go to school, and if it didn't get better to go to the nurse and call me.  I took her to school at 7:30.  At 8:20 I had a call from the nurse to pick her up.

I called our doctor's office, and after EIGHT minutes on hold (a long time when your teenager is weeping and clutching her stomach next to you) they sent me to the ER.  We are driving to the hospital, and I know we are in for a long morning, at least.  I see a Starbucks.  Hmmm.  I know I shouldn't, but I had a half cup of coffee so far for the day, far below my usual 2-3 cup morning intake.  I ask OD if she minds if I pop in for a quick latte to go, she says no, and as I am reaching for the turn signal, I have this moment:

ANGEL ON SHOULDER:  "Julie.  Your daughter is in pain.  Get to the hospital."
DEVIL ON SHOULDER:  "She'll need you to be lucid.  You need caffeine to be a better mother."
ANGEL:  "What if her appendix ruptures while you're in the car?"
DEVIL:  "You know you want that skinny vanilla deliciousness."
ANGEL:  "The ER personnel will see your cup and realize you stopped while your child was in pain."
DEVIL:  "I can't argue with that."
Goodbye, Starbucks.  I'll think of you while I'm going cold turkey in the ER.


We got to the hospital, checked into the ER and were taken to what was to be our home for the next six hours.  For the record, there was not a coffee maker or Starbucks Via in the holding cell.  Something to know about me:

I an addicted to caffeine and do not handle stress well.  
I have two reactions to any stressful situation:
A)  Tell jokes.
B)  Lose my shit and start screaming, weeping, and/or breaking out in hives.

I am here to tell you that the one place any comedian will fail is in the Emergency Room.  You do not kill in the ER.  Apparently humor of any kind is frowned upon, and they hire nurses from East Berlin specifically to quash any tomfoolery.  Also?  Daughter with abdominal pain doesn't want to laugh.  But I just can't help it.  

I'm telling OD that I hope she has really good veins, that Grandma Jan is a nurse and she looks lustily at my bulging veins.  I'm telling her they hand out ponies to good little girls who pee in the cup.  I'm telling her she'll get Appendix Barbie, with a little flap on her stomach and a removable organ.  Then I start singing "The Climb."  When she tells me to stop making her laugh, I start saying "Miley Cyrus" because OD hates Miley Cyrus, so I figure it will bring her down, but then she starts yelling at me for saying "Miley Cyrus" because it's making her laugh, and therefore grimace in pain.  I try to shut up, I really do, but it's a compulsion.  Like when I interrupted a group of people at Erma Bombeck to ask Mo Rocca if the Bombeck kids tried to sell him drugs and he looked at me like I was Naked Glenn Beck.


In the holding cell, they immediately tell OD to get changed into a gown.  The person who hands the gown to her?  Nate.  Nate is training to be an EMT, and he gets to hang out with us during the day.  Nate reminds me of Seth Rogen, if Seth Rogen wasn't funny.  The problem?  Every time Nate is in the room, there is an Uncomfortable Estrogen Moment.  The first time this happens, Nurse Ratched, who has yet to smile at my daughter, says loudly, "Have you gotten your period yet?"  Oldest Daughter looks at Seth Rogen, looks at me, and mutters, "Um, yeah."  Ratched says, louder, "Are you having your period now?"  Seth Rogen busies himself with tubes and things, and Ratched stares at OD.  "Uh...no."  Ratched instructs OD to put on the gown and says, like The Terminator, that she'll be back.  Seth Rogen follows her out like a puppy.

OD:  (grimacing in pain) "MOM!  Why does that guy have to be in here?"
ME:  "Because it is our curse, honey."

And then I tell OD about how, after I had given birth to her, a nursing supervisor came into my room with a male nursing student in tow, and told me they were there to check my episiotomy stitches.  
NURSE:  "Okay, you'll need to bend over the bed, honey." (Because I LOVE IT when total strangers call me honey.)
ME:  (Looking significantly at the man in the room) "Right now?"  As in, "Can Mr. Penis Dangler hit the hallway for this part?"
NURSE:  "Yes, honey, right now."  Mr. PD nervously shuffles feet.  At least I know what he's going to see will put him off sex for a while.  Unless he's INTO that kind of thing, in which case I should be paid.
I lean over the bed, the backless gown falls away, and now it's a Kodak moment of the most humiliating three minutes of my life.
NURSE:  "See how well her stitches are healing!  And no hemorrhoids!  Terrific!"
And I'm thinking, "I'm sorry Grandma, if you can see me from heaven.  I never meant for you to see this."


I finish telling OD this story, and I catch the look of horror on her face that says, "No grandkids for you!" when the crew of Doctor, Ratched, and Seth Rogen come back in.  The doctor is really nice, but she has a lazy eye, and I can't figure out which eye to look at while talking to her.  I realize that she can tell I am shifting my glance from one of her eyes to the other, I'm trying really hard not to smirk a little bit at the sheer hilarity of it, but I hope she in no way thinks I am mocking her...my daughter's life is in her hands.  

DR:  "Are you sexually active?"
I want so badly to answer, YOU BET I AM!, but I wisely decide against it.
OD:  (Stealing a glance at Seth Rogen again.) "No."
DR:  "Have you started your periods?"
OD:  "Yes."
DR:  "Are you having your period right now?"
OD:  "No."

