Dueling Dildo Defeat

Fridays I usually only work half a day, which is great because it allows me to get things done that I don’t usually have time for during the week, but this Friday I was scheduled to volunteer at a Red Cross Blood Drive and attend a Pure Romance party with girlfriends afterwards. I left work about 1:30, went to the bank and headed over to get ready for the blood drive. I worked there until a little after 5, then had to rush back to town to buy tickets I was supposed to get two weeks ago (sorry Auntie, but you know if it weren’t for last minute, I wouldn’t get a damn thing done!) before the selling business closed. I made it with only about a minute and thirty seconds to spare. It was now after 5:30 and while my kids had activities for the evening, I needed to get them fed before hand, and I was now running behind for my next obligation. I hurriedly rush through the Wendy’s drive-thru, rush home, throw the food on the table, run a brush through my hair, and I’m off to my next event.

In case you’ve never heard of a Pure Romance party, it is basically a sex toy and lingerie party, usually attended only by women. At this particular party there were plenty of appetizers, and lots of alcohol in the form of various jello shots and tequila balls to get everyone loosened up. Then the games begin. Games include things such as an addition and subtraction of points based on sexual experiences to give you your kink score (mine wasn’t the highest, but it wasn’t too shabby either!); a suck and blow relay race where two lines are formed and jello shots in containers which open on both sides must be past down the line; and my personal favorite…pass the double headed dildo using only your legs, done music musical chairs style.

Just imagine 20 women standing in a circle…the music comes on, the double headed dildo hangs from between the first woman’s legs, as she swings to face the opposite direction then swings it upward using only her legs and thrusts of her hips (touching with hands disqualifies); the woman next to her quickly trying to capture it between her thighs, then swing around to pass it to the woman on her other side. Because this double headed dildo is so long and floppy, in order to pass it and the recipient to catch it above the knees as the rules require, each person passing must sling it up, and the person receiving must spread their legs and bend down then snap their legs shut at just the right time. However, neither wants to be the one holding it when the music stops. When the music stops, the woman who’s thighs contain the dildo is disqualified, the circle tightens and the cycle continues. Faster and faster, more and more frantically these alcohol loosened women try not be caught with the dildo in their possession when the music turns off, sometimes causing someone to drop it or touch it with their hands…oops, they are out too. The game continues until it is down to only two people. Who might you ask were these two unfortunate souls who are in the show down dildo battle? You guessed it…me and another blondie.

And it can be yours for the bargain price of $29.00!

Now all eyes are on us. The other blondie and I facing each other in a sort of vertical missionary position,thrusting the dildo back and forth in frantic, exaggerated motions…back and forth, back and forth, the dildo swinging from my thighs to her thighs, with all the onlookers laughing their asses off…then the music stops...and the dildo hangs from my legs. I drop my head in dildo defeat and then commence to drown myself in more alcohol!

After suffering my dildo defeat, we all sit in a semi-circle and begin passing around all sorts of fun things; small button size vibrating devises, incognito lipstick looking pleasure bringers, big who needs a man vibrators, tasty warming lubricants, throat numbing gels (lmao…that one still gets me…they’ve thought of everything!!), massage oils and candles. Because this is a hands and mouth on experience, we are tasting the tastable gels, rubbing the non tastables on our arms, smelling the smellables, playing with the power settings of the various vibrating contraptions of sensual satisfaction. I even had a conversation with a dildo which had a face on it, and unlike a man, it didn’t talk back or argue! I think it was love at first sight!

What, might you ask, did I buy?  None of your business!  That shall remain a secret as a woman's toy drawer is sacred, known only to her and her playmate...and the 20+ other women that are there when she fills it.

And the Liebster Award Goes To...

Having had only a few hours sleep the night before, yesterday was a very long day.  All day I found myself thinking of how neglected my bed pillows have been this week, and how I planned to make up for it last night.  Despite being super busy dealing with dumbasses all day at work and wishing that there was some sort of aptitude test that could be given to individuals before they were given a voice box, the day drug on and on.  The clock ticked slowly, and then slower still; the sound almost hypnoticly causing a fluttery dance between my upper and lower eyelid as I struggled to keep them apart.  When the work day was finally coming to an end I had visions of going home and engaging in some quality drool time with my pillows, but my mother and a friend hijacked my evening requiring me to come eat Mexican food and drink margaritas (I know, it’s a tough life).  By the time I got home, put kids to bed, and took a minute to sit down and unwind, I was seriously battling fatigue.

Once again my pillows were calling my name, one saying “Blondie, come let me hold your head in a tender embrace as you drift off to sleep.”  My leg pillow saying, “You know how you love me between your legs.” I was clearly hearing them in my head, but was disturbed by the chiming of my phone with an email of a new comment to my blog from Roe (I LOVE comments). 

My spirits were lifted and I was refreshed when I discovered that Roe, incredibly funny author of the blog “My Upside Down Life”, had given me the Liebster Award in her pick of 5 favorite bloggers.  Yay me!  So today, feeling extremely honored, I am charged with accepting the award and passing it to five of my favorite bloggers.

