That'll Do, Donkey.

Okay, I'm sufficiently recovered from the holiday break to finally talk about it.  I LOVE the holidays.  Love Christmas, love New Years, love that I don't have to drive anyone to piano, cello, bass, dance, ensemble, basketball, etc., love that there is no homework or other school commitments, love that I have long weekends and sleeping in times and hang out with the kids doing nothing times.  Left to my own devices, I would stay up until 1 a.m. every night and wake up at 8:30-9 a.m. to my pre-set brewed pot of coffee.  *bliss*

But, I am back at work now.  I like my job, but I sure miss my at-home mom days.  Just sayin'.
So over break Current Husband and I got together with a couple for a drink.  If you can imagine, I'm a talker.  My talking gets proportionately more annoying with my drinking.  After a couple of glasses of wine, I can really think I am HI-freaking-larious.  More so than when I'm sober.  I think we can all see what I'm saying here.  So the husband of the friend, who is a funny guy, says, "Does she ever stop talking?" and my husband says, "Yeah, she's kind of like Donkey from Shrek.  The trick is getting her to stop."  SCREECH!

Did you just compare me to....DONKEY?

So we all laughed and I'm laughing and thinking "Just wait until I have you alone, MFer", and the couple left shortly thereafter.  I waited.  We picked a few things up and talked about how nice it was, and how funny the husband is, and I said,

"I thought it was super funny when he made fun of his wife and compared her to Donkey.  Like an ass.  OH WAIT. THAT WAS YOU."

CH's face went blank.  The little hamsters on the wheel in his head picked up steam as he contemplated what had happened.  "Oh shit.  I really did call her Donkey.  I said it out loud. I'm in So. Much. Trouble."  He then launched into one of his full appreciation modes of, "Oh honey, you know I don't think that.  It was just a joke!  I LOVE you!  You're awesome!  The cake was great, by the way!" and I said, "I know it was a joke.  And it's funny because it's true.  I am like Donkey.  I talk all the time.  I'm irritating.  That's why it's SO FUCKING FUNNY!  I can take a joke!  And I bought the cake at Deweys." and he said, "Everyone knew I was kidding!  No one thinks that! And you were so smart to get the cake at Deweys! " and I said, "I know, because when we are with other couples, the husbands always make a point of saying things to their wives like 'you are as fat as Kung Fu Panda!' or 'I'm going to get you on What Not To Wear' or 'you talk like Donkey from Shrek!" and he said, contritely, "You're right, I'm calling them and apologizing and telling them how great you are" and I said, "No, you're not, because I really AM like Donkey.  You nailed it." and we went to bed and didn't have sex.

Over the course of the next few days, I made sure to occasionally walk past him and say "EEE-awww".  He cringed. He suffered.  Which is too bad, because I really AM like Donkey.  Really.  He did nail it.  That's why it sucked.  Because who WANTS to be Donkey?  I'm even like Donkey in Shrek 2 when he says, "I'm a STALLION!" but really, he's still an ass.  Because sometimes I do think I'm a stallion.  Sometimes I AM a stallion.  But really, there's just a well-meaning Donkey in here.

On New Year's Eve, we stayed home with the kids and had a nice time.  We played some games, I hooked a little, it was nice.  A nice, old person, washed-up New Year's Eve.  I don't like going out on NYE because I think it's one of those overrated holidays where the expectations are high and the results are usually a little disappointing.  And then you have to deal with drunk drivers, no thanks.  So we got through the night, and at 12:30 the kids were going to bed and our neighbors texted to see if we wanted to have a quick New Year's drink with them.  Sure!  It's right next door! 

FAST FORWARD TO 3:30 A.M.  Oh Dear God.  Where did that bottle of Gruet go?  In me?  Really?  Why am I holding a gift certificate to a local spa and am wearing a diamond anniversary band that is not mine, and am telling my neighbor-lady that we just had our "Commitment Ceremony"?  Where did she go?  Why is my tongue SO EFFING BIG?  Why do cigarettes sound good?  Thank God there are no cigarettes.  What am I talking about?  Why can't I form the words properly?  Why is CH pulling me by the arm out of their house?  I'm young and fun!  Don't let it end!  More champagne!!

FAST FORWARD TO 9 A.M.  No one move.  NO ONE.

FAST FORWARD TO 10 A.M.  Ugh.  Glad bought donuts for kids.  Glad CH in charge.

FAST FORWARD TO 11 A.M.  Aleve.  Water.  Repeat. 

FAST FORWARD TO NOON.  What did I say last night?  I can finally sit up.  Current Husband walks into our room and sits next to me, smiling.  I raise my throbbing head to look at him.  He puts his arm around me and says, "That'll do, Donkey. That'll do."


Oy.  Happy New Year's Wifers!  And neighbors, I'll make it up to you.  I swear.  New Year's Resolution?  More Stallion, Less Donkey.

Day 3 On A Month of Blogging

I said yesterday that I am celebrating my second Bloggyversary, and in order to party like a rock star I would be blogging every day of this month.  The funny part is that today I decided to look at my first post on "A Day In The Wife" and realized that my first blog post was actually on September 1.  I make these sort of factual errors all the time, so really, it makes perfect sense that I would do this in the wrong month.  Current Husband and I celebrate our anniversary in August, so maybe that's why I screw it up.

Speaking of CH and anniversaries, let me tell you about how we came up with our anniversary date, because it is random and weird, just like the Happy Couple.

First, I will tell you how we became a couple - In a bar, I was drunk, he was drunk, I made fun of his hairline, he sneered at me.  Lock and load, we're a couple.

We dated for four effing years because CH couldn't decide if he really wanted a long-term ride on the Crazy Train.  He was away during the week traveling for work, and home on the weekends.  It was Christmas season, so we went out and bought a live tree (a requirement for me, because I hate trees and want them all chopped down, denied water and humiliated with glass balls - kidding, I like the smell) and we didn't have a topper.  CH said, "I think I have something" and left the room, and I started yelling, "If you're bringing out that damn Dallas Cowboys hat you can just march it right back in there" and he came out with a ring box and looked like he had perhaps just shat himself.  He opened the box and looked at me like, "Don't hit me" and I said, in my best Caddyshack Judge Smails voice, "Wellllll???!" and he said "Will you marry me?" and then I dropped the attitude and cried and said yes.  So it was all very poorly planned and had the element of fear and sarcasm, much like our married lives together.  But we laugh!  Oh, how we laugh.

