Mounting My Box

So yesterday I discussed my methamphetamine-fueled redecorating which occurs when Current Husband is gone; honestly, it's why he never leaves. What he doesn't understand is that if he would leave more often, we would have a clean, kick-ass house. Reverse psychology, CH. You should learn about it.

CH and I have been in major negotiations over the past two months over my box. Specifically, my window box.

THE CONTENDERS:

Current Husband, a 40-something man in Iowa, likes the Sci-Fi channel, Fox News. CH enjoys surfing the Internet on his iPad, weekend naps, and not getting caught in the rain. CH is anti-yard, plantings, or windowboxes. "They're too much work and it's going to rip the siding off of the side of the house."

Julie the Wife, a 40-something woman in Iowa, likes HGTV, live music, and reading. Julie enjoys hostas with porn names ("Don't Touch My Junk" is the next hosta on her list), pinot grigio in the summer, Jane Austen, and windowboxes. "They are so pretty and add cottage charm."

THE SCENE
I'm outside in the front yard, looking at the house, glass of wine in hand, contemplative look on face. CH sees me and yells from window, "What are you thinking about doing NOW?!?" I pause.  I normally don't like to let him in on my plans until they are fully formed and halfway executed.  "I think we need a big windowbox on the front of the house.  Like the ones we saw in Martha's Vineyard, with the big, trailing flowers."  I hear a large sigh of exasperation.  "We don't need a big windowbox.  It will tear the front off of the house."  At this point, I know he is not on board yet.  I take measurements.

About a month later, we're in Home Depot getting a few items, and I leave him and go to the lumber aisle.  I select three boards and take them to the cutting table, where CH finds me.  "What are you doing?" he asks.  "I'm getting the lumber cut for the windowbox," I explain.  "So you're sure you want these cut to 110" each?" the sawing guy asks,  dubiously.  "Yes."  CH gets a little red about the face, which is sort of his natural state because he's Irish, so it's hard sometimes to tell if he's mad, sunburned, or just breathing.  "I thought we weren't doing the windowbox...that's...that's...110" is nearly 12 feet!" 

Well, duh.  The windows are nearly 12 feet long.  My wonderful cottagey windowbox must span the entire window if it's going to be in a magazine.  I just shrug at CH, because our voices are being drowned out by the sound of the tablesaw cutting into my non-returnable lumber.  "I'm not having anything to do with this thing," CH mutters while shaking his head.  "It's going to ruin our house."  No, it will make it look like it's on the Eastern seaboard.  You're welcome.

Two days later, I'm in the garage pre-drilling the holes in the lumber, which is set up on sawhorses.  CH wanders in and surveys my work.  "Your ends aren't matching."  I punch him in the junk.  I smile sweetly, show him some boob top, and say, "Can you fix it for me?"  and hand him the drill.  He spends the next hour getting the ends lined up on The Windowbox That Is Not Going On The House.  And then he fills the holes with wood putty.  Sucker.

I prime and paint The Windowbox That Is Not Going On The House.  CH is getting increasingly nervous.  "How are you putting this thing up?  I'm not kidding, it's going to rip off our siding."  I make a bargain with CH.  I will call the contractor who did our basement, and ask him to find the studs on the wall so I know I'm putting everything on properly.  CH agrees to my terms.  I call the contractor.  He's really busy, it's going to be a while.  CH leaves town for two days.  I have a drill and I know how to use it. 

My neighbors come outside drinking beer and look at my project, and they both advise me to wait for the contractor.  "You'll rip the siding off," they say.  My friend, who is normally a terrific enabler, drops off her daughter to play with Youngest Daughter, and says, "Don't do it Julie.  You're going to rip the siding off.  Wait for the contractor."  Shit.  Waiting is NOT my strong suit.  And I have two days to get the thing up before CH is home and able to tell me no.  I drink a glass of wine and think about it.  Then I drink another.  And then I decide that I am really good with power tools, and because my dad was a bricklayer I know my stuff, I move forward.

Apparently the Universe was also nervous about my plan (She'll rip the siding off), and just as I was getting the extension cord out, I got a text from the contractor.  Even though he was in a big hurry, he could squeeze me in between jobs.  He stopped by, and couldn't find the studs under the aluminum siding.  He drilled a bunch of holes, nothing.  He was getting nervous, I was getting nervous, he was getting texts from other jobs saying, "Where are you?" and finally, maybe TOO conveniently, he found all four studs and then left in a hurry.

I then drilled twelve holes in the front of my house.  They are not small holes.  Out of twelve holes, only one of them came out with wood shavings.  I started to get a little nervous.  My neighbor checked in again, and I told him only one hole had wood.  "That's not good," he said, and backed away from me nervously.  I had just ruined our house, and CH would be home in about two hours.  Could anyone quickly come over and re-side our house?  No.  No, they couldn't.  The only way to cover them up was with a windowbox.  I screwed in twelve 3" bolts, and to my intense relief, they seemed to catch into what was probably a stud.

BEFORE:

AFTER:

Once those potato vines and wave petunias go crazy?  Total cottage charm.  CH pulled up from his trip to Ames, got out of the car, stood on the sidewalk for a second and then started smiling and shaking his head.  He got his suitcase and walked past me into the house, saying, "Nice windowbox."

I'm going to put this one in the victory column.

CH, You Were Right

You were right, Current Husband.

Did you see that? Savor it, because it's not going to happen again.

I'm sure you're all saying to yourselves, "Self, did she say CH was right?  Because I just don't see how that's possible."