I would like to thank Roe for bestowing on me such a fabulous honor, and for lifting my spirits after an otherwise long day.    Roe is a kindred spirit who’s blogs always bring me smiles and laughter.  I love her observational humor about everyday life and her quirky, sometimes smartass take on it. 

The Liebster Award is meant to be given to bloggers with less than 200 followers.  In passing the torch, I’ve been thinking and reading all morning and I pass the Liebster Award to the following bloggers:

RachRiot.  Rach is a fabulous person with a great sense of humor.  I’ve yet to read anything she’s written that I don’t find myself laughing aloud and sharing with my friends and family.

Because Nobody Likes Mondays.  Heather is very awesomely funny, and you don’t have to enter a damn captcha to comment (I hate those things)!

Who Woulda Thought.  Kevin is a 34 year old man, and in addition to being funny, has a great way allowing me to see things from a man’s perspective.

The Incoherent Ramblings of aMoose.  I just discovered this blog, but it is already becoming one of my favorites as I swear when I read her blog, I wonder if there’s a camera in my house and she’s writing about my life, or if our sons are identical twins by different parents.

Two Too Smart, SmartassMommies.  Another blog that always makes me laugh.

To the newest award recipients, you are charged with the following duties in accepting your award:

Accept your award, thank the person that gave it to you and link back to them on your blog

Nominate 5 other blogs

Leave a comment on their blog telling them about the award

Post the award on your blog

Diarrhea of The Mouth

I realized today that I could really use something between my brain and my mouth, that will stop me from saying half the half the shit I say…a mouth governor of sorts.  A little filter that turns me mute when my brain thinks something completely rude, sarcastic or inappropriate (though admittedly, that would mean I’d be mute A LOT!)  I guess you could say I have diarrhea of the mouth.  If I think it, I’m probably going to say it, and even worse, I’m probably going to find myself entertaining and not change it without an intervention, such as a mouth governing filter.  Here are a few examples of times I probably would have been mute so far this week, with a few humorous conversations thrown in.

Random shit I've said this week, with or without thinking:

The only thing he’s sick with is dumbass disease.

 Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.

 You get called an asshole a lot, don’t you? (Is this the same thing as calling him and asshole?  Hmmmm.)

I am a homosexual man, trapped in this body.

The most successful intimate relationship I’ve had has been with my dildo.

If I wanted to hear from an asshole, I’d fart.

You’re so full of shit your eyes are brown.

I’m not your type…I’ve got a brain.

Don’t think of yourself as short…just vertically challenged.

They’re either fucking or fighting, but can’t make up their minds about which they want to do when.

Conversations with or about my kids:

Me and my 11 year old son after he heard me refer to a very yummy food as a mouth-gasm on the phone:

Son: MOM!!!  You said orgasm!

Me: No I didn’t.  I said mouth-gasm.
Son: NO YOU DIDN’T!!! You said ORGASM!
Me: Son, you wouldn’t know an orgasm if it jumped up and squirted you in the eye!

Yes, I’m waiting on my mother of the year award any day now.

Son: Can I sleep with you tonight?

Me: No.
Son: Please?
Me: No
Son: Pretty please?  Can I please sleep with you?
Me:  No, now go to bed.
Son: (As he walks down the hall with slumped shoulders, puppy in hand, he stops, turns around, glares at me, then says to the puppy) See that woman?  I know you love her, but she’s not mama…she’s a mean blonde headed monster. (Well thank you for noticing, son)

After an argumentative phone call with my son about going to his tutor

Friend: Don’t you love kids? (sarcasm noted)
Me: Yeah…I’d love to drown them!

(For some reason I still haven’t gotten that mother of the year award.  Maybe it will be in the mail tomorrow.)

Morning People Beware

While I tend to be a pretty easy going person, there are a couple things that I absolutely hate and that turn me into a grumpy bitch.  In the top three of that list are Mondays and mornings, but number one would be morning people.  Folgers commercials really urk me, especially today, since it’s both Monday AND morning, and their commercials are filled with morning people.  UUUUGGGGG!!

As I was on my way to work, I found myself thinking of the Folgers commercial where everyone starts dancing thinking, I dare someone to burst out in spontaneous dance singing, “The best part of waking up, is Folgers in your cup.” I’d steal their coffee, make them fall on their face, and jump on their backs with my high heeled shoes. Damn morning people!  Then realizing that it’s hard to trip someone and steal their coffee while driving, I decided I’d just run them over yelling, “There’s no Folgers in your cup now, mf’er! Ah Ha Ha Ha Ha”  Ok, Maybe I’m a little diabolical in my thinking, I thought briefly as I arrived at work. This is until, while looking for the Folgers dancing commercial, I found this (Commercial doesn’t really begin for about 12 seconds):

Oh my freaking gosh!  My favorite part of the whole commercial is when the dog growls at the sinister yellow, morning person.  I found myself hoping the dog would bite her.  Since I know I am not alone in my morning bitchitis, if these creepers went on a morning Folgers campaign there would be loads of dead yellow people littering the world. 

