Who's Your MAMA A**?

Who's Your Mama Ass?

There is a code. A secret code. Women don't talk about it much. I'm about to break from tradition and put it all out on the table, so to speak.  Mom, please stop reading.

After attending "Not Your Mother's Tuperware Party," I acquired some...um...marital aids.  You know what I'm talking about, right?

Here's the thing about marital aids:  you must keep them somewhere.

That may sound obvious to non-neurotic people who don't stress over every detail of their life.  But where do us neurotic people keep them?

A logical spot is somewhere in the marital chamber bedroom.  But where?

The key is to find a spot no child will ever be interested in opening like your underwear drawer.  Or a place no housekeeper would accidentally stumble upon like the back of your closet.  Or maybe you're more decadent about your marital aids and you keep your swing and whips in a separate red room that is locked to keep intruders out and sex slaves in.  Hey, I don't know.  Maybe you are kinky in a Fifty Shades sort of way.

The point is, if you own marital aids then they are in your house.

That's all fine and good right up to the point when you die.
When you die someone will need to pack up all the things in your house.  I am sure this will involve judgement even in a marital aid-free home.

When I die people will know what an absolute slob I am.  When they move my couch, they will discover I never cleaned behind it nor did I ever clean up the mass of crumbs, pencils, hair balls, and other items that no doubt live in the couch cushions.  Nah, I'm not cleaning there.

Although I'll be dead, I'm still confident I won't like the idea of people talking about what a slob I am. Having said that, I'll be dead so there isn't much I can do about it, right?

Wrong!

The crap under my couch is small potatoes compared to the marital aids issue.  It's one thing to remember me in death as a slob who cared little for house cleaning.  It's quite another for people to learn I was a kinky horn dog who owned an odd assortment of creams and lotions that heat up and taste like hot fudge sundaes.  I would, quite literally, roll over in my grave.  (In fairness to me, there is tremendous pressure to buy these "goodies" at parties designed to wake up the teenager in you.  Peer pressure isn't just a teen issue. AND who can resist an edible cream that has zero calories and tastes like a hot fudge sundae?  But I digress...)

The point is every woman who owns any marital aid lotion, contraption, gizmo, equipment, device, gadget, or tool needs a MAMA ASS.

What's a Mama Ass?  Well, it's code for:  "Mourn After Marital Aids Are Secretly Secured."

Mama Ass friends know they have a HUGE responsibility.
When my Mama Ass learns I have died in a freak accident, that is hopefully totally unrelated to marital aids, she will make a beeline to my house.  She has a key to my home, she knows where to go, and she knows what to do.  She doesn't have time to mourn my untimely death.  She needs to dispose of all evidence of my sexuality. Get. It. Out. Of. There. Pronto!

After I'm dead, she pledges not to breathe a word to anyone about the loot she has unearthed.  She can also consider it the oddest inheritance ever!

If she has time to sweep the floors, clean the windows, fold the laundry, and dust behind the couch, that would be great, too.  Are you reading this, Mama Ass?  If so, the Windex is under the kitchen sink.

Who's your MAMA ASS?

The Olympic "Spirit"

The Olympics inspire hope, increase patriotism, showcase incredible talent, and remind me of how absolutely un-Olympian I am.

Perhaps it's the fact that I'm breathless after carrying loads of laundry up a flight of stairs.  Maybe it's the fact that when I chase my children, they never get caught.  Or maybe it's the realization that my definition of "swimming" includes a raft and a cocktail. The sad fact is, the Olympics puts my athletic ineptness into sharper focus.

As if that's not sad enough for me, now the Olympics is calling my libido into question, too.  Why does it always come back to sex?

Read this and you'll understand what I mean:  Will You Still Medal in the Morning?

Ok, I cannot lie. I am a little surprised.
I'm not surprised that gorgeous, young, physically fit athletes are having sex in the Olympic Village.  Nah, that's not surprising.  Have you seen these olympians? Sex between consenting, athletic, beautiful people happens all the time in my imagination, in the Olympic Village, and in works of fiction.

This is what surprises me: "At the 2000 Sydney Games, 70,000 condoms wasn't enough, prompting a second order of 20,000 and a new standing order of 100,000 condoms per Olympics."

Only 100,000 condoms?
Yeah, that's right.  Olympic Village needs more condoms.

Do the math.

There are more than 10,000 athletes at the London Olympics.
The Olympics last 16 days.
That's 10 condoms per athlete with less less than 1 condom per day per athlete.