Well, BELIEVE ME, I understand your confusion.  How did this happen?  How did I sink so far?  Let's get in the Way Back Machine to yesterday, when it was MOTHER'S DAY, and therefore all about me.  I was doing a little Hitler-esque directing of gardening activities, because it was my day and I could make everyone tap dance to Candyman while wearing bear costumes if I damn well pleased, but I didn't.  I made the children rip out five errant thorn bushes in the front yard, because as much as they whined and pleaded, what child doesn't secretly love shoveling out thorn bushes?  Right?  Schnell, schnell!  Diggest sie bushes, mein Leibchen!

It was a little sunny out, and I was sweating right through my tank top and ripped up short jean shorts from college (Your shorts, Denato, the ones that got you kicked out of that bar in Florida), and I decided to leave the minions and shop for flowers at Home Depot for the children to plant.  While there, I did a naughty and bought one ice-cold Diet Coke.

Poison!  It's poison, I tell you! 

Beautiful, delicious poison.

So I drink a little - only my second sip in SIX EFFING WEEKS - and CH rides my ass about it when I get home.

CH:  "You didn't."
ME:  "I did."
CH:  "You were so good!  Don't do it!"
ME:  "Oh quit being such a ninny!  I used to drink two cans a day, one little sip won't hurt me."
CH:  "Yes it will."
ME:  "It's Mother's Day, and I'll drink it if I want to drink it."
CH:  "You're going to hate yourself."
ME:  "I don't have a problem, I can quit whenever I want."

And I took a big drink just to show him I could.  He shook his head sadly and walked away.  I was fine.  I conquered this.  I can have a little bit, but I'm not a slave to Diet Coke.  Diet Coke doesn't own me, I own IT!

Until today.  When I started having the terrible gas and the digestive turbulence again.  But CH didn't need to know about that.  Until we were in the dining room and one of the kids walked by and said, "EWW, who smells?  Is that you, George?"

"Own up, bitch, I'm not taking the heat for your stank."

Grr.  "Yes, it's George."   CH looked up from his computer with a smug look on his face.  "I told you," he said softly.  But not so softly that I couldn't hear it.  Or that he wouldn't pay.

Not much later, while he was laughing at innapropriate things on It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, I had a bad moment in the bathroom.  It happened as I was starting Sarah Silverman's book, "The Bedwetter".

Oddly enough, I was reading the foreword, where she says that you are probably reading this book while pooping, but that she appreciates you sharing your most intimate and vulnerable moment with her, and that if you take the book one poop at a time, you'll get through it.

CH is in the bedroom, yelling, "I can smell that!  It's the Diet Coke, you know."  Mother.Effer.  Does he have to rub it in?  So I flush, but the memory of my moment is still there.  So I take a notecard and write "I love you" and tape it to the seat.  But then he goes in and doesn't see the notecard, and sits on it, and then it falls into the toilet. 

"JULIE!  DID YOU PUT A NOTE IN HERE?!?"

"Um, no.  George must've done it."

"Seriously?  Must I get blamed for everything? 

There'd better be a treat in this for me."

The joke was on me, as I had to use two bobby pins to fish it out (which I did throw away, Mandatory Reporters).  I'm glad we could share this moment together, Wifers.  It's like you were with me the whole time.  I blame the Coca-Cola company.  Their poisonous chemicals make me so crazy that I overshare.

I hate it that he was right.  Mondays.

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. Or parents of my children's friends. Or people with latex fetishes.

Today's topic: Fifty Shades of CH

For the past week, I've been on blogging hiatus while I check out porn.  LIKE ALL OF THE OTHER GOOD MOMS AT MY KIDS' SCHOOLS.  Don't give me that look, Ms. Soccer Mom.  I know you've been all tingly with bondage tales.  The windows in your Sienna are all steamed up.  As a writer of a Whoreticulture blog, it's irresponsible for me NOT to know what is going on in the playrooms of America, and therefore I am required to read these tomes.  For you.  For those of you who have not read Fifty Shades, here is the synopsis:

"When literature student Anastasia Steele goes to interview young entrepreneur Christian Grey, she encounters a man who is beautiful, brilliant, and intimidating. The unworldly, innocent Ana is startled to realize she wants this man and, despite his enigmatic reserve, finds she is desperate to get close to him. Unable to resist Ana’s quiet beauty, wit, and independent spirit, Grey admits he wants her, too—but on his own terms.

Shocked yet thrilled by Grey’s singular erotic tastes, Ana hesitates. For all the trappings of success—his multinational businesses, his vast wealth, his loving family—Grey is a man tormented by demons and consumed by the need to control. When the couple embarks on a daring, passionately physical affair, Ana discovers Christian Grey’s secrets and explores her own dark desires.
Erotic, amusing, and deeply moving, the Fifty Shades Trilogy is a tale that will obsess you, possess you, and stay with you forever."

That last part?  I'm going to call a Bullshit Foul.  This will not obsess you, possess you, or stay with you forever.  It will shock you, mostly with the poor writing and repetition of cause and effect scenarios, and honestly, I'm now flipping through the sex parts until it says, "Come, Ana, give it to me!" and then she "shatters into a million pieces" for her orgasm, so I can get back to the story.  Because didn't we ALL come EVERY SINGLE TIME during the two or three times a day we were having sex within the first two months of losing our virginity?  And experimenting with butt plugs?  Exactly.  Since this is Every Woman's story, I'm going to give it to you, baby, Wifer Style.

