A Little Help - What's a Virgin?

Last Saturday, a long-awaited date came up on the calendar.  Eclipse was released on DVD.

Oldest Daughter and I are Twilight freaks.  Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, and if having a crush on a ficticious sparkly vampire (or the hot borderline jailbait British kid that plays him) is wrong, I don't wanna be right.  And let's get one thing straight...I don't watch Harry Potter and think about getting it on with Daniel Radcliffe.  But Rob Pattinson I would happily spank.  I have standards.

So it isn't enough that I've read the book...a number of times.  Or saw the movie in the theater two times.  OD and I have watched the DVD three times since Saturday.  I can explain it no better than a meth addict explains why they like meth.  There is no rational explanation.  But a margarita, a Twilight movie, and my flannel pjs go together like Larry, Mo and Curly.  Or ice cream, brownies and fudge.  Or teenagers, acne, and Facebook.  Or beer, NASCAR and Winnebagos.

Let me make one criticism of the movie - Jacob?  He's hot.  He's buff.  He's what I would expect a guy who turns into a werewolf looks like.  Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, I buy it.  But the other dudes in the pack in Eclipse?  They have muffin tops bigger than mine.  It really should be in their contracts that they have to work out with Taylor Lautner, because if you are going to spend the entire movie running around shirtless, give me something to look at, not be uncomfortable about.  If I was going to be in a movie shirtless, I would work the freeweights and get a boob lift, AS A FAVOR TO THE VIEWER.  You're welcome.

So we watch the movie with another family the first time.  Youngest Daughter and her second grade buddy are busy chanting for Jacob and cheering for the wolves in the first movie.  It's cute.  The second time, we watch it with just our family.  The Son and YD are asking questions and then shushing each other when the other one talks.  It keeps them somewhat occupied.  The third time, YD is sitting on one side of me, and The Son is on the other side.  It's the part when Bella and Charlie are talking in the kitchen, and he is asking her if she and Edward are taking precautions.  Bella ends up saying, "Okay, Dad?  I'm a virgin!" and they both get uncomfortable and leave the room.  YD turns to me.

"Mom?  What's a virgin?"

"Oh God, honey, it's been so long, I don't know," is what I think.  I know YD doesn't know what a virgin is - when she and a friend were into the movie "The Grease", as YD called it, they sang the song Sandra Dee a LOT.  When her friend would sing "Lousy with virginity", YD would say, "No, it's 'Virginia-t', like my middle name."  "OOOHHH, I get it" her friend would say, and they'd go on singing.

"Shh! We're watching a movie!" is what I say.

YD whispers..."MOM! What is a VIRGIN!?!"

The Son is shaking with laughter, eyes big, watching me.  The older kids live for moments like this.

"Well...um...it's when someone is very careful....they don't do a lot of crazy kissing or anything...." the scene changes to Bella trying to seduce Edward into tapping that.  We all watch in silence.  I'm hoping The Virgin Moment has passed.  YD is watching intently as Bella wraps her leg around Edward's rock hard...vampire body...and starts to unbutton his shirt.

"Is THAT what a virgin does Mom?"  YD is now confused.  Bella says she is a virgin, and then in the next scene is dry-humping Rob Pattinson.  Well honey, that's what some virgins do.  I had a friend in high school who we referred to as "The 69 Queen" - and I know you read this and you know I love you - and she proudly graduated as a virgin.  But her boyfriend all during high school always had a smile on his face.

"Um, no honey, a virgin probably wouldn't be getting quite so...crazy."  I don't know why, but the word 'crazy' just kept popping up in my head.  Probably because it was an easier word than 'penetration' or 'hymen' or 'intercourse'.  It's just so..so...crazy!

I thought about going with the whole Virgin Mary comparison, but still, Mary ended up with Baby Jesus and it still waded into waters I wasn't comfortable swimming in.  YD knows about penises and vaginas, she just isn't aware yet that they are interlocking parts.  I finally tried a strategy that addressed genital involvement.

