Illusions

The other night I went to a drag show  Diva show a show involving men impersonating famous female singers.  This was a fun event to raise money for a good cause. It just goes to show what I will do to get away from my kids on a Friday night in the name of philanthropy. 

I have noooo idea how to be politically correct about this experience.  This should surprise no one since I am PC impaired.  I can be PI (politically incorrect) without even trying so imagine the damage I will do with this topic.

This was my first ... um ... show of this nature.

The show raised all sorts of torrid questions while forcing me to realize a few painful truths.

Truth #1:  The boobies of female impersonators are perkier and firmer than my own.
Question:  How do I know the female impersonators' ta-tas are firmer?
Answer:  I touched a pair, of course!  I did mention this was all in the name of charity, right? That money I shoved down Annie Lennox's brassiere went to a good cause. Honest, mom!

Truth #2:  I am nearly clueless when it comes to knowing anything about country singers.
Question:  Who is Lorrie Morgan?
Answer:  I have no idea! BUT her female impersonator is HOT!

Truth #3:  My friends are awesome fun, but they know nothing about human anatomy.
Truth#4:  Female impersonators have a mesmerizingly smooth panty line.
Question:  Where do female impersonators hide their ding-a-lings?
Answer:  I'm still trying to figure this out. My friends think perhaps some parts of the junk are shoved up a body cavity while I'm of the opinion duct tape is involved.

Truth #5:  My husband thinks I have a perverse brain.
Question: What would your husband say if the first thing you asked him upon waking was, "If you had to hide your private parts, could you shove them up into your body somehow?" Seriously, I double-dog dare you to go ask your hubby this question.
Answer (after a very long pause with a completely perplexed expression):  "I suppose you might be able to if you were really small."

It's an illusion to believe I have fully digested the experience of this fun-raiser.
What is not an illusion is my friends are awesome. They are beautiful, funny, smart women who can organize a great event, support a great cause, and encourage me to write a silly blog all about it!

Democracy Unglued

I love voting.
I love, love, love, love it!

I love it so much I wish I could vote twice, but those darn polling people are pretty sharp. I'm 92% sure I would never get past them twice.  As it is, I have a hard enough time getting through the process one time.  This is because I am nearly incompetent.

I wake up excited to vote.  Yes, I'm that person.

I race out the door and down the block to my polling place.  Ironically enough, I vote in a church. Please don't tell Mike Huckabee this or I'm pretty sure he would damn me to hell twice.  Once for voting "incorrectly" and another time for voting "incorrectly" in a church. But I digress...

I race into the polling place with my very fat wallet that contains no actual money, but every receipt or scrap of paper I've ever been handed in the last 31 days which is somewhere in the neighborhood of 5,000 slips of paper.

I know the nice polling people will need to see my ID.  I know this.

None-the-less, when asked to produce it, I cannot free it from my wallet's plastic cover.  While trying to free my ID from the wallet that binds it, half of those nearly 5,000 slips of paper decide to take flight.  They float around me like large confetti while I continue to dig and scratch at my ID.  Since I am no longer in my early 30s, no one ever asks to see my ID when I'm trying to buy my boxed wine.  For this reason, my ID is permanently glued inside my wallet.

The nice polling man says I can stop my epic battle to free my ID and just show it to him through the crusty plastic.  Brilliant!  So I do this while simultaneously trying to clean up all the scraps of paper that litter the area.

The nice polling man points out to me that my license has expired.  Whaaaat?

Yep.  Two weeks prior to voting I had the audacity to turn a year older and my license expired.  Apparently this explains why my ID could not be extracted from my wallet.  It has been nesting there undisturbed since the last time I voted.

The good news is I am still able to vote.  I just need to provide a bunch of other information including my social security number which is always a fun memory game for me to play at 6:30 in the morning.

After all of that, my moment to actually vote comes.  I love it!
Absolutely my favorite part of the entire adventure!  Uncle Sam wants MY opinion!  Boy, do I have opinions!

My polling place is "old school."  No, there's no hanging chads to worry about.
Just me, my lady parts, my ballot, and a black pen.  I carefully color in the oval spaces next to the candidates I support.

