It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 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 hygeine 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: Happy Endings
The Urban Dictionary definition of a Happy Ending is:
When a masseuse feels inclined to finish your session w/ oral sex or manual release (usually for an extra twenty dollars). "I was in China Town getting a rubdown and the girl gave me a happy ending; is that cheating on my wife?"

Again with the trip to Arizona. Bear with me, I'll get it all out of my system soon.

So four of the seven women decided to got to a spa (the other three chose to make margaritas and sit next to the house pool in sunny-and-88 weather) and let trained professionals rub lotion all over our mostly-naked bodies for money. I love massages, but I've found over time that there are things one should know before getting naked and crawling under the towel:

• Leave your underwear on. I'm just saying that because I don't want to be the person after you if you are all buck naked on the table, and who really knows if they wash those linens between massages.
• Don't eat spicy food, beans or eggs shortly before your massage, because I will guarantee you will end up gassy. And nothing ruins a massage faster than some misplaced flatulence. And if you are trying to hold it back, guess what? They are massaging the muscles you are clenching in desperation to hold back the methane. You're busted.
• Shave. Really, this isn't Europe. You either need to be freshly shaved or haven't shaved in three months, but don't be bringing your prickly stubble up in there.
• Don't be shy about specifying what level of pressure you want, because otherwise you may get Kevin Kick Your Ass or Lenny The Light Toucher. And you might be a Mikey Medium Massage, and leave disappointed.
• Don't start a conversation unless you want to spend your entire massage talking. If you need to talk, see a real therapist, not a massage therapist. But it's your dime.
• Know about a Happy Ending, in case you get asked. (I did not, thank God. More on that later.)

So the four of us are sitting in The Quiet Room, purportedly set up to get us in the mood for all of this bodily manipulation. We are brought water and neck warmers. The neck warmers are little C-shaped pillows full of eucalyptus or lavender, and are slightly hot. You wrap them around your neck, hence the name. Friend D was the last one to get into The Quiet Room because she was having a body wrap. When she arrived, the spa owner asked D if she wanted a neck warmer, and D, seeing that we all had them, said yes. The owner came back shortly and sheepishly handed her what looked to be a beanbag kittycat, and it was not fresh out of the wrapper.

OB: "Is that...a CAT?" (laughter)
Friend A: "It looks like it belongs to a baby - did it come out of someone's car?" (more laughter)
ME: "Or did she just imply that you are a pussy?" (gales of laughter, because I am the writer of this story, so I get the biggest laughs)
Friend D: "Um, guys? It smells like bacon."


Baconcat poses two problems. First, we are not relaxing, we are laughing so hard some of us could be slightly wetting ourselves, and therefore maybe their Quiet Room furniture. Second, D is a vegetarian, so the smell of Baconcat is not bringing her to her Happy Place so much as her Vomit Place. However, she cannot remove Baconcat because D is so polite that she wouldn't want to upset the owner by banishing Baconcat to the floor. So she endures the smell of old meat around her neck. In the form of a pussy. With an OB-GYN in the room. It's sort of metaphorically funny and upsetting at the same time.

The door to The Not-So-Quiet Room opens, and there stand the men giving the Swedish Massage to Friend A and me. One man is well muscled, dark, and mysterious. He says, "Who likes it rough?" with a swashbuckling, winking demeanor and a Russian accent. Friend A shoots out of her seat, throwing her neck warmer on the floor. "ME!" and she trots off down the hall. The other man negotiates his way around the corner in his walker and adult diaper and says, "Why am I here? Cindy?" Clearly this man was mine.

(Okay, so he wasn't really using a walker or wearing an adult diaper, and he actually seemed like a very nice guy. And he gave a great massage. But is that funny? No. And I'm an entertainer, not a historian.)