"Bella just means Edward doesn't see her private parts."  I stared at the TV.  Edward was telling Bella he wanted to protect her virtue and asking her to marry him.  Stick with the theme, YD.

"Ew. Why would she want him to do that?"

"She wouldn't.  That's why we like Bella.  Yay!  They're getting married!" And finally, YD was distracted.  A wedding!  Like Bridal Barbie!  And we could just forget about vaginas for now.

YD might see the wedding scene, but Breaking Dawn will conveniently break down when the honeymoon starts.  But Mommy?  Mommy might have to watch that one alone.  Brown Chicken Brown Cow....

Finally, A Real Day in the Wife

This blog is called "A Day in the Wife", and yet, ironically enough, I never write about that.  Today will be different, because it has been my typical clusterf**k of a day, and I think my readers should know how bad I really am at this whole Wifery thing.

7:25 a.m.
The alarm has apparently been going off, but I have somehow missed it.  I have to leave to take Oldest Daughter to String Camp in 20 minutes.  She needs at least 40 minutes to get ready.  I wake her up and take my verbal beating, knowing there is coffee in my future.


7:28 a.m.
I walk into the kitchen to make coffee.  We are out of coffee filters.  The crying begins.


7:50 a.m.
We leave for String Camp, late again.  Oldest Daughter is angry and I am starting to shake from lack of caffeine.


8:15 a.m.
I get coffee at Starbucks, but my Starbucks card is .52 short.  I have to leave the coffee, go back out to the car to get money, and come back in to pay.  There are four angry people waiting in line behind me, and because they couldn't override it on the register, so they had to wait for me.  Suck it up, people, I NEED that coffee!


9:10 a.m.
Other children wake up, and demand breakfast.  I am out of cereal and bagels.  Luckily, I have toaster strudel.  I make the toaster strudel, but Youngest Daughter refuses to eat it because the design I made with the frosting is unacceptable, asks for Dots candy instead.  I openly lose my temper for the third time today.  YD eats toaster strudel with bad design, and somewhere, Michael Graves shakes his head at the tragedy of it all.

10:00 a.m.
I take YD, her brother, and his friend to PetSmart so they can look at snake accessories.  The Son and his friend both have corn snakes, which go on "playdates" to each others tanks.  I warn The Son that snakes are not pack animals, and they will probably kill each other eventually.  On the plus side, this will get me out of buying frozen baby rodents to feed said snake.  YD asks if we can go to the Target next door for a free cookie.  While out, I get a text from Oldest Daughter's cello teacher that the audition clinic for the local symphony youth string ensemble has been moved to today at 1.  Is OD planning on attending?  He strongly encourages it.  And we will have to reschedule today's lesson.  I panic, trying to quickly rearrange the day and figure out where and when this clinic is taking place.


Noon
Pick up OD from string camp and tell her she is going to ensemble clinic in 45 minutes.  She begins to cry, says she is not ready, tells me she doesn't want to go, and blames me for the symphony reschedule.  Because I hold unlimited power in the universe.  I spill coffee on my shirt.


12:50 p.m.
Yelling at everyone to "get in the van, we are late for the clinic!"  Everyone is crying:  OD because she is freaking out, YD because there is no candy involved, me because I am late AGAIN, and The Son because he is sad that everyone else is sad.  Make note to self to Google which Norman Rockwell painting corresponds to this moment.


1:05 p.m.
Pull up at audition site, comment on how empty parking lot is.  Go inside, ask secretary where clinic is, she looks at me like I asked her how to make cat salad in Portuguese.


1:09 p.m.
Force OD to text friend, find out clinic is tomorrow, cello teacher messed up.  I swear profusely.  OD is relieved.  YD asks for Skittles to celebrate.

1:15 p.m.
Get home to find gas company employee standing in my yard next to the For Sale sign, smoking, with the new gas line pipe sticking up out of my yard three feet from his cigarette.  Briefly hope he flicks his butt that way.  Instead, he opts for Port-O-John across street from my house (Did I mention my house is on the market?).  Notice full McDonalds bag on my curb next to where the gas company truck was parked about an hour earlier.  Hope prospective buyers avoid our house today.


