It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 42

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Because there are many things I don't need you people to know about me. SO STOP READING, CO-WORKERS. You know who you are.

Today's topic: Where The Wild Things Are

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

WANTED: Obscene person to write weekly 

column about Whoreticulture.  Must be 

completely immature, narcissistic and 

willing to shock.  Full benefits and 

ONE. MILLION. DOLLARS.  

Starts immediately.

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

So anyway.  Back to the blog.

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

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

(large ripping noise)

G:  "That sounds like moaning."

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

(awkward silence)

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

(awkward silence)

ME:  "Yeah, me too."

 Beloved Children's book, or pornography? 

You be the judge.

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

You're welcome, Girlfriend of George.

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

Hump Day Can Go Frack Itself

Allow me a brief Wednesday rant.  If today was listed in a Battlestar Galactica script, I would say, "Hump Day Can Go Frack Itself".

This morning, I pack the kids' lunches, because I want them to be healthy and all that.  Two kids leave their carefully thought-out lunches on the counter.  I'm late getting out the door, and my six pack of middle schoolers get into the building about five seconds away from being late for school.  I barrel across town to get to The Job on time, and as I'm driving in the lot, my cell phone rings.  Oldest Daughter forgot her art project in the car.  It is due this afternoon.  It counts for roughly half of her grade.  Frackity frack frack!

I skip lunch to drive the art project across town and pick up Youngest Daughter's piano book she needs for lessons tonight.  I hand the clerk a piece of paper that says "Essential Elements Book 3 Green".  The clerk is confused.  She starts looking through all kinds of file cabinets to locate this book.  She keeps muttering to herself that something isn't right, why doesn't she recognize this book?  Just as I realize I am late to get back to work, I realize I've handed the clerk the book OD needs for her CELLO lesson.  It's like walking into a Christian Book Store and asking to buy a Koran and a menorah.  I get the proper book and leave, returning late for work.  Double Frackaccino!

At 5 p.m., I leave work and drive home.  I think I can just run in, use the bathroom, change out of the work pants and get out the door to get YD and The Son to piano at 5:30.  I haven't seen Current Husband all day, and he has some news on our house closings, so he starts telling me about it.  I'm trying really hard not to be rude, and I need to know this stuff, but the clock is ticking.  I am going to be late for piano, too.  We leave, and sure enough, terrible traffic, we are late for piano.

The piano teacher chastises me for being late, and then I show her the piano book, proud of myself.  "WHAT!?  Those people at the piano place!  They NEVER get it right!"  It is the wrong book.  She is livid.  I try to explain to her that both the clerk and I did not know what we were supposed to get, so we just made our best guess.  She doesn't care.  It is WRONG.  I leave, realizing that I will now have to spend my lunch tomorrow exchanging the book.  I drive to Borders and buy a book and three Lindor chocolates and a vodka sour.  The book is The Year of Living Biblically, by A. J. Jacobs, my book club's selection, but I have to miss book club for the third month in a row.  Frackin' A.

I get home from said piano lesson, and pull my previously assembled chicken and rice casserole from the oven, make some biscuits, and peas.  OD, the vegetarian, does not partake in the chicken dish and I make her a baked potato.  The Son reminds me that this is his least favorite meal, and why does OD get to pick what SHE eats?  YD reminds me that she hates all food that isn't made up of at least 60% refined sugar, and would like jam.  On everything.  I ask them to clear the table, and they each pick up one item and split.  Suddenly, my house is a ghost town.  I start yelling at everyone to get to the table and HELP ME.  CH reminds me that he HAS been helping me, and I don't need to yell at him.  Everyone stomps to the table, and we glare at each other while I say how nice it is to have everyone sitting at the table for dinner, as it rarely happens since The Son started football.  It doesn't sound convincing.

We finish dinner and YD reminds me that there are cookies left from the batch I baked this weekend in the cabinet, on the top shelf, which is roughly five feet above her head, so I'm a little freaked out by her Sugar Radar.  I was hiding them for lunches, but now I say To Hell With It, and I open the baggies and we sit on the kitchen floor, eating cookies.

YD then walks away and starts banging on the piano and singing at the top of her lungs, which is precious in that I want to encourage her to be musical and express herself, but I am ready to staple my ears shut and tear my own brain out of my skull with a rusty fork.  Then The Son decides he, too, needs to show his piano/singing prowess, which would also be precious if he wasn't slightly tone deaf.  The dog starts howling and CH declares it is time for bed.  The angels in heaven with the bleeding ears say a quick prayer of thanks.