Doctor Lazy Eye orders some bloodwork, Ratched tells Seth Rogen to do it, and leaves.  I decide to turn on the TV in the room so OD and I have something to do.  Seth Rogen is putting the needles in, and there is a commercial for tampons.  OD looks at me like "turn off the TV!" but it's too late, so I just sit and look at the latex gloves and think about stealing some.  The tampon commercial ends, and Seth Rogen leaves.


Ten minutes later, he's back, and there is an Ultrasound Technician with him.  She gives OD a cup with a Contrast Liquid/7-Up cocktail in it, and tells her to drink up.  Seth Rogen is checking OD's blood pressure.
Ultra-Tech:  "Have you started your periods yet?"
OD:  (nearly growling) "Yes."
Ultra-Tech:  "Are you having it now?"
OD:  "No."

They ask OD to come with them to pee in the cup.  She goes, and when she returns, she is carrying a cup of her own urine.  

ME:  "Did you bring me something to drink?"
OD: (sets the cup on the counter and glares at me.) "That is so not funny Mom."  Miley Cyrus.  
Ultra-tech:  "I'll be back right after I bag this urine."
ME:  "You don't hear THAT every day!"
Crickets, crickets, crickets.  OD is not looking at me. ER people leave.

White blood cells come back normal.  Urine comes back normal.  They've decided we're doing an ultrasound and a CT scan.  Seth Rogen and CT Scan person come in to talk.
CT:  "Have you started your periods yet?"
OD:  (Now bored with it.) "Yes."
CT:  "Are you having it now?"
SETH ROGEN:  "No."

Six hours later, everything is done and Seth Rogen comes in and tells OD to put her clothes on.  Doctor Lazy Eye, Nurse Ratched, and Seth Rogen come back into the room and tell us OD has an ovarian cyst that is inflamed.  Seth Rogen sits back and listens while the women tell my daughter in great detail about her uterus, her ovaries, and what to expect while she is having her periods, including some excellent tampon talk.  My teen is ready to leave.

We are checked out of the ER and speed to Starbucks.  As we are picking up her Darvocet, OD looks at me and says, "Listen, I know you are going to blog about this.  You know what you can't talk about."  (And, for the record, I haven't.)  "But I guess now everyone knows that I've started having my period and I'm not having it right now.  So, whatever."

OD.  She's a giver.  Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend.



 

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 22

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Me and My Period - We're Like *This*.

Every month, sometime around the second week near Tuesday, I'm reminded of why I love being a woman.  I'm reminded that I have internal organs that are designed for baby-making, which I have no plans to use.  It's sort of like if my light blue strapless satin TD4 prom dress from 1987 crawled out of the Rubbermaid tub in the basement around the 15th of every month, came upstairs, kicked me in the gut over and over and over again until I started hemorrhaging, and said "...and there will be more of that every month until you decide to use me again."

Men don't get to experience the joy that is womanhood.  They never have dull abdominal cramps, the sneaking sensation that they are bleeding through their work pants, or the thrill of carrying an economy-size box of Super Plus tampons, a bag of Overnight Maxi Pads with Wings, a bag of Lightdays pantyliners, a king sized Kit Kat, a large bottle of Aleve and a large box of wine through the Express Lane at their local grocery store.

My first experience with a period was before I had one - watching TV with my dad or some guy friends, and seeing Cathy Rigby come on to promote Stayfree pads.  Periods are so unobtrusive that you can do a handstand in a leotard and spread your legs comfortably!!  We would all sit in awkward silence, looking at the ceiling, and hope the next ad wouldn't be for Massengil douches.

 Suggestion:  If you need comfort, 

get off the beam, out of that leotard 

and into a gallon of Ben and Jerry's 

Triple Fudge Brownie Chunk.

Today, a friend sent the new Kotex ad to me.  I hadn't seen this brilliant work, and I think it sums up how women have felt about tampon commercials for years.  I suspect a woman wrote this campaign.  (NOTE:  You can pause the music in the playlist on the sidebar.  But I couldn't resist Leona Lewis and her nonstop bleeding today.)

"I really like the ads on TV because they use that blue liquid

....and I'm like 'Oh!  That's what's supposed to happen."

Who hasn't had their period and felt they've been deprived of the pleasure of these obvious menstrual cycle activities?

• horseback riding
• competitive swimming
• running on the beach
• extreme yoga or kickboxing

Not everyone is happy with these ads.  The site Feministing.com complained about them, saying the ads didn't go far enough:

"I guess period control ads aren't just euphemism-happy so as not to offend our delicate lady sensibilities or burst the illusions of man folks. You actually can't say the "vagina" word in an ad for a product that goes in your vagina. And two out of three network censors still feel icky when they hear "down there."

No offense, Feministing, but I REALLY don't want to HEAR the word "vagina" on TV.  I don't.  I'm not a prude, I promise - just look at the Whoreticulture Friday posts.  However, I have a list of words I don't want to hear while watching TV with my kids, or anyone else for that matter:

• vagina
• penis
• erectile dysfunction
• urinary anything
• douche
• feminine odor
• special feeling

That said, here are a few of the tampon ads I like:

 This actually happens to me some months.

Wow. That must be a REALLY good tampon. But isn't that why we do Kegels? To avoid clapping? I'm getting to an age where I don't want the clap. After all, loose lips sink ships.

(A quick "RALLY!" to my Fremont homegirls!  Check me!!) 

Happy Whoreticulture Friday! Have a great weekend!