So my guy takes me to the room, and the massage commences. One problem I have during massages, other than the fear of having gas, is where to put my arms. If I am laying on my stomach, it feels like they should go off of the table and lay on some little armrest, but these things do not exist. I ended up resting my arms on the headrest, sort of up over my head. So we are about halfway into the massage, and Grandpa Jim walks behind my head and starts massaging my shoulders, but the problem is that it makes him lean over me a bit. Since my arms are over my head, my hands seem to be inadvertently rubbing him in the crotchal region. As I contemplate what to do, my eyes snap open, and I am looking directly at his black stockinged feet, which is a little weird. He doesn't wear shoes? And then I realize I am more concerned about the fact that he is shoeless, rather than the very real possibility that I am rubbing his nether parts. I move my arms by my sides, and Father Christmas and I have no more problems.

However, when Friend A comes out of her massage, she is full of information. We go to a gelato place next door to (figuratively) debrief her.

We learn that the Russian has massaged Roger Moore, as in Bond, James Bond. We also find out he is a go-to guy for a number of porn stars and the gay community. My friend breaks the no-talk rule and asks the Russian if he's ever given a Happy Ending. He says that he did have a client once who mid-massage grabbed his hand and put it on the genital region, but the Russian said he politely but firmly pulled his hand away, and said "This massage is over." He said he couldn't be rude, because when he sees the client's face, all he sees is a $100 bill, so he has to be discreet. But that's as close to a Happy Ending as he was willing to admit. But they're out there.

On a random side note that will only fit under the umbrella of Whoreticulture Friday, I have to say that somehow over the weekend the phrase "strap-on penis" came up (No pun intended! And after 25 years of conversation, your topics tend to expand by Day 3 together) and one gal said she wants to wear one. Not sexually, mind you. She just wants to wear a penis around all day and see if it makes her act like an ass. And kick her dog. It's something to consider.

And thus concludes stories about the Arizona trip, because the rest of what we talked about is secret and private. (See girls, I kept most of it in the vault!) Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

I am Ted Kennedy

So you may have gathered by now that I was on a trip with my high school friends last weekend. Assuming anyone reads this blog, I'm going to bore those of you who weren't there with yet another story about how great it was. It was total blissed out margarita soaked relaxation. Again, I'd like to point out that these people have seen me in more compromising positions than I'd like to admit. They've seen the sick, the sad, the experimental makeup phases, and making out with teenage boys. And that was just last weekend.

So, when people have seen you so bad, you want them to see you look good. Okay, maybe it isn't THEM I want to see me look good, because somehow they love me just as I am, but after 25 years of photos with these people, I want just ONE photo to put on my mantel where I don't stand out as "the one with the good personality". Pretty much all of these gals look hot without even trying, but last weekend, I tried. After reviewing a number of group shots in Scottsdale, I've had a Come To Jesus moment - it's not gonna happen. The one constant in all of our group photos is that I look like various stages of Ted Kennedy in a wig.

Let's explore this for a moment.

By virtue of being the tallest person in the group, I am also by default the heaviest person as well. There is a price to pay for height, and I'm not one of those skinny tall people. Because I love food. And wine. And chocolate. And sloth. I let myself go to the Foodie Dark Side a couple of years ago because Current Husband didn't seem to mind, and was happy to take the journey with me. We found lovely little restaurants who worship at the altar of butter and cream, and surrounded ourselves with people who can really cook. Au revoir, Hamburger Helper! Adios, Taco Bell! Ciao, Olive Garden!

The result of all of this debauchery? Hello, Muffin Top! Welkommen, varicose veins! Wie gehts, triple chin!

Last weekend's trip has been in the planning for over a year, so in January this year, I went on the cliched New Year's Resolution diet. For once, I was not going to sport three chins, puffy cheeks, and bulbous nose in every shot. (I'm not exactly sure how losing weight would change my nose, but work with me here.) I was looking a lot like Ted Kennedy's "go drinking and whoring with my nephews in Miami Beach and have one of them accused of raping a girl while I was passed out in the living room" phase, which isn't kind to the camera. Or the physique, really. (Or your reputation, if you're actually Ted Kennedy.) After nine months, instead of having a baby, I dropped one. I lost 20 pounds, moved down a size or two, and felt pretty MILFy.

