Because Proper Grooming Is Important

In an article that is sure to go viral, a few of my man-friends on Facebook have posted the following article and asked for input from the women:
Florida Driver Lacks Razor Sharp Focus 

As authorities nationwide warn motorists of the dangers of driving while texting, Florida Keys law enforcement officers add a new caution: Don't try to shave your privates, either.

Florida Highway Patrol troopers say a two-vehicle crash Tuesday at Mile Marker 21 on Cudjoe Key was caused by a 37-year-old woman driver who was shaving her bikini area while her ex-husband took the wheel from the passenger seat.

"She said she was meeting her boyfriend in Key West and wanted to be ready for the visit," Trooper Gary Dunick said. "If I wasn't there, I wouldn't have believed it. About 10 years ago I stopped a guy in the exact same spot ... who had three or four syringes sticking out of his arm. It was just surreal and I thought, 'Nothing will ever beat this.' Well, this takes it."

If that weren't enough, Megan Mariah Barnes was not supposed to be driving and her 1995 Ford Thunderbird was not supposed to be on the road.

The day before the wreck, Barnes was convicted in an Upper Keys court of DUI with a prior and driving with a suspended license, said Monroe County Assistant State Attorney Colleen Dunne. Barnes was ordered to impound her car, and her driver's license was revoked for five years, after which time she must have a Breathalyzer ignition interlock device on any vehicle she drives, Dunne said. Barnes also was sentenced to nine months' probation.

Barnes and Charles Judy were southbound in her Thunderbird at 11 a.m. when they slammed into the back of a 2006 Chevrolet pickup driven by David Schoff of Palm Bay. His passengers were a man and two women; the latter were treated for minor injuries at Lower Keys Medical Center, FHP spokesman Alex Annunziato said.

Schoff had slowed to about 5 mph to make a turn when the Thunderbird hit him, traveling about 45 mph, which was within the speed limit, Dunick said.  Barnes allegedly drove another half-mile, then switched seats with Judy, who allegedly claimed to be driving, Annunziato said.

Burns on Judy's chest from the passenger-side airbag deploying belied their story, Dunick said. The airbag in the steering wheel did not deploy, he said.  Troopers charged Barnes with driving with a revoked license, reckless driving, leaving the scene of a wreck with injuries and driving with no insurance. Judy was not charged.  Barnes faces a maximum of a year in jail if found guilty of violating her probation due to the wreck, Dunne said.

I understand the importance of a nicely trimmed hedge, as evidenced by this post:
The First Ever Whoreticulture Friday on...Bushwhackery!!! 

And I can also relate to feeling the need to multitask.  I may put on some lipstick while stopped at a stoplight.  I may take a drink of my Starbuck's skinny vanilla latte while driving.  But something I will NEVER, EVER do?  Hold my vagina hostage with a razorblade while doing 45 mph with my EX-HUSBAND at the wheel...from the PASSENGER SEAT. 

There are so many wrongs in this story that it very nearly makes a right.

I'm actually impressed that Miss Megan Mariah Barnes had the presence of mind to make the seat switch with her ex, because after this crash, I am guessing the boyfriend in Key West who was expecting some topiary is going to be tending to his own gardening for a while.
 
Let's recap:

1. Holds a blade to her netherparts...
2. While driving with a suspended license from a DUI...
3. With ex-husband driving the car...
4. (I mean 1995 Ford Thunderbird...)
5. While she preps her dealio for her Current Boyfriend (CB)...
6. Crashes the car into a truck...
7. And asks Ex-husband to take the rap.

Hmm.  This sounds oddly familiar.

Urban Dictionary, I give you the RIDE OR DIE DUMBASS EX.  Part of "But Wait There's More Monday", an extension of the March 5 Whoreticulture Friday.  Because some stories are too big for Friday alone.  As for my male friends on Facebook who want the women to spill the goods on their mobile bushwhacking?  I gave them this post:

"That's nothing. I've had a pap smear on I-80 in a construction zone driving an 18-wheeler. Get back to me when you have some real news."

 Ask and ye shall receive.  I am nothing if not a giver.  

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 18

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: Ride or die bitch.

I've heard bad things happen in threes.  Oh people.  Today was an absolute bitch.  Three different friends, three different scenarios, three different levels of crisis, and three really sad women.  One very sad Julie who doesn't feel very snarky tonight.  It seems like an appropriate time to talk about the 'Ride or die bitch'.