Maybe I've been watching men's swimming and diving events too long, but I think they better order more condoms.  Any sexually frustrated housewife can tell you, the men's swim teams need their own supply of condoms.  Just one look at those wet, buff bodies and you will agree I need to stop watching every men's swim event.  I wish I could say I'm just showing my patriotism, but I didn't see a single skeet competition.  Not one.

Seriously, have you seen them swim?  Strong, hard bodies swimmers.  Seriously, I need to watch other events.  Somehow I don't think it should be men's gymnastics or men's track.

Ironically enough, I'm writing this while my husband watches woman's volleyball.

Sigh.

I am no Olympian.  A statement that shocks no one, I know.

Fifty Shades of...You've Got to Be Kidding Me

It's fiction, obviously.

Fifty Shades of Grey reminds me of Christmas.
EEK! I think that might be blasphemy.

My inner goddess just cringed and made a run for the hills.

Let me re-phrase:

Fifty Shades of Grey reminds me of when I have to wrap large amounts of presents.
There are only so many ways to wrap a present.

1.  You can wrap a present on a table or other hard service.
2.  Presents can easily be wrapped on the floor assuming you can get down on the floor and back up again without hurting yourself.
3.  You can wrap a present any time of the day or night.
4.  You can wrap a present in total silence or while listening to loud chamber music.
5.  You can bag your present. You know, place the present in a nice gift bag.
6.  You can wrap a present with a pair of scissors in one hand and cable ties tape in the other.
7.  You can tie the present up with rope ribbons and put a blindfold bow on top
8.  You can perhaps wrap a present in or around a bathtub, but it can get awfully messy if you go that direction.

In the end, you are left with a wrapped present.
Sure, sometimes the present feels looks better and more satisfying than others, but it is still a wrapped present.

If you've not yet read Fifty Shades of Grey by E L James, you need to do so.
Not because it's a literary masterpiece but because your inner goddess will thank you for it.

Plus, it's better than spending an evening wrapping presents.

"Why Interacting with Women Can Leave Men Cognitively Impaired"

Hey, Men, don't get snippy with me. I didn't come up with the title of this blog all on my own.

Nope, it's the name of an article in Scientific American. You can read the article here.

No, I don't typically read Scientific American or anything scientific. I have a strict policy about that. Ironically, my husband forwarded me the article. I think he wanted to explain why he is cognitively impaired but was too cognitively impaired to articulate it.

Instead he sent me an email with the article attached.
Yes, we are married so we communicate more via email and text message than we do face to face.

As women have known for eons, it's a scientific fact that men go stupid when talking to an attractive woman. Now it's also a scientific fact that men go stupid even when ANTICIPATING talking with a woman.

I, for one, think this explains an awful lot.

Maybe politicians are not as stupid as I thought. They are just cognitively impaired as a result of speaking to women. Perhaps this is why they all seemingly hold a grudge against women and women's rights? The oppression of women is the only way of keeping us from taking over the planet.

Here are my favorite lines from the article:

"Although the studies on their own don’t offer any concrete explanations ... the reason may have something to do with men being more strongly attuned to potential mating opportunities."

Yep, men are that simple.
The mere thought of potential rolls in the hay "mating opportunities" is enough to leave men cognitively impaired. No doubt the impairment is the result of blood rapidly leaving their brains and traveling to their dominate organ.

My husband is interrupting this brilliant observation to point out that it is scientifically inaccurate ("Cerebral blood flow is well maintained during the act of...blah, blah blah").

He's talking to me, but I only listen to him when he communicates via text message.

Plus, he's cognitively impaired now anyway, right?

My Love Letter to Friday

(Best if read aloud with an overly dramatic and wanting voice. Go ahead. No one is watching or listening to you. Do it. Read it like a wanton woman!)


My Dearest Friday,

We've only been separated for a few days, and already I long to see you again.

The mere thought of you brings a smile to my lips and a swing to my step. You arrive faithfully each week bringing hope for pleasant days ahead. Your visits are so short that I cannot help but want more of you.

Whether you arrive on a rainy day or a sunny one, I greet you with arms stretched wide. I shout my love for you to all who care to hear. The longer we are together, the more you give me hope that my 9 to 5 job will eventually end. Oh, the joy I feel when I leave work and can fully focus on you!

At the risk of cheapening our pure relationship, I must confess that I'm particularly fond of the visits when you bring me a check. Bless you for those visits. Those "pay days" remind me why I endure the days prior to your arrival. I wish they occurred more frequently, but I still love all of your visits. I am helpless to resist your charm.

In your absence, Monday is rude and conspires against me. Monday does not understand me the way you do. Monday tries to break me, but thoughts of you keep me strong.

Wednesday thinks he is something special, but the only humping I do is with you. Friday, you're my hump day.

At times Saturday tries to seduce me. I cannot keep that truth from you. Saturday offers all of himself to me, but I find myself cleaning, shopping, and running endless, at times mind-numbing, errands. Saturday can sometimes be high maintenance and overly ambitious. You ask nothing of me. You wait for my work day to end and then you tease me with the possibilities....oh...the endless possibilities!

Like a parched person craves water, I search for you.
Like a child on Christmas, I wait breathlessly with anticipation.
Like a sugar addict in a candy store, I crave you.
Like a reality TV star on Bravo, I overreact just thinking about you.
Like an employee waiting for the end of each work week, I....well...

Friday, I love you.

Exercising Never Felt So Good!

I am not making this up. There are studies suggesting some women orgasm simply by exercising.

I've never really enjoyed exercising, but apparently I've been doing it wrong.

"Any exercise that uses the core muscles seems to trigger that sense of pleasure." Apparently, exercises that induce a "coregasm" (again, I am not making this up) include biking, chin-ups, climbing rope, and yoga.

I am physically incapable of doing a chin-up. In my defense, I have a very long neck.
I also cannot climb rope because there is a lot of me to carry up a rope and I've never really seen the point. Put a piece of cake at the top of the rope, and then maybe I'll climb that rope. Having said that, since reading about the study, I do have a sudden urge to sign up for every yoga class I can find.

In the past, I've never been able to enjoy yoga because my mind is a lot like a ride at the fair. It is not screwed together tightly, it goes a little too fast, and it is operated by a scary person.

To be good at yoga don't you need to shut off your brain for a period of time and just be still? That's hard for me to do. It's also hard for me to orgasm while walking up a flight of stairs. Just saying.

However, now that I'm in the loop about the "benefits" of exercise, I'm willing to give yoga another try. Like any good student, I googled some yoga poses so I could be prepared.

Here's what I learned:
People who do yoga are perverts.
Please google "yoga's happy baby pose" before disagreeing with me.
Yoga enthusiasts may also be carnies.
Please google "yoga's side crow pose" for evidence. Yes, I research my facts.

I've spent a fair amount of time in fitness centers and know a few things.
By "fair amount" I mean "hardly any."
None-the-less, here are some additional facts:

- I am never going back to a fitness center now that I know there are women coregasming all around me (to be clear, I'm not grossed out just jealous);

- This research gives new meaning to the need to wipe down the equipment between users;

- Spinning isn't just referring to the wheels on the bikes

According to the study, "A handful of woman even say they have had sexual feelings while mopping."

Come on! Now they are just being ridiculous, right?
I mean, Ladies, we know a clean floor makes us feel good, but not THAT good.

I think I speak for the masses when I say, seeing your partner with a mop in his hand is arousing (and by "mop" I mean "mop"). I cannot deny the arousal I feel when seeing someone else clean my floors. However, actually mopping myself into an orgasm is somewhat less likely.

Anyone who has ever been in my home knows how little satisfaction I receive from mopping. I'm raising dust bunnies the way some people raise cattle. If mopping led to a "coregasm" I would unquestionably have floors from which you could eat. Not that you would because you would be wondering where I had last coregasmed. Not that I would tell you because I am very civilized, obviously. I know it's in poor taste to even talk about coregasming. Of course, it's also in poor taste to eat off the floor. I was really just suggesting it as an example vs. something you would actually want to do. See what I mean about my brain? This kind of stream of consciousness does not bode well for my chances at being successful with yoga or coregasming.

I'm not sure I believe a "coregasm" is actually possible, but I'm bound and determined to give it the ol' college try.

Worst case scenario, I'll have the strongest core muscles ever!

Yoga, anyone?

Not Your Mother's Tupperware Party

**Warning: If you are nun or a Puritan do not read any further. This will embarrass you, and you will lose all respect for me in the process. I love the respect of nuns and Puritans so please stop reading.**


The rest of you, dirtbags, are curious about what kind of vulgarness I'm about to unleash, right? Well, here goes...


I attended my first sex toy party. I am 39-ish and I've been married for over 15 years.
I have never attended a sex toy party (gasp!). When invited, I thought I could go for "research" purposes.