I already knew what day I wanted as my wedding date - September 23, Michael Jordan's number, so he would never forget the date.  But alas!  One of my best friends got engaged at the same time, and she called to tell me she was engaged and let me know her date - September 23.  Damn.  CH's birthday is in October, and then Thanksgiving and Christmas, so I had to go backwards.  I'm from Nebraska and we were getting married in Iowa City, so we had to plan the date around the Husker and Hawkeye football schedules.  I picked August 12 because it was an away game day for both teams.  I called the Iowa Memorial Union, where I wanted to have my reception, but guess what?  The ENTIRE building was booked, reception and hotel rooms, because it was the weekend of the International Toothpick Holders' Convention.  Seriously.  You can't make this shit up.

I couldn't compete against the Toothpick Holder Collectors.  I had to refer back to the football schedules and call the church to see if I could get August 26, which was the next away game for both teams.  It was a win.  Until I found out about a week before the wedding that it was the anniversary date for CH's parents, who had been divorced for about 14 years.  Nothing says "GOOD LUCK NEWLYWEDS" like putting divorced parents together on their former anniversary, and forcing them to celebrate the day as YOUR anniversary every year.  What are the odds, people!?!

However, his parents were both gracious and lovely, and the day was terrific and lots of fun, except for the flowers being wrong (I said No Baby's Breath! Or Wire Hangers!) and the photographer sucking (he brought his wife and four daughters to party at the reception and stopped taking pictures) and the guy getting arrested for public intox and me locking myself out of my car and I'm in a wedding dress with my new husband at 1 a.m. in the parking ramp trying to break into my car so we can go to the hotel and the bridesmaid who hooked up with TWO guys (just kidding honey, that was on the highlight reel) and the fraternity brother getting his picture taken with me with his elephant penis sticking out of his fly (actually also on the highlight reel, I still have the picture)....it really was a great day.  And one that I will celebrate this year for the 16th time.  I look forward to at least 10 more.

Isn't he cute?  I'm keeping him.

But WTF with that scraggly-ass fern the

florist put around those perfectly fine flowers?

Thus concludes my "quantity over quality" rant for today.  I will see you tomorrow!
And one more thing - Happy Birthday Mom!  I love you!

Of Mussolini, Motherhood, and Margaritas

If we're going to be clear about anything on this blog, let it be this - as a mother, I'm not an A+.  I wouldn't even say I'm a B+.  I'm probably a pretty solid B, with some B- days.  A lot like my college GPA, but I tried a lot less there.  (Sorry Mom and Dad.  It's true.  I was a world-class slacker.)

I hope you all had a lovely Mother's Day.  Let me tell you about mine.  The only real requirement I have for Mother's Day is that I get to eat out somewhere.  Usually I prefer it's somewhere I like, which means they serve alcohol in one of the four meal drinking groups:  Bloody Mary, Beer, Margarita, Wine.

8 a.m. -  Current Husband grumbled "Happy Mother's Day" as I got out of bed to make coffee for myself.  By 9:15, I'm drinking the coffee I made, watching the kids start to eat Garden Salsa Sun Chips because everyone is hungry, and eyeing CH, who is still asleep in bed.  "Fuck it", I think to myself, and make everyone pancakes.  CH smells pancakes, rolls out of bed and comes to the table, and Youngest Daughter says, "Happy Father's Day!"  The other kids quickly shush her, and angry whisper, "It's MOTHER'S Day!"  An uneasy silence descends.  They quickly throw a card about feral cats and a Starbucks gift card at me.  I am temporarily sated.

10 a.m. - I announce everyone is going outside to do yardwork.  The Son picks up a shovel, puts it in the ground, and comes around the corner, holding his shoulder and wincing.  Here is what he says:

"Um, Mom, I know how you hate it when we hurt ourselves, but I think I've done something really bad to my shoulder."

OUCH.  Do I really have such a hissy fit when they get hurt that their first impulse is to swallow back the bile of pain and apologize for inconveniencing me?  I guess that makes me a summa cum laude graduate of the Mussolini School of Mothering.  So I call CH out and tell him to take The Son to Urgent Care.  Hello!  I made the pancakes!

11:00 a.m. - They leave.  Breakfast is off the table, and so is brunch.  I go to Home Depot and buy 15 bags of sand for the flagstone walkway I want, four bags of wet potting soil, and four bags of mulch.  I carry said bags of sand, soil, mulch, and flagstone. 

3 p.m. - CH and The Son come home - his arm is in a sling, and they say he needs an MRI.  Last week, Oldest Daughter came home from school with a headache, and the school suggested I take her to a neurologist, so I'm not sure if everyone is trying to save themselves from potential lawsuits or they think my children are Seconds From Disaster.

4 p.m. - I am now sweating like a hog and have two days of stubble in my pits and three weeks of stubble on my legs (I know - CH is one lucky son-of-a-bitch).  The men announce they are hungry after three hours in urgent care, and I don't have time to shower, since everything will fill up shortly.  Anywhere that serves liquor is going to require a shower, unless we take the kids to a motorcycle bar, and honestly I would probably get kicked out of there as well.  The Son is hungry and slinged up.  "This is not about me," I have to repeat to myself.  "If you choose a margarita over your son's comfort, you are a rotten bitch who deserves food poisoning AND chlamydia."  (Note:  I do not currently have either of these maladies.) 

4:30 p.m. - We go to Sonic.  I sit in the front seat, stubbled legs holding a cheeseburger and onion rings (yes, like Velcro), chocolate malt in my hand, and listen to my kids laughing in the back of the van.  Okay, this isn't so bad.  I can drink all I want when they move out of the house.  Naked.