As you know, Urban Dictionary is the go-to reference source for Whoreticulture Friday.  I was looking up 'Ride the Pony' because today's blog was going to be about how men seem to want women to be on top all of the time, and some of my friends have been complaining about it.  The argument is that their knees are going bad and being on top isn't their most advantageous angle, but apparently the guys are getting older too and their knees can't take being on top anymore either.  However, scrolling through Urban Dictionary, I found the "Ride or die bitch" and I was hooked.

The first phrase was "Ride or Die":

Conjunction of the phrases "ride it out" and "die trying". In other words you're down for whatever, even if it kills you.  To be down with your husband/wife no matter what, through it all the good and the bad.

That is my girl and I'll ride or die with her.

That sounds sort of sweet.  I walked past Current Husband and said, "Ride or Die, bro".  He looked at me and said, "What the hell are you talking about?"  and I said, "You know, ride or die.  I feel you, cracker."  CH rolled his eyes and walked away, most certainly feeling the stronger bond between us.

The next phrase was "Ride or Die Chick":

A chick that ain't afraid to be down with her man she'll do anything her man needs her to do.  'Ride or die chick' refers to someone who (normally a girl, hence the word chick) is down for everything & anything. Basically down for both the bad and the good.

Christina is my ride or die chick for life.

Hmmm.   This is starting to sound a little more one-sided.  I asked CH if he considers me his Ride or Die Chick, and he replied that he didn't think I liked motorcycles.  He thought it sounded very Harley Davidson.  Okay, I can be down with Harley Davidson.  CH and me, on our hog, riding across the plains into the sunset, knowing we have each other's backs, stopping at diners for hot beef sandwiches and french fries with gravy (TIP:  At the Big Sioux Cafe in Grand Forks, North Dakota, if you order a 'shitload' of french fries and gravy, you get a double order for free!  You're welcome.) and stopping for Guns n' Roses cover bands.  Welcome to the Jungle, Baby.  Just don't ask me to be on top after all of that riding all day.  My knees are bad.

The third phrase was "Ride or Die Down Ass Bitch":

(This is the actual definition in Urban Dictionary.  I invite you to look it up.)

A female that aint 'fraid of going to jail for her man.. Never rats him out and takes it all for him... Is down for anything will scrap for him no matter how big the mofo is... Is ready to go to whaeva lengths she has to ta make sure food is on the table... strip, sell.. jo0 name it.. Cleanz and co0ks for him and takes care of the fam and lets no one come between what they have she would even kill for him. 

I'm sorry, but WHO WROTE THIS!? Because really, SOMEONE had to write it.  Someone delusional and most likely wounded. "Lets no one come between what they have"...What exactly do they have?  Let me make sure I have this straight.  She is:

1. Cooking
2. Caring for children
3. Cleaning
4. Incarceration
5. Fighting
6. Stripping
7. Prostitution
8. Murder

What does he have?  Because really, I'd rather be on top than do anything past number two.  Perhaps he thinks because he is well-endowed, I should feel inclined to do the things on this list for the privilege of having sex with him.  I would say if you are so well-endowed, then perhaps you should be stripping and hooking, honey.

CH came into the kitchen and asked what was for dinner.  I looked up from my computer and screamed, "I'm not your Ride or Die Down Ass Bitch!  Make your own dinner, Motherf***er!!" and then I got out my rolling pin and started beating him.

Okay, that didn't happen.  I am his Ride or Die Down Ass Bitch.  I may LOOK like a middle-aged Iowa housewife, but truly, mess wit my man and I will cut you, and then eat a shitload of french fries and gravy on your grave.  But I still won't be on top, because I am telling you, I see a knee replacement in my future, and who cleanz and stripz and scraps with the biggest mofo if momma's in a walker?  That's what I thought.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!

I'm a Teen Mother, But Not In THAT Way.

Yesterday I officially became the mother of a teenager. 

I did not cry, but I did get a little teary when posting my Facebook status about how when she was born, she changed me.  She did.  That chubby little bugger who kicked the crap out of my uterus and sent stomach acid flying up my esophagus every night and gave me bulging veins in places veins aren't supposed to bulge and came so fast I couldn't get the epidural I had been counting upon popped out and changed everything.