1:45 p.m.
Realize in cello panic, I forgot to give anyone lunch.  Vegetarian daughter wants mac and cheese.  YD does not want mac and cheese, she asks for Twizzlers.  The Son doesn't feel like mac and cheese either, he would prefer turkey sandwich.  Children start fighting about which lunch would be best.  I leave to find Aleve bottle and a corner in which to rock.


2:43 p.m.
Remember I intended to make barbequed ribs in slow cooker for dinner, but they are supposed to cook on low for 6-8 hours.  I brown them in a frying pan and put them in the slow cooker on high, hoping that 6-8 hours on low heat means 3-4 hours on high heat will suffice.  Suspect my meat math is off.  Hope family isn't hungry until 9 p.m. and this does not result in multiple counts of food poisoning.


4:17 p.m.
Remember The Son goes to resident camp over an hour away on Sunday, and I haven't sent in physical forms.  Call camp and find out there is still a $285 balance.  Secretary urges me to get forms in mail tomorrow, since they are supposed to be mailed in 4 weeks prior to camp.  Crap.  (NOTE:  Same thing happened last year.  And possibly year before.)


5:43 p.m.
Call Current Husband to remind him that I am meeting friends for margarita and Eclipse, and need to leave by 6:10.  He tells me he will be home in 10 minutes.

6:13 p.m.
Current Husband arrives at home.  George the Superpet is jumping on him.  OD, YD, and The Son all run to him, grateful there is a non-swearing, non-caffeinated parent on the premises.  CH comments on how good dinner smells, and I say, "You can try it now, but it may not be done until 8 p.m.  Have fun!" and I leave.

7:45 p.m.
Two margaritas under my belt.  Rob Pattinson is filling up the screen in front of me.  I have a Diet Coke, and am surrounded by eight great women.  My day just took a turn for the better.

10:45 p.m.
Arrive at home calm and relaxed.  Walk in door.  The Son announces he has a friend over for the night and they will be playing with the snakes.  Oldest Daughter says she has plans with a friend tomorrow, and could I send lunch with her so she doesn't have the awkward vegetarian moment?  YD comes yelling out of the back room, seemingly ready to stay up for another three hours.  She asks if she can have a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.  I refuse.  She is angry, fights the whole "going to bed" thing.


12:22 a.m.
YD finally asleep.  Blog is almost done.  House is disaster.  Have to wake up in 7 hours.  At least I have coffee filters.

UPDATE:  1:13 a.m. 
Realize as I'm going to bed that I forgot to call the real estate website by Wed 3 p.m. deadline to tell them we are having an Open House this Sunday, now all advertising is gone and I have to cancel Open House and reschedule for the next weekend.  Because I am so organized.


TALLY:
Coffees:          5
Diet Cokes:    2
Medifast bars:  3
Expletives:      43
Margaritas:      2


Tomorrow, I will wake up at 7 a.m. (I hope) and try all over again to get it right, but I am not optimistic.  Perhaps two more coffees will get me there... 


This is A Day in the Wife. 

Please tell me your days are not dissimilar.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 33

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


Today's topic: Summer Hair Management.

I'm sort of a slacker mom.  Granted, we've been pretty busy so far this summer, but I took my kids to the pool for the first time last week, and their summer break is halfway over.  The kids have been to the pool - they've been in swimming lessons, been with friends, and went with our local park board.  But I, the Wife, had not stripped down for the community at the local pool until last week.  Preparing for my pool trip made me realize what a hairy woman I have become in my old age.

 Actual photo of me at pool, playing water guns with kids.

Every woman deals with this issue on some level.  Honestly, I don't shave my legs much between Thanksgiving and St. Patrick's Day.  Why bother?  Current Husband isn't going to turn me down because he doesn't have a girlfriend yet and I am his only option.  Besides, it keeps me warm.  But in the summer?  You don't want even one little unsightly hair poking out of anything.  Let me break it down for you from head to toe:

 Me at PTA event in May.

I think the flower in my hair is a nice touch.