PRESENTING.....Fifty Shades of CH

I walked into the smoky bar at Iowa State University, and I saw him.  Of course, I tripped and stumbled because I'm incredibly beautiful and smart, but just can't seem to keep my balance!  He was prematurely balding and drinking a beer while playing pool.  The way he held both his pool cue and his beer was a testament to his ability to use both hands.  I was intrigued.  He looked past me while my roommate introduced me to him.

 

"Hi," I said.

 

"Hey," he said.  And then I lost my balance and put my butt right against the front of his jeans.  Oh!  How embarrassing.  Now I'm going to have to have sex with him. 

 

He controlled the timetable, because he was the dominant in our relationship, and he had just ordered another pitcher of beer and had four more quarters on the pool table.  He masterfully hit his balls all over the table, thrusting the stick against the balls again and again until they slammed into the pocket.  My inner goddess was thirsty and my inner harpy was reminding me that I needed to be at my internship at the Des Moines Register early the next day.  I left with my roommate, leaving Master and I both unfulfilled.  A dark shadow passed in front of his eyes, and I felt myself filling with an unease that was making me both wary of him and willing to let him lock me up in various bondage cuffs and spreaders.  Then I realized someone was doing shadow puppets with their hands in front of his face, and it wasn't really his eyes, because who actually sees emotions flit around in someone's pupils?

 

I did stumble into bed with this domineering, smart (ass), successful (Scrabble playing), wealthy (with information), God-like(ing), (remote) controlling man, and then I tripped down the aisle into marriage.  After numerous occasions of some very hardcore, Missionary style 20-minute sex sessions, I became pregnant with our first child.  She was born every inch the smart, beautiful, clumsy person as her mom (and will get an internship at a publishing house and unexpectedly rise up to take over the senior acquisitions editor job from her boss within two weeks when he is dismissed for trying to have sex with her) and as soon as she was born, SCREECH!  All of that crazy bondage sex was over.

 

Oh CH...you are a mystery to me still.  You are like a cocktail weenie wrapped in croissant dough with Velveeta on top - so hot, a fast snack, and bad for my thighs.  I see you, and get all aroused about how you don't mow the yard.  You see me, and your blood gets all tingly because I murmur sexily about how I do everything around the house while you watch TV.  And the fucking.  Oh, the fucking.  Let me count the ways:

 

"Let the fucking dog out!"

"Why do I have to make the fucking coffee??!"

"What's this $75 charge at your fucking hair place!?"

"Is there another fucking orchestra concert THIS week too?"

"Will NO ONE fold this fucking laundry!"

 

Mmmm.  I'm getting hot just thinking about it.  No really.  I'm getting hot.  Will you get your fucking leg off of me?  Thanks. 

 

The End. 

 

I know, right?  It makes you want to go have sex with someone!  Now get crazy and take your panties off to go grocery shopping!  It's totally acceptable now.  You're welcome, America.

 

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend.



It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 78

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. Or parents of my children's friends. Or men missing their balls.

Today's topic: Eunuch Erections

Tonight, Current Husband hosted Poker Night at our house.  It's funny, because when I have Book Club at our house, I clean, shop for groceries, set up the basement with chairs, get the liquor, make the food, and greet the guests.  When CH has Poker Night?  I clean, shop for groceries, set up the basement with chairs, get the liquor, make the food and greet the guests, but I don't get the benefit of The Book Club Buzz, which honestly makes me a little bitter.

After the poker party started, Oldest Daughter descended from her room to get things straight.

OD:  "Soo...this is a drinking party, right?"
ME:   "No, they are playing poker."
OD:  "But they're drinking."
ME:  "Yes, but they're playing poker."
OD:  "Would they play poker if there were no drinks?"
ME:   "....................................."
OD:  "Yeah, that's what I thought."
ME:  "They would still play..."
OD:  "Too late, Mom.  This is pretty much Book Club for guys, right?"
(She has me.  I know the jig is up.)
ME:  "Yes, but the Book Club moms are smarter."

Youngest Daughter has a gift - whenever there is an adult activity in the basement, she suddenly has 20 reason to go downstairs.  After her fifth trip into the basement, I tell her No More.  Then she needs her iPod.  Which is, of course, in the basement.  I tell her I will get it.  I descend into Poker Night in the temporary Testosterone Bunker.

On about the fourth step down, the smell of chicken, Maker's Mark, and a vaguely gassy scent hits me, much like it smells when I take the children to McFarty's Whiskey House for dinner, Home of the Jack Daniels Future Hangover Meal.

When I get to the bottom step, one of the guys turns and says, "Julie will know this.  Can a eunuch get an erection?"  Apparently there is a heated debate going on about what happens when a man is castrated.  Does he want to have sex?  Can he have an erection?  An orgasm?  And apparently, I am seen as something of a local authority on eunuchs.  All the men go silent and look at me.

"Well guys, of course a man without balls can have sex.  Many do, every day, sometimes in this house.  All men WANT to have sex, it's part of their genetic makeup.  I would guess that since the balls only control the happy juice but not the involuntary constricting of the blood vessels around the soprano's member, it wouldn't affect erections.  And I'm sure he'd still have an orgasm about five minutes sooner than he should, just like normal men, but his apology might be in a higher pitch.  I'm not a doctor, but I do write an occasional blog about these things that five people read, so rest assured you have the correct information."

And then I googled it.  I was right enough.

Whoreticulture Friday:  Misinforming people about sex-related topics since 2009.  You're welcome, America.