Then it happens.  Why does it always happen?
I start to have flashbacks to all the standardized tests I've failed as a youth.  I mean, come on people, there is a reason I have a liberal (no pun intended) arts education.  It's not because I nailed the math section of the SAT.

Suddenly, I am not 100% sure if I want to vote yes on Issue One or not.

Yes.  No.  No.  Yes.  Crap.

Now I'm forced to read the fine print.  Did I mention how much I hate story problems?  I look around incase my neighbor's ballot will offer me a clue it will come to me.  As I look around the polling place I realize, not for the first time, what a great country this is.

There I stand.
I'm with my lady parts, a wallet containing no money and a plethora of recyclable confetti, an expired license, and a nearly unglued state of mind.  All I have are my opinions and a desire for this country to do well in the next four years and beyond.

Despite all of my obvious inadequacies, I have a voice. I have the right and the privilege to vote.

God Bless America!

And You Think You Have Problems

You are feeling overwhelmed by your job, your kids are driving you up a wall, the bills are mounting, your free-time is dwindling, and your cat continues to puke hairballs like it's his job.  You just want to shut all the blinds, curl up in the fetal position and have a pity party for yourself.  

Then you read this article about the pain and suffering some people have to endure :
Woman's Non-Stop Orgasm Too Much of a Good Thing?

Of all the lousy crap that happens to you in the course of a week, why couldn't you have the problem of non-stop orgasms?  Wouldn't that make your job more interesting?  It would add some excitement to bill paying.  Heck, even cleaning up cat vomit might be arousing less awful.

I suppose it could get annoying, but I imagine there are several of us willing to be inflicted with this disease for a couple hours days just to confirm that it's an actual problem.

Is this how men feel all the time?  Poor men.  Oh, how they struggle with this in silence!
Strike that.  Men do not suffer in silence.  They struggle loudly and unapologetically over pretty much any ailment they suffer. My hubby talked endlessly for days about a splinter he had in his finger. The splinter was removed by ME, but the discussion about the pain and discomfort continued long after the dreaded splinter was removed.

In addition to being amused by a condition that sounds enviable, the article got me thinking about career choices.  When I was growing up, I had all sorts of career options.  I could be a journalist, social worker, nurse, artist, biologist, veterinarian, accountant.

I never imagined having Jim's job.
Jim "studies the neuroscience of sexual response, and is currently engaged in studying persistent genital arousal."

I can't swear to it, but I'm pretty sure I once knew a creepy guy in college who used the pick-up line "I'm studying persistent genital arousal."

This is a real job????

I'm thinking the economy isn't as bad as the nightly news suggests.
If you can make a living studying genital arousal then there is hope for this nation's future.

Is a Standing Ovation Too Much to Ask?

Apparently so.

A standing ovation is addicting.

I once spoke at an event where miraculously I received a standing ovation.  Whether it was caused by my brilliant, impassioned speech or by the need for everyone to simultaneously stretch their legs, I may never know.

BUT I can say with absolute certainty that a standing ovation is like crack-cocaine for your ego.

When I returned home I made a simple request.  When I am finished speaking, I only ask that my family rise to their feet and applaud.  Is that asking too much?

Apparently so.  My family has yet to rise off their bottoms and break into spontaneous applause.  What's wrong with them??

The other day I made lasagna for my family.  Not one round of applause.  Not one.

I washed sheets later that week.  Not a single clap.  Ungracious ingrates.

Perfect strangers thought I was worthy of spontaneous applause. What's wrong with my family?  Ohhhhhhh....wait....they know me.

Well, there you go.  It must be a scientific fact that it is easier to support strangers who sound good for a few moments in time than a family member who fulfills everyone of your endless needs.

So with that, I am rising to my feet and giving myself a standing ovation.  No, it's not the same, but it's better than nothing!

Plus, my ego needs a quick fix.

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.

Dear Gynecologist

Dear Gynecologist,

Don't you think this annual exam would go better for both of us if you bought me a drink first?

I remember being around 12 or 13 years old when I read an article in "Sixteen" magazine about annual gynecological exams. The memory of that article is burned into my brain. The article stated that women need to go to a gynecologist when they turn 18 OR when they become sexually active. That's when I vowed to remain a virgin for all of my natural life.

The article described in great detail what a gynecological exam entails. I COULD NOT BELIEVE what I was reading. Why in the world would any doctor venture into that cavernous space and root around?! Why were women not rioting in the streets over such a violation?! Why didn't anyone ever tell me about this?! I was simply disgusted and shocked!

Of course the 12 year old female brain is different from the 39-ish year old female brain. At least now I understand the medical benefits of a pap smear, and I know the doctor isn't just digging for lost treasures. By the way, where did I put my keys?

Despite my understanding of the need to endure such a humbling experience, I still remain curious as to proper etiquette. For example, if I were expecting house guests I would want to perhaps mow the front yard and certainly vacuum the living room. I understand the innate desire to to trim the bush before introducing your vajayjay to a gynecologist, but why do I also feel the need to shave my legs and paint my toenails?

Now, if I have the courtesy to tidy my yard, couldn't the doctor do me the courtesy of not making small talk while shoving cold metal objects into my fruit cellar? (Yes, I have a nearly endless supply of euphemisms for the word vagina.)

It's very difficult for me to talk about my summer vacation plans while there is seemingly a fist and a curling iron-like device knocking on my cervix. Hello? Please let me retreat to my happy zone where I image this entire experience is part of a bizarre dream sequence.

Men, I know you have the prostate exam to complain about, but two fingers and a cough is a fun night on the town compared to stirrups, metal objects, a blanket made by Brawny the quicker picker upper, and a side table filled with strange, cold metal objects. Top it off with a chatty gynecologist and you have an appointment from hell.

So, Dr. Gynecologist, I'll shave my legs, tidy up my living room, and prepare for our "visit", but could you pretend to be a deaf, mute physician who is not the least bit interested in my travel plans?

Thank you,
A 13 year old at heart

The "V" Word as in VAGINA

I am raising children so there is a laundry list of words and word combinations which can get you in trouble in my house.

Imagine hitting your thumb really hard with a hammer.
All of the possible words and word combinations you might say at that moment are banned in my house. This is one reason why I don't work with tools. I just can't risk the flood of profanity that would inevitably flow from my mouth. That, and I completely loathe home projects that involve tools, but I digress.

In addition to the obvious bad words, other really foul language like stupid-head, moron, and shut-up are also banned. I have tried banning "fart-face," but the alliteration coupled with the giggles makes the word difficult to ban in a house where 50% of us are children and 75% of us act like children.

You know what word is not banned in my home?
Vagina.

You want to know why?
Because it is an actual part of the female human body.

Children are curious creatures who have all sorts of questions.
It's hard to get all worked up over words that are body parts. We don't typically sit around talking about vaginas and penises, but I try not to overreact when the words are uttered. I might sweat a little and breathe easier when the questions have subsided, but I don't totally freak out prohibit our children from talking in the house for a day.

Why don't I ban the kids from talking in the house if they say the word vagina?
Well, because that is maybe the most asinine idea I've ever heard.

So help me understand why Michigan's male Speaker of the House banned two female state legislatures from speaking on the House floor because of comments they made which included the "V" word. Glad I don't live in that house!

"They will not be recognized to speak on the House floor today after being gaveled down for their comments and actions yesterday that failed to maintain the decorum of the House of Representatives."

The "V" word can get awfully messy all on its own, but I've never really thought the word itself would reduce the decorum of the House of Representatives. Isn't that what the elected officials do?

Wow! That is one powerful vagina! I mean hotpocket! Can I say "hotpocket"? What about "hoohoo"? Is "vajayjay" permissible? Oh, I'm so confused!

I can think of all sorts of "V" words that make my skin prickle. For example, varicose veins, venereal disease, vampires, and viagra give me the willies. The scariest and most dangerous word of all, however, isn't even a "V" word.

Nooooo, the scariest word is the "P" word. Politician.

When a male politician starts to make rules and laws about my lady parts, I want him to be banned from speaking in any house. Proper decorum demands it.

River Truths

This past weekend my family got an offer we could not refuse.
We were invited by friends to spend the day frolicking on the Ohio River.

To protect my friends' identities I am going to choose totally fictitious names for them. I've completely made these names up, and my friends can try to figure out who is who because I am never going to tell.

Kristen Wiig, Amy Poehler, Claire Dunphy and I had a fabulous afternoon. I even met a new friend who I'll call Mia Rudolph.

There are some universal truths about river life. Although I am no expert, and I absolutely MUST research this more, I believe I have unearthed some of these truths.

Again, these are river truths. If you've never spent the day out on the river, you'll just need to take my word for it:

• Life on the river is in a unique time zone. Time stands still, and then suddenly an entire afternoon disappears in a blink. Strange, right?

• Everyone pees in the river.  Everyone.  Some people are just more brazen than others.                 Kristine Wiig will squat in knee deep water and talk with you while obviously peeing in the river.

• There are really smart fish in the river. The fish stay away from those who are fishing but stay close to those who are floating. You can't always see them, but they are there. Just ask Claire.

• Other people enjoy spending time with your children and you enjoy spending time with other people's children. I considered swimming off with Amy Poehler's baby. That baby is just too darn cute!

• Tubing should be an Olympic sport. My friends and I would definitely bring home the gold! The gold goes to Claire, Mia, Kristen and me for our flawless tubing performance.

• Tubing will leave rug-burns on your elbows and any other bodily surface that is repeatedly thrown and tossed around on a tube. Gold medals come at a price!

• Naming your raft is not required but recommended. Our raft, in the words of Kristen Wiig, is the Moms I'd Like to Friend (MILF) raft.

• Children can eat whatever they want.  In other words, 6 handfuls of chips + 2 pieces of cake = dinner.

• Grown-ups can eat whatever they want.  In other words, beer + beer + beer = dinner

• A bratwurst hot tub is a gourmet delicacy. Amy Poehler showed her cooking brilliancy with that one!

• The river life promotes sharing. Mia, Kristen, and Amy seemingly share everything like boats, cottages, campers, food and beverages. They are just so generous they share it all (except husbands, of course. One of those is enough for any woman. Who needs 2?) This makes me think I may just need to move my van down by the river. I could hang with my friends while living out of my van. Do you think they would notice?

All of this to say, the river life rocks!
What a wonderful way to spend an afternoon!

A Mother's Wish List

Years ago my sweet son created a beautiful Mother's Day card for me.

On the front of the card he created a picture of me made from various scraps of fabric and paper. My card self had shockingly yellow hair and a skirt that suggests I have absolutely no sense of style.

On the inside of the card my son had written the following message:

"Mom, happy mother's day. When can I play more Wii?"

Imagine if we could, for one day, request things WE want. My wish list is rather simple.

I want:

• To sleep past 6:36 a.m.

• Children to stop tormenting each other which forces me to use that voice my mother used when I tormented my sister. It's the same voice I swore I would never use with my children.

• Children to be able to use the bathroom without being reminded to wipe, flush, and wash hands (in that exact order).

• The opportunity to use the bathroom privately.

• Children's eyes to be physically incapable of rolling around in their sockets while I am staring into them.

• People in my house to learn how to use those two mysterious machines that wash and dry clothes. They can stop thinking we have a Laundry Fairy

• To be left alone long enough so I can read Fifty Shades of Grey

• To be left alone long enough to find a good hiding place for Fifty Shades of Grey

• To raise children who will be able to recognize a good nursing home from a bad one and then decide NOT to send me to the bad one.

• My children to realize that every time I make a suggestion, its because I love them more than air versus merely wanting to make their life miserable.

• My children to truly understand how glorious motherhood is, and despite all the things I want from them, my day is already complete because of them.

On this Mother's Day, I am painfully aware that some only wish they had one more day with their child or one more day with their mom. I know Mother's Day is a happy day for some, bittersweet for others, and agonizing for those grieving.

Whether we are mothers to 1 or 12, whether we are single mothers, widowed mothers, young mothers, older mothers, we are mothers.

Happy Mother's Day to all of us overwhelmed mothers who screw up parenting regularly, but remain well intentioned throughout.

For those mothers who can only hold their children in their hearts and not in their arms, you are the most courageous mothers of all.

A Public Service Announcement for Men

"Do These Jeans Make Me Look Fat?"

Any answer short of "Hell no!" is the absolute wrong answer.

Listen up, Men. Some questions are disguised as opinion seeking questions but they actually have potentially lethal consequences.

The, "Do these jeans make me look fat?" is just one. Here are some other examples :

"Would you still love me if I lost all my limbs in a freak accident?"
"If I died, would you consider dating my best friend?"
"Don't you wish I had the same figure as when we first met?"

Any of the above questions could lead to your demise. No one actually wants to hear the truth. Truth is over rated.

Also, while I'm trying to keep this brief since I know you aren't really listening to me, I also want to add that you should not make any noise whatsoever when your significant other reaches for a second helping of potatoes. A cough, a sigh, a loud swallow can all be misconstrued for the following statement:

"Geeez, Lard Ass, lay off the carbs!"

Since you risk being misinterpreted, I suggest not breathing until your love is completely finished eating.

If you have any doubts about an appropriate response to any question or situation, consider saying, "You are right."

You MUST be sincere when saying this or you risk losing your own limbs in a freak accident.

This message was brought to you by a woman who is always right and who, incidentally, has exactly the same figure as she did 15 years ago. She knows this because her husband told her so when she asked him.

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?

Vacation Momma

Ahhhh....vacation.

My family recently traveled South for the annual spring break migration.
I did not go with them, but my alter ego did. Yes, she is always the one who goes on family vacations because the real me is absolutely no fun.

Vacation Momma, however, is a blast!

Vacation Momma and crew stay at a kid-friendly resort that offers planned activities throughout the day. Vacation Momma signs up for nearly half the activities including 9 am aqua aerobics. That's right. Vacation Momma is a health nut who thinks exercise is actually good for the heart and soul.

Question: When was the last time I took an aqua aerobics class in my hometown?
Answer: 1996

Vacation Momma managed to take several classes in one week. That woman is something else.

After aqua aerobics she shepherds her children to a craft activity where they make seashell picture frames. Vacation Momma thinks this is such a clever idea.
She wants the kids to make them at home and give them to grandparents, aunts, uncles, and teachers for Christmas! She realizes she just needs a few frames, hot glue, and approximately 6500 shells. This leads her on a mission to find 6500 perfect shells.

I just want to go on vacation and vegetate on the beach.
No time to sit and relax for Vacation Momma! Vacation Momma drags herself up and down the beach looking for 6500 perfect shells. She is completely delusional about the fact that once she gets home, she will be replaced by ME. Once they return home, Vacation Momma will vanish and I will throw those shells away because they will smell like rotting sea creatures. Other than Martha Stewart, who makes seashell frames for Christmas? In March?

Don't judge her, but Vacation Momma likes her liquor. Never before breakfast, but usually before noon. After all, it's five o'clock somewhere (a daily expression she says half a dozen times between 11 a.m. and 5 p.m.)

Vacation Momma is all about having a good time.
The kids are still chewing their lunch and she is encouraging them to get back in the water. None of this namby pamby wait 30 minutes or you'll get a cramp and die stuff. No, Vacation Momma wants her kids busy, busy, busy so they will pass out early, early, early.

On this topic, Vacation Momma and I completely agree.

My Family's Honesty is Overrated

Did you read my last post?

Do you know I order swimsuits online instead of going into stores because I don't want perfect strangers to hear my shrieks of disgust and horror? I only like to shriek in the privacy of my own home while around those individuals who are supposed to love and support me. "Supposed" is the operative word here.

My new swimsuit arrived in the mail. I was actually able to squeeze my body into it. The color was perfect because it was black and everyone knows black is "slimming."

I started feeling optimistic. I left the privacy of my bathroom and ventured through my house to get the opinions of others. This was a mistake.