Mothers speak reverentially about the moment their first babies are born.  They say things like "I loved her the moment I saw her" or "she was so beautiful" or "she looked like an angel".  I've never been one of those moms.  I didn't particularly like babies growing up, and I wasn't a very good babysitter.  Let's be honest, I blog about my life, which tells you I can be more than a little narcissistic.  I even joked to the mom of a boyfriend in high school that I liked to poke babies in the soft spot on their head.  (Fairly certain she went home and urged her son to dump me like a bag of kittens.) 

When I saw my daughter for the first time, I turned to CH and said, "A girl, huh?  Was really hoping for a boy, I don't think I can handle girls.  She looks like Grandpa Ryan.  Does she have all digits?  Is there a strawberry birth mark?  Okay, then get me a Diet Coke and a Tylenol, stat."  Mmmm.  Mother love.  Nothing like it.

After entertaining people in my hospital room for the next five hours, I settled into my bed for some well-deserved sleep.  A few moments later, a nurse came into my room with a screaming baby and turned on the lights.

RN:  (sing-songy voice) "Your baby is hungry!"
ME:  (sing-songy voice) "Then feed her!"
RN:  "We have on the chart that you want to nurse."
ME:  "Does that have to start now?  Because I spent my day in labor, I could use some sleep."
RN:  "Well, it does start now.  Because the baby is here and she's hungry."
We stared at each other for a moment while the baby's screams got louder and more urgent.  I considered nuking the nursing idea.  It seemed like a bad time to change my mind - I might look selfish.  Clearly I just wanted to sleep.  Isn't this why God let us invent formula?   The nurse was a very good starer.  Damn it.
ME:  "For Christ's sake...really?  I guess.  How do we do this?"

The nurse got me all situated with the nursing, and then went out to the nurses' station to tell everyone what a horrible bitch of a mother was in Room 435.  I was tired, grumpy, and sore in places I'd never seen.  I was feeling resentful about the whole thing, and I looked down at Grandpa Ryan, the girl I wasn't supposed to have, and there she was.  Nursing.  And it all fell away...the exhaustion, the crankiness, the soreness...no wait, that stayed...and I just watched her in wonder.  I mean, really.  With some cooperation from CH and God, I had just built a human baby and given birth to her, and here she was, like some crazy science experiment with half of CH's DNA and half of mine.  Here was the person who had been kicking and moving around INSIDE of me for the past 40 weeks, in my arms, and no longer tethered to me in a physical way.  And she was MINE.  Wow.

 

Oh, the photographs of this child.  I think she's 10 or 12 weeks here.

Somehow, we got through the next thirteen years, and she's still here in one piece.  Against all bets made by the family (I know about the betting, people), she's this amazing, beautiful, smart, funny funny funny, coordinated girl.  She plays the cello.  She does ballet and does a mean hip-hop routine.  She watches Project Runway and SNL with me, and we listen to Ok Go and Blue October and Regina Spektor and the Beatles together, and we both love Twilight.  She's not perfect.  She can get full of attitude and throw down a little temper, and she bickers with her sibilings.  She's disorganized like me, and she's a little grumpy like her Dad (yes, CH, that's you) and she can perfectly imitate Catwoman and the mice in Cinderella (poor Cinderelly!) and the Bill Hader-sportscasting alien character on SNL.  And she's MINE.

Tonight CH and I sat at the dining room table at our dueling laptops, and she came out in her flannel pj bottoms and tank top, looking so much more like 16 than 13, and told us goodnight.  I looked at CH when she left and said, "We only get her for five more years".  Five years!  How can I possibly tell her everything she needs to know to make it in the world in five years?  To not fall in love with being in love and make sure she holds out for the 'good one'?  To figure out what she really loves to do and chase that dream?  That people can be mean, but they're only words, and can't affect her if she doesn't let them?  To tell her she is amazing, and have her believe it - really believe it - without letting it go to her head?  That the Golden Rule really matters?  To wash her face every night and use lots of lotion and sunscreen?  That using the F-word is okay, but make it count.  So much to do, so little time.

I'm so glad she was a girl.  I'm so glad that nurse won the staring contest.  I'm so glad I didn't poke her in the soft spot as a baby. Yesterday I officially became the mother of a teenager.  I'm so glad she's MINE.