I Am the Guacamole

Something interesting and odd happened yesterday - I checked my ADITW gmail account.  I don't do that often because Mom knows my cell number and her non-English speaking co-workers have no desire to contact me, so that  pretty much covers everyone.  Yesterday, however, in between the pitches from a cleaning brush company (hi, I don't clean) and Twitter comments, there was what looked like a legit e-mail from someone from a legit looking company who is doing a documentary on couples and relationships and seemed to have actually read the blog and wanted to talk to me.  Huh.  Weird.

Day One of our White Trash Journey together. 

Committing to love guacamole forever, no matter how bad it gets.

When I spoke to E-mailing Documentarian, with her fetching British accent, I asked her almost nothing about her project and just started talking, because that's how I roll.  "Oh, we're going to talk about ME?  Okay, let me start at the beginning...I was born in Nebraska to a poor but proud family."  I told her that I wasn't sure what kind of project she's working on, but my relationship is about wanting to snuggle in bed one night and hold the pillow over his head until he stops kicking the next, so if you want to highlight imperfection with possible future homicide, we're your couple.  We're like bipolar love. 

Unfazed, she asked what the key to our relationship is, or something like that, and I said one thing is that we can tolerate each other and know how to check the other person to keep them from embarrassing themselves, like when I'm telling the story about the time we had sex in my parent's garage.  When I start with "There was this time before we were married that we had to find an inflatable raft..." and he knows to step in, stop me, change the subject, and pry the drink out of my hand.  That essentially, we have each other's backs.

This is the point in the conversation when it became abundantly clear that I am guacamole.

Look at it!  It's so festive!  It makes you want to have a party, no?  Guacamole is a party food!  It's what you serve when you want to add a little spice.  But guac is best served fresh, and after a few hours it gets a little dark around the edges and starts to not look so good, and while everyone was RAVING about the guacamole a couple of hours ago, suddenly no one wants to eat it anymore and the hostess is starting to dread cleaning the bowl. Essentially, most people don't want guacamole around unless they are having a party, and then they kind of tire of it.  I've had a number of friends over the years who just hit their limit on how much guacamole they can stomach, and I can't fault them for it.  It's not salsa or cheese dip.  You can only take SO. MUCH.

But not Current Husband.  He LOVES guacamole.  Can't get enough of it.  Even when the guacamole doesn't want guacamole anymore, he's like, "Holy shit, is there MORE of that guac?  Scoop me up some of that kick-ass guacamole!"  Now that we are aging, he knows he shouldn't have guacamole and is in the bathroom downing Prilosec and Tums and moaning, but he still loves the guac.  And how can I not love a guy who loves guacamole so damn much?

So to you, CH?  I salute you.  You can put your chips in me anytime.  But be warned, British documentarian....we are not Oscar material.  TruTV material, perhaps.  But nothing classy.

JulieAID: Send Me Your Estrogen

With all of this Disney trip planning, I've been feeling a bit like this guy from THIS story in the LA Times:

For future reference, a Quarter Pounder with Cheese meal will totally get me off the tower.  You might even be justified in suspecting that I got nekkid and on the tower just to GET a QPwC.  (Diet Coke with that, please.)

So Wifers, I am writing with a request.  Since I am now peri-menopausal and have been getting my period about a week early every month, I thought, "Sweet, that means I will get it the week before we go to Disney, because that would be early!"  But here we are, the Friday before we leave (we leave on Valentine's Day, don't rob my house) and NOTHING.  Let's pick exactly where I would like to be on Day 2 of the Raging River:

1. On an airplane with four nervous children (including Current Husband) and the Fasten Your Seat Belts sign on.
2. In my lovely, crisp, white, away-from-home bed at Beach Club Resort.
3. In my Mommy Tankini at Stormalong Bay on white towel of said resort.
4. In the Tower of Terror.
5. At Princess dinner in Norway.

Seriously, Universe.  Early EVERY DAMN MONTH SINCE OCTOBER.  By a week.  And now?  Nothing.  I'm sure this is probably a karma thing, and I get it.  I deserve it.  But how about if we schedule paybacks for March?  How about in April during my birthday and the four-day high school musical with Oldest Daughter in it?  But I'm begging you, Universe - not in an airplane or port-a-potties.

(NOTE:  For those of you who are smiling smugly and saying, "She's so pregnant!" - No.  She is not.  She has lovely nickel coils jammed up into her fallopean tubes, and "interactions" are at an all-time low due to the fabulously sexy cold I had for the last two weeks.)

"I'm sorry about your personal hormonal issues, Julie.  What can I do?"

ANSWER:  I want your estrogen. 

Please send your Estro-mail to adayinthewife@gmail.com, with your donor estrogen attached.  I will use your estrogen to female myself up, and then donate the unused estrogen to hairy men in a Big Johnson t-shirt who show butt crack and crumple their beer can and throw it out the window while driving.  WE ALL WIN.

After the estrogen arrives, and it is Day 2, I will happily take your donations of Quarter Pounders with Cheese.  With Diet Coke, please.

Thanks Wifers, and have a great weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 75

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. Or my OB-GYN.



Today's topic: Priorities

Actual article published in a local newspaper on Thursday, January 12:

Sex Doll Worth $250 Stolen in Iowa City Knifepoint Robbery
Police said the clerk at an Iowa City adult entertainment store was robbed at knifepoint early Thursday morning and chased out of the store.