"QUACK."

There she was.  A mother duck, outside of my van window at Sonic.  She picked my window, probably because she got up at the ass crack of dawn, gathered up all the waterbugs herself to feed the ducklings, cleaned up the nest, and all she wanted was a margarita and saw a kindred spirit.  I threw a big chunk of bread out of the window, and then another, and another.  It's Sonic for both of us, honey.  They'll leave the nest soon enough, and then I'll take you out for a jumbo margarita.

Foreplay in the Cellar

The basement waterproofers are coming tomorrow, and nothing.  I mean NOTHING. keeps the magic alive in your marriage like getting a basement ready for waterproofing.

I saunter down the stairs in my stained yoga pants.  These are the sexy ones that give me camel toe.  I pair that with a t-shirt that is just short enough that whenever I lift my arms, it slides up over my muffin top like a pat of hot dairy butter.  Current Husband is wearing a ripped t-shirt over his fast food physique with a pair of gray sweats.  One of the legs of said sweats is tucked into the top of his tube sock.  We look at each other with that knowing glance that says, "WHAT!?!?"

We begin to work.  The basement is all dank and dusty, probably the same conditions in which 90% of all porn films are made.  We take apart the ping pong table, gazing at each other in that loving way couples do when they've been together for 20 years and have moved all kinds of heavy furniture.  He looks at me as Edward would gaze at Bella, and says, "There's no fucking way this is going up the stairs."   I flutter my eyelids and say, "Turn it upside down, LIKE I TOLD YOU THE FIRST TIME!"  He pushes the base of the table back down the stairs and says, "I hate this piece of shit."  My voice goes up an octave as I exclaim, "Don't break it!"  It's one of those moments when you know you are going to make sweet, sweet basement moving love.

He unhooks the washer and dryer, and yells "Goddammit!" and I rush to his sexy side and I immediately get wet.  Wet because he hasn't turned the water all the way off and there is cold water spraying all over us.  We fight against the surge of passion we are both feeling, and start beating the faucet mercilessly, likely picturing the others' face on the knob as we hit it over and over and over again.  Finally, the water stops, just before we decide to make another baby.  Thank GOD the water stopped.

We lovingly speak to the children, saying things like, "Where do you think YOU'RE going?  This isn't done yet!" and "That's enough attitude young lady!" and "Is the ironing board going to walk itself upstairs?"  We form a joyous line of family love, marching back and forth to the garage, carrying our treasures, like a broken Kinectx set, a broken Nerf gun, an old Sega Genesis, Christmas decorations, and meaningful future family heirloom metal shelving units.

George the Superpet, never one to be left out, has apparently vomited up a lump of grass on the rug.  Of course, there is only one rug in a basement that is otherwise tiled, but the rug seemed like the obvious place to puke.  I'm sure he stood in the basement for five solid minutes, dry heaving and working that bale of grass up, and said to himself (in dog language) "The rug.  It's clearly the optimum puking spot down here."  I clean the puke, thinking warm thoughts about George, and how lucky I am to own this particular 106 pound omnivore.

CH asks me to help him move the refrigerator, but what he is really saying is, "Our love is so powerful that it moves appliances."  We move it, like we move mountains together, and CH stops and yells, "I love you!" No, wait.  He actually yells, "Swing it out to the left, you're hitting the ductwork!  Your OTHER left!" and I stop and gesture to him my appreciation of his directing me.

We look at each other with a sheen of sweat on our foreheads, panting slightly.  Oh yes.  This is what Golden Anniversaries are made of.  Meet me upstairs in the bedroom, my Prince.  I'll be taking an Aleve and figuring how to hold the pillow over your face until you quit kicking.

And then I shall play ping pong.

Happy Valentine's Day, Bitches!

Honestly, I have no idea why I just said that, but I'm going to tell you that for some odd reason, it felt good.  I swear that I am 100% sober.  But I am drunk on blog love.

Nigella Lawson said on NPR today that she is to Valentine's Day what The Scrooge is to Christmas, and I have to say that I'm a bit the same.  I love Current Husband, he loves me, that's super.  So why is it that I get irritated every Valentine's Day?  Let me give you my rundown of irrational reasons I'm bugged by Valentine's Day:

1. Flowers.  My sister-in-law owns a greenhouse, and this is one of her busiest days, so I hope you all buy flowers from your locally owned florist.  That said, I get really pissed at the pressure put on people to order flowers.  I would much rather get a random bouquet of flowers during the year for no good reason than to get flowers on V Day or birthday.  I did get flowers today, for probably the third time total in the 20 years I've been with CH, and they were lovely, but I was the only woman in the building who got them, and honestly I felt a little guilty, like I had to say, "No, really, I'm usually totally disappointed with the rest of you today."  Anniversaries, however, are flower occasions, especially on anniversaries divisible by five.  There were flowers at the wedding, it seems like a nice reminder.
2. Candy.  Sweet Baby Jesus, how much candy can I stuff in my craw in one day?  After Halloween, I ingest more chocolate today than during the rest of the year combined.  It's because everyone is getting chocolate, but no one wants to eat it all because we're all on the downside of eating ourselves into a coma from Thanksgiving through New Years and we're all thinking, "Oh hell, I'm fat again and swimsuit season is coming - please someone else eat the rest of this chocolate!"
3. Music.  I have to listen to the Top Hits station because of my teen/pre-teen, and have you heard some of what passes as relationship music?  Rihanna's new song is about S&M, it actually repeats "S S S S and M M M" and the chorus says "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me".  I'm sorry, aren't you the girl who was beaten silly by Chris Brown?  Who is your manager?  Then the rest of the songs are "Let's get drunk and crunk and glitter on the floor and take off our clothes and ride the disco stick".  But whatever you do, DO NOT KISS OR RESPECT ME.  Because then I will tire of you.  My God, I'm old.
4. Porn. I love the ads for Doctor John's porn shop or whatever it is, and they say, "Come here for all of your sex toy and fetish needs" and "It's Valentine's Day all year here!"  Yes!  My idea of Valentine's Day is a gag ball and leather studded chaps.  Giddyup, Valentine!  Now spank that ass!  And how many husbands are saying, "Yes, I need to get my special lady friend a Valentine's gift AND I  like porn, so I can hang out in this porn shop for a few hours, and then buy her a gift that says 'I intend for you to pleasure me this holiday'." Brilliant.
5. Dinner.  This one is Nigella's, not mine.  She said today that one reason she hates Valentine's Day is that some couples use it as the one night a year they go out for dinner, and then you end up in a restaurant with 20 couples who have nothing to say to each other.  I don't necessarily agree with Nigella on this one, because I am always up for an excuse to go out for dinner, but I do avoid VD because you can never get in anywhere because of the Valentine crowd.  I like to dine on the Thursday after, because it's quiet then.  Happy Valentine's Day, food.  I love you.