Eyebrows

I am a total Freda Kahlo.  If I don't pluck my eyebrows every few hours, I will grow a Bridge to Terabithia between my eyes.  Now that I am over 40, some of those hairs are gray or white, and much harder for me to see with my reduced vision.  I always seem to notice those little buggers about 10 minutes before I'm ready to walk out the door.  Last night is a great example - CH and I attended a John Deere Classic Golf Tournament dinner with some friends.  Nice event.  I wore a dress.  But as we were leaving home, I noticed a few stray eyebrow hairs, and I had to pluck them.  HAD. TO. And of course, I got huge welts on my eyebrows.  I told people I was hit in the forehead by a stray golf ball on my way into the event.  Kenny Parry got me an ice pack.  Zach Johnson suggested cucumber slices from the salad.

 Kids!  Let's get some ice cream with Higgins!

Mustache

There is nothing hotter than a mother of three with a fluffy 'stache.  Again, over 40, darker hair, more prevalent.  What is that all about?  I didn't have a mustache in college!  I had very little unsightly hair before I was 25.  It's like God WANTS you to get pregnant before you're ready.  I get that bad boy waxed every few months, but I have to be sure not to schedule anything in the afternoon, because when the Tom Selleck is yanked off my face, I get a huge pink Hitler for a few hours afterward.  They even douse me with witch hazel or vodka or something, and yet, I sport the FemiNazi until dinner.

 It appears that Alec Baldwin and I 

share more than calling our 

children names on their voicemail...

Nipples

Oh, you heard me.  I said it.  Nipples.  And I know lots of women who get stray hairs around their nipples, so don't EVEN try to tell me this is shocking in any way.  Fortunately, my nipular hair level has not reached shaving level, because I never want to say to CH, "Hey, wanna get it on?  I just shaved my tits."  I'm a plucker.  A mother plucker.  So hot.  Speaking of hot...

I'll pluck yours, Rob, if you pluck mine...

Stomach

Yep, here too.  I've heard this called the Dirt Trail, but Urban Dictionary, the go-to resource for Whoreticulture Friday, says that is actually a disgusting fecal issue, so don't take my word for it.  I had a friend in high school who was plucking dark hairs from her navel to her dealio, and I thought, "Wow, that sucks".  Now I think of her as a pluck those stray bad boys, because she has a terrific job and probably gets hers professionally done while sipping a Mojito and reading "W".  Touche.

Bikini Line - really, you don't want an image here.

I am not brave enough to wax yet, so I am a shaver, despite warnings from my OB-GYN friend from high school who says to be careful with the razor because she has put stitches in a LABIA (cringe) from someone doing their own bushwhacking.  And let me tell you, it is hard to be thorough for swimsuit wearing.  I was very conscious about leg placement at the pool, because honestly, I am getting old and not as bendy as I used to be, and I was a little concerned about being surrounded by hairless teens in small bikinis.  Enough said.  As for Brazilians, let me just tell you that my pain tolerance level is quite low, and until they are giving epidurals with Brazilians, I will not carry a passport.  No travel to Brazil for me.

I look just like this, 

if you add three pregnancies, 

loads of spider veins, 

hairy German bloodlines,

and 15 boxes of girl scout cookies.

 

Legs

I always shave my legs in the summer, but I notice there are spots on my knees that I miss, which is weird.  I also occasionally notice longer dark strays on the back of my thighs a few inches above my knees, like there are a couple of hairs that seem to duck whenever I am shaving, and suddenly they are an inch long and showing off my German heritage.  I guess I'm married, so who gives a shit, but really, it's more about the principle.  I used to have great legs, it was my favorite feature, but then I had kids.  Some families pass down sterling silver or china.  Some families pass down stock or ownership in companies.  My family passes down the chin gobbler, Alzheimer's, and varicose veins.  Thanks, ancestors!  Now I have a map of Toledo on the backs of my legs, so really?  The hair can stay.

I get my pedicures done in Middle Earth with Frodo.