According to Iowa City Police, officers responded to Romantix Pleasure Palace, 315 Kirkwood Ave., at 3:01 a.m. Thursday for a report of a hold up alarm. As officers were responding, a store employee called 911 and reported a man had entered the store, displayed a large knife and attempted to enter the employee area behind the cash register.


Police said the employee jumped over the counter and ran from the store. The suspect pursued for a short distance before turning back and stealing merchandise from the store.

A store employee said that the suspect got away with a “high-quality sex doll.” The doll is valued at $250 and media reports that the doll was worth $1,800 are erroneous, the employee said.


Iowa City Police Sgt. Denise Brotherton said the employee was able to run toward a nearby convenience store.

The suspect is described as a white man, 5’8”-5’10” and 165 pounds. He was wearing a black coat and scarf over his face and carrying a backpack. Police said the knife was described as a large hunting knife with a 6-8 inch blade.

Iowa City CrimeStoppers is offering a reward of up to $1,000 for information leading to the arrest of this suspect. Anyone with information is asked to call CrimeStoppers at 358-8477.

I think it's a real shame that there are no federal programs available to provide people with porn.  Here's a guy, obviously suffering from a severe case of blue balls, who has been forced into a life of crime to support his porn habit.  He obviously has feelings; the store IS called "Romantix".  Why should he have to live his life using pillows or sofa cushions, when the rich people can have access to a "high quality sex doll".  We're not talking Donald Trump - this wasn't the $1800 doll it was originally rumored to be. 

Iowa City Police:  I'd be looking for a guy

who looks suspiciously like Ryan Gosling.

If you're going to turn to a life of crime, don't steal obvious things like food, clothing, or Twilight movies.  You need to be the guy who robbed the porn shop for a rubber girlfriend.  When you go to prison, you are going to be the COOLEST DUDE THERE.  And in demand for parties, I would guess.  And speaking of cool guys at parties, it makes me wonder...

Where was Current Husband going yesterday,

and why did he borrow my scarf and hunting knife?

Hello, $1000!

(BTW, do you see how this man suffers for my lack of impulse control? 

FINE.  I'LL TAKE A STUPID PICTURE FOR YOUR BLOG!)

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

The Mystery of the Freshly Brewed Pee

Before you say anything, let me just admit now that after my month of daily blogging, I readily admit that I have become a huge slacker.  Glub glub, I've been busy.  (Not really, but I've been wanting to work "Glub glub" into a blog for a while.)

On Friday, I was going to do a Whoreticulture Friday post on going to the bathroom, as in "Maybe I should drink more water because every time I pee it smells like someone just brewed a pot of coffee."  But then I remembered that Oldest Daughter is going to Homecoming with an actual boy in a week, and locals keep finding out about the blog and I don't want her to get dumped BEFORE the dance because I have to keep those Shutterfly books full so the kids think they had a full and rich stable of childhood experiences.  So, mother of Homecoming Date, if you have stumbled across this blog, my pee does not smell, nor would I even think of blogging about it if it did.

I've had a bad headache all day, and I already took an Aleve and a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, and it's not going away.  Oldest Daughter is at a birthday party overnight, Youngest Daughter is at a friend's house overnight, and The Son and Current Husband went to a movie.  I stayed home and watched George the Superpet and the GD Dog tear the shit out of my yard (pics later this week) and thought about doing something fun, but my head kept pounding out the rhythym of a Sex Pistols song and I polyurethaned something, which oddly did not make my headache go away.

The Son and CH got home, and I sat at the dining room table and asked The Son to rub my neck to make my headache go away, and he balked and said, "Did you eat ham?" and I said no, and he said, "I'm going to wash my hands and get gloves if I'm doing it."  I looked at CH and said, "What the hell?" and CH shrugged his shoulders apologetically and said, "Cowboys and Aliens was out of the theater, I took him to see Contagion."  Apparently Gwyneth Paltrow eats some ham, gets a headache, and dies a horrible death, and spreads it to everyone whom she touches.  SO not only does GP get to travel the world, be skinny, and bone Chris Martin, she is now preventing me from getting massages.  WTF, GP?

I'm going to sell these and raise ONE. MILLION. DOLLARS.

So here is The Status of The Wife in a nutshell:

• I have a headache.
• The Son thinks I am the Contagion.
• My yard has been destroyed by the GD Dog.
• My pee smells like coffee.  Or it doesn't, depending on who you are.

That is all.  Have a lovely weekend, Wifers.
And?  Read the latest post on The Bloggess.  Honestly, people.  She has created some sort of alternate, bizarre, comedic universe where I want to live.  "Knock, Knock, Motherfucker" towels are now on my Lifetime Gift Registry.

The Secret of the Cookoff Chili

What a perfectly lovely fall weekend!  So much fun best time ever.  It was exactly the kind of weekend I like to have. 


Friday night, we ordered taco pizza and stayed in.  We were supposed to go to a high school football game, but Oldest Daughter wasn't feeling well, and Youngest Daughter had a sleepover friend, and I had a People magazine and the GD dog and George the Superpet, so I was perfectly happy to park it on the couch in my comfy pants.  Throw in some Whitey's Moosetracks ice cream and call it a win.


Saturday, slept in.  Yee-effing-haw.  Took sleepover friend home, got some overdue cleaning done around the house, and tried a new Starbucks flavor - Salted Caramel Mocha.

It's crack in a cup, people.

Then I put some chicken in a pot and got my game face on - it was time to get to a chili cookoff.  I made my white chicken chili, got some Leinenkugels, and Current Husband and I went to meet the competition.  There were eight pots of chili, tons of corn bread, gallons of cold beverages, a bonfire, games of bags, and a houseful of really lovely people.  Back to the food:

My chili was #1 (in label only) and the other white chicken chili, which was delicious, was #2 and we were in crock pots.  Above is chili #3 on the right, which had no beans, amazing shredded beef straight off the bone, and was fire engine hot.  Chili #4 and chili #5 are the other pots pictured here, but were delicious as well.  The plot thickened.

Photo taken after second Sierra Nevada Pale Ale.

Chili #6 is not pictured, and had a secret ingredient of peanut butter.  Yum.  Chili #7 was on the bottom, and had polish sausage in it, and was awesome. Chili #8 is on top, and got my vote for the winner.  It was so damn good.  But it was hard to vote for #8 because ALL of the chili was so damn good.  It was one of those times when you want to keep eating and eating and eating. With sour cream and shredded cheese and little mini corn muffins...

...and coolers of beer!

...and dessert!

The winners were happy (yes, there was a trophy, complete with flames).

The 8th place runners up were happy! 

(You're still a hot dish to me, #8)

It was a perfect fall night.  The bonfire was warm and smelled like fall, and we played bags, which I've never played before (and that was oh so obvious!) and everyone just hung out and talked into the night.  The hosts were terrific, and it made me realize how nice it would be to put a party like this together at my house sometime - just have everyone bring a dish around a theme and some beer.  I'm always so worried about not having enough room in my house, but people WANT to get together, and no one is afraid to sit on other people if the conversation is good.

On Sunday, I slept in again (yahoo!) and got some other things done, and then had my college roommate and her son over for dinner.  I took my cue from the party the night before and made potato soup, chicken tortilla soup, and had leftover white chicken chili and banana bread, and we had a great time.

Good, simple food, a few cold beverages, great fall weather, catching up with good friends and meeting some new ones.  There is no mystery to how to have a good time.  The mystery here, Nancy Drew, is how to get CH's gland expressed.  Because after all that chili, my house smells like The Secret of Where The Dead Animal Is Hidden.

Happy Anniversary CH!

Sixteen years ago today, I put on this white dress (even though I'd been having sex with this guy for four years) and drove to the church with two of my college friends and Billy Idol's song "White Wedding" just happened to come on the radio, and we blasted it all the way to the church.  This guy waiting at the altar and I did the vows, did the reception, did the honeymoon, bought the house, had the kids, got the dogs, fought a lot, made up most of the time, have had sickness and health, been richer (in meals) and poorer (in bank accounts), but through thick and thin he's been the one person who has always truly understood me and laughed at my jokes and wiped away my tears and listened.  And even though there are times when I want to hold a pillow over his face until he stops kicking, we take it year by year and it seems to be working out.

This is what we looked like then:

And this is what we EACH had for dessert tonight with our Velvet Devil merlot and Irish Coffees - bread pudding.  Yum.

And that is why I'm not putting up a picture of what we look like tonight.  Because we are both a little sick and bloated from our crazy dinner.  But tomorrow?  Diets!  And exercise!

By the way, I spoke with my fantastic boss this morning about the Homecoming Dance, and he said, "Well, you can't miss THAT!" and we're talking about alternatives so I don't have to leave.  I am very lucky.  Good night, Wifers!   Happy 16th Anniversary, CH, you lucky son-of-a-bitch!

Going Bareback Again Tomorrow

I honestly wouldn't probably be blogging about this if I wasn't blogging every day this month, but Mom and her two non-English-speaking co-workers need something to do. 

Every time I have a mammogram, I get called back, or as I like to refer to it, "My rack has a second audition."  I was under the impression that this is because my ladies are getting tired of fighting gravity, but yesterday the tech said it is because my tissues are exceptionally compressed, thus giving the illusion of shadows on the scan.  The first time this happened, I wrote goodbye letters to Current Husband and the children.  I got my second scan and all was well and I went on my happy way, and a few weeks later CH found me, panicked, and said, "What the hell is this?!"  He was holding my letter, which made me look slightly suicidal since nothing else was going on, and I had to explain that I wrote the letter when I thought I had cancer, but to just forget about it now.  After asking me a few questions about my happiness level, he was able to start breathing again, because who is going to pack those cold lunches for the vegetarian daughters and buy tampons if I'm not around?

The second time my rack got a callback, I was told it was because skin had folded on top of itself, which is a much different explaination than "compressed tissue", and sounds like I can tuck my boobs into the waistband of my pants.  Again, clean screen the second time around.

Today I got a callback for tomorrow, and I'm relatively unfazed about it because I am always a two-timer, but let me tell you what DOES bother me a little.  When I go to the Center for Women's Health and I get off the elevator and I'm smacked upside the face with a 10 foot tall pink sign that says, "Whose life will YOU be running for?" about Race for the Cure.  And then the breast cancer awareness poster.  And then the next one.  And the next. And the next.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for breast cancer research.  But when I'm going in for my second mammogram, my paranoia about getting diagnosed with breast cancer is already ratcheted up a bit without picking my race team.  I know so many people who have had or are battling some form of cancer that I feel like it's National Geographic's "Seconds From Disaster" - it's not a matter of if, but when.