I'm not trying to bust St. Valentine's chops.  I think it's sweet and wonderful when someone takes a moment to appreciate the ones they love.  I just get annoyed when it's contrived because Hallmark and FTD guilt people into it, and then there are these expectations that can never be met.  And the guys who use it as an excuse to hang out in a porn shop and buy crotchless underpants for their 2-month girlfriend.  However, crotchless underpants after being together 20 or 30 years says, "Hey, I'm still curious about what I can talk you into" and shows interest.  Wanting to see someone in crotchless underpants at 45?  That's love, people.

Happy Valentine's Day, Wifers!  I give you all a big sloppy kiss!  And crotchless underpants!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 51

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 Santa.


Today's topic: Who's Your Daddy?

And now, from the ADITW Christmas Carol Chorus - can I have the first two bars of "O Holy Night?"  Can I get a witness?

"Oh Holy Shit,

I'm not done with my shopping

It is the eve of the last day of school.

Long lay in bed, CH is watching Burn Notice

Til I appeared and he tried to look busy

A thrill of hope, a weary wife rejoices

Until she looks at the laundry on the floor

Not on my knees, oh hear the children's voices

you're alone tonight, so do the dishes

Oh night divine, the mall is open."

I am still not effing done with shopping.  Tonight I baked oatmeal raisin cookies and almond bark peanut butter Ritz cracker sandwiches, and made some homemade chicken noodle soup to give to people at work I need to gift.  Next week, teacher cinnamon rolls.  I will admit, I almost bailed on WF again this week, but then I remembered I did it last week and felt like a huge slacker.

So I'm in Walgreen's last week picking up a prescription for Youngest Daughter's semi-annual ear infection, and I'm thinking about what to buy for Current Husband.  I mean, he has ME, so what else could he possibly want?  He is one lucky bastard, CH.  So I'm waiting for the prescription, and I glance over at the shelves by the pharmacy and see this:

OMG.  It's perfect.

And at $29.99 it's in my price range.

I can already picture CH on Christmas morning.  He has his second cinnamon roll and his cup of coffee, and the kids are opening their gifts, and they say, "Daddy!  It's your turn!"  I turn and look at him all lovingly while he tears the paper off of his own personal paternity test.  It's the gift that says, "I want all of your questions answered.  You can finally trust me."


The kids look at the box, and then they'll look up in confusion.  "What's this?" they ask.  I say, "Well kids, even though you don't look like Daddy, this is a way we can all be sure he will support you for the rest of your underage lives."  I could really get my $29.99 worth if I had him open it at the Christmas exchange at his mother's house. 


Sweet Baby Jesus, it's tempting.


For those of you who are interested in, but unfamiliar with, a paternity test, here is the box information:


Paternity impacts many important life decisions and can affect a child's financial welfare and parental custody. More importantly, paternity knowledge provides peace of mind. Our laboratory follows rigid scientific protocol and routinely provides results probabilities greater than 99.9%.

•Committed to your privacy - information is kept strictly confidential
•DNA test results reported to you in 3-5 days
Purchasers of this kit qualify for a discounted price of $319 for a legal purpose DNA test (proof of purchase required).
How it works: Using the enclosed cheek swabs, rub the inside of the cheek to collect specimens. Place the child's swabs and the possible father's swabs into the separate specimen envelopes provided. Send payment, swabs, and order form to IDENTIGENE using the enclosed postage-paid envelope. Obtain results in 3-5 business days after samples arrive at the laboratory. Results available via mail or online at www.DNAtesting.com. *Additional $119.00 laboratory fee required. When DNA testing is performed for legal purposes, specimen collection and handling must be performed by a disinterested third party. .
© 2009 Identigene, LLC


Hold the phone, Identigene.  Do you mean to tell me that I have to pay a whole $119, plus postage, to find out the real identity of the father?  WTF!?!  I thought we had this down for the price of a week's worth of Big Mac Value Meals!  Now you're cutting into my drinking budget, and that's not cool.  Plus?  I want my third party INTERESTED.  For $119 I want my Aunt Nancy running the test at the lab.  Some disinterested person might mess it up.


So I guess we'll just move on with our lives knowing CH is the father, but it really sucks away all of my fun.  I guess I'll have to go with something a little cheaper, and it's a gift CH and I can share all year 'round:

Thank you, Walgreens. 

These, Boone's Farm and

 a Snuggie are what

 I call a Date Night.

Are you in, Baby Daddy?

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 49

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



Today's topic:  The Ghost of Kisses Past

Of the three children I've birthed, one has been through sex ed at school, one has gleaned the knowledge of the older and wiser sibling, and one doesn't think Barbie and Ken can progress past the kissing stage.  For Youngest Daughter, after Ken and Barbie have kissed long enough, they share a mortagage on the Barbie Dream Home and Ken is crapping in the pink bathroom.  YD's nonchalance aside, here is how I plan to answer my children's sex questions when they finally get the guts to ask:

Q:  "How old were you when you first had sex?"
A:  "I haven't.   Not that there's anything wrong with it."

Q:  "Do you drink?"
A:  "Only for medical reasons."

Q:  "Have you smoked pot?"
A:  "Yes, I've burned a number of pans."

