It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 72.5

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or anyone who lives within 10 miles of me.



Today's topic: The Pussy Wagon is Full

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

CAT PORN.

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

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

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

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

Does this look like a feral cat to you?

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

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, have a great weekend!

In The Wayback Machine: Bus Ride From Hell

I had other plans for today's blog post. 

For one, I was going to do it yesterday, but as my friend Meem told Current Husband the first time she met him, "There is something you need to know about Julie - she will always, ALWAYS, be late, but she will show up with beer and a good story." Meem said this to CH because she got to his place on time when she traveled to Iowa State to meet him for the first time, and I was late. But I showed up with beer and a story.

So here is your virtual beer - "POP!" - it is open - and your story.  Let's go to a new ADITW feature called, "In The Wayback Machine".  I would like to preface this story by saying that unlike some of my stories, which can be prone to some exaggeration to protect the innocent and confuse the details, this story is certified Hand To God True.  Let us begin:

My mom was here for Labor Day weekend, and it made me harken back to another time when I wanted my mother for Labor Day.  It was my freshman year at Iowa State University, and my mom had just dropped me off a couple of weeks earlier to start my adventure three whole hours from home.  I'd spent the previous eight years dreaming of the moment I could get the heck out of my house, so I felt giddy with the possibilities of college.  Labor Day weekend arrived, and with it, offers of rides home with people who lived in my area.  Was I going home?  Hell, no!  I was a college girl now!

Saturday morning arrived, and I walked out on campus, and it was completely empty.  I assumed the other Freebirds would be out celebrating or something, and it turns out that nearly everyone actually went home.  No big deal, I'll read a book or something.  Crickets...crickets... By noon, I was actually getting homesick.  I called my parents and asked if they would get me.  "No way!" they said, with the party music blaring in the background.  The hot tub was being moved into my room as we spoke.  However, they did say they would pay for me to take the bus to Omaha if I wanted to come back.  And this is where my adventure began.

The Greyhound station in Ames was a nice little college town station.  It was 3 p.m., the sun was shining, the birds were singing.  Thank God for the bus, right?  I bought my ticket and walked down the aisle, wearing my preppy Polo rugby and torn jean shorts, my Walkman ready to go.  As I walked, I took stock of the bus occupants, and I quickly realized I was on the Petri Dish express - every bus cliche was present:  Freshly sprung convicts, runaway teens, nuns, tired-looking women with young snot-nosed children clinging to them.  I took the last empty row and counted my blessings that I got a solo seat.  Soon, an old gentleman came down the aisle and took the seat next to me.  At least he looked nice.  He turned to me, put his mechanical larynx against his throat, and buzzed at me, "HELLO. I AM. ROBERT."  

Oh holy shit, you have GOT to be kidding me.  It was no joke.  Robert just got out of the hospital from having his voicebox removed due to a lifetime of smoking, and let me tell you, Robert was a pretty chatty guy for having no voicebox.  He talked to me for about an hour, when suddenly the sky got noticeably dark.

"IT. LOOKS. LIKE. A. BAD. STORM."  Thanks, Robert.  The bus driver, a woman in her thirties, seemed to get ruffled, and started muttering to herself.  Pretty soon, I could hear tornado sirens going off.  Really?  REALLY!?!  Yes, really.  The bus driver actually got on the intercom and I swear to you she came unhinged.  

"Lawd almighty, I ain't never had nothin' like this happen on my bus.  Look y'all, there is a tornada, and don't axe me what to do 'cause I don't know.  Lawd help us all!  I'm gonna pull over here, and I think y'all needs to get out of the bus and into that ditch, because ain't nothin' good gonna happen if that tornada hits this damn bus."

So she screeches over to the side of the highway, bus rocking in the wind, and we all file off the bus - the nuns, the convicts, the teens, the mothers, Mr. Roboto, and me.  We get into the ditch and sort of sit there for a few minutes in the wind.  It wasn't raining, but it was really dark and windy.  Pretty soon, the convicts are all, "Screw this" and get back on the bus, and the rest of us looked at each other and sort of shrugged our shoulders and said "Ditto".  The bus driver had disappeared, so we sat for a little while and waited for her to show up.  She got back on the bus, and we got on our merry way.