It is 8:15 p.m.  I am old and have acid reflux.  I'm unable to sleep deeply and instead dream all night (last night I dreamt I was in Costco, was thrilled they had seven-layer dip, and then I helped a middle-aged man who locked his keys in his truck, he took me out for a drink at the bar next to Costco, and I fled when he went to the bathroom because I suddenly realized he could be a serial killer.  Seriously, WTF is THAT all about?  We don't even HAVE a Costco in the Quad Cities.)  I wake up exhausted every morning, with the deep circles under my eyes growing darker every day as though I am a vampire who lives on the blood of animals and I haven't hunted in a long time.  (That would make a great book.)  These circles grow despite the slathering of $25 per ounce bottle of Vita K I put on every night that is guaranteed to remove circles and bruises.

To beer or not to beer, that is the question.  Here's to you Thursday.  You'd better show up with a Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte and a raise, or I will cut you.

Get Off Me, Homes.

Remember when I spent all of my time this summer bitching about putting my house on the market?


My mom was here this weekend to help pack, because we sold our house!  Who-hoo!  We sold it in July, but I couldn't say much because I didn't want to jinx it, particularly when I'm hearing on NPR that existing home sales are down 26%.  Ouch.

Thank you, St. Joseph.  

I'm really sorry about the Sun Maid Raisin lady 

and I'm glad you aren't bitter.

Mom was here Saturday and Sunday, and Monday I felt an exhaustion so deep I couldn't keep my eyes open.  CH and The Son were up all night with unmentionable bathroom problems, and Oldest Daughter was blown up with allergies.  Youngest Daughter was not only in perfect health, but in the mood for snacks, drinks, Wii games that had already been packed, Littlest Pet Shop animals and playsets that had also been packed, reading books to people, and playing Trouble and Sorry with whomever had the misfortune to pass through the living room.  She was like a cute little spider in a large, sticky web that covered every doorway.  I would like to say for the record that I threw three games of Sorry by not knocking her off, ever, but if I wasn't tired I so would have kicked her little second grade ass.

 There's trouble in the bubble.

We are moving just four short blocks away.  Why?  Because we hate ourselves.

This is our fifth house in the 15 years we've been married, and I have become a packing genius.  It's actually great because you tend to get rid of a lot of stuff when you move, so your chances of becoming a hoarder are quite low.  It's also a HUGE pain in the ass because you have to still take three children to lessons and school and they are expected to wear clothes to these places, and they are still somehow needing three meals a day, even though you have packed their stuff in anticipation of the move because you know that the week before and after the closing date you are going to be batshit crazy and your packing window is closed.  Taco Bell recognizes our van, and Papa John's pizza delivery car waits outside of our house until the call comes in.


This move has been interesting because we are downsizing.  The house we lived in three houses ago was huge, and it was so much work.  I am not known for my housekeeping skills.  I love to cook, hate to clean the pots and pans.  I can upholster furniture, hate to clean the little staples and nails and scraps of fabric.  I like to read, and prefer it over making beds or picking up clothing.  Are we seeing a theme here?  When we moved into this house, it was a downsize from the BIG HOUSE.  And yet, it was still a lot to clean, and the yard is ginormous, with a bunch of flower beds installed by a master gardener, and the guilt I feel if I don't maintain the .30 acres of flower beds is as big as the yard.  We found a place with all of the features we wanted, but it was slightly smaller with a much smaller yard to take care of.


What has been interesting is the response to the move.  When we tell people we are moving, they immediately think we are upgrading, which is a natural assumption.  This is, after all, America.  When we tell them we are moving to a smaller place, there is a look of panic on their faces...is this by choice, or necessity?  Are we brilliant or broke?  Should they bring us food?  The truth is that the new place is smaller by choice, cheaper, and has all of the updates we wanted to make to this house already done (except for the basement, which we will be doing.  Expect to hear about that.)  We will have less debt and less overhead and less stress, which hopefully means more wine and more books and more travel.


For now, though, it is box city around here.  I drive a six pack of middle schoolers to school every morning, and the other day my van was accidentally full of broken down boxes.  The sixth grade boys rode in the back with the flattened boxes balanced on their heads, and the eighth grade girls in front made fun of them.  One of the girls, a sister to one of the boys, said, "Get used to it buddy, because if you don't get your grades up, you'll be living in one of those."  Ouch.  I feel his pain, because if I don't get this packing done, I'll be living in one of those too.

And by the way?  I lost the Stennifer lunch to someone from Dallas.  I have volunteered to be Second Runner Up, and I still can't wait to read Stacey's book, Good Enough To Eat, even though I will be weeping and hungry the entire time I'm reading it.

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 41

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Because there are many things I don't need you people to know about me.  SO STOP READING, CO-WORKERS.  You know who you are.

Today's topic: Wet Spanks

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

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

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

The Diet Coke bong.

I don't even know where to credit this,

but I think it's hilarious.

And how I actually drink my Diet Coke.

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

You know you want me.

And no, this technically ISN'T a TBGuacamole.

Because those sandwiches are NOT on the 500 calorie menu.

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

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

Oh God.

Here is a little math problem for y'all:  

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

Do you give up?

A: Wet Spanx.

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

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

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

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

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