Q:  "What is a blow job?"
A:  "Get Mommy a fresh drink and some roller papers."

The other day Oldest Daughter and I were in the car, and we were singing along to our current favorite song, "Animal" by Neon Trees, video embedded below, (I'm a little obsessed with this song at the moment) and OD looked at me with that smug teen look and decided to get a little ballsy:

OD:  "Do you even know what this song is about?"
ME:  "Yeah.  Do YOU know what this song is about?"
OD:  "It's about sex, Mom."
ME:  "I know."
OD:  "Really? Because I don't think you knew."
ME:  "Really?  Because I've actually had sex, so I think I'd recognize it in a song."
OD:  "AAAHHH!!  I'M DEAF!  I'M DEAF!"

And then I was a little horrified because A) I sort of admitted that I've had sex, and B) I am going to have to go through this whole story again when OD is in therapy and I have to listen to the therapist talk about "filters", which will just go over my head and make me thirsty for coffee. 

One would think this type of conversation wouldn't be a problem in front of one's husband.  I mean, he KNOWS you, Biblically, right?  So nothing will faze him.  Right?

Last weekend, Current Husband and I attended a lovely shindig benefiting the Iowa SIDS Foundation, and let me just take a moment from trying to be funny to say that if you need to find a worthwhile organization to send a donation, find a local SIDS Foundation chapter. Wow.  (Can I just take a moment to say I find it hard to believe that I made a plug for Iowa SIDS Foundation in a Whoreticulture Friday post?  I don't know if they would be grateful or outraged.)

ANYWHOO - here is the picture again, so you know that we occasionally step out of the house without face paint:

Hmm.  I haven't fed this picture for a week

and I still haven't lost any weight in it. 

Frigging Reeses with your irresistable

combination of chocolate and peanut butter.

There was delicious wine and lovely company - we were the table guests of some friends of ours, and they invited us with the full knowledge that CH and I are card-carrying banjo loving white trash, and about three rounds of wine tasting into the event, another couple walks by and our hosts stop to introduce them to us.  I look up, and the man and I give each other one of those, "How do I know you?" looks.  At the same time, we say, "How do I know you?" 

Here we are, three couples, standing in the social circle jerk of 'who talks now?' and you KNOW it's going to be me.  I say, "What was your name again?" and he says, "Baron Mrmrmrmr" and a slide show of three guys flashes through my brain.  They are the ghosts of kisses past.  Or more.  My eyes widen and I say, "Ohhh!" and then I do the reflex "OH SHIT" look at CH.  CH rolls his eyes and takes a drink, because he knows from past experience this could really go any way.  Baron's very lovely wife is looking from him to me like, "Do I need to spread a rumor about this woman and herpes in her PTA group?" and the host couple is smiling like, "Oh yeah, THIS is why we invited Julie."

Here is how I should have handled it:
"Oh yes, Baron!  Remember, we were in youth group together in high school!" and then let him fill in the details.  If pressed about why I looked embarrassed, say, "Baron heard me fart in church."

INSTEAD, I say this:
"Okay Baron, you know me, I dated M., stalked D., and made out with V. at the Haunted House your fraternity had with my sorority and I lost my lavaliere and made everyone look for it so my pledge mom wouldn't murder me. Weirdly enough, V. was the best kisser."

Baron starts laughing and says something along the lines of "How could I forget!?  I knew I knew you from somewhere." and his wife looks really relieved and the host couple looks a little disappointed.  CH already had this information, but it's not something he loves to talk about at cocktail parties and benefits - "Hey, has my wife told you about the time she went through a fraternity like a cop in a box of donuts?"  But he gamely went along and thankfully the next wine flight came along before I could go on any longer.

All class, all the time, people.

Here is that video I promised.  Love this song.  Happy Whoreticulture Friday and have a great weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 44

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: No sex for you!

I used to be quite the purveyor of sex, and it was probably my sluttish ways that secured Current Husband to me.  But CH has been wronged in a number of ways since the day of "I Do."  

1. First, I cut off my long hair about two weeks after the wedding.  CH has a philosophy that women use their long hair to fetch themselves a husband (because it is a truth universally acknowledged that every young woman with long hair must be in need of a husband), and then they cut it off when the deal is sealed.  I used to scoff at this notion, but I have to admit that I've seen it happen more than once.  It must be a symbolic cutting off of oneself from the insanity of planning a wedding.
2.  I stopped cleaning.  Okay, I never really cleaned, but at least I used to make an effort toward the ILLUSION that I cleaned, such as stuffing the dirty clothes under the bed, putting old magazines under the couch, and sticking dirty dishes in the oven when people would come over, only to forget and fill the house with smoke when preheating my oven a few days later.  CH, on the other hand, cleans a mean bathroom.
3. I stopped being a whore.  When CH was Current Boyfriend, I was freshly graduated from college and feeling liberated and unencumbered.  Let's have sex on the living room floor!  Let's re-enact 9 1/2 weeks!  Let's get you a gag ball and call you Slappy! (Okay, I've never used a gag ball.  But I have called him Slappy.)

So totally me.  

If I was blonde, sexy, and inexplicably 

attracted to Mickey Rourke.

Maybe it is The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About.  Maybe it's the move.  Maybe I'm perimenopausal.  Maybe I'm a frigid bitch.  No, I think it's the job.  Either way, I've become The Sex Nazi.

It happens all the time.  CH starts circling me after dinner when I am clearing away the dishes and cleaning the kitchen, and he is....circling me after dinner.  He starts trying to be cute and lunge at my boobs or "hug" me from behind and say sexy things like "You know you want it".  (Was it obvious at dinner in front of the kids when I said, "Do you want more meatloaf?" that I really meant "Do you want me to eat your meatloaf?" nudge nudge wink wink. Because that is TOTALLY what I meant, you really "get" me.) 

Suddenly, something happens to push me over the Annoyed line, and it's "NO SEX FOR YOU!"  Don't clear away dishes with me?  "NO SEX FOR YOU!"  Watch SyFy or USA too long and it's "NO SEX FOR YOU!"  Fart just one too many times?  "NO SEX FOR YOU!"