Well, apparently I was raised by a Puritan nun.
I, myself, am as pure and clean as newly fallen snow on a winter's morn.
This was NOT your mother's Tupperware party!

My pupils are still dilated and my cheeks remain blushed. It's been days since the party.

First of all, did you know they make waterproof, electric sex toys?
That's got to be a safety risk. These toys resemble power tools except they are brightly colored and have clever names like "Mr. Dependable," "Thumbs-Up" and "Disco Stick." One even glowed in the dark. They cannot possibly be safe to take into the water.

I couldn't risk that type of purchase because the image of the newspaper headline announcing my death haunts me:

"MOM OF 2 DIES IN A FREAK DILDO ACCIDENT AFTER BATHING FOR 6 HOURS"

My other fear is that my nosy curious children would find one of these industrial sized toys rendering me shamed and speechless.

I suppose I could swing it around and convince them it's a light saber.
After all, it lights up, glows, and makes a strange humming sound.
'Show and Tell' would never be the same if one of these accidentally found its way to school via a child's book bag. The only way I could recover from such an incident would be to change my name and move out of state. Of course, I would have to take Mr. Dependable with me. He really is a sight to... um... behold.

Have you ever wanted a Merkin? Do you even know what I'm talking about?
A Merkin is basically a toupee for a cleanly shaved pubic area. These were not sold at the party which was really disappointing to me because I was hoping to see one. A Merkin can be made out of feathers, fabric, fur, or get this...someone else's pubic hair.

Again, I was obviously raised in a convent. Who would shave their nethermost parts and then glue someone else's pubic hairs to them? Who does this? I'm 99% sure my husband would pass out if my who-ha hairs were replaced by brightly colored peacock feathers. I know this because my husband was also raised by a Puritan nun.

I will confess that the edible body glitter caught my attention. Most of the lotions, creams, and glitter products were all flavored and edible. I wonder how many Weight Watcher points those are?

Now there's a marketing strategy they should explore further.
"Item is appropriate for use on nipples, genitalia, or as a lite dressing or marinade because it's only 1 calorie per serving."
Mmmm, nothing like a salad served with a side of "Nympho Niagra" lubricant.
No, I'm not making up these names. "Nympho Niagra" exists for all you nymph-o-wannabes out there. I am not one, of course, because I am married.

(sigh)
Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned sex?

Must I appear covered in body glitter, wearing edible undies, brandishing a whip, a fist-full of anal balls, and a small arsenal of electric toys varying from pocket-sized to jumbo-tron-sized? Is that really necessary? Do I really need handcuffs, a swing contraption that looks like a future insurance claim, and a costume in order to be sexy? If that's not enough, I then need to shave every single hair from my vajayjay and glue someone else's pubic hair to my who-who?

Is this absurd or am I just a total prude? Don't answer that question.

I think I was at the wrong party because what I really need is a plastic container that comes with an airtight lid. I'll take 4 of those, please.

The Sanctity of Marriage

Can we talk about sex? Wait..wrong blog. This one is about marriage so no need to talk about sex.

I hate to be the one to break the news to all of you lovely gay people. Awkward!

I just think someone needs to clarify all the outrage around the idea of gay people getting married and tying the knot.  

(Tying the knot! That expression is so apropos. Why am I only now seeing the reference to bondage and suffrage? Or is it a knot as in a noose? Hmmm...) 


Sorry...internal dialogue derailed me for a moment...back to the sanctity of marriage.

Historically, us heterosexuals have been...well...inconsistent with our marital bliss. Something like half of us say "I do!" only to later say "I did, but now I'd like a do-over!" If you're famous, the "do-over" request can come within hours of the reception.
Kim Kardashian, if your reading this please send back the lovely cutlery set.

Some of us are so supportive of marriage we do it 2, 3, or even 4 or more times in our life. Yes, marriage is that great! Our failure at marriage doesn't deter us from trying again, and again, and again. We are a determined bunch of marriage-loving losers!  If gay people were to marry successfully how would that make us heterosexuals feel?

Others of us suffer from gay envy. Yeah, I said it. Gay envy.

You already own the market on cuteness. Hello, Nate Berkus!
Everything he touches is cute, cute, cute! (I'm talking about his decorating skills here.) Once gay people start to marry, do you know what that will lead to?
Cute marriages! It's totally outrageous because us heterosexuals know there is nothing cute about marriage. Weddings can be lovely, honeymoons can be fun, children can be cute, but marriages? No way! Those suckers are nothing but hard work and miscommunication!

Then there are those who are just plain ignorant and confuse homosexuality with predatory behavior, unlawfulness and downright criminal behavior. I suppose it's analogous with the way I confuse politicians with predatory behavior, unlawfulness and downright criminal behavior.

I mean it's one thing for a man to have a wife, a mistress, and support a prostitution business on the side, but it is totally inappropriate for two people of the same gender to express their love for one another, right?

Some people just don't like the idea of individuals of the same gender having sex.
Any happily married couple can tell you there is hardly enough hours in the day to get anything done given how much sex we are all having.

Clearly marriage is the only avenue for two people to engage in intercourse, love making, the nasty, the hanky panky, a friendly game of hide the salami, pickle tickle, the dirty deed, a home run, a roll in the hay, a roll in the sack, bumping uglies, boinking, banging, bumping and grinding, and the wild thing (I could continue, but I know my mom is reading this, and I'm fairly certain she passed out 2 sentences ago).

On this Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I dream of a society where all of us can target our hatred on things that truly deserve it such as poverty, violence, war, and discrimination.

I do.

The Birds & the Bees

Recently my son asked me, "Did you do a mating dance when you met daddy?"

"No, but your father did."

Apparently my attempts to have Animal Planet educate my son about the birds and the bees is more complicated than I initially realized. It's cowardly of me to approach reproduction this way with my son, but I'm still traumatized over the discussion I had with his sister years ago.

It was a day like any other. She was probably around 6 years old. She looked up from her chicken nuggets and asked, "So, Mom, how does the baby get in there?

"What?" I ask. This is my 'go to' response when my children ask any variety of questions. "Can I have a slumber party?" "Can I have glitter?" "Why are your legs prickly?"

I fake hearing loss in a vain attempt to avoid answering the question. "What?" buys me valuable time to think while my child re-asks the seemingly innocent question.
"How does the baby get in the mommy?"

"Well, when two people love each other they get married. When they are married, they have a baby." I've been giving her that answer since she was 4. Of course, 6 year olds are much smarter than 4 year olds. Yes, my answer is overly simplified and full of stereotypes, but it's consistent with my childhood upbringing. "Jenny and Chris sitting in a tree, k - i -s- s- i -n -g. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Jenny with a baby carriage!"

I'm pulled from my memories of the sing-song rhyme by my six year old's dogged determination to get to the bottom of this mystery. "But how does the baby get in there?"

I repeat my standard response, and I can tell my child is beginning to see that her mother is not as bright as she once thought. She begins talking vveeeerrrrrrryyyyy slllllooooowwwwlllllyyyy because she can tell I'm having a hard time understanding her.
"Mom, I knoooooow that. But how does the baby get in the mommy's belly?"

"When two people love each other, it's like growing a tree. The man plants a seed in the woman and a baby grows." Why I've resorted to comparing sex to tree farming, I'm not exactly sure. I blame my own mother for that one. She, too, told me I started off as a seed. I always worried when I accidentally ate any sort of seed that I would mange to grow a tiny person in my belly and wouldn't that be hard to explain to my kindergarten friends! Plus, how in the world would the tiny person be able to crawl out of my bellybutton? Certainly that is the exit door, but it's just so tiny. Or worse, what if I actually grew an apple tree in my belly? That would certainly be both painful and embarrassing! Did I mention I was a remarkably naive and stupid child?

My daughter continues to chew on her nugget while looking expectantly at me. I should add here that, for reasons I don't completely understand, I am now sweating and looking for the best way to exit the dining room. Did I leave the oven on? Is someone at the door? I think the phone is about to ring. Damn telemarketers can't call when you need them!

"But, mommy, how does the seed get in there?" Ohhhhh, she is a persistent and inquisitive child!

At this point, I am reminded of the Verizon commercial with the man who has 100 people behind him. "Can you hear me know?" I think what a benefit this could be to parenting. I wish I had a panel of moms behind me who I could turn to and ask, "What's the best way to answer this question?" Of course, I bet half of them would just look at me cross-eyed and ask, "What?"

As I look into my daughter's beautiful eyes an answer forms on my lips. Before I can respond, she sweetly asks, "Does the woman swallow it?"

With that, I tell her in detail how babies are made. When I finish, I cannot miss the disgusted look on her face and she emphatically declares, "I am NEVER doing that!"
I, of course, tell her she never has to do that.

So yes, son, your father and I did do a mating dance. If you need specifics feel free to ask your dad about it. If he responds with "What?" please go ask your sister.