Can I just tell you that this post was supposed to be about how I shopped for two months for the perfect teen birthday gifts, and then CH swooped in with the best gift that took him 10 minutes and one phone call, and I was a little bitter and am withholding sex from him, and suddenly here's this emotionally wrought post about motherhood.  Would anyone like a Estrogen chaser with their tumbler of Motherhood on the Rocks?  You opened the blog, I can't be held responsible for filling you with nostalgic despair.

The Dream Ruiner

Some people have dreamcatchers.  Some people are dreamweavers.  I recently discovered that I am the Dream Ruiner.  I'm a mother, and this is my story.

The other day, Middle Son burst in the back door from school and yelled, "MOM!  I need to get a horse!"  I set down the gin and tonic and bon-bons and engaged him in some quantity time.

ME:  "What do you mean you 'need to get a horse'?"
MS:  "I really want a horse, and I figured out how to do it."
ME:  "Entertain me."
MS:  "The garage is empty, and so he could stay in there, and we could make a little paddock in the corner of our back yard."
ME:  "The garage is empty because it is going to collapse.  Why do you think we tell you to push on it or throw your basketball at it when there is a bad storm?  Insurance money doesn't get mailed for nothing."
MS:  "Okay, it can stay in the shed."
ME:  "The family of opossums already live there, and they may be rabid."
MS:  "Well, I can feed it with my allowance."
ME:  "But who will pay for the equipment that comes with it, or the vet bills, or the ride to the knacker when it dies?"
MS:  "You are such a Dream Ruiner, Mom!" 

And I realized that he's right.  I'm here to RUIN DREAMS.

Current Husband had dreams when we met that I was a good cook with whorish tendencies and a fun outlook.  Five years later, DREAM RUINED.  He's still here, almost 20 years later, a broken and bitter man.  (Actually, he's incredibly happy, because I am a good cook with whorish tendencies, but that doesn't make a good story, does it?  I'm an entertainer, not a historian.)

Oldest Daughter is turning 13 on Tuesday, and I took her for lunch at one of her favorite restaurants in Iowa City over the weekend (they serve wine - Mommy's dream is GRANTED!).  OD loves Andy Samberg, and is a disciple of all of his work.  We're driving around looking for parking and see a white college kid with huge dreadlocks, and OD starts screaming.

 

My probable future son-in-law, Ras Trent

OD:  "RAS TRENT!!  THAT GUY LOOKS LIKE RAS TRENT!  Pull over Mom and take a picture of me with him!"
ME:  "Are you insane?  I'm not pulling over."
OD:  "Why not?  It would be so funny!"
ME:  "I'm not pulling over my car to park illegally so my almost 13-year-old can ask a pot dealer if she can pose for photos with him."
OD:  "MOM!  It would be so funny.  I can't believe you won't do it."

I fumed while looking for a parking spot, thinking about how ridonkulous she was being, and then visions of about 100 photos of me with friends from the Eighties and early Nineties flashed through my head.  Me with a guy in a bear costume in downtown Chicago.  Me in hunting gear holding a plastic Uzi to a drunk frat boy in a bunny costume.  Dressed like Yoko Ono with my hair dyed black.  As Brent Musberger.  Mr. Howell.  A hippie.  A nun.  A pregnant bride. Gilda Radner.  Mama Smurf.  The list goes on and on, and it's real. 

 

Hey kids!  Look at Mommy getting a college education!

(And no, I wasn't pregnant.  This is in the way-back machine, when it was fun to PRETEND to be pregnant.  No one is laughing now.)

And yet, OD is denied a photo with Ras Trent.  DREAM RUINED. 


Even George the Superpet felt the chill of ruined dreams today.  He kept begging to go outside, and I thought, "Well how sweet, the dog is ready for spring!"  I looked outside, hoping to see him frolic in the sunshine, and instead I put down my coffee and sprinted for the back door.  George was standing in the backyard with a scraggly squirrel tail hanging out of his mouth.  I ran over to him, opened his mouth and shook his head until 3/4 of a dead squirrel came out of his mouth.  I could hear Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein's screams from inside as he watched one of his brethren fall from George's jowls.  I brought George inside and actually washed his mouth out with a washcloth, which I promptly threw away.  

George's dream of eating a squirrel?  DREAM RUINED.
Washcloth's dream of being a clean, fluffly washing apparatus?  DREAM RUINED.