I could just imagine being the couple sleeping in bed when some random creeper decked in yellow with an overly chipper demeanor appears in my room, mere inches from my face, singing “Happy Morning!!! Happy Morning!!!  Wake up you sleepy head, you can sleep when you are dead!”  Oh hell no!  I can sleep when YOU are dead.  Meet my pistol.  Officer I swear it was self defense.  I woke up and he was in my bedroom serenading me.  I thought he was a rapist or serial killer.   

Or what about the sinister yellow dudes spying through the sky light on the guy taking a shower, then you see their hands coming down around him?  Are you freaking kidding me!?  Having that many hands around my naked body might be fun in some sort of kink session, but we’re talking about mornings here, and those hands are in serious danger of being severed from the bodies they’re attached to.  I’d then use their severed limbs to beat the barrage of sinister yellow morning people milling around the roads harassing the morning grumps.

So to all you morning people out there…be kind to the morning grumps and keep your chipper morning attitudes to yourself.  Remember that there are people out there, much like myself, who will hate you just for not hating mornings.  These people, suffering from morning bitchitis, are capable of things you’d never think them capable of in their normally chipper selves.  If you absolutely must burst out into spontaneous song or dance with your coffee…drink your coffee at home...with your blinds drawn, because you never know when we’ll be looking to mow some chipper person down with our cars or massage their back with our spiked heels, just for being chipper.

Boots to No Boots...Music, Tequila and Epileptic Dancing

The evening started out with boots...

These boots. 


Then there came music...

By these guys who totally rock (click the picture if you don't believe me.  They're awesome!)  Not only do they put on a fabuous performance, they're fun to look at too.   No need for jealousy guys, they're married and good boys (damnit!).

I can't be too sure, but when I saw this picture, I figured it was one of my girlfriends telling me to look away, roll my tongue back in my mouth and wipe the drool from my face.  Ok maybe not, but I'm still a little puzzled by the head molesting I was receiving and the fact that I wasn't aware it was going on until I saw the pictures.

Then came the beer...and TEQUILA!!!

Now that the pump was primed, the party was getting started.  Friends and I swarmed the dance floor to sway and sing along to the music and enjoy the fantastic show put on by the D.B. Bryant Band.  Any time these guys come to town it's a party and a half.  During slow songs, the girls and I shook and swayed like we were professional seductresses; during the fast ones we were partying like rock stars.   (Of course we were drinking tequila and probably looked more like convulsing epileptics or night of the living dead zombies, but this is my blog so I'm gonna tell it my way!)

We continued this pattern well into the morning hours until the establishment closed and the band and several of us moved to a nearby location to continue the party elsewhere.  We were now honored by the playings of another local band in addition to D.B. Bryant Band, so there was no end in site to this fabulous, tequila-filled night. Unfortunately, my boots could not hang.  They wimped out on me and DEMANDED to be given a break from my feet.

Poor Boots.  Tired and looking for a place to rest.
 I kept them up way past their bedtime.

Wearing only my socks, the party continued...3 a.m....4 a.m....oh damn.  Now approaching the daylight hours, my feet are ready for bed too.  A lap will have to do. 

Holy shit on a shingle...look at these nasty socks!!!  I definitely need to rethink white socks when I'm wearing my lightweight boots that can't hang through the night with me (cause it wasn't that my feet were killing me or anything). I wonder if he'd have still had his hand on my foot had he actually seen the bottom of these disgusting, bar room floor germ infested, disease carrying socks?  

I finally did get my boots and my feet home to bed, but barely before the sun rose to greet the day.  They have recovered and are looking forward to the next time our friends make it back to town.  For all of you who were invited, yet didn't make it...sucks to be you!

And to Little Love, the woman with the camera that memorialized all these moments...Thank You!

Purveyor of Dick Jokes

If you’ve ever read any of the www.cracked.com articles, you probably know they are well researched articles often written about serious topics, written in a list type format with a humorous take on them.  In order to submit pitches to write articles for Cracked, you must apply for and be granted the “Purveyor of Dick Jokes” title. I am now a “Purveyor of Dick Jokes”.

While this is exciting news, being granted the title is only the first step, allowing you into the writers forums where you can then pitch ideas for consideration.  However, the style and format for the articles that they are famous for is very different than my normal style of writing (which is to write whatever and however I want and if someone doesn’t like it, tough shit for them).  So now I’m tasked with the finding a topic on a serious subject that I can write about which fits into their model. 

A couple topics I’m thinking of at the moment are 1) Top (insert number here) internet scams and how they turned out.  2) Top (insert number here) male enhancement drugs and how each is tested and proven effective.  I’d love some ideas and inspiration.  If you’d like to know more about Cracked and what they’re looking for, click here.

Dear Creepy F*ing Stalker Dude

I am pissed off and feel like cussing…a lot…so if you are offended by the word fuck…fuck off.  That having been said, we can proceed.  Last night I went out with friends.  I sang a little karaoke, played a little pool, danced a little dance, and had a good time.  When I woke and went to let puppy out this morning, I see that the bottom of my door has been kicked in completely.

Are you fucking kidding me?  This is the inside view of my laundry room door. 

The sad part is this is the 4^th or 5^th time in the past couple months I’ve had to have the police come out and do reports. The neighbors probably think I’m under investigation for something sinister or am some gangster as much as the cops have been at my house lately. Seems I’ve got some creepy stalker type fucker throwing tantrums whenever I go out or have a guy over.  News flash Creepy Fucking Stalker Dude:  I’m a grown ass single woman and I will both go out and occasionally get laid.  Get over it and go the fuck away!

I have no idea who this destructive nuisance is, nor do I have any idea why he’s being such a pain in my ass, only that he likes to creep around my house in the middle of the night as reported by neighbors, and that he likes to tear my shit up when I am not home for him to perv on.  It’s like he’s leaving a note, “I was here…you were not…BAM!!!”  He’s not trying to break in or burglarize the house, because breaking a glass panel, unlocking the door and walking in would take a lot less effort than to break the wood of the door, and would probably be a lot easier on his feet (I hope he at least broke his big toe when he broke my door and I hope it HURTS LIKE HELL…just saying). 

I guess maybe I should be a little scared, but instead I’m pissed the fuck off.  I mean, money doesn’t grow on trees and doors are expensive.  I’m a single mom and don’t like having to spend my hard earned money on shit that someone else has fucked up.  If he wants me to know he was there and I wasn’t, I could think of a few other ways he could let me know which I’d find much more appealing.  1) Pin, tape, nail or even screw a $100 bill to the door.  I’d come home, say “Wow, that’s really strange, and why did he have to use a screw.  What a pain in the ass!  But what the hell, thanks for the new pair of shoes.” 2) Leave a note.  “Dear Blondie:  I was here you were not.  I felt like breaking your shit, but instead thought to leave you this letter.  Sincerely, Creepy Fucking Stalker Dude.”  I’d think to myself, “To fucking bad.  Go crawl under a rock in a thundershower and drown! But thank you for not breaking my shit.” 3) Leave flowers.  I’d come home and feel a warm fuzzy feeling and instead of thinking “Creepy Fucking Stalker Dude’s at it again”, I’d think I had a romantic secret admirer.

See how one little thing can change a whole perspective?  Break a door = Creepy Fucking Stalker Dude…leave flowers = Romanic Secret Admirer.  What’s the great part of this analogy for him you ask?  He could still peep in my windows no matter what I call him, so WHY THE FUCK DO YOU NEED TO BREAK MY SHIT?!  URRRGGGG!!!!

All ranting aside, and on a serious note I’m thinking of writing Creepy Fucking Stalker Dude a letter of my own and posting it to my doors.  I think it should read as follows:  “Dear Creepy Fucking Stalker Dude:  When you were slithering around my house perving through the windows like a kid at a candy shop , though annoyed, I resisted the urge to set bear traps under the windows and let you keep your feet (you’re welcome).   When you came IN my house, I resisted the urge to track you down like a man eating lion that must be found and put down, and instead focused on being more diligent in securing my home.  You have now graduated to being destructive and weakening the security and integrity of my home and the home of my children.  This is no longer considered a nuisance by me, but a threat.  Luckily, as an American, I have the 2^nd amendment right to keep and bear arms.  I also have a constitutional right to defend my person, family and property, even by lethal force where necessary.   I personally would not lose a seconds sleep should I have to shoot you and do not doubt me when I say I WILL shoot you (not just point a gun at you and ask you nicely to leave)!  Save yourself the trouble of dying, your family the trouble of making funeral arrangements for you, and me the trouble of getting your blood out of my carpet.  I am asking you nicely now to save everyone a lot of trouble and fuck off.  Sincerely, Blondie”

Size Matters (Republished)

I have heard phrases like "size doesn't matter", "quality not quantity", "it's not the size of the boat, but the motion of the ocean", etc., etc.  However...I'm here to tell you, size matters!  In all things, size matters.  If you're hungry, do you want a little Crystal burger, or do you want a Whopper? 

If it's cold, do you want a thin jacket or a thick down jacket?  Same goes for body types.  I am 5'7".  Not a small woman.  My normal weight (yes, guys, I'm actually going to tell it) is between 145 and 150.  When I wear a pair of conservative heels, I stand 5'10", and I like to wear heels.  Why do I tell you all this?  Because, no matter how bluntly I say it, I can not seem to make men understand that if I'm taller than them, or weigh almost as much or more than them, I am just not attracted to them, no matter how handsome or easy on the eyes they are.  So let's evalute size and how it matters.

Look at the women you see on TV.  The supermodels and the movie stars.  Most of the women that are considered hot and sexy, or beautiful.  How many men look at a 250 lb woman and think, "Wow...I'd like to take her home with me tonight."  Even if the woman is pretty and a great person, the weight is still an issue.  Weight is size, and size matters.  Bust size--Some men like small breasted women, some prefer large...but once again, size matters.  Butts are another area of attraction.  I've seen some of the most beautiful woman have self esteem issues because they have a big butt, or lack much butt at all.  I've heard men say, "she'd be hot if her butt wasn't so big" or "she's got great legs, but no butt"...once again, size matters. 

One thing I've always found funny is the common sight of an obese woman with a bone skinny man.  I've found myself wondering how that works.  Maybe what they say about skinny men having extremely large unmentionables is correct and it takes that extremely large unmentionable to reach past the obesity.  I hope I'll never know for sure.  I also can't help but notice when a 6'5" man is dancing with a 5' nothing woman, and wonder how they fit together...I guess they don't like kissing during sex.  Same goes for the very tall woman and the extremely short man.  Black men with white women, and the opposite.  All of these are oddities to me, but to each their own.

Me personally, I prefer a man with a little extra meat on his bones, to one who is all bones.  I like my men big...not obese, but not thin.  I like them white.  I like to feel like he could carry me if I was hurt, or sweep me off my feet in a moment of passion (and I've already stated, I'm not a little woman).  I'm sorry, but I don't want to feel like I could carry him to the bedroom!  Size matters.  Speaking of the bedroom.  If I was about to be intimate with a man and he unveiled something that looked like it should be attached to an elephant instead of a man, I'd envision my organs falling out when I got up afterwards, and I'd run fast.  However, if my first thought is that a toddler would wear it better and it should be covered up with a diaper, it isn't going to work for me. Size matters.  Good "motion of the ocean", and a willingness to compensate for the insufficiency can only go so far, because without the right tools, you just can't do the job right...sorry, guys...SIZE MATTERS!

What I find to be very funny about this virtual world we live in where we meet people first online, and then progress to personal relationships, is how exaggerated people's stats are.  Almost every man online is 6', and they all have 8" penis'.  No wonder women's sense of measurement and depth perceptions are so off!  When we meet these guys and they are only 5'8" with a 3" penis, we're all confused!  I guess everything is bigger in internet inches!  Once again...size matters.

So, this should be my personals add:  I'm looking for a genuine, honest man, with a good heart, who knows how to treat a lady.  Must enjoy the outdoors, but like nights on the town too.  Must love children, as my children are part of the package.  He must be hardworking, dependable, loyal and faithful to the ones he loves.  Must believe in God and be willing to attend church with me at least occasionally.  Must be affectionate and give great back rubs.  Must be over 5'10" in actual measurements and not internet inches, and be reasonably well endowed.

Must be a gentleman in the daytime and and an animal at night. If you meet all the above requirements and are under 190 lbs...gain some weight!  SIZE MATTERS!

Where Do Girls Pee From?

A few weeks back, upon walking into my favorite watering hole, I noticed a couple male friends huddled at the end of the bar engaged in what appeared to be a very serious discussion.  After ordering my drink, one of them motioned me over, saying they needed to ask me a very serious question but didn’t want to offend me or have me think him as rude or vulgar…but “Where do girls pee from?”  ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME!!!  I somehow managed to maintain a serious face and not let on that I was really dying laughing on the inside as I retorted, “Well, not from the same hole we bleed from!”  With what I’m sure was a small degree of embarrassment as well as amusement, “I know that, but I mean WHERE do you pee from?  Is it from the clit, lower, etc.?”

 

 

Before I go on any further, I think it important to point out that the younger of my two friends is 40 years old.  So here I sit, at a bar, engaged in a very serious, anatomical conversation, trying to explain to two grown men where girls pee from.  I stopped just shy of drawing a vagina on a napkin for them, cause how would I explain that if anyone saw it, and who would believe me if I tried?  Besides, I really suck at drawing, so lord only knows what it really would have looked like had I done so.

"So I drew a pussy on a napkin.  What's the problem?" 

Yeah, I just don't think if would have went over well.

 

 

When I finished my answer, my younger friend exclaims, “See!  I told you!  I made (his girlfriend’s name) show me!”  That was a visual I really didn’t need, yet I found comical.  I could just see them in this same serious conversation, her pants dropped, one leg hiked; him bent down examining her with a serious look saying, “I always thought girls peed from their clit.” 

 

 

Until this conversation, I’d never really thought about how little guys really know about female anatomy.  I mean with a guy it’s simple…this is the penis, this is the head, this is the shaft and we pee out of this little hole here.  No mystery there.  Men, however, aren’t the only ones baffled by this question.  My daughter told me a couple weeks ago that one of her friends (16 years old) only recently realized that she could pee with a tampon in.  Maybe her mom should have the “period talk” with her.  I’d say it’s a little over due. 

 

 

As I’m feeling all high and mighty thinking at least MY daughter knows where she pees from, the other night she tells me my son thought girls peed from their butts.  REALLY?!  Are you freaking kidding me?  What the hell…I mean does he picture us like cattle lifting our tails and spraying.  I guess that would give a whole new meaning to the term “wet fart”! (In his defense, he is only 11, and won’t get sex education until next year).  

She goes on to tell me that they had a full debate on the matter and that she’d set him straight.  Boy, how I’d have loved to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation…or maybe I wouldn’t have.  I do find myself wondering where he thinks we pee from now.  With my daughter, it wouldn’t surprise me to find out she convinced him our penises pop out when you push the button in our armpit or something.  She’s fantastically evil like that sometimes!