I found my husband in the kitchen:

Me: I need you to be totally honest. Do you like this swimsuit?

Hubby: Hmmmm.

Silence

Hubby: Does the ruffle bother you?

Silence

Hubby: I mean, (awkward pause) I guess I don't really know what is in style these days?

Silence

Hubby: Am I (awkward pause) really bad at this?

By now I am headed away from horribly honest hubby towards judge #2. I find her reading in bed.

Me: Do you like this swimsuit?

Tween: (With barely a glance towards my albino white skin and new, jet black swimsuit) Yeah, yeah. It looks great. (Now a 2nd glance, followed by an expression of utter horror.) Do I see your private hair?!

I turn to flee from her room.

Tween: Now I see your butt crack!

I head back to the privacy of my own room. Of course, I don't actually get any privacy because I never get what I want my son appears.

Me: Do you like this swimsuit?

Son: Yes.

Me: Really?

(I'm shocked. For a brief moment I think my son and I are the only two people in the house with any sense of style.)

Me: What do you like about it?

Son: It's better than the other ones.

(And for the record, he is smiling as if the disgustingness of my other swimsuits has been weighing heavily on him. He's finally able to unburden himself with the secret that his mother has some pretty ugly swimwear.)

Would it be so hard for my family to just tell me that the swimsuit was poorly made, and I deserve better? Please lie to me.

I CANNOT HANDLE THE TRUTH!

Swimsuit Shopping Season

Swimsuit shopping season is upon us as evidenced by the endless stream of catalogs with scantily clad models on the covers.

Swimsuit shopping season coincides with the time of year when I practice self loathing and binge eating.

I flip through the swimsuit catalogs while munching on healthy foods like Doritos and newly arrived Girl Scout cookies. Yes, I'm leaving orange cheese stains on each page as I belittle myself for not having more self restraint.

I have yet to find a swimsuit model in my favorite beach pose: spread eagle on a towel with a frozen drink in one hand and a half empty bag of chips in the other. The swimsuit is covered with a generous sprinkling of chip crumbs, and the model is 3 sheets to the wind.

If I ever see a swimsuit being modeled this way, I am definitely ordering that suit!

I've learned the best way to shop for a swimsuit is to buy from online catalogs.
No one wants to hear my shrieks of disgust or sobs. Everyone is happier if I try on the swimsuits in the privacy of my own home.

Another benefit of ordering from catalogs, of course, is that I do not own one of those evil, three-paneled, fun-house mirrors that are always found in dressing rooms with the brightest of fluorescent lighting. The downside of trying a swimsuit on at home is that I do not own one of those evil three-paneled mirrors.

I have no idea what my backside looks like which is a good thing. I last saw my backside in 2008, and I decided that I never needed to see that mess again.

Here's the thing I really don't understand. How did the back of my thighs become puckered and jiggly?
Is this normal? Don't answer that question.

Like every woman on this planet, I just want to find a swimsuit that fits me well and masks all of my various physical flaws. For this reason, I'm considering moving to Alaska.

Advertisers think they are being helpful by telling us in code which swimsuits would flatter us. The problem with this is that I don't always understand the code.

Am I a triangle, an upside down triangle, a rectangle or a star? Do I need tummy support and a miracle bra lift or just all over support? Should I buy a swim mini or a swim skirt? Do I need high cut, regular cut, regular torso or long? It's all too confusing!

Can the advertisers just label the swimsuits a little more clearly?

Honestly, I won't be offended. I would just like to see a page that reads, "If you have puckered, jiggly thighs buy one of these 2 swimsuits. We recommend sticking to black."

(OK. That's a bold-faced lie. I will be TOTALLY offended, but I'll get over it. I'll put on my big girl panties, and I do mean big girl, and get over it.)

Swimsuit shopping is stressful enough without having to decipher a code in the process.

Now, where did I hide that box of Thin Mints?

Leave My Ovaries Alone

If you are sensitive to the foul language of sailors, you may want to stop reading. Although I don't come from a long line of sailors, I'm about to rant vulgarly.