What about Youngest Daughter, you might ask?  None of her dreams has been ruined.  (Yet.)  Because like Chuck Norris, YD is the reason Waldo is hiding.  Her dreams will not be denied.  She won't want a photo with Ras Trent, she will marry him.


And then my dreams?  RUINED.
I am a mother, and this is my story.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 17

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: Meat.  It's not just for eating anymore.

I'm going to start Whoreticulture Friday with an apology, never a good idea.  Because you should never apologize for awesomeness.  And if I were awesome, I wouldn't apologize.  So I am sorry.

This week has been crazier than a stage mom on meth.  I was an assistant on the talent show at my kids' elementary school the past two years, and this year I am in charge.  Oh. So. Effing.  Scary.  (Almost as scary as writing the F word in my blog, which I occasionally do, but I fear you people and the power of judgmental comments.)  Tonight was the dress rehearsal, and while it went well, oh so much can go wrong.  Tumbling act could fly off of the stage.  Shredding guitar kids during finale song to "School of Rock" theme song could tear their knees up on the old splintery stage.  Child could freeze up, begin to cry, and talk in two decades about how this was the worst night of their young life.  So I am having a quick beer, writing the blog, and going to bed for the certain nightmares of ruined childhoods.

I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that my heart is not completely in a whorish state of mind.  Sorry, Current Husband, it's Cinemax or women's Olympic ice skating for you tonight.  Speaking of CH, I love meat.

Sometimes when I get on the blog, I notice the ads on the sidebar.  When I wrote about Brazilians, I saw ads for hair removal.  When I wrote about mocking teddy bears, Build-A-Bear showed up.  For some reason last week, an ad for illegal Mexican wives appeared, which honestly I don't even know why they need to advertise, because those seem to sell themselves.  I would love to have an illegal Mexican wife right now, because frankly, I am tired, and there are dishes in the sink and a lonely man in my room.  Two days ago, this ad slogan appeared on my blog:

"It's like filet mignon for the price of a butt steak."

I found myself wondering if this is how CH describes me to his friends.  Because truly, I am.  And if I were to name myself after a piece of meat, it would have to be the butt steak.  It seems so obvious.  You may say, "But Julie, you're selling yourself short.  You are so filet mignon and you don't even know it."  Let me explain:

Pronunciation:  fee-lay mee-NYOH  Plural:  filets mignons  Notes:   These are cut from the tenderloin, and they're the most tender steaks you can buy, though not the most flavorful.  But filet mignons are total high maintenance bitches, and they don't put out.  Sometimes the French call them putain or salope, and the French really know their meat, if you know what I mean.   

 A boneless sirloin steak is sometimes called a rump steak = butt steak.  Sirloin steaks are usually grilled or broiled.  Don't overcook them or they'll lose much of their flavor.  In other words, "I'm easy like a Sunday mornin', but don't piss me off or I won't be so fun anymore."

This reminds me of the famous quote by Paul Newman to Playboy magazine about the longevity of his marriage to Joanne Woodward, "Why go out for hamburger when you've got steak at home?"  And while many women look at that quote and say, "Awwww!", Joanne Woodward was pissed off.  She was all "I'm an Oscar-winner, MF'er, not your piece of meat!" and Paul Newman didn't have steak for a very long time.  It was at this time that he created "Newman's Own" salad dressings with his own two hands.

In other meat news, at my book club I found out that at high school basketball games, when you want to insult the other team, you chant "Hot Juicy Burgers", which is supposed to imply a vagina, so you are calling the other team pussies.  I would like to take this time to point out that the other moms thought they were calling the other team "Vaginas", and I connected the dots for them that they were actually being called "Pussies", but I still don't see how "Hot Juicy Burgers" is more insulting than flat out chanting "Pussies" or "Va-Jay-Jay" or making cat noises.  Most of the moms in my book club are Catholics, so they're the drunks and I'm the shocking token Methodist.  They mix the drinks, I explain the porn.

What have we learned?

1. Julie volunteering for school events ruins childhoods.
2. Illegal Mexican wife is going on my birthday list.
3. Butt steaks are more fun than filets.  Unless they are bacon-wrapped filets.  Because bacon trumps everything. 
4. Newman's Own dressing might be able to impregnate you.
5. Kids yelling "Hot Juicy Burgers" does not mean they work for the Beef Council.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend!