Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

Today I made the mistake of looking at the search terms that brought people to my blog lately.  I was hoping it would be things like "Good mom" or "Domestic Goddess" or "Feral Cat Porn".  Instead, I found this really odd smorgasborg of things that I now feel compelled to blog about, because I'm a pleaser and I don't want to let Google Search down.

estrogen 44
a day in the wife 14
innocent teens 6
donkey shrek ass 5
teen panty 5
adayinthewife 4
anne taintor postcards 4
hollister guy models 4
nice legs on teens 4
estrogen pictures 3

Estrogen, I get. I'm all about the estrogen. But why do at least five of these search terms seem to be things searched by sex offenders? Innocent teen? Teen panty? Donkey shrek ass? It's a little icky.  Just so we're clear, if you are a pedophile sex offender, YOU'RE ON THE WRONG WEBSITE.  Perhaps even the wrong Internet.  Or planet.  This helps explain why I don't get many comments, other than the fact that Blogger is a dick about comments.  Half of my views are from pedophiles who are male Hollister models into Donkey on Shrek and they see my blog and say, "Whoops!" and click off.  Let's not say "click off" because now it sounds like a sex term.  Let's say "reboot".  No.  "Press Enter"?  No.  Let's say "leave".

As I'm getting all judgey about what people search to accidentally get to my blog, I think about my search terms.  The other day a co-worker told me that she thinks our IT guy at work has been looking at our e-mails and web browsers, and I panicked a little bit, because I bring my work laptop home and it's where I blog.  Here are recent things I have searched and/or Googled:

• Can eunochs have orgasms?
• I have a third nipple - at The Bloggess
• Cats having sex (images)
• Pippa handgun
• Rogers, Arkansas
• Fifty Shades of Gray
• Release Date for Breaking Dawn Part 2
• Swim lesson dates available
• When was Ted Bundy electrocuted?
• "The Show" Malbec

   (Seriously delicious, people.)

 

These are honest searches I've performed.  It's a little awkward, seeing where your brain has been on the Internet.  So I figure there is NO WAY our IT guy is checking this stuff out, or I would have been called into HR a while ago.

 

On a side note, I just ate a quarter pound of Jelly Bellies and I think I'm going to throw up.  Time to pound some Tums and finish The Bloggess's book, which is unsurprisingly hilarious.

 

Here's a picture of me drinking water for the creepy people:

You're welcome.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 80

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. Or parents of my children's friends. Or cat vandals.


Today's topic: Hump Day Forever


A few nights ago, my house was quiet. This is newsworthy in that my house is never quiet, but the kids went to bed without protest for a change and I had a little 10 p.m. facebook/Twitter time. I'm happily creeping on other people's pages and reading celebrity tweets when I hear this loud THUNK like a water balloon hit the side of the house, and then Raaaaaarwwwwr RAAAAWWWRRRR!!!!

It was immediatey recognizable as cats having sex, but it sounded oddly like vandalism, like someone did a drive-by and instead of throwing a Moltov Cocktail they threw f**king cats at our house. Who hates us so much they'll throw f**kng cats at the house?

Our neighborhood on a daily basis. 

It's like an opium den of cat sex in the yard.

But most of the feral cats are black

and missing signifcant chunks of fur.

I run downstairs to Current Husband's office and start saying, "Did you hear that?" when it's like they are in the room doing it. RRRAAAAAWWRRR! HISS HISS HISS! THUNK THUNK RAWWWWWWRRRR!!!! It's like the National Cat Fornication Service just activated a Cat Sex warning and the siren is going off.  Take Cover!  Take Cover!  We look at each other with wide eyes, like "Is that what sex sounds like?" because it's been awhile and we've forgotten. CH opens the curtains to the egress window in the basement and lo and behold, total cat sex peep show in our window well.  The cats see CH and they literally shoot four feet into the air, mwowling, and we can hear them howl all the way down the dark street.  We so look forward to increasing our brood of 34 feral cats to 87 this spring.

But lest ye think the mating is over in our hood, fear not, gentle reader.  Everyone in our hood is doing the Humpty Hump.

The other day I walked out to show my sister our crumbling chimney when I glanced over to our neighbor's yard, where their yellow lab was busy mounting a visiting chocolate lab.  This was an arranged date, but Zeus is a little short in the leg and was having trouble getting on his taller date.  What he lacked in height, he made up in stamina, and even without the aid of the doggie sex stilts I recommended to the neighbor, he managed to get the job done more efficiently and with less noise than his feline counterparts.  And?  Zeus is a broad daylight kind of guy.  There's no fear there.  It's a "Check it OUT, neighborhood, I've got balls bigger than your cars!"  Meanwhile, George the Superpet, ball-less wonder, stood at the fence, watching sadly.

The next night, George had his chance at love. 

The neighbor was having a little bonfire and invited me over to have a beer with her.  I brought George the Superpet, and the moment he got inside their gate his gaydar went off and he started humping their male dogs like he'd just done a line of coke at the Stonewall Inn in Grenwich Village while the DJ played Lady Gaga.  He was just born this way.  The neighbor's two male, un-neutered labs had to lay down on the grass so George couldn't hump them, and then he just walked around for a bit air-humping.  My neighbor and I were laughing, but I felt a little sorry for him.  He's so repressed, and everyone around him gets to have sex while he's stuck in the house watching the Disney Channel. 

George, mounting Grandma Jan at Christmas. 

Awkward for everyone.

So, in sum:
1.  Someone is throwing f**king cat bombs at our house in some weird kind of hate crime.
2.  Short dogs have bigger mojo.
3.  George the Superpet is a repressed sex machine.

Spring has sprung, people.  Get out there and enjoy it like an animal.

 

Of Blogs and Birthdays and Baginas and Blow Jobs

Last week I will admit that I was a little bitter because I wanted to go to the Erma Bombeck Writer's Conference, which only happens every two years, and it was on my birthday, and was where I met some kick-ass bloggers last year, one of whom has a book coming out, Mommy Mixology, at http://www.muffintopmommy.com/.

So Janet of MTM went to the conference and is posting all kinds of cool stuff, and The Bearded Iris, whom I love, was also there and posting great stuff, and I'm all "Waaa, waaa, I didn't get to go to EBWW and it was my birthday and no one bought me a cake and I spent it attending OD's musical, waaa." Of COURSE I would rather have been at the musical.  Of course.  But it doesn't stop me from having one of those "But what happened to MY life?  MY interests?" moments.

Then I read The Bearded Iris' blog today and I'm even more pissed I didn't go because I'm afraid now I'm forced to stalk her until I meet her at a conference, because I think we are living similar lives and I need to get a DNA sample to see if we are related somehow.  Here is her blog post, read at will:  http://www.thebeardediris.com/  Here's the skinny if you don't have time to read it yet - her cover as a blogger was blown, and her son's friend told her son that he knew about his mom's blog.  The cold fear of every semi-anonymous blogger, including myself.

I love this photo at The Bearded Iris - she rocks it.

Her last two posts are near and dear to my heart, because I struggle with this very thing.  I started blogging about 12 years ago, so if I had stuck with it I would perhaps be able to live off of blogging and be home with my kids like I'd like to be, but I'm not bitter and that's what's important.  I was also a writer for a local newspaper and had an award-winning column called "Diary of a Mad Housewife."  At the time, it was okay to tell stories about how my daughter called it a "Bagina" and said nothing was EVER coming out of hers.  Or to talk about how my son thought our minister was YD's dad, or how my nursing boobs were hanging out at Henry Doorly Zoo in Omaha at a tour bus stop, all because my kids were little and no one cared.  The only person I was embarrassing was myself, and I was (and am) okay with that.

A couple of years ago, when OD was 13, some moms of her friends were reading the blog, and one of them let slip something that was on a Whoreticulture Friday post.  It was fairly innocuous, BUT, I found myself thinking, "I talk about blow jobs.  Waxing.  Positions.  Farting.  Which teenager is going to completely out my kid at school over my blog because their parents let them read it?"  (THIS IS NOT A BLOG FOR ANYONE UNDER 18.  In case it was unclear.   Because you might think it's funny to share with your teen, but your teen may not have judgement or filters when talking to mine.)  But at the same time, teachers at all three of my kids' schools read it.  Some of their doctors read it.  My in-laws and parents and sister and CH's siblings sometimes read it.  Current Husband and many of his friends read it.  A local mom who hates my living guts for some still-unknown reason reads it to troll for information she can use to get other people to judge me.  It's a sticky wicket. 