It's sad really.  I used to love sex.  I was the absolute, frequent instigator of sex.  At least one of our children was conceived in the back seat of our car in our own driveway.  Another might have been in my parent's garage.  I was Paris Hilton without the coke.  I was Jersey Shore without the tan or Ed Hardy or Jersey.  I was Tila Tequila but three feet taller and monogamous.  Now I'm Phyllis Diller.

Is it age?  Do I need some Vitamin D or Folic Acid or Spanish Fly?  It's not CH - he's still got it goin' on, he just doesn't always make it on my "To Do" list.  There are kids to be fed and a dog to be groomed and a job and a house to unpack and showers to take and legs to shave before that action can go down.  When did being an adult become such a pain in the ass?  What happened to Dime Draws or Bloody Mary night with Beer chasers and Baby's Got Back on the house sound system and the Walk of Shame?  

I am The Sex Nazi.  And don't even think you can reference this blog post and use it to guilt me into sex CH, or there will be NO SEX FOR YOU!  I'd love to hear if I'm alone - I know for a fact a few of you gentle readers are in the same boat.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Go on out and have The Sex. 

He said, she said

Current Husband and I have set roles in our household:

CH
TV systems, usually consisting of us changing our service provider every few years.
Cell phones, usually consisting of us changing our service provider every few years.
Investing, usually consisting of us changing our service provider every few years.
Computer systems, usually consisting of...you get the idea.
Directing of yard work.

Bringing in the bulk of our income.
Making suggestive comments about sex, usually in a hopeful tone.

Julie
Everything else.
Instigating the actual sex.

I will say that since I got The Full Time Job Which I Can't Blog About, CH has really stepped up to the plate, and he now gets the younger kids ready for school in the morning, and he is in charge of driving The Son to his 5x a week tackle football practices and his flag football games, while I drive Youngest and Oldest Daughters to their music/dance lessons.  Of course, we no longer have Family Dinner because of said activities, which makes me very sad.  I have always been a big proponent of the Family Dinner.  So how do you say, "I'm sorry kids, you have to give up cello and a potential scholarship so I can see you fight at the table"?


Anyhoo, CH and I had to call in a plumber last week for an emergency leak under the sink, which seems to have happened after our home inspection, and YET, the floor in front of the kitchen sink is somewhat soft even though the plumber, who was awesome, stopped said leak.  Seems like perhaps it would take a long time for a subfloor to become soggy, but what do I know.  Then yesterday, we had an electrician come in because we can't run the vacuum cleaner the same time the air conditioning, or perhaps a toaster, is running, so we had to replace the junction box.  Cha-friggin-ching.  And?  I couldn't do laundry because the dryer had a European outlet.  That's right.  I bought a house in Iowa which accommodates European appliances.  We are THAT classy.  I can hear the sound of laundry drying right now, so it was worth the grand we dropped on it.  As a matter of fact, we have so much money that I am drying about $10,000 in fives in my American dryer plugged into a North American outlet right now.


CH held down the fort while the bunk bed installers came into the house (far and away the best $50 I've spent), so now my son can be disoriented and fall from six feet in the air at night when he needs to use the bathroom, but at least The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About has benefits.  


Now we need phone jacks installed, because this house apparently has two, and one of them is under the phone nook that is Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein's new bedroom.  (My Dad, while moving things into my house, said, and I quote, "That fucking rodent had better not be here the next time I visit, or I'm getting a hotel."  He's not a fan of my taxidermied pet.  Todd shall have his revenge.  Oh yes, yes he will. BWAH HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!)  CH has handled all of the other technical stuff in the new house, so I suggested he call the phone people, because CH is...how do I say...completely anal retentive when it comes to his service providers.  Which we change every few years because no one ever really does it up to his standards.  Here is the conversation:


ME:  "Are you calling the phone company or do you want me to do it?" 
translation: 'when are you calling the phone company?'
CH:  "You can call them, they should come this week."
translation: 'you can call them, they should come this week.'
ME:  "Uh, that's fine, I'll call, but you are never happy with it when I do it."
translation:  'I can't believe you are making me do this. It is SO not fine.'
CH:  "What are you talking about?  That never happens!"
translation:  'I am the easiest person to please on the planet. Let's have sex.'
ME:  "You are NEVER happy with any service I schedule.  Something always goes wrong."
translation:  'I am not responsible for what will inevitably go wrong, and I will buy art if you get angry with me in any way.'
CH:  "That is so not true."
translation:  'that is so not true.'
ME:  "We'll see."
translation:  'asshole.'


So this morning I am at The Full Time Job I Can't Blog About, and I decide to call Qwest and get it over with.  I call the toll-free number, and after five different numeric commands, I am in Hold Hell.  I was on hold for SEVENTEEN MINUTES, no kidding, and the entire time I had to listen to over-enthusiastic jazz with an over-enthusiastic announcer telling me all of the super Qwest deals I have the opportunity to pay them for, and how much they value me as a customer, and how a representative will be with me soon.  If I could have reached out and touched Joe Voice-Over, he would be Soprano Joe.  Darien came on the line, and asked if he could help me, and I said, "Darien, I know you don't control the hold music, but it's really awful and I want to kill someone."  Darien said, without missing a beat, "I have to listen to that hold recording about 10 times a day, and it makes me want to hurt someone too."   Whoa.  I was dealing with a professional here.  Darien and I were going to get along just fine.

He took my order for two additional phone jacks in the house, and while he was scheduling the service he told me about his five kids, one of whom just bought a car in Korea, and how he loves Dancing With The Stars.  I don't, but Darien I could just sop up with a biscuit he was so sweet.  As Darien is giving me my confirmation number for my service order, a message from CH pops up on my computer screen.
"Call me before you call Qwest."  

Too late, M-F'er.  I have a confirmation number.  Unbelievable.  I call CH.

"Well, such and such just told me he can do it and it will be cheaper, but he can't come over until Thursday, so maybe you can get Qwest to delay the service until we find out for sure that this guy can do it....."