I get to Scottsdale, and meet friend #1 off of the plane. She is tall and lovely and skinny, and has nary a line on her face. It's just one girl, right? The rest of those bitches can't look this good, can they? Oh yes. Yes they can. As they started showing up, my hopes for Skinniest Girl in the Picture faded. Because let's be honest, you never really get over those dormant body image issues.


Yes, I am the one who is filibustering in the Senate on the left.


I still look like Ted Kennedy, albeit in his "Victoria Reggie yachting on Martha's Vineyard" stage, so perhaps it's an improvement. Okay, so I'm Ted Kennedy in a wig. Don't get me wrong, I know I'm not "fat" (whatever that means anymore). I'm very happy with my current figure, it's the camera that hates me. At least I'm funny. Because doesn't every girl grow up hoping she's the funny one instead of the beautiful one in the pictures?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

And then it gets better. Tomorrow's post: Friends don't let friends rip off skin tags.

A Love Story

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again.
However far away, I will always love you.
-Robert Smith, The Cure

I am back from Scottsdale and a long weekend with my girlfriends to celebrate Club 40, and truly, I am almost at a loss for words. (And we all know how rare that is!) How do you describe what it's like to be with people who have known you for nearly 3/4 of your life? In front of whom you will go to the bathroom? Or change your clothes? Or prance around in a bikini? (Knock it off, CH, it's not Whoreticulture Friday yet!) Women who have seen you through:

• Bad boyfriends (we did determine that I didn't have boyfriends so much as guys I stalked)
• Bad haircuts (I give you the 'Flock of Seagulls' shave from 8th grade)
• Bad fashion (knickers, OP shorts, full Dallas housewife rhinestone jewelry)
• Bad decisions ("...but his girlfriend is away at college!" OR "He may live in a trailer with his mother and have mental problems, but he should be okay to buy us beer at night, right?")

Lucky me! I have six of those people! It's like I won the friendship lottery! Except that it isn't like that at all. It's more like being married, or having children. It's damn hard work, and when you stick it out and put your heart into it, it turns into this lifetime commitment of knowing when someone has your back.

My friendship with these women has been much like having my kids. When it's fresh and new, you're unsure of what to do or whom that other person will turn out to be. You're a little awkward. You make mistakes. You hold their head when they are throwing up and you hold their hand when they are sad. You kiss their boo-boos. You get angry when a boyfriend treats them badly. You get mad at their bad choices. You call them on their BS, and then you forgive. You cry at their weddings and births, and then you cry at their breakups and bad luck. You listen. You try to make it all better. In return you get hugs and love in spades. And you think they are the most beautiful, talented, smartest people you've ever known, and by some miracle, they think the same of you.

It's magical. It's rainbows and ponies and falling stars. And then it's awkward, because you go home and you tell your Current Husband (CH - that one is for you, Jen) about some of your conversations, and he becomes alarmed.

ME: "So then I was telling them about how often we have sex, and..."
CH: "You talked about that?"
ME: "Of course! So then I was talking about that position..."
CH: "You talked about specific POSITIONS!?!"
ME: "Duh! You can't talk about sex without talking about positions! And a couple of us had these hilarious stories about dogs in the room during sex..."
CH: "I can't hear any more. I'll never be able to see any of them again."
ME: "Listen CH, you'd better just understand that they know EVERYTHING. But I, too, know everything about them. So it's like a balance of power. They'll never use it against you."
CH: "That's not really the point, Julie. Isn't that between us? Is nothing sacred?"
ME: "It's all sacred, and it's between us and these six other women. And probably their husbands too, because they will probably report it to their spouses like I am with you. And their co-workers and friends, because the husbands will probably tell some of the juicier stories at work. But we'll never meet those people, so don't worry."
CH: "You aren't leaving the house anymore."