Here's a freebie, judgey people - I'm showing off my melons in public again,

while forgetting to suck in my gut.  OD took this picture. Someone call the DHS.

Bloggers generally don't get paid.  I don't.  It takes one to two hours to write a post, which I try to do three times a week.  Because Blogger sucks, I rarely get comments or feedback.  I once got an extremely nasty comment from someone who said that I am a c*nt and they would let CH bend them over (stranger, or local acquaintance?  I'll never know.  C'est la vie.)  It's times like those, and the potential embarrassment factor to the kids, that make you want to quit.  When you stare at your computer screen and say, "Why am I even writing this damn blog for no one?" 

But in the slew of messages I got on my personal facebook page on my birthday, a few stood out as being blog-specific: 

• I was crying laughing last night catching up on your blog!
• Girl, we should SO be celebrating your day at Erma this year :( Hope you have a most AWESOME year, Friend! Get that novel out this year--this is your year! Cheers to you!!!
• Can't tell you how often I read your observations and laugh so hard that I can hardly breathe
• Thank you for making me laugh every single day! :)
• Happy birthday sweetie! Wish we were celebrating at Erma!!! :(
• Hey you hot piece of sass - Happymuthafahkinbirthday!!!!! xoxox

That last one was written by The Insatiable Host, Danon, my favorite Canadian.  We "met" through blogging, and while I've never seen her face I can somehow hear her voice.  Two of the comments are from people I've known for over 20 years.  Two are from people I met at Erma Bombeck in 2010, and two are from people I've never met in person.  I also have a terrific posse of friends who frequently support me and talk up the blog - I've always been a storyteller, and I've threatened to write a book forever (just like every third person on the street does), and that support from friends new and old?  That is the payment.  That is the reason for blogging.  You will all never know how much that support means to me - it keeps me writing.  I just hope the blog never exists at the expense of my kids.

I'd love to hear from other bloggers who have similar situations as Iris.  Do your kids' friends know you blog?  Do you blog under your real name?  Do tell.  I think Iris stirred something up that has been on the minds of bloggers for a long time.

Another Year Bites the Dust

So it's been a busy week in Wiferville - Youngest Daughter's birthday was a week ago, my birthday was Thursday, and Oldest Daughter was in her first high school musical this weekend.

It's a weird thing to have a kid in high school.  In elementary school, your kids start kindergarten and you're all gung ho to get involved and make a difference and make cookies together and feel like you can make a difference and everyone will LIKE you, they'll really LIKE you.  By about third grade all of the moms at my elementary had discovered I'm a total hack at mothering properly, and I went back to work and ruined my home life so now I'm the "Oreos and nail painting" mom who shows up at all school events on my third day without a shower and meth eyes.  Fortunately my kids seem to run on autopilot well, as they are all clean and on honor roll and no one is pregnant or in rehab at this time.

But then your kids get older and this really interesting thing happens - they start getting your jokes and listening to the same music and being fun.  And you realize that you don't need to approval of other moms to be happy, and the focus goes back to guiding this cool person you built through the morass that is middle school.  High school has been the most fun yet, probably because mentally I am a high schooler, so I'm back on the Mother Ship with the other aliens.

Me, dropping kids off at school.  "Beee goooooodddd."

Hand to God, ET looks younger and better rested than I do right now.

My nose is bigger but we could both use some eyebrow work.

Neck and chin?  Identical.  We must share the same grandma.

So OD was in this musical, Anything Goes, and she was Female Passenger and Reporter #1.

She's in the yellow dress in front on the right. 

She's so sweet I could sop her up with a biscuit.