Toes

My big toes have hair on them too.  I also had five wisdom teeth, so it's like my people really haven't evolved that much from the apes.  I've been known to shave my big toes.  It's like my razor sees me coming and goes, "Oh Christ, really?"  I think I just need an all-over waxing.  Wax on, wax off.  Just like the Karate Kid.  But hairier.  And sadder.

I'm sorry to burst your bubble people, but I'm not too sexy for my shirt.  But I may be a little too hairy for it.  I know.  Current Husband is one lucky son-of-a-bitch.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Keep on waxing and have a great weekend!  St. Joseph story to come, he couldn't fit into Whoreticulture Friday, Sunday seems a little more appropriate.

 

What I Remember of Eclipse

Last night was a night of penance.

Oldest Daughter and a friend of hers spent an entire day last week cleaning to prepare for my open house, so I promised I would take them to the midnight showing of Eclipse last night.  I know.  The sacrifices I make for my children are enormous.  

I think a hallmark of really good parenting is creating rewards for your children that actually benefit you.  It's the ultimate in multitasking - they're happy, you're happy, everybody's happy.  Some examples of this method are:

1. "If everyone does a good job with their chores, we'll get Dairy Queen Blizzards."
2. "If you're all really good, we'll let you go to Grandma's for a couple of nights."
3. "If you clean my house for the Open House, I'll take you to Eclipse."

I'm a hero, and I get ice cream, a night alone, and some Edward time.  I'll put that in the WIN column.

To prepare for our Eclipse night, OD and her friend decided to make t-shirts to commemorate the occasion.  Everyone there would have Team Edward or Team Jacob shirts.  At the tender age of 13, young women want to feel like they are participating in a Pop Culture moment while equally shunning it at the same time.  What's an angsty teen to do?  My daughter and her friend decided to make Team Billy t-shirts.  Billy, for the non-Twilighters, is Jacob's father, and one of the Quileute elders.  He is in a wheelchair and says he is "Down with the kids" and Charlie, Bella's dad, says, "Yeah Dude, you're the bomb".  He's a pretty minor character.  Their shirt choice was the perfect non-conformist, "I'm involved yet above all of this" solution.

 And?  They put fuchsia streaks in their hair.  

Because Team Billy is just that crazy.

Leaving for the show at 11 p.m.  I vetoed my Team Billy shirt.

We left for the midnight movie, located five minutes away from my house, at 11 p.m., thinking we had plenty of time.  Wrong.  The entire parking lot was jammed with cars, and there were Twilighters everywhere.  The theater had five midnight shows going, and all were sold out.  The lines to wait to get into the theater to sit were snaked down the hallways, and I was surrounded by texting teens.  There were moms there, yes, but the predominant audience member was a teenager wearing a tight t-shirt, short shorts, flip flops, and a glowing phone with their fingers flying over the keyboard.

Much to my chagrin, we had to sit in the third row of the theater, and the girls behind me kept putting their feet up on the back of my seat.  I thought about yelling at them, but instead, I took a bag of contraband candy out of my purse and said, "Hey, I have an extra bag of candy, and my girls don't want it...do you?"  They took it, and didn't put their feet up on my seat again.  I literally caught more flies with honey.   The movie began, and every girl in the theater started screaming, including the ones over 40.  

Edward.  It's been too long.

The movie was pretty good.  Edward's makeup has greatly improved since the first movie, and Jacob never disappoints.  The sex talk between Charlie and Bella was funny, and the Cullens got to go all badass, which was great.  In New Moon, my big distraction was Spot, the ring of hair around Rob Pattinson's nipple.  In this movie, it had to be Jasper's hair.  WTF?  Did a stylist really do that on PURPOSE?  He looks like Jack White from the White Stripes, which is great if you are actually Jack White.  Otherwise, you look a bit like a cross between Johnny Depp as Willie Wonka and the pedophile that lives down the street.  

My angsty teens said Eclipse was the best Twilight yet, but it was late, and I'm old.  I'm going to have to see it a few more times before I can make that kind of judgement.

Edward's Back...And His Front

"Do you really have any idea how important you are to me?  Any concept at all of how much I love you?"  Edward pulled me tighter against his hard chest, tucking my head under his chin.

I pressed my lips against his snow-cold cheek.  "I would get a better idea if you would fix the dishwasher, my handy little vampire."

"You compare one small tree to an entire forest...wait...did you say fix the dishwasher?"

"Yes.  You sit at the table and stare at me the entire time I'm washing the dishes.  For claiming to be so observant, you've really dropped the ball on noticing I am not loading and unloading a dishwasher.  Maybe get up and lend a sister a hand?  And that garbage isn't taking itself out."

 Edward leaving after dishwasher hose bursts.

Worthless bloodsucker.

This weekend, the kids and I watched New Moon.  I ordered it from Amazon, but they gave a free one-day digital download when you ordered the DVD, so at 11 p.m. CST we were able to crowd on the couch and watch it on my computer.  I still love it, even though time has colored some of it in Velveeta-hued shades of cheese.  We can't all be brie, darling.  

(Spoiler Alert!)  So we're crammed on the couch, Oldest Daughter, The Son, Youngest Daughter, and me, all trying to get the best view of the computer screen, and the scene comes up where Edward is in Italy and steps out into the sun with his shirt off.  

YD:  "Why is he naked?"

ME:  "He isn't naked honey, he's showing his skin in the sun."

OD:  "SHHH!"

SON:  "What is wrong with his chest?"

ME:  "What do you mean?"

YD:  "He is TOO naked."

SON:  "He has that one hairy spot on his chest..."

ME:  "SPOT!  You see The Spot!"

OD:  "SHHHH!  Leave The Spot alone!"

SON:  "What do you mean, 'The Spot'?"

YD:  "Why is Edward naked?"

And this is how I know these are my children.

First, YD understands that Edward is, indeed, almost naked.  It's one thing to read the book when he takes his shirt off in Volturra and gets nearly sparkly.  It's quite another to see Rob Pattinson's V-Line in front of you.  Let's take an Urban Dictionary moment:

V-Line:  Usually refers to a guy's ripped obliques, which are like plainly visible arrows pointing to his happy place.

But the New Moon movie people did Rob no favors by flaunting Taylor Lautner's shirtless visage in front of us the entire movie.  Rob, who should be impressive without a shirt, suddenly looks like a scoop of vanilla ice cream next to a Hot Fudge Sundae.

Second, my children seem to be the only other people who noticed Rob's unbalanced nipple hair.  As I mentioned in my post after seeing the movie in the theater, from Whoreticulture Friday, Issue 7, Rob had such disproportionate nipple hair I lost my New Moon focus:

"So far I seem to be the only person who noticed that in New Moon (Oh my GOD will she quit talking about New Moon? No. No she will not.), when Rob Pattinson took his shirt off, one of his nipples had some whackadoodle hair job or something around it. It's like one nipple got the JFK hair and the other one got the Jackie. It was distracting for me. Urban Dictionary calls this a Nipple Brow or a Nipple Beard. I've started calling him Spot, much to Oldest Daughter's chagrin."

 Holy crap, she's right!  This one IS bushier!

All I'm looking for is validation.  I can't be the only person who notices these things.  I mean, come on...they didn't stick him out there naked so I would listen to his dialogue.  So pay a little attention to the details, okay?

Eclipse is coming out on June 30, and since Edward shouldn't be shirtless in this one, all I ask is that they keep his lipstick under control and I'll be happy as a clam.  That is all.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 7

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

Today's topic: Nipples

If you go to Wikipedia and look up "nipple", this is what comes up:
In its most general form, a nipple is a structure from which a fluid emanates. More specifically, it is the projection on the breasts of a mammal by which breast milk is delivered to a mother's young.

(And by the way, Guys Who Like Online Porn But Don't Want To Get Caught, Wikipedia and the Urban Dictionary are excellent sources of material for you. Go to Nipple on Wikipedia and you will find a very large photo of a breast and nipple. You're welcome.)