For all of you who missed 6^th grade sex education…

the mystery is solved!

Butt Crack Mail Slot

My son is going to grow up to be a nudist.  From infancy on, he’d pull and tug at his clothes until he escaped from their confines.  He’s now 11 years old and while he manages to keep clothes on in public, the second he walks in the door from school (or anywhere else from that matter) he begins stripping down to his skivvies.  It is a common site for me to walk in from work, see his back pack thrown down just inside the door, his jacket tossed on the couch, his shoes a few feet away in the middle of the floor, his pants a few feet further, with his shirt completing the trail from the front door to the kitchen for a snack.  It is also common for me to come in from work thinking, “Are you freaking kidding me?!” yelling “SON!!!  GET YOUR TAIL IN HERE AND CLEAN UP YOUR TRAIL!!!”  I’ve tried many different techniques to discourage this behavior, yet it continues.

My son is not a little guy.  Even at 11 years old, he’s bigger than many 15-year-olds and has got a butt crack that would make a professional plumber green with envy. Usually he wears boxer briefs which aren’t so bad, but one day, not too long ago, he came walking into the living room, plops down on the couch wearing nothing but his tighty-whities, butt crack smiling at us, to watch TV with my 16 year old daughter and me.  We both exchanged exasperated looks before I said to him, “Son, how would you like it if your sister and I decided we’d be more comfortable wearing nothing but our underwear as we watched TV with you?” He just rolled his eyes at me as if to say, “Yeah right mom, you wouldn’t do that.” He then averted his eyes back to the TV completely unmoved by my not-so-subtle hinting for him to go put some damn clothes on.  My daughter and I exchanged a glance, then a smirk, and without another word, to my son’s mortification, off came the clothes.

We both pretended he wasn’t even in the room as we stripped down to nothing but our bras and panties, and plopped back down in our respective seats.  I said to my daughter, “No wonder he’s always in his underwear.  I can’t believe we’ve been missing out on this.  I feel so comfortable, so free!  I may never wear clothes in the house again.” My daughter in complete concurrence says, “I know!  This is awesome.  I might even quit wearing a bra!”  My son was mortified.  His face bright red, a wide eyed look of sheer terror at seeing us both lounging around half naked, and the thought of us going braless was more than he could handle.  Shrieking, “Mama!  That’s disgusting!  I don’t want to see you guys’ butts and boobs!” He ran from the room leaving my daughter and me laughing till our sides hurt.  We stayed in our bras and panties until he came out with clothes on.

For a while the thought of us lounging around wearing nothing but our panties encouraged him to wear more than just his underwear, though, lately he’s been pushing the boundaries again.  So last week, I call the kids to dinner, and my son comes to the table wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and a t-shirt (at least he’s wearing a shirt, so I wasn’t going to bitch).  We’re at the table eating and talking.  My daughter is talking about how cute some little kid is, and my son pipes in, “I’m cute!” to which I reply “You guys are both long past cute.” He got a wounded look but quickly recovered and changed his strategy saying, “So what am I then?  Oh, I know…I’m SEXY!”  Without missing a beat, I say, “You’re obviously too sexy for your pants!” About that time, my daughter pipes in, “And I swear your butt crack is a mile long.”  I noticed her grimacing as about half a mile of his mile long butt crack was exposed from beneath his shirt.  I couldn’t help but observe “It looks like a change slot…like you should be dropping quarters in it.” To which she retorts “Heck no, I feel like I should be swiping credit cards!”  The conversation continued, my daughter and I playing off each other till we finally concluded it was more like a mail slot deserving of its own address. 

I wish I could say that this exchange has convinced my son to remain clothed while in the common areas of the house, but as write this blog, he is wondering around the house wearing nothing but his underwear, his mail slot shining.  Maybe I’ll start sewing addresses to the seat of his underwear as it looks like there’s no end in sight to his assault on our eyes.  If only I could sew a button on his back to fasten his underwear to!

Poop Smears to Buger Picking...The Joys of Parenthood

Along my parental journey I have learned that kids make us extremely aware of our shortcomings, and are always finding new ways to embarrass and gross us out. Lets face it, kids are often gross, and tend to reflect back at us the negative qualities of ourselves, bringing them to our attention where we might have otherwise remained blissfully ignorant.  I'm a parent and my kids are no exception.

 Learning To Talk:
My son was a big binky baby (binky=pacifier).  Everything he did, absent eating or drinking, that binky was in his mouth.  When he was about fourteen months old, he comes strolling in the kitchen wearing nothing but a diaper, dad’s hat, dad’s shoes; binky in his mouth, sippy cup in hand, looking absolutely adorable.  About half way through the kitchen, the oversized shoes trip him up a little causing him to drop his sippy cup to the floor.  Without missing a beat, he snatches the binky out of his mouth and with perfect enunciation exclaims, “SHIT!!” My first thought…No he didn’t just say what I thought he said.  My second…he said it in the appropriate context with an impressive emotional emphasis.  My third…I’m a failure as a parent.  It was at this moment I realized I would have to make some changes in my preferred exclamations.

Potty Training:
Oh, what parent doesn’t have fond moments of teaching our children to use the toilet so we can be spared the responsibility of changing dirty diapers and the costs of buying them.  Potty training is more than teaching them to control their functions and void in the toilet, but includes instruction in wiping correctly, flushing and washing their hands. One disgusting thing I have found to be common in the potty training stage are poop smears on the sides of cabinets, behind the toilet, or anywhere else within reach of their small hands when the wiping goes wrong.  Their small undeveloped minds don’t think to wipe it on another piece of toilet paper, or wash their hands…all they see is poop on their fingers which must be wiped off immediately and on anything within reach they can wipe them on.  Often during the poop smear stage, the parent is unaware that the child has “made poo poo” until there’s been some terribly embarrassing moment, like discovering the poop smears AFTER the small town mayor pops in for a visit and uses the bathroom.

Nose picking:

Every small child goes through a nose picking stage.  Nothing like being in a restaurant eating and looking over to find your child knuckles deep in a nostril.  I had a very effective tool during these times.  When the kids were little and began going through the tickle their brain, nose picking stage, I recalled a poem I’d known as a child. From the children’s poetry collection by Shel Silverstein in the book, Where the Sidewalk Ends, the poem, titled “Sharp Toothed Snail” reads:

Inside everybody's nose
There lives a sharp-toothed snail.
So if you stick your finger in,
He may bite off your nail.
Stick it farther up inside,
And he may bite your ring off.
Stick it all the way, and he
Might bite the whole darn thing off.

As small children, the idea that there was something with sharp teeth living in their nose capable of actually biting off their finger acted as a powerful and very effective deterrent to their continued nose picking.  It wasn’t always effective, however, when dealing with other children.  My nephew, for example, spent about a year trying to catch it.

Illnesses:

A child in my charge once had a very serious stomach virus causing extreme puking and diarrhea.  After a couple days of this and a complete inability to even hold water down, fearing dehydration, I took her to the hospital for IV fluids and medications.  Just before being discharged, she was prescribed a suppository phenergan to help with the nausea.  The idea of some strange doctor seeing her butt, much less inserting something into it was more than she could bear, so we talk the doctor into giving it to me and I’d administer it when we arrived home.  True to our word, the medication was administered much to our mutual discomfort.  About half hour later, this child, completely void of anything left to puke, makes a run for the bathroom heaving.  A few minutes later she comes out, tears streaming down her face, and tells me, “Trish, I think I just puked that thing you put in my butt.”  It took everything in me not to burst out laughing as she was obviously in anguish over the though.  I explained that it didn’t work that way and that the nasty stuff she was puking was bile NOT the butt medication.

Constipation induced oversized turds:

I’m not really sure which is worse…finding an unreported clogged toiled, or an unflushed toilet a while after the duty has been done.  There is something about the digestive tract of a child that is capable of producing turds which look like they should have come from the butt of a sasquatch, not a small child.  One day I enter the bathroom and am immediately assaulted by the pungent aroma which filled the bathroom like a heavy fog.  I lift the lid to the toilet and jumped back, temporarily startled at the monster hiding beneath it.  I’m sure the child tried to flush it, but it was too big to flush and was sticking out of the water like some water beast ready to attack.  I found myself staring at it wondering how on earth such a large, odorous object could come out of the butt of a child so small. 

Each day brings opportunity for new adventures; and with children, every day IS an adventure.  One thing for sure, you never know what hidden treasure's you'll find along the way. My babies are getting older, so hopefully my days of discovering poop smears and crusty bugers between couch cushions or on the corners of their bed sheets are over, but what treasures will I find next. Lord help me.

DO NOT OPEN UNLESS ELECTROCUTED

After publishing the “Teen Solution” blog about putting teenagers in medically induced comas and teaching them everything they needed to know through strategically placed electrodes to their brain, I was talking with a couple friends about co-founding the “Teen Solution Foundation” (TSF).  We would revolutionize the world!  The more we explored the possibilities, the more we realized that if we turned this dream into a reality, the world would memorialize us in song, erect statues of us, and write our names in every history book.  We’d be revolutionaries forever changing society as we know it.  Kids would become more successful, parents would be less stressed, crime would dramatically decrease, the welfare system would be less stretched.  Every talk show in America would want the founders of TSF (being us) on their shows; hell, Opra’d even start a NEW talk show just to have us on it!  We’d be famous.

However, we also realized that there is a cost to fame.  We’d have fans following us everywhere, grateful parents always wanting to thank us for finding a solution to the teen problem, paparazzi at every turn, and even a couple haters now and then.  This of course would require us to have bodyguards…big, strong, handsome, muscled up, could break a neck with two fingers kinda bodyguards.  It would be awful, but such is the price one must pay for fame.  As we start in on the bodyguards, and their break a neck with two fingers requirement, my friend says, “but could you make sure they have ALL their fingers, cause they may have some down time and well…”and that’s how the conversation changed. 