So thanks for the mammaries, girls. And know that you make me feel like I am young again. And however far away, I will always love you.
(See? This blog wasn't as bad as you thought it would be. Stay tuned for the next blog, all about breasts, skin tag removal, 350-pound guys in Mexican restaurants, and Heather Cox from ESPN, who is tall and lovely.)

Leaving Spouses: Man v. Wife

After more than a year of planning, I'm leaving my husband.

For a woman. Actually, for six of them.

There will be nudity and drinking and sharing of beds. Innuendo is all but certain. I will be shaving my legs and painting my toenails. (Oh yes. It's THAT serious.)

My high school posse all turned 40 this year, and we've been planning a trip to celebrate. Anyone with children knows how hard it is to plan a trip with their schedules in mind, but imagine SEVEN mothers with 15 children between them trying to coordinate a weekend in the year that everyone has free. It was difficult, at best. But we made it happen, and now I'm leavin' on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again.

In preparing to leave for this trip, I've found myself contemplating the differences between a man leaving versus a woman leaving. It is Tuesday night, and my flight leaves at 9 a.m. Thursday morning. I've arranged all rides, RSVP'd all parties, dances, babysitting gigs, and meals. I've forwarded my itinerary to Current Husband, and typed out a schedule for him, which has been e-mailed to him and posted on the fridge.

Schedule for the rest of the week:

Thursday
7:25 Child 2 and Child 3 to friend's house to get ride to school
7:30 Drive Child 1 to middle school
7:45 Most Excellent Wife to airport
8:55 MEW flight leaves
3:30 Kids home from school (Child 1 has cell phone)
5:30 You can take kids out, or there are leftover pork chops

Friday
Cereal for breakfast
7:30 Friend picks up Child 1 for school (Friend phone number 555-5555)
8:20 Child 2 and Child 3 to school, they will eat hot lunch.
3:30 Kids walk home from school (Child 1 has cell phone)
6:30 Dinner at friend's house. Child 1 to middle school dance. Take red wine on counter, chutney dish in fridge, flowers will be delivered.

Saturday
Breakfast in fridge
1:30 Child 2 to Bowling Alley for birthday party, gift is on desk, invite on fridge if you need parent phone #.
3:30 Pick up Child 2 from party
Order pizza, number on fridge
5:30 Child 1 babysitting for People (phone number). They will pick her up.
11 Child 1 returned home from babysitting

Sunday
Bagels in fridge
Leftover pizza for lunch
6:40 MEW flight arrives at Moline airport

Here is the preparation when CH is leaving for trip:

"Where is my stuff? Bye!"

In my next life, I hope to come back as a man. Either way, I am definitely getting myself a wife.

Instant Halloween Karma

Halloween is over, and now I'm stuck with 800 pieces of candy and probable Type 2 Diabetes. I don't even want to know how much unrefined sugar I have flowing through my veins. And I'm still creeped out by Mark David Chapman, but I'll get back to that.

I'll be in Arizona at the end of this week and gone for 10 days in Texas for Thanksgiving, and I'm doing NaNoWriMo, so this month is going to be tough, and I apologize in advance for the crappy sloppy seconds writing the blog is going to endure. For those who aren't familiar with NaNoWriMo, it's a writing marathon where over 100,000 writers commit to writing a 50,000 word novel in the month of November (National Novel Writing Month). I've written 896 words so far. You need to write about 1700 words per day to keep up. Ouch. (For any NaNoWriMos who need a writing buddy, I'm Snarkypants.) I may post some of it here, if I'm not too mortified.