Ish. Even that simple, scientific definition is a little out of my comfort zone. For some reason, nipples gross me out. I can trace this to four specific areas of repulsion:

1. The name is creepy.
Just say it. Nipple. Nipple. Nipple. It makes me think about chewing on a piece of gristle. (Some psychologist is having a Freudian orgasm over that statement right now.) The other words latched on to nipple aren't that attractive either: Areola. Lactiferous ducts. Tara Reid.

2. They're not particularly pretty.
Maybe this is just my experience. I guess I haven't seen too many nipples in person, but most of them look like naked mole rat babies stuck to the front of an otherwise okay breast. The exception to this would be my friend who had implants and showed me her work. They were spectacular. You know who you are. I give you Five Nips Up on that job.

So far I seem to be the only person who noticed that in New Moon (Oh my GOD will she quit talking about New Moon? No. No she will not.), when Rob Pattinson took his shirt off, one of his nipples had some whackadoodle hair job or something around it. It's like one nipple got the JFK hair and the other one got the Jackie. It was distracting for me. Urban Dictionary calls this a Nipple Brow or a Nipple Beard. I've started calling him Spot, much to Oldest Daughter's chagrin.

Maybe my nipple repulsion comes from not loving my nipples like I should. Once, when I was at a legally acceptable age to be showing them off to anyone, a boyfriend told me I had large nipples (Sorry CH. You know it wasn't you. Because I know you are a huge fan.) Now that I am 40, I finally feel comfortable enough to say to that guy, "Only in relation to your dick." Wow. That felt good. Whoreticulture Friday can be very therapeutic.

3. Nipples tend to protrude.
I am not a fan of the "Turkey's Done" look. In high school and college, I would go to great lengths to make sure I was not giving out any Pointers in public. Then I started having babies, and nipples became The Magic Crying Stopper, so I didn't care where or when I whipped them out. Your baby's baptism? Yes. In the mall bathroom? Okay. In my store, while ringing up a customer? Tricky, but can do. Now that I am 40 and gravity is working against me, my nipples seem to be appropriately shamed and look more toward the ground than they used to.

Urban Dictionary is a treasure trove of information. Not only did I learn the following terms on Urban Dictionary, I found that for a low price, I could have them printed on coffee mugs. (I smell a Christmas present for the In-Laws!)

Nipplapolis: When someone's (usually an older lady, sometimes older men) nipples are very noticeably erect through their shirt.

Nipple Botton (sp?) Dress: A dress with a botton (it seems like they mean button) sewed on under the fabric on each breast so they will stick out and look like nipples under her dress.

Nipple Bonk: When a person has an erect nipple caused by cold weather or excitement.

Please note that every Urban Dictionary phrase on here today comes only from the "B" section in Nipple definitions. That's right. There is a whole section with every letter in the alphabet. I told you it's a resource.

4. Nipples are just plain weird.
Admit it. You know someone with a weird nipple story. Maybe it is your mirror. I have a friend, (whom I know is reading this right now - hi you!) whose husband has one nipple that is always erect, while the other one isn't. Just one. I told her he has passive aggressive nipples. She told me she has a third nipple, which is actually pretty common (just ask Marky-Mark!) We were at a party, and she was telling the group about how after she started having kids, she had this mole by her breast. She asked her doctor about it, and voila! Third nipple.

Since I always try to bring the subject back to me, I went to my OB the next week (let's pause for a moment to pity not only my OB, but my OB friend who always get asked awkward questions) and said, "Hey, is there any chance this weird mole by my breast is a third nipple?" and he looked at it and said, "Yes, I think it is" and I said "YES!" and pumped my fist in the air. He looked at me, perplexed, and then went on with invading my personal space.

So, what have we learned today? Nipples sound, look and act funny, and Robert Pattinson needs a new personal groomer.

Back off bitches, my resume is already in the mail.

New Moon Cougar

"BELLA?"

Edward's soft voice came from behind me. I turned to see him spring lightly up the porch steps, his hair windblown from running. He pulled me into his arms at once, and then immediately stepped back in alarm.

"Oh no, honey, it's Julie." I set down my coffee mug and van keys.

"Julie? I thought you were Bella. But now I see that you are older and fill out those mom jeans a bit. And your smell is all wrong. You smell...bitter."

"That's what forty years and three kids will do to you, Edward. You should probably cave and change Bella now, before her varicose veins and incontinence kick in. It happens earlier than you think."

"What ARE you?" Edward stood in all of his sparkly glory, hair perfectly disheveled, British accent adequately hidden, and he seemed confused, yet intrigued.

"I don't have those submissive, self-confidence issues your young girlfriend has. I'm a Cougar, and my pack has moved in. There is WAY too much testosterone in Forks, and my coffee group of experienced, hot, perimenopausal mothers has been created to meet the needs of the man beasts in this region. Now give Mommy a kiss, you bloodsucking fool, or I'll spank that perfectly sculpted butt!"

If it's news to you that New Moon opens in theaters this Friday, you might as well stop reading now. It's true, I am one of those crazy people who are obsessed with the Twilight Saga. I've read the entire series, including the Midnight Sun post on Stephenie Meyer's site, multiple times, and Oldest Daughter and I have watched the Twilight movie a number of times, which I hated at first (it's not like the book!) and then grew to love.

I'm going to take issue for a moment with the Twilight Haters. I sent out an e-mail to a bunch of moms I know about doing a group outing to see Twilight, and I got a couple of replies making fun of me for liking a young adult book. Another acquaintance on Facebook commented that she was quitting Breaking Dawn because she couldn't take any more, and a couple of people (including me) commented that she shouldn't quit now, she needed closure, and another woman jumped on and said, "I didn't read the books and I'm glad I didn't, because from what my students tell me, they are really bad and young girls shouldn't be reading them. What a horrible thing for people to follow."

To these people, I say SUCK IT.

First, why anyone would make fun of someone for reading a book, any book, is beyond me. Oh, by all means, go back to your Dancing With the Stars and Nutty Bars (Nutty Bars...yum) while I READ something. But the people who are ribbing me don't bother me, because I am never above giving someone a hard time about something. It's the chick who gives a book review and opinion on a BOOK SHE NEVER READ! I bet she's great in bed. "I am not trying that because I heard it's dumb. And I heard orgasms are overrated. And I won't kiss you because I heard bacteria causes H1N1. Why don't we just not have sex and I'll tell everyone you're inadequate?"

Second, over 20 million readers just might be on to something. And the Twilight movie alone grossed over $380 million so far. So I'll take solace in the fact that I am not alone in thinking there is something to this that isn't just screaming teeny-boppers.

Third, Edward is perfect. Women love him because he is educated, artistic, hot, protective, and has the appropriate amount of self-loathing most men are missing. Am I a New Moon Cougar? Jacob/Taylor seems a little young and green for my conscience, but my friend Liz and I had the Edward/Rob discussion a couple of weeks ago.
ME: "So I would say the Edge is top on my list, and probably Seth Meyers, and Bradley Cooper is pretty hot, Vince Vaughn is sort of off the list now..."
LIZ: "What about Robert Pattinson?"
ME: "Well, he's cute, but he's only 23, so it would be weird."
LIZ: "But he's cute."
SILENCE. WE SIP OUR WINE.
LIZ: "I wouldn't kick him out of bed."
ME: "Okay, if he asked, I would help him out. Because it would be like community service. And he IS British. And legal."
LIZ: "Barely. But I'd do him."
ME: "CH isn't going to like this."

So go enjoy New Moon. Because it's ENTERTAINMENT. It's Fun with a side of popcorn. Cougars unite, and get down with your teeny bopper self. (But if you scream while I'm trying to hear the dialogue, I will shove Milk Duds up your nose.)

A friend turned me on to Jen Lancaster's books a few months ago, and I've never turned back. She is absolutely hysterical, and she too is obsessed with Twilight. Her post yesterday about New Moon made my day: www.jennsylvania.com

The song playing is my fave from the New Moon soundtrack (yes, I have it, but I don't have the action figures, so I still have my pride.) Happy New Moon!