No longer were we talking about revolutionizing the world, but about big strong men with big strong hands and what they could do with them.  I wish I could say that this is a rare thing, but I cannot.  It happens often with us.  The conversation rolled seamlessly from big strong men to the hormones surging through our bodies at this age, to our out of control libidos and the difficulty with being single with these raging hormones. Then my friend, a couple years my senior, drops a bomb shell on me saying, “Oh just wait.  You haven’t seen anything yet.  You haven’t even hit your peak.  Just give it a couple more years.” To which I replied, “Dear Lord, if it gets any worse I’ll be found dead, electrocuted in my bed with no pants!  I mean, batteries are expensive, and if it gets any worse I’ll have no choice but to move to electrically powered, but maybe not so waterproof means of frustration relief.”

As soon as I said it, the mental image which popped into my mind was both horrifying and hilarious at the same time.  I began laughing so hard I was wiping tears, but we knew then what I must do.  I needed to write a letter to keep on my bedside table; a DO NOT OPEN UNLESS…just in case of electrocution, goodbye letter to anyone who may find me in such a compromising position.

So yesterday, I wrote a goodbye letter, complete with a detailed description of the struggle I’ve endured as a single woman in my mid-thirties leading up to my unfortunate electrocution.  I put the letter in a sealed envelope and placed it on my bedside nightstand.  Written on the outside of the envelope is: “DO NOT OPEN UNLESS FOUND ELECTROCUTED.  If found dead of any other cause, please disregard and destroy IMMEDIATELY!” I pray the contents of this letter forever go unread, but in the event I’m found electrocuted with my pants down, I hope my finder will understand.

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I Have A Dream...The Teenage Solution

When the kids were little I used to point at teenagers and whisper in their ears, “There’s a teenager…aliens inject something in their brains, turning it to liquid, making them act crazy until their brains resolidify in their early to mid 20s.”  I used to think it was hilarious to watch the children look at the teenager wide eyed with a sort of curious trepidation.  One day, while at a community event, my son (at about 4 years old) grabs my arm, points wildly and exclaims for everyone around us to hear, “Look mom!  It’s a teenager!”  The crowd looked at us quizzically, as I just burst out laughing.  Over the last couple of years, I have come to see the wisdom in what I started as a joke, because sometime a few years ago, aliens got a hold of my daughter.

I am a mother of a teenage daughter.  I’m fortunate that my daughter is better behaved than most, most of the time, but make no mistakes, she is a teenage girl.  Being a single mother of a teenage girl presents even more challenges.  There is there’s no man in the house to assist me in those trying times when she wants to challenge me for “Queen Of The Castle”, so to speak, nor is there someone to assist me in the disciplining of her during those times when I’m just too mad or disappointed to be an effective disciplinarian, and take up my slack.  It’s all on me.

I have talked with many other parents and realize that I am not alone in my frustration.  We, as parents of teenagers, all share a common bond of anxiety and sometimes almost overwhelming desire to strangle our children, coming to a full understanding of why some species eat their young.  

During moments of extreme anxiety, and sometimes blinding anger, I’ve often calmed myself with the daydream of a teen sleep center.  Instead of taking our children to their first day of high school, we take them to an alternative campus…a medical campus, where the children are placed in medically induced comas, and taught everything they need to know through electrodes strategically hooked to their brain.    Parents would have unrestricted access to the morality section of the brain, and could record things for regular introduction such as religious fundamentals, our version of skills they’d need to succeed in life, the code of ethics we’d like them to live by, and anything else we’d introduce that would screw them up in a way specialized to us as individual parents.  The best educators would create age appropriate lessons which would be introduced and absorbed by each child, free of distraction from things such as that good looking boy sitting in the next row.  World events of significance would be introduced to them in the form of a filtered news cast, so that when they awoke, not only would they be fully educated, provided a moral foundation based on each parents own, but they would be informed of what is going on in the world. 

Each day, us parents could come in, spend quality time with our child free of arguing, dirty “fuck you”  looks, or looks that say “you’re a complete dumbass and know absolutely nothing”, we can admire how angelic they are, and feel that overwhelming love we felt for them when they were so young and innocent, thought we were their heroes, and were completely dependent upon us.  We could plug the latest movies and music into their electrodes for absorption as we watch or listen along.   We’d never have to wonder where they were, who they were with, where are my car keys, or my car, for that matter.  Then, when the magic day comes along, we weep as we wake them and send them off into the world fully equipped with all the tools they need to be successful in life.

 I realized last night that if every parent who’s ever wanted to feed their teenage child to a wild animal or even just strangle them slightly into submission gave only one dollar, we’d have enough funding for the research and development to turn this dream into a reality. 

However, I also realized that big corporations would never allow it to be successful, as the pharmaceutical companies would lose billions in anti-anxiety and depression medications, the therapeutic market for counselors and psychiatrists would all but cease to exist, law enforcement jobs would be lost due to lack of teen related crime, welfare benefits would no longer be needed to support teen age mothers and children, and a wide array of other unforeseen consequences.  So despite the abundant sources of funding, this dream will remain a dream.