So Halloween is over. This year, my seventh grader still wanted to Trick or Treat with a friend. Since I'm still trying desperately to keep her young and immature, I looked around for a costume at stores, as a homemade costume would be mortifying at her age. I did not go the store route, because costumes in her size all had stickers on the front that said "IMPREGNATE ME". Hey preteen girls! Would you like to be a sexy cop? Or a sexy chef? Or a sexy crossing guard? Or a sexy S&M film star? And then next year you can be an incredibly unsexy baby momma working at the BP store selling lottery tickets and cigarettes to your meth dealer and GUESS WHAT! THAT costume isn't just for Halloween, it's for the rest of your life! Yay for you! She ended up being a Barbie, and we live in interesting times when the tamest costume you can come up with for your daughter is Barbie.

My son wanted to be Uncle Sam. So easy, right? No. The store costumes available to him were Mass Murderer, Blood-covered Zombie, Serial Killer, Ultimate Fighter, Dark Side Superhero or Star Wars. Hello, Goodwill. We ended up putting red stucco tape down the sides of white basketball warm up pants, duct taping a navy blue blazer from Goodwill, and cutting up a serial killer beard to make an Uncle Sam goatee and eyebrows. He won the costume competition at the school's Fall Fun Fest (not to be mistaken for a Halloween party, because that is too pagan and devil-worshipping for the public school day), but now the expectation for next year is even higher. I'm guessing he will want to be the Invisible Man. You can do that, right Mom?

I like to dress up to walk with the kids, because they think it's fun and it gives me a chance to indulge my complete immaturity. My youngest daughter was dressed up as Dorothy, from the Wizard of Oz, so I talked my good friend into being Galinda to my Elphaba. She's a partner in a large law firm, so it usually takes two glasses of wine to make her stop thinking about umbrella policies and liability claims, and by the time we were walking around the neighborhood, Galinda was waving her wand over the adults and telling them all of their wishes would be granted at midnight. She became Sexy Good Witch, and she did not take off her crown or my old prom dress until well after midnight. I told her to wear it home and make someone's wishes come true; it wouldn't be the first time that dress was hitched up around someone's hips. (Just kidding Mom!)

So Galinda and I are preparing to sweep the neighborhood, and this boy comes up the walk at her house looking like a Vietnam Vet. She gives him a King-Sized Hershey bar and he looks at her with dead eyes and says, "Just one?" And she says "Happy Halloween!" and shuts the door. We gather our children and leave the house.

A few blocks later, we see Vietnam Vet kid, and he is waving a silver gun around, demanding candy from people at their doors. Everyone is looking a little frightened, and we all notice how the kid is probably 11 or 12, is trick-or-treating alone, and has no adult supervision. He gets the candy at the door, turns and smiles a little evil smile and saunters to the next house. We are troubled, but forget about it as we are chasing six kids across streets where adults still insist on driving large trucks that say "Stump Removal" on the side and gun their accelerators every time a small child gets in the way.

We trick-or-treat at my house, where Current Husband is dressed up as The Edge, clearly hoping to get lucky. We get candy, and I drop off the dog, who has been dressed as The Cowardly Lion and has eaten about 25% of the brown yarn off of his mane and three dropped Starburst in their wrappers. CH says, "Have you seen the guy who killed John Lennon?" Uh, what? CH got a good look at the kid when he came to our door, and he was wearing a camouflage jacket that had the name "LENNON" on the front. CH said the kid waved his weapon around and was singing Imagine on the way down the walk. WHAT!?!? The kid was dressed up as Mark David Chapman, Lennon's assassin!!! Aaaah! As a huge John Lennon fan, I was going to have to find this boy and steal his candy. And take his most likely real gun. And micro-chip him.

Galinda and I swept the rest of the neighborhood, but we didn't see Mr. Future Juvenile Delinquent again. But as I ate my 15th Reese's Peanut Butter cup, accompanied by a lovely Shiraz, Watchin' the Wheels go round and round, I consoled myself with the fact that Instant Karma was gonna get him. And knock him in the head.