Opening night was Thursday, and all of my bitching about the crazy schedule for the musical and how many redonkulous hours that had to put into it melted away as I watched my baby walk across the stage looking gorgeous and confident and happy, and I cried a little.  A senior girl whom we've known for a few years stepped on the stage as Hope Harcourt, sang her opening song, was completely amazing, and proceeded to make me openly cry like a baby.  I looked over at her parents, who were just moonfaced and smiling, looking at their only child on that stage, and I thought, "Dear God, that's OD in three years."  Three years may seem like a long time, but in high school time that is about 14 months.
Now that you've been spashed with estrogen, some quick bullet points on who was in the audience:

1. Grandma and Grandpa Loud Talker.  I know you are old, and with my advancing age I can respect that.  But if you can't tell that you are talking with each other through the entire first Act louder than the lead is speaking, maybe go home and watch the original version on DVD.
2. Machine Gun Laugher.  Like Fran Drescher, but in monotone and without the charm.  joke.  hehehehehehehehehe.  joke.  hehehehehehehehe.  joke.  hehehehehehehehehe.
3. The entire Whooping Cough ward from the hospital.  Cough drops, people.  They're sold at all major drug stores.
4. "What Did They Say?" Man.  Move on Dude, because you're missing the next joke too.
5. "My Kid's A Lead!" Mom, who laughs before the kid finishes the joke.  Had OD told jokes, or been a lead, this would've been me.
6. The Crying During a Comedy parent.  Me.  Because this just can't be happening.

I'm assuming Anne Hathaway's mom has this same list of concerns.

Have a happy week ahead Wifers!

Glass Half Full, Carton Empty

Last weekend, I awoke and shuffled into the kitchen to make people breakfast.  (Two thought simultaneously went through my head as I typed that - 1) "Every day I'm shuff-uh-lin" and 2) the frontier wives who prepared the thresher's dinners in Little House books.  They seemed like tired women.)

So I make the coffee first, because when you are on an airplane and you're going to crash they very specifically point out in the safety videos that when the oxygen masks drop, you should put yours on first and THEN the child's, because you have to be alive to keep them alive.  Coffee comes first.

I made a move to four different breakfast staples, all with the same result.  Exhibit #1:

I go for the obvious choice - Eggo waffles.  This makes it seem like they are getting a treat without me doing much.  Who can resist the warm buttery syrupy-ness of an Eggo waffle??  But there was no "Leggo my Eggo" in my house, because SOMEONE ate the last one and put the damn box back in the freezer.

I move on to cereal.  Not as impressive, but hey, they'll eat, right?  Box #1 - EMPTY.  Box #2 - EMPTY.  Seriously.  WTF, Family?

Maybe we'll just have toast for breakfast.  Toast and some nice cranberry apple juice, so we can carb up and prevent urinary tract infections, two birds dead.  Oh, but wait.  Someone put the juice back in the fridge, EMPTY.  Not even the crafty "oh there's enough for half a juice glass for someone, I'll put it back".  It was completely empty, no backwash, no nothing.

I stood there for a moment while I did my angry cartoon character imitation.

The thought bubble on this is not yet rated, but is surely inappropriate for delicate ears.

Then I had my coffee and stared at the empty boxes and changed into this:

Because honestly people.  How do you lecture kids on THROWING AWAY THE BOX WHEN IT'S EMPTY?  We all know how it's going to end.  I'm explaining things slowly and loudly, as though I'm talking with foreigners who don't know English, but no matter how loud or how slow I may speak, they just aren't going to get it.  They are going to look at me with the "When is she going to STOP?" face, and look at each other and roll their eyes and hope I don't catch them.   (You'd BETTER hope I don't catch you!)  These children are 15, 12 and 9.  How will they ever have jobs or pay taxes or get themselves to a dentist regularly if they can't throw away the box?  These are the issues I grapple with on a daily basis.  This must've been covered in the 8 a.m. classes I missed in college.

As a side note, take a look at my iPod:

Whenever Oldest Daughter is in the kitchen, she brings her iPod 4th gen 8 gb down, removes my old grandma iPod from the speaker, and plays her music, which is fine.  Until she leaves the kitchen and leaves Grandma laying on the counter to collect toast crumbs up in her craw, and then perhaps she won't play someday.  Put my iPod back in my iPod player, dammit!  Do you know how long I waited for the Beatles to be on iTunes!?!  Have some respect!

Do your people leave empty boxes everywhere?  Because I'm about to call the ACME company and order some kind of elaborate trap for the next person who leaves one in the cabinet.  I'm sure it won't end well for me, but at least I'll have done SOMETHING.

And Mom?  I'm sorry for when I surely did this to you.  You are a saint.