What was normally a three hour trip between Ames and Omaha ended up being a six-hour trip with the various stops and the weather.  We arrived in Omaha after 9 p.m., and if you've never been to the Greyhound station in Omaha, let me tell you what a popular place it is.  It's in the middle of downtown, and it is full of drug dealers, prostitutes, pimps, and pedophiles.  I'm sitting in my little Ralph Lauren shirt, my "I Heart My Sorority" pin on my bag, and cute little Tretorns, my eyes as big as half dollars and my foot nervously tapping the chair leg. 

I needed to trade this......................... for this.

In walks my Dad, and he's looking around, and I swear to you, he couldn't see me.  HELLO!  The place is full of prostitutes and he can't pick out his daughter, who has only been out of the house for two weeks.

Dad found me, after I ran, waving at him, and hugging him for the first time in ten years.  "What's wrong with you?" Dad said, looking shocked and uncomfortable.  "I'm just so happy to see you," I said.  And this is when Dad knew something was very, very wrong.  He REALLY looked around, and said, "Let's get the hell out of here."  Agreed.

And that, my friends, is the last time I boarded a bus that isn't painted safety yellow.  Do any of you have any bus adventures?

Hope you had a terrific Labor Day weekend!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 40

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 bosses. Really, I wrote this at home. I save trolling the Internet for porn for the workplace.

Today's topic: Auto Erotic Crime

Oh holy crap.  I've really done it this time.  It's midnight, officially Friday.  Here is what I needed to do before the clock struck 12, in no particular order:

• e-mail my sister
• shower
• finish a freelance job for a corporate client
• blog
• finish "The Girl Who Played With Fire"
• get lunches and coffee ready for tomorrow morning
• pay bills

Since I've always had lifelong issues with prioritizing, here is what I've been doing for the last three hours:

• finishing "The Girl Who Played With Fire"

Damn you, Steig Larsson.  (Since he has died, I will rescind that comment.)  I keep telling myself that all of the sadistic sex in the books turns me away from them, and then I keep coming back, like a mom to soccer practice.  It is midnight.  I've finished the book, and nothing else.  What shall I do next on the list?  Blog, of course.

The problem is that I have to finish all of the other things on my list because I'm driving five hours to Nebraska (hold your snarky comments, I am a native, Go Big Red) on Saturday morning to visit my parents and sister and friends for about 20 hours before I have to drive five hours back home in time to go back to work.  Ugh. I really hate weekends like that, and while I used to road trip with the best of them (14 hours to visit future CH at school?  No problem!  This is why God made Mountain Dew and the song Radar Love!), I can no longer tolerate driving more than about 2 hours before my granny hips start to hurt and I get tired and ready for my meds and pureed peaches and sponge bath from the nice nurses.

With my eyes to the road trip, it was interesting that my friend Heather e-mailed this story to me tonight:
WOMAN NABBED FOR AUTO EROTIC SEX CRIME


Go ahead.   Take a moment to read the story.  You won't regret it.  


Are you done?  Good.  Can you believe this story?  WHO SPENDS THE MONEY TO GET THE WINDOWS TINTED ON A PONTIAC?  What is wrong with her?  That is a crime against the auto industry.  The Pontiac was perfect exactly the way it was when it rolled off the assembly line in 2008, there was no need to desecrate this fine vehicle in this manner.


I can relate to everything else she did.  Who among us hasn't unbuttoned their pants on a long car trip?  I don't know about you, but as soon as that Quarter Pounder Value Meal hits that stomach acid, I start to blow up like Mama Cass.  It's time to release the hounds.  And hey, as long as your pants are unbuttoned and you are driving across a boring stretch of road, say I-80 between Des Moines and Omaha, what better time to kill some clock and take out your vibrator?  If you have to make the drive, you might as well enjoy the ride - am I right or am I right?  Because if you are watching porn, it's almost IMPERATIVE that you use your vibrator.  Really people, this is elementary.  If I wasn't meant to watch porn while I'm driving, then why did the car makers start INSTALLING DVD players IN the cars?  And if I'm not meant to watch porn off of the laptop of my companion, then why did they make passenger seats in the front by the driver?  Everyone knows the co-pilot does nothing but distract a driver, whether by changing the station to Sean Hannity or falling asleep and drooling on themselves or turning on a XXX movie on their laptop.  Porn, of course, is what I almost always want to watch after taking a hit off of my crack pipe.  I mean Christ, have YOU ever driven across Western Iowa and Eastern Nebraska?  Sometimes all the Fountain Mountain Dew in the world just ain't gonna cut it.  And what makes me want to hit the crack?