First, I should say that my ovaries and I have not always been on speaking terms. Those two can be scheming, conniving ladies who have caused me my fair share of pain and suffering.

As a woman who has struggled with infertility, I realize the irony of me standing up and telling politicians to back away from the birth control issue. While they're at it, they can leave Planned Parenthood the hell alone, too!

I mean really, should the Duggers be the family we all aspire to be? Really?

I have the right to do whatever I want to do with my ovaries and reproductive tract because they are MINE!! Mine! Mine! Mine! (I learned this kind of language from my children).

I suppose next you're going to tell me how many children I can have? That's really worked well for CHINA!

After that, I suppose you'll tell me with whom I can procreate. I'm totally against that. (Unless of course you think George Clooney and I should...you know...)

Listen up, politicians!

You are not the sharpest tools in the shed.
I understand that so I'm going to talk veeeery slooooowly.

If we didn't provide you with your daily dose of Viagra, how would that make you feel?
Fine? Really?
Well, how about if blood poured from your penis every 28 freaking days?
How would you feel about that, Hot Shot?

Aren't there more important issues you could address?
Given the current economic climate, for example, perhaps you could focus on the "E" word.
I'll give you a clue. It rhymes with autonomy.
Yes, the ECONOMY deserves your attention and thoughtful consideration - not my reproductive tract!
Incidentally, autonomy is what I have with my ovaries and uterus. You can leave those gals alone.

I CANNOT BELIEVE A BUNCH OF OLD, WHITE, MALE POLITICIANS THINK THEY KNOW WHAT WOMEN SHOULD DO WITH THEIR REPRODUCTIVE SYSTEMS!!

Anyone else have the urge to burn your bra in the middle of the street or do I just need to take another Midol tablet?

I suppose if we were talking about the politicians' testicles, they would feel differently.

Never mind. I'm totally wrong about that. You know why?

These politicians don't have any balls.

Cupid, Bring Me More Chocolate Wine

A small boy in diapers is going to shoot me in the ass with an arrow and I'm going to fall in love?

Was some pervert drinking when he thought this up?

If he was drinking, I hope he was sipping a lovely glass of chocolate wine.
Yes, chocolate wine.

Just when you think life has beaten you down and there is nothing pleasurable in your life, your Facebook friend casually mentions that she's drinking chocolate wine.

Yeah, I assumed she was drunk. Perhaps she was. That's when I do some of my best Facebooking.

I thought she meant she was drinking wine and eating chocolate. Turns out she is my new heroine for introducing me to chocolate wine. What's next, cupcake vodka?

I was a chocolate wine virgin, but that ended Monday night. Well, Monday late afternoon, but don't judge me.

Chocolate wine takes two perfect items and blends them into perfection. Remember those fabulous Reece Peanut Butter Cup commercials where a girl is walking with an open jar of peanut butter and a silly boy with a chocolate bar runs into her? Two great tastes that taste great together!

Well, I'm no advertiser, but I think I know the perfect commercial for chocolate wine.

A woman sits alone at a bar drinking a glass of wine. George Clooney comes in with chocolate syrup and squirts some into her glass. The camera zooms in and the woman sips the wine and smiles demurely. Cupid steps out from behind the bar and shoots George Clooney in the ass with an arrow. Camera zooms in closer to reveal that I am the woman at the bar.
The end.

Geez, this is good wine.

Cupid? Hey, little naked winged boy, bring me more chocolate wine, please.

Happy Valentine's Day!

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.

A Message to College Girls

This is dedicated to a college intern who will remain nameless...

Once upon a time, I was you.

I was having the time of my life! My best friends were my roommates and I was surrounded by eligible bachelors. I set my own schedule and I could do as I pleased. This included ordering pizza at 2 in the morning and never suffering from heartburn or weight gain after eating half of it.

As I think about it, college was like living in a fantasy world. I even remember my father telling me, "These are the best years of your life," and I thought he was wrong!

College girls, these are some of the best years of your life.

Don't waste them worried about your waistline or your thighs. Ten years from now you'll see a picture of yourself from today and you will realize how beautiful you were.