I stopped listening at "Well," and started thinking about the rooster painting I really want at Five Star Salon Spa.  Momma's getting some art.  Thank you, Darien.  It was a pleasure.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 42

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: Where The Wild Things Are

Okay, so I don't need you to tell me my posts have been lame lately, but I'm so tired *she says in whiny preschool voice*.  Here I am, it's 11 p.m. on Thursday, I'm on my third halfish glass of screw top pinot noir, and I still have a freelance project to complete.  Before tomorrow.  And I have this DAMN FULL TIME JOB!!!  Man, those paid full-time positions really eat up one's non-paid fun time.  Because I have yet to see a Classified Ad that reads

WANTED: Obscene person to write weekly 

column about Whoreticulture.  Must be 

completely immature, narcissistic and 

willing to shock.  Full benefits and 

ONE. MILLION. DOLLARS.  

Starts immediately.

Dude.  That must be the screw-top wine talkin'.  As a matter of fact, after glass number two, I went in to kiss Current Husband goodnight, and he looked at me in much the same manner that George the Superpet might look at me if he wants a Snausage, and I said, "Oh for Chrissake, REALLY?" and he nodded yes and looked really pathetic so I agreed to have sex with him, but I told him I had a lot to do and he wasn't on my TO DO list, so he needed to keep it under five minutes.  He agreed to those terms, and we engaged, but I made jokes the entire time, like randomly saying "MOO!", and he ended up telling me to shut up if I wanted to get back to my TO DO list.  I agreed to those terms and here I am, all showered up and blogging.  How's THAT for TMI!?!  Just another Thursday night in A Day in The Wife.  Literally.  Except that it was Five Minutes In The Wife.  CH is one lucky guy, no?

So anyway.  Back to the blog.

At The Full-Time Job, I work next to a graphic designer named, if you can believe it, George.  And every time I say the name George, I say it like I am talking to George the Superpet.  I just can't help it.  And?  George the Designer is young and single and thin, and so I take it upon myself to be like Mrs. Claus in Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and say things like, "EAT Santa, EAT!" except that I say George.  And I tell him that if he has a double espresso, he should eat more than a granola bar or his stomach lining will disappear.  And I tell him that he should buy a house.  And that he should clock out at 5 p.m. and leave his work at work.  I swear one of these days his skinny, yet long, arm will reach out and superpunch me.  I am mothering George, and I've never really been the maternal type.

So they are putting a new roof on our somewhat large building, and you can hear the sound of the powertools all friggin' day, which is a nice accompaniment to the concrete-breaking-with-a-backloader that starts in front of my house at 6:30 a.m.  Yesterday, I'm sitting at my desk, trying to work, and thinking the tool they are using is making sounds like someone is ripping a huge fart.  Then, George and I have the following conversation:

(large ripping noise)

G:  "That sounds like moaning."

ME:  "I know.  It's like we're witnessing porn being filmed!"

(awkward silence)

G:  "I meant like 'Where The Wild Things Are'."

(awkward silence)

ME:  "Yeah, me too."

 Beloved Children's book, or pornography? 

You be the judge.

And we both go back to work.  But every single time that damn tool is used, I think about large monsters from Where The Wild Things Are having sex.  Which sort of ruins the childhood innocence.  Thanks, George, for porning up my childhood.  Now I need to bleach out my brain.  The funny thing is that every time the power tools run, George is sort of giggling to himself, and I'm thinking, "HA! He is thinking about porn now too!" so maybe I ruined Where The Wild Things Are for him as well.  Or his girlfriend is getting super lucky.  

You're welcome, Girlfriend of George.

 I'm sorry people.  It's 11:34, I'm half crocked and still have a paragraph to write.  But really, I've managed to embarrass CH AND my co-worker George, so I consider this a job well done.  Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and remember, only FIVE DAYS LEFT in the Super-Lame-Maybe-I-Shouldn't-Bother Bloggyversary Giveaway.  It does have books by BOTH stalking victims Stacey Ballis AND Jen Lancaster, so that alone makes it worth your time.  That, and the super-creepy lock of hair from George the Superpet.  Perhaps I can get George the Coworker to pose as well.  Have a great weekend!  And Mom - I totally did NOT have any of the sex.  I'm just telling a story.  I'm an entertainer, not a historian.  Those kids were adopted.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 41

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: Wet Spanks

This has been a busy week, what with the big Bloggyversary and all, and I have other news that I'll write about on Sunday night (NO I AM NOT PREGNANT.  It is a well known fact that you generally need to have sex to get pregnant, and unfortunately Current Husband and I are too tired to tolerate each other naked much lately.)  So we're boring.  In fact, maybe we need to spice things up a little.  This is where the wet spanks come in.

Mom, why don't you stop reading here and step outside for another cigarette.  You, too, boss lady.  And anyone who works with me.  This will traumatize you.

So I start this job, and now I can't have nooners.  But CH and I still want some together time, so we schedule a lunch together, because maybe later it will seem like foreplay.  And if it doesn't end in sex, at least I get a Quizno's Turkey Bacon Guacamole for lunch, with the biggest Diet Coke I can wrap my mitts around.  

The Diet Coke bong.

I don't even know where to credit this,

but I think it's hilarious.

And how I actually drink my Diet Coke.

So CH and I eat our sandwiches, but we both know we are having a nooner, except by eating instead of actually having sex.  You'd be surprised how sexy a Turkey Bacon Guac can be to eat.  Really.  You'd be surprised.  Because it's not that sexy to watch your wife cram a whole sandwich in her mouth and moan...but then again, MAYBE IT IS.  There are guys on the Internet who would pay big money to watch that kind of thing.

You know you want me.

And no, this technically ISN'T a TBGuacamole.

Because those sandwiches are NOT on the 500 calorie menu.

So in an effort to be sexy (and quench my thirst), I suck down most of that Diet Coke and refill.  CH and I wink and murmur sexy things to each other, like "Have a nice day" and "Are you picking up the kids?" and "You have guacamole on your shirt", shake hands, and walk our separate ways.  I'm only a few blocks from work, so I hoof it in my heels, drinking the remainder of my Diet Coke to get the Bacon and Guacamole out of my teeth.