You guessed it.  Tinted windows.  Because when your car is that dark and private, it just doesn't make sense NOT to smoke some crack, eat a Quarter Pounder (they ARE crackalicious), unbutton my pants, and use my vibrator while watching porn on the lap of my passenger.  While driving.  Because I am a MOTHER, dammit, and we are MULTI-TASKERS.  I bet she signed her kids' planners and returned some library books and applied mascara in that 15 minutes too, but the police didn't write those things up because they are not technically "illegal".  


So three cheers for Colly Crackberry.  Way to keep it real.  We at Whoreticulture Friday honor you.

A quick shout-out to Current Husband - today was our 15th anniversary!

 How many wives blog about their privacy-loving husbands?

 You lucky son of a bitch.

 

The Big One

I want to Stop. And thank you, Baby. 

This is the 100th post of A Day in The Wife!!

Virtual cupcakes and champagne for everyone!

So this is the 100th post on the blog as it exists today.  Let me take a moment to Stop.  And thank you, Baby.  (BTW - I wanted the James Taylor version, but Playlist doesn't have it.  So sad.) I know it can be tough to stick around.  Some posts are boring, some are downright creepy, there is TMI everywhere, and you have to suffer through my hair issues, and yet, here you are, gentle reader.  I lose a few with weaker constitutions (I lost TWO followers last Whoreticulture Friday!), but you, you are the tough ones.  You are the Stands With Fist to my Dances With Wolves.  Big sloppy kisses to you.

So today I am all over the board.  I'll try not to ramble too much.  First on the list is the follow-up to yard work.  I have two buried splinters, bitches!  TWO!!!  Here is a picture of the curb with all of the yard waste bags:

Cue the banjo music.

There are 18 bags of yard waste and 10 bundles of sticks.

Our neighbors LOVE us.

But this is what the loverly yard looks like now:

   The little clematis that could.

So that got done to some extent.  I love spring.  Now I need to get some new garden gloves, hydrogen peroxide, a needle, and a strap of leather to bite on while Current Husband digs these splinters out.  Sounds like foreplay, no?

Next topic:  Youngest Daughter's Birthday

Oh my Lord, this girl.  I'm going to tackle this in chronological order.  I had her in 2003, and she was so flippin' cute and was all personality, from the get-go.  My mom flew up from Texas to help out, and YD was one week overdue.  The night before Mom was to leave, the baby was still in utero, so I laid across Mom's lap and had CH take pictures of Mom "holding the baby".  About an hour later, my water broke, and YD came kicking and screaming into the world at about 6 a.m.  Since then, she has relished her role as "The Baby" of the family.   

BELIEVE ME - NOBODY puts Baby in the corner here.

 Give me a gift or the boy gets it.

YD spent the night at a friend's house Saturday night.  At 7:45 a.m. Sunday, she called us from the friend's house, just to ask if she could still open a birthday gift early on Sunday.

Last year, she told us that her Sixth Birthday would be her last.  From that point forward, every birthday was to be her sixth birthday.  She was planning to actually stop aging by sheer willpower.  This year, she told me her birthday cake was to have a "6" on it.  I can tell people outside of the house she is 7, but in the house she will always be 6.  "It's our little secret," she told me today, when CH and I took her to Taco Bell for lunch. 

 NOTE:  See the candle?

Notice the lack of birthday candles?

YES!  I made her blow out a pillar candle! 

Mommy of the Year strikes again! 