I'm sure my scan will be just the same as all the others tomorrow, clear, and don't think for a second I haven't been giving myself a cheap feel all night long, so if there was a grain of sand in there I would've found it, but somewhere in the world every day someone's results come back with bad news.  Therefore, maybe this is a nice moment to say that if you're looking for a place to donate your extra bags of cash, cancer research would be a nice place to do it.

But tomorrow?  When the scan is over?  I'm off to Starbucks for my well-deserved Venti Quad Skinny Vanilla Latte before I head back to work.

Bring Me Gravy, Or Bring Me Death.

Dudes.

I am so flipping beat up.  Had an awesome day at the Hooker Convention, those ladies wouldn't ever stop coming and waving their credit cards at us, which is awesome.  BUT.  I did not sit or use a bathroom or eat from 9 a.m. until 6 p.m., and my varicose veins were saying, "Sit DOWN, Bitch!" and my back was saying, "Yeah, what they said!" and my teeth were dry from all that smiling and talking.  I did wear my new hooker shirt, and I took a picture, and then I left my camera in the exhibition hall, so no photo.  Tomorrow.

When the show was over for the day and we could leave, we walked to a restaurant called "The Barn" and had the buffet.  My plate was like a 15-year-old boy's - fried chicken, gravy, Mt. Mashed Potato, gravy, roast beef, gravy, BBQ beef, gravy, buttered peas and cherry bread pudding.  And gravy. It was all I could do to not climb into that gravy tray and bathe in it.  We're in Mennonite country, people - my dad's family all still live here, and I KNOW they can cook.  Bring me your gravy, or bring me death.

It is 11 p.m., and I am going to get in my king-sized bed, maybe read a chapter of The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest, and then dream of gravy.  And CH, of course.  With gravy.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 69

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: An Extra Pap in My Step

DISCLAIMER:  Remember, this whole "Oh I'm Going To Blog Every Day" business is about quantity, not quality.  As long as we are all clear.  Are we good?  Good.  Carry on, then.

Earlier this week I mentioned that I had a pap smear.  I know how much fun it is for everyone to read about my personal doctor's visits, so I'm going to elaborate on it.  Of course, by reading further, you are agreeing to the contract that you will not let your child under the age of 20 read this or share the information in this blog with your child, particularly if you live in my area.  If you do, I will be forced to name you in my blog, and gut you like a fish.  Because I live in Mayberry and I WILL find out.  Fun!

So of course, Poor CH did not get lucky earlier this week, because you know how sex messes with your junk, and I for one cannot go giddyup in the stirrups and have the doctor going, "Do you have any questions for me?" and be thinking, "I can't believe you showed up here with your scrambled-ass vagina and expect me to take you seriously, you ho-bag."  My appointment was on Tuesday, so CH was thinking Tuesday Night is THE Night!  Poor CH.

I showed up and did the weigh-in.  I was feeling good about the scale because I had a wellness check at work about three weeks ago and the scale showed me some love and said I weighed 152.  This scale was an asshole and said I weighed 161!  Seriously people, I gained 9 pounds in three weeks.  Ice cream, you're going to have to start seeing other people.  However, I'm pretty certain I drank at least 8 pounds of coffee for breakfast and my blood is rich with iron, which we all know is quite heavy.  That's science, people.

I made my way to the exam room and was reading a lovely article about Kyra Sedgewick when the doctor walked in.  I must have looked like I was really into the article, because she gently took it out of my hands and put it back in the magazine rack.  Isn't that MY job?  Although I was in the open-front pink paper bolero jacket with a small paper napkin covering my lady cave, so I suppose she was being helpful.  She started with what is probably a standard question, but I got right on it.

DR:  "Do you have any questions or concerns?"
ME:  "I am SO done having kids.  I want Mirena or Essure.  When can we do this?"
DR:  "Um...okay...well, are you sure you're done having kids?"
ME:  "I never want another baby again.  I have one going to college in four years.  I'm not going back.  If, God Forbid, my husband should die and I married someone else, I would NOT be like 'I want your baby', I would say, 'Let's go to London!' I have three great kids, I don't want to break that streak.  I. AM. DONE.  I'm not always even into having sex because I think I MIGHT get pregnant.  And I have a rash on my chest.  It might be from a fear of pregnancy."
DR:  (Looks panicky and laughs nervously.)  "Okay.  Well, you are very sure - maybe one of the surest people I've spoken with.  Not everyone is.  I think both options are great.  Mirena gets you a metal T-shaped IUD and you don't really have periods, but there are slight risks of uterine tearing, and I've had one of those happen.  There have been a few pregnancies on Mirena.  Essure is permanent and for that we put metal coils in your tubes and then scar tissue grows over them, sealing off your tubes forever.  Then we put contrast dye in your uterus and take an x-ray to see if any dye gets through.  If it doesn't, you're good to go."

This all sounds like a LOT of stuff going into my vagina.  Had I been aware there was so much room in there for all of these items, I might have saved the money on a safe and put everyone's birth certificates and social security cards in there.  I'm going to think about my options, and then after careful consideration, I'm going to see which one is cheaper with my insurance and go that way.

She then asked about my chesty rash.  I flashed her, and she prescribed a cream.  Because NOTHING makes a woman feel sexier than having a rash all over her chest.  It's probably what's kept me from getting knocked up lately.

We did the other standard things a doctor and a woman do in the privacy of their stirrups, and she signed me up for a mammogram.  Great.  I might as well schedule TWO appointments, because I have YET to have a mammogram without having to do a follow-up ultrasound for something suspicious.  Longtime readers might remember my last one, when I had to go back only for them to discover that the skin on my breast had doubled over on itself and created a dark area on the scan.  Super.  My girls are so tired they can actually fold over on themselves like an origami pelican DURING a mammogram.  Jealous?

It all ended well, we agreed to continue seeing each other, and I'm going back for sterilization.  And THAT is what's putting an extra pap in my step.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  See you tomorrow!

 

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!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 68

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: Random Acts of Whoreness

Hello Mom and her two non-English speaking co-workers who actually read this blog.  I've missed the three of you.  Well actually, I haven't, because I've been with you in Nebraska all week, Mom.  (Juanita and Lupe, you are on your own.)  This is why I can't breathe and am having the second-hand smoke tar scraped out of my lungs tomorrow.  But I know you crack the kitchen window open because you love me, Mom.

Not Whoreticulturey, but adorable, no?

OD and George the Superpet, ready for takeoff!

Last week, my mom flew from Padre Island to her summer home in Elkhorn, Nebraska, because who doesn't dream of a summer home in Nebraska?  This trip has been planned since March.  Mom arrived on Wednesday.  On Saturday night, Dad showed up somewhat unexpectedly, but not TOTALLY unexpectedly, because this is how he operates.  He makes a last minute decision and then drives 20 hours straight to "surprise" everyone.  We all know that he pees in a bottle when he makes these trips, but we have a "don't ask, don't tell" policy about it in our family.  

True Story:  One time he traded in his pickup for a new one when he arrived in town and forgot to take the bottle out.  The great part is that he wasn't mortified that the service guys found a jug of his urine; he was mad because mom got that one from the hospital for him.  It was custom.  I think this goes a LONG way toward explaining why I turned out this way.  Sorry Gaga.  I wasn't born this way.  I was purposely molded into the dysfunctional person I am today.

This is a recap of my week in Nebraska, with random appropriate bits for Whoreticulture Friday.  You could say this week is the ADHD version.

Three hours into the trip on Interstate 80, fourth Hummer truck:
Current Husband:  "You ever think about driving that big rig?"
Me:  "I'm pretty sure that truck can drive itself."
CH:  "But I bet it would be fun...."
Me:  "Step on it and I'll see if the driver is interested in giving you a spin."

Dear Grocery Store:  Do not put bright pink signs on your produce that say, "NICE MELONS" and not expect me to pick them up and fondle them.  Or put the sign on myself.  Or make my teenage daughter take the picture.  Or not pull my shirt down so as to hide the jelly rolls I'm sporting.  It's businesses such as yours that force me to be immature.  The melons, by the way, are real, and they are SPECTACULAR.

Speaking of melons....

 This is Paige the OB-GYN, my high school friend who terrifies me with her stories about uteruses (uteri??) falling out of people who don't do Kegels (let's all do one together...clench...and...RELEASE).  We got together at our friend Meem's house in Omaha on the 4th, and Paige brought her Tit Coozie.  But apparently she skipped kindergarten, because she didn't bring enough for everyone.  Do you know me AT ALL, Paige?  I get to see my high school posse in November in Austin, Texas, and I expect a gyno-swag-bag.

(Running off to trademark that name.)

The trip ended with CH and I attending The Black Keys concert in Council Bluffs, Iowa.  CH and I arrived at the concert area to find that it was:

1. An outdoor venue.
2. With no seating.
3. And it had been raining all day.

So we bought a poncho to sit on the grassy knoll, and after four or five Blue Moons, the above picture is how I actually saw the concert.  (Don't look into the light, Carol Ann!  Run away from the light!)  No, I'm kidding, I spent the entire concert rambling drunkenly to CH about how awesome Pat Carney plays drums, and how amazing Dan Auerbaugh is on guitar, and singing loudly, and then, you know what's coming, DANCING. 

How do these two dorky-looking white dudes

from Ohio make such big, fat-ass blues?  How?

Then we went to the slot machines (big, big mistake) and then I made CH walk me to the band bus to see if I could snag a Key to get in a blog picture.  But it wasn't meant to be, because my Dad was there to pick us up, smoking and honking in his Buick Enclave in the casino valet driveway.  Did I mention that I'm 42, and I had my Dad drive me and my boyfriend to a concert, and then pick us up at midnight?  I felt like it was 1984 and I was seeing Def Leppard when the drummer had both arms.  THAT old school, baby.

And thus concludes this episode of "What I Did on My Nebraska Vacation".  I hope you all had a fantastic Fourth of July, and none of you had the firework I have re-named "The Dancing Grandchildren" due to it's sudden and unexpected shooting of fireballs straight out 50 feet in all directions toward the screaming and terrified children.  No grandchildren, grandparents, or animals were harmed in the lighting of said firework.

One more bit of randomness, not necessarily whorish in nature?  I have a whole new respect for Olivia Wilde, actress and apparent Honey Badger fan:

In case you missed it, I found this little gem of joy through The Bloggess, and it deserves a second viewing.  It just brings a smile to my face.  Honey Badger don't care, Honey Badger don't give a shit!  I need this t-shirt.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday Wifers, and have a great weekend!

UPDATE FRIDAY 3 p.m. - Many of my friends eschew the comments section, which never works and is impossible, and e-mail their comments to me.  This one, from a college friend who came home with me one Easter, was impossible for me not to post.  This is Hand To God true:

"You kill me! I choked on my pretzel laughing about your dad and his "custom jug!" I totally remember going to church with you, and your dad had a beer t-shirt on under his jacket!"

 Seriously people.  You can't make this shit up.