I'm feeling the sexiness, and I walk past a group of construction workers, tearing up the sidewalk downtown.  I'm glad I wore my support undergarments, so they can appreciate my swagga.  I'm feeling all that, shaking my moneymaker for the boys, waiting for my wolf whistle, when I suck up the Diet Coke and it goes in the wrong tube.  I gag, choke a little, and then start coughing.

Oh God.

Here is a little math problem for y'all:  

Q: Take a 41-year-old woman, subtract three children, multiply that by 64 ounces of Diet Coke, divide the bladder by the force of gravity pulling all liquids toward the earth, and what do you get?

Do you give up?

A: Wet Spanx.

Hand to God, I'm standing in the MIDDLE of the street, legs crossed, coughing, and knowing I am slowly peeing my pants in front of the drivers and construction workers.  There were no wolf whistles that day, my friends.  I slowly, tentatively started walking toward work again, silently cursing my addiction to soda and my inability to control myself, in ANY way.  As I'm walking, I'm thinking, "Is it showing?  Was it enough to show through Spanx and these fabulous Banana Republic work pants?"

I walk up to the building where I work.  "Oh hi, Mr. HR Director.  How is your day going?  Please don't look at my crotch."  I take the back stairs to the back bathroom on the second floor, and take a look in the mirror.  Thank God, no dark spots on my pants, which would indicate that I attended a kegger at a fraternity over lunch, passed out, wet myself, and did the walk of shame back to work.  OR, CH is Just. That. Hot.

This?  This is why women need to do Kegels.  And perhaps not work outside of the home. (See the archives, Whoreticulture Friday Issue 14 for Kegel background.)  And why I need to take my own advice.  I told CH I was doing WF on wetting my pants, and his response was, "Which time?"  So let's all do them together, ladies and gentlemen....Clench.  Hold.  Release.  Repeat.

Thank you to Jes Thomas Hamer for the idea (even though you ARE a Hawkeye fan!  Oh, relax, I'm sort of kidding!).  I meant to write about that happening a month ago, and forgot until I saw your post.  I will credit you as a Whoreticulture Friday co-contributor.

So as long as you are all going to comment to get your name in the "Happy Bloggyversary Mini-Random Giveaway", tell me about your moist moments.  (Doesn't that just sound gross?  What is it about the word 'moist' that can be so revolting?  I would rather asterisk that word than f**k, but if I put m***t, people would think I meant 'mount'. Oh, the blogger's dilemmas! *she puts her hand on her forehead dramatically*)  All aboard the Tangent Train!  Next stop, Monday!  Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great holiday weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 38

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: Classified Adultery

Okay, I decided to write about something a little less naughty this week since I lost FIVE followers after the MILF post last week, which quite frankly, I didn't think was as bad as some of the other Fridays. I'm not necessarily a slave to followers, I write what I like to write, but it stings a little when there is a mass exodus. Let's talk about something less shocking, like songs from the 1970's.

The other day I was transported back to my '70s childhood when I found a radio station playing the soundtrack of my youth.  You remember the '70s, right?  Here are the songs I remember and love:

• Up, Up and Away (In My Beautiful Balloon)
• Lay Lady Lay
• What is Life?
• Love the One You're With
• Escape (The Pina Colada Song)

Do you realize most of these songs are about swinging?  And it's the last one that I heard on the radio the other day.  And it really pissed me off.  It starts off with the groovy beat, and then kicks off with "I was tired of my lady...."  Well buddy, you weren't such a catch yourself, because GUESS WHAT?  She was advertising to replace YOUR ass FIRST.  Stay down!  Eat sand!

 Yes Rupert, this is EXACTLY how I pictured you.  

I'd be taking out an ad too.

If I was his 'lovely lady' who walked into the bar at the end and said "Oh it's you", I think instead I would have conveniently forgotten that I placed the ad first and instead said, "What the hell are you doing placing an ad to meet women?!  And why are you ruining my date?"  I think what this song really proves is that Craig's List was around WAY before computers. 

I'm sorry, Rupert, but if you're that sick of someone, go to counseling, break up or get a divorce.  Don't waste their time.  While you're out writing your personal ad to hook up with someone else, did you stop to think for a second that maybe they're not that into you either?    I know about half of you out there cheat, I get it, I see how it can be really tempting or the forbidden sex can be really hot.  But isn't that what high school and college are for?  To get it out of your system?

In honor of the 31st birthday of this song next month, I am going to rewrite it.  

Escape (The Margarita Song), rewritten by Julie The Wife.

I was tired from my children- they hadn't slept in so long
They make me listen to Rihanna, instead of my favorite songs
While the old man lay sleeping, I tucked the kids in bed
I logged on to Craig's List, here's what I said:


"If you will mix margaritas, ignore the weight that I gain,
If you pay for my yoga, and get out Kool Aid stains
If you can make love in under 10 minutes
And you know how to bake
Send proof that you're sterile, and send coffee cake."


I posted it as joke - I don't have time for another man
I'm still lovin' my husband, and he's my biggest fan
But then I heard from Craig's List, someone responded to my ad
And I was sort of tempted - he didn't sound half bad


"Yes I can mix margaritas, and I'll get out those stains
I won't make you be on top- it's okay to be vain.
I will take out the garbage, and will hang your new drapes
Meet me at your local Starbucks, I will bring coffee cake."


I was kind of curious, so I went the next day
But I could tell in an instant, that he was totally gay.
But I needed a new best friend, and he said "Love your shoes"
And we laughed for a moment, and he said, "I'll go with you..."


"And I will mix margaritas, and serve up cold champagne
We will talk about our fave books, and exchange mix tapes
Let's paint your living room Midnight, and get armchairs done in Grape
You can text me anytime, that you need to escape."

This is what I need - Sassy Gay Friend!  

"What are you doing?  What, what, what are you doing?"

Happy Whoreticulture Friday! Have a great weekend! I hope you all get an escape....