Finally, she insisted upon Chuck E. Cheese for dinner.  Oh, Chuck E. Cheese, I hate you so.  Let me count thy ways:

1. We waited at the roped-off check in area a full five minutes for one of the angst-filled teens who work there to notice us, document and stamp us, and let us through to Bacteriaville.
2. We waited at the counter for another five minutes for a different angst-filled teen to notice us and take our order for $40 pizza.  Oh, and the tokens, which can then be used to buy one Tootsie Roll and a full case of meningitis. 
3. A full 90% of the men in there were wearing wife-beaters.  (See photo of CH below.  It's a miracle he didn't get his ass kicked.)
4.  Hand to God, I saw one kid in a full arm/midsection cast, one kid with an eye patch, and one kid with a boot on his foot, and one with a huge bruise on the side of his face.
5. The straws wouldn't come out of the dispenser because they were stuck to the inside.

 DOCUMENTATION:  Cleanliness is next to Godliness, Chuck E.

 
One of the angst-ridden teens was mine.  

Celebrating.  Good times, good times.

C

CH in his business attire, throwing his balls around.

Y

YD with the one invited rodent.

I'm picturing Ratatouille, with thousands 

of his brethren waiting in the cooler for closing time.

 Mommy onstage doing The Robot with the robots.

Oldest Daughter wishing someone would 

shoot her at this point.

At least I wasn't the trashiest dresser, for once. 

Well, I think that about wraps up the last 48 hours.  Tomorrow night I am hoping to post my now-overdue "Jen Lancaster has e-mailed me!" post.  I have great plans to stalk Jen.  You can pre-order her sure to be fabulous book here:  My Fair Lazy.  She has book signings all over, go to Jennsylvania, her website, for the schedule, but get there early, her events fill up fast!  As a matter of fact, go now, because her post from this weekend was hilarious.

Hope you are having a great week!  Thanks for sticking around, hope to see you for the next 100 - I'll be giving away puppies and free espressos!

Even My Fourth Grader Thinks John Edwards is a D-Bag

WHEN:  Yesterday afternoon.

WHERE:  My living room.

WHO:  Oldest Daughter, Middle Son, Me.

WHAT:  Reading, playing iTouch, hanging out.

WHY:  Because this is how I learn things.

It's Saturday afternoon, and OD and I are sitting on the couch like we do, with her legs propped on the coffee table and my legs stretched over her lap.  She's reading the latest book in the House of Night series by P.C. and Kristen Cast, Tempted. 

Let me take a brief moment to address the House of Night series.  If you are unfamiliar, it is another vampire series, which was written at the same time as Stephenie Meyer was working on the Twilight series.  HON makes Twilight look like Bambi.  I read these books to see what my daughter is reading and talk with her about anything questionable.  I'm not really a book-banner, especially if it is a YA Novel, which these are, but HON pushes my boundaries as a mom.  Within the first couple of chapters there is blood drinking for sexual pleasure, light cutting, and a blow job is offered up.  Not by the heroine, but still, so we've had a lot of interesting mother-daughter convos.  I had a friend ask why I would let her read them, and my response is that OD already KNOWS what all of this stuff is - they had "the film" in 5th grade, and everyone in middle school knows what a BJ is, don't kid yourself.  What, really, can we shield them from anymore, unless you throw your TV out the window?  Have you watched prime-time network TV lately?  I give you Two and A Half Men...but I digress.

Here is the subject of my parenting lesson for the day:

HINT:  We ended up talking about douchebags.

So MS is playing some app, and I am reading People magazine, which is coming on Saturday instead of Friday all the time now, driving me nuts.  The cover this week says "Elizabeth's Breaking Point - After facing John's lies, and even bringing Christmas gifts to his love child - a determined Elizabeth Edwards finally sends her husband packing."  OD looks up from her blood-sucking BJ book and the following conversation ensues:

OD:  "What are you reading, Mom?"

ME:  "A book called 'The Help'."

OD:  "No, Mom, what are you reading right this minute."

ME:  "Oh, People." (Because I don't really think of People as "reading" so much as "stalking from the comfort of my couch".)

OD:  (rolls eyes) "Ya think?  I mean what is the cover story about - what did her husband do?"

ME:  "Well, her husband is John Edwards - do you know who he is?"

OD:  "Isn't he like a politician or something?"

ME:  "Yes, he ran for President.  But he had an affair, and another woman had his baby, and his wife Elizabeth is dying of cancer.  Oh, and he has three kids with his wife."

OD:  "Wow.  That's terrible!  And he wanted to be President?"

ME:  "Yes, which is really selfish because if he would've been President, all of this would've come out and it would've stopped him from being able to get anything done.  He probably would've had to resign.  And he wanted to be Vice President or Attorney General.  We are very lucky he didn't get any kind of important job in the government."

OD:  "He sounds really slimy."

ME:  "Yes, he is sleazy."

MS:  (looks up from his iTouch) "What a douchebag."

(STUNNED SILENCE FOR A MOMENT)

(OD suddenly smug, realizes MS is going to get in trouble.  She puts down her book to enjoy.)

ME:  "MS!  Where did you learn that word?"

MS:  (suddenly VERY nervous) "From a movie."

ME:  "Do you know what it means?"
MS:  "Uh, no."  (Which I believe, because if he did he wouldn't have said it in front of me.  He freaks out if anyone says the word "tampon" or "bra" in front of him.)

ME:  "Well it is a word that is bad enough to get you sent home for a two-day suspension from school.  And it is verboten for you, okay?"

MS:  (very red by now) "Okay."

(OD is very disappointed there was no violence in this reprimand.)

But John Edwards is a douchebag, and even my fourth grader knows it.

Here is an excerpt from the official John Edwards website:

"John dedicated his life to representing families and children just like the families he grew up with in Robbins, who were being victimized by powerful interests."

 I'm going to finish this paragraph for the Edwards webmaster, for free:

"Until John decided to victimize his own family  and children with his seemingly endless stream of narcissistic behavior and lying.  Time to get 'American Beauty' on Netflix, because karma is a bitch, pretty boy!"

And people are worried about middle schoolers reading YA novels.  At least the kids understand THOSE are works of fiction, where what they see on the news and in Time magazine (or People) are how people really behave.  Ish.

I can't imagine it's been rainbows and ponies to be Elizabeth Edwards lately, and it's probably no fun to kick out your husband of 33 years, with whom you've had four children, while you are in Stage Three of incurable cancer, but I'm glad you told him to drop off the key, Lee, and set yourself free.

FREE TIPS FOR THE GUYS!!!  

1. Valentine's Day is just two weeks away.
2. Don't screw around, you will get caught, and we will cut you.
3. Replace the toilet paper roll when empty.

You're welcome.

WTF Kate Gosselin!? Resolution #5

Okay, that's IT!!!

I've had it with the Gosselins. I never watched the show, but my kids did. (By the way, we allowed the kids free reign with the TV before our 'let's not have cable anymore' moment last fall, and instead of trying to find The Simpsons or MTV or porn, my kids would stay up until the wee hours on weekend nights watching The Food Network and Jon and Kate plus 8. Weird, huh?)

I get People magazine. There, I said it. I have a subscription so I don't have to stick it under the other groceries in the check out lane. Instead, I have it delivered to my home in a brown paper wrapping. But at least I don't get US or InTouch, because I have standards when it comes to my celebrity gossip. So every Friday, I let George the Superpet/dog/horse lay inside the front door so he can go completely batshit crazy when the mail carrier comes to the door, thus announcing that my People magazine has arrived and making the mail carrier wet herself. Sometimes the worst thing that happens in my week is that People doesn't arrive until Saturday, which means it is a particularly good issue and someone at the post office decided to read it before sending it out.

ANYWHO, my People magazine arrived on Friday, and Kate Friggin' Gosselin is on the cover, AGAIN!!! What was the breaking news story with Kate and her batch of adorable spawn and her lowlife-mid-life-crisis-American-Beauty husband? She got HAIR EXTENSIONS.

Yes, you read that right. Hair. Extensions.