If a young man buys you a drink or a meal, don't feel you owe him ANYTHING.
Chivalry is not dead so don't try to kill it.

Don't go out drinking without a good girlfriend by your side. Don't leave your girlfriend once either of you start drinking. Girl power is not to be underestimated.

Yes, Hairy Buffalo is an excellent drink. Don't drink it sitting down. Trust me on this. If you feel the need to sit down while drinking it, it's time to go home and go to bed (alone).

Beer goggles are invisible, but they most certainly do exist.

Say kind words about your fellow female counterparts. We can be our own worst enemies.

Don't cuss. Cussing makes you look like a @^€/#*! fool.

Bad boys are appealing to hang out with but they make appalling partners. Better to be alone than be with someone who doesn't accept you for who you are or who doesn't respect you.

Stop texting and put the cell phone down! In order to meet cute boys, you will need to actually look at them and talk with them.

A great place to pick up a cute boy is the grocery store. Seriously.

If you have the urge to get a tattoo, wait 24 hours. That cute dolphin on your butt cheek will eventually morph into a large sperm whale later in life.

Your mother is right. Keep your shoulders back and your chin up. A stooped woman is not what you aspire to be.

That statistics course you're taking is a necessary evil, and you will never use any of it in real life.
On the plus side, after graduation no one will ever ask about your GPA.

Don't let anyone make you think you can't accomplish what you want. You can and you will if you apply all the gifts and talents you have been given.

Don't forget to call home. Those people totally get you, even when you don't get yourself.

Of course, respect the advice of women older than you. One day you will be one of those women. That will happen sooner than you ever imagined possible.

GO BOBCATS!

Pimply Old Me

I was a very attentive student, and I am nearly certain my junior high health teacher never mentioned the possibilities of getting pimples in adulthood. Pimples are for teenagers and anyone on steroids.
I am neither.

So why am I nursing a pimple that is firmly rooted between my eyebrows?
My children asked what it was, and I told them I'm turning into a unicorn.
That happens after a certain age, right?

I did what any self-assured, confident woman would do in this situation.
I anxiously called a few friends and asked them how to dry up and hide my budding horn.
My friends are morons.

Toothpaste was the number one suggestion to dry it up. Well, didn't I look lovely.
Even my children mocked my minty-fresh horn. In addition to turning into face plaster, toothpaste does make you feel as if your skin is burning off. And we use this stuff on our teeth? No wonder my gums bleed!

In terms of coverage, concealer was recommended. Well, that may have worked better had the toothpaste not melted my skin and formed a sore the size and shape of Ohio between my eyes. As it is, the concealer was sucked up by my open wound creating a scab that only highlighted the large nub I was trying to conceal. Ironic, right?

I would like to ask the evil pimple gods why they chose to place this enormous puss-filled nodule in the center of my face. I was complaining to my husband who pointed out that he gets pimples, too. I asked to see them and guess what. He has one behind his ear. How is that fair? I told him my pimple could kick his pimple's ass.

I swear I am housing the mother of all pimples. I should name it.
Hmmm...Mount Pustule might be appropriate.

Now I'm online actually wondering if we should remortgage the house so I can afford face cream that guarantees that the pimple gods will never visit my face again. 100% guaranteed.

Tempting, but I've got to evict the one leasing space on my face first. It's scaring young children. I overheard my children talking while setting the dinner table.

My son said, "You can sit by mom tonight. I don't want to sit next to her pimple." Isn't that the saddest thing you've ever heard? My pimple needs its own seat at dinner!

Because there is a comic in every family, mine is having a competition related to who has the best pimple jokes. After dinner, my daughter taped a third eye to her forehead and my husband said, "I would be pretty sure that Mount Kilimanjaro is in Eastern Africa if it wasn't clearly on your face."

Meanwhile, my son is visibly frightened by my pimple and is trying to avoid it (me) at all costs. Frankly, this is hard to do since the pimple seems to have its own blood supply and is growing rapidly.

On the bright side, once I rid myself of this 5th limb, I imagine I'll weigh 5 pounds less!