And not just any hair extensions. Let me share the wealth of information about said extensions, because at $100+ per year for a subscription to this magazine, you're damn skippy I'm going to read every word. Kate Gosselin had celebrity hairstylist Ted Gibson (known for tending to the tresses of Angelina Jolie and Anne Hathaway!) work her 'do, and he said that after they finished giggling for 15 minutes about whether or not to cut her bangs, he did her color and extensions at what would normally come to a $7000 bill in his salon.

Not a typo. Seven Thousand Dollars. For extensions. Which I am sure Kate got gratis, because that's how she rolls, and Ted got about $20K in free publicity. Jon Gosselin has yet to weigh in on Kate's new look, but his on again/off again psycho love, Hailey Glassman, said she just adores Kate's new 'do, saying "she's like fine wine, better over time." To which she I believe she added, "And I'm like a fresh can of Bud with the date on the can, which is what her ex-husband is into drinking right now. Not old. Young and fresh, like me! With real long hair and actually 22 instead of trying to look like it!" Hailey's dad, by the way, is the plastic surgeon who gave Kate her free tummy tuck, so they met long before Hailey started bedding her husband. But Hailey apparently hit her expiration date because Jon has now dumped her and moved on to a much older, more mature 25-year-old who is also assuredly into Ed Hardy.

It's enough to make you beg for cold decaf coffee, lunch with the Pussycat Dolls, a full-on Brazilian, a subscription to Cat Fancy, ANYTHING, just to make it stop. Which I am actually considering doing to my People magazine subscription. It's sad when People makes you feel like maybe you are above that kind of "news". Because I am really not that far above it. I just want grainy pics of The Edge and Gavin Rossdale (which thank God there were some) and to look at dresses and houses I cannot afford, and see reviews on books I will never write. Is that so wrong?

It also makes me think about people who have eight children. There are the McCaughey's in Iowa, who had the McCaughey Septuplets plus one girl who became an insta-nanny to her siblings twelve years ago. The Gosselins, who were able to turn their six children plus two into a media empire. And who can forget Octo-Mom, who clearly has an Angelina Jolie fixation and eight babies plus six previous babies? Did none of these people watch Eight is Enough? Because Dick Van Patten would have sat their asses down and said, "Listen, don't do it, or you'll end up married to Betty Buckley and be responsible for the careers of Grant Goodeve and the Karate Kid and Buddy on Charles in Charge. They'll have delusions of grandeur. Stick with two kids and business degrees."

Don't get me wrong. I know people with very large, loving families (One of them has ten kids!) who can actually care for those children. I know people who are actively trying to have a baby who have struggled with infertility. I have friends who have darling babies solely because of in vitro. I'm not in any way against in vitro, or other methods of having children, and I know I have been incredibly blessed with my three awesome ninja kids. But the people I know who rely on science are responsible about it, and have doctors who are responsible about it with them.

It has to be tempting to have eight kids and have someone buy a house and a large van and nannies and tummy tucks and extensions and all the free Ed Hardy clothing and accessories one can grab. It can perhaps make one forget about all of the food and diapers and bathing and personal attention all of those babies will need. Who needs hugs when you have a production crew to get your fruit snacks? All one needs is a doctor willing to load you up with fertilized eggs and a production deal with a cable network and bam! Just add water and you have a Chia-Celebrity!

But as tempting as it would be, I'm not going to calve eight babies. That is SO First Decade.

RESOLUTION #5: Give birth to nine children.

My three children are now old enough to care for babies while I flit around the country doing interviews and getting my hair done. I would explain to them that we HAVE to do this to take care of our family, and that it will be good experience for them, with the added bonus of getting to be on the TV and in the tabloids and having no private time, ever. Maybe they can grow up to get their own reality show! We can call my show "The Wife Without a Life: A Dozen in the House Until I'm Nearly Sixty," subtitled, "Now, Where's My Free Shit?"

And then Kate Gosselin? You can get YOUR People magazine in the mail and see my face on the cover with my new free $5000 lip wax, and say "Not The Wife again! That's IT! I'm canceling my subscription!" Because that is the REAL reason I'm birthin' those babies. Vengeance will be mine, along with an upper lip as smooth as nine babies' bottoms.