Think you can say something lovely, or kind, or heartfelt to me and get away with it?!? I don’t think so!
We can’t simply say, “Thank you,” it’s not in our DNA. We justify compliments by making excuses. We diffuse them by giving others the credit. And we deflect them by batting ’em back in the other person’s court with the obligatory, return of same compliment — Here, now you deal with how to respond, bitch.
It goes something like this: Continue reading
Well, in this case I wouldn’t call it eye candy, though I must admit, I stared at her nipple for quite some time, in a train wreck kinda way, while I debated my moral obligation as a fellow female.
At first, I thought I should say nothing. She clearly spent serious man hours getting those boobs to bust out of her shirt and reveal that stunning tatt of a phoenix emblazoned across them. Continue reading
Double sighIt was the summer of 2009, my daughter was about to turn 5 and though we were pretty sure she was destined to be a landlubber. We had tried swim lessons since she was 6 months old — again and again. We took classes. We took private lessons. We switched instructors, and offered rewards. I had made one last appointment, vowing that if this failed, I’d simply keep the baby fence around the pool until she left for college. Continue reading
Here are the Top Reasons Not to ‘Friend’ Your In-Laws/Parents on FB or Let Them Read Your Blog (both of which I’m totally guilty of):You may regrettably hear this:
1. “We tried that new position you mentioned and I have just one question…”
2. “Is everything ok with money? Your post about coupons/discount codes/the economy/stealing shampoos from hotel carts/insert penny pinching tip here… has left us concerned.”
3. “Have you ever thought about couples therapy? We found some of your post titles rather worrisome, like: I Cheated on my Husband with Christian Grey/ Sex or Oven Cleaning/ Husband For Sale: Motivated Seller, Why is My Hubby Such a Wuss When He’s Sick? …”
(Don’t judge fellow bloggers, I’m sure you have some doozies of your own.) Continue reading
Sometimes I feel like Google has ESP, not for this search. No, my nipples don't itch, in case you were wondering.
I always marvel at how Google seems to know exactly what I’m thinking, no matter how unusual. I’ll start a question with a single word like, “Is…” and it will finish my thought to completion.
A couple months back, I saw an update on Facebook that read: “Put the words ‘I’M SCARED OF’ in a Google search box and see what comes up. I figured they’ve read my mind in the past so, why not? I mean, the answer is sure to be “snakes that come out of the toilet,” right?
So, I wrote “I’m Scared of” in the little box – and Google finished my sentence with this: “Chinese People.” Yep, “I’m scared of Chinese people,” was the top search starting with those words.
Just to clarify, that was not the phrase I was looking for — If Google said “I’m scared of Chinese people holding snakes in my bathroom,” maybe, but I am not scared of Chinese people.
I hope that’s not offensive to Chinese axe murderers, Chinese Mafioso AKA Triad (found it in a Google search), Chinese gang members, Continue reading
Like the great city of New York, I’m giving away vibrators, seriously. What am I talking about? How did this happen? How could you win?
If you’ve cracked open a paper or macbook recently, including the NY Post, whose headline read: Buzz Kill – city stops sex-toy giveaway, you would know that the lines to get a free Trojan sex toy in NYC yesterday stretched for blocks, clogging streets and blocking store fronts — Continue reading
I know, you’re thinking, wait, haven’t I heard this one before? And now you’re wondering, Are any of the bloggers blond or Polish? Well, it doesn’t matter, because the answer is the same.
6.
Yes, the number is 6. Shit I kinda ruined the suspense on that one, huh? I shoulda’ made you wait until the end. Yes, it was premature elucidation, which is fairly common when talking vibrators.
More importantly, you should be wondering, How did you calculate this number and what does one do with so many vibrators?
I was wondering the same thing. See… Continue reading
I’ve journaled all my life and I very distinctly remember writing things that sounded somewhat like this: When you’re a mom always be fun. NEVER make your kids eat vegetables. Let them have soda whenever they want, stay up until Johnny Carson is over, and stay home from school to play Atari, Mr. Mouth, and Parcheesi, at least once a week.
As I hit high school… Continue reading
Could you pick your va-jay-jay out of a va-gyne-up?
Recently, in the pediatrician’s office, I was reading a pamphlet on puberty. Please, it’s better reading than an outdated TIME, or a Highlights where all the hidden pictures are already circled (and they always are). Anyhoo, it suggested that ‘tweens (I’m assuming that’s who it was for) should and I quote, “GET TO KNOW YOUR VAGINA.”
If there are any preteens reading this just know, you shouldn’t be — now, go google One Direction and stop reading my columns.
Now that they’re gone…
I began to think about how WE were schooled on puberty. Oh, those awful videos that hadn’t been updated since the 60’s and 70’s, so the people still had combs in their back pockets, bell-bottoms, and afros. I don’t remember the exact details, but I know most were grainy, some slightly resembled School House Rock, and I’m pretty sure one of them convinced me that you could get pregnant from dry humping — if the guy came — which I’m pretty sure no cool guy ever did.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly no “dry hump” virgin. Nope, I know more than a thing or two about the friction caused by two pairs of button fly jeans rubbing uncomfortably against each other, on a waterbed, the bucket seats of a Nissan 300ZX, or the ultra-suede of a basement sofa. Look, I’m a Gen X-er, that’s what we had. Also, I was a good girl (who liked to fool around), which means I was forced to be a “dry hump” slut.
For years, I was convinced that sperm, being so powerful and microscopic, could travel through a guys boxers and Z Cavaricci’s and past my Guess jeans and little Bloomies straight into my cervix. This may be a sign that I didn’t know much about sex… but at least I was on trend.
See, we weren’t told to get to know our vaginas. In fact, I’m a bit concerned that at nearly 40 I don’t know my vagina at all. Frankly, I couldn’t pick her out of a line-up. Seriously, could you? I mean, I could probably narrow it down, like they taught you to do in SAT prep, but any vagina with the same grooming, coloring, and general size — could be mine. How sad is that? I don’t even know if my vagina has any defining marks, characteristics, or other traits that make it uniquely my own.
To make matters worse, the pamphlet may have mentioned that each vagina has a distinct personality. WTF is that all about? She has a personality? Maybe we should be conversing more, I haven’t the foggiest idea what she’s all about. Is she saucy, shy, extroverted? I don’t freakin’ know. I mean, I know she’s obstinate, yet easily swayed. That counts, no? She’s highbrow, well groomed, extremely particular, and yet, I like to think she’s adventurous.
Oh, the contradictions.
My vagina is a flippin’ onion, so many layers. How could anyone claim to truly know her? They, you, I… we couldn’t, so stop trying.
Do you hear me people? I’m saying back off — give my vagina some space. (If I had a nickel for every time I used that phrase…)
And you pamphlet writers, who are either men making a ridiculously misguided attempt at feminism or clueless guidance counselors disconnected from modern ‘tween society, could you work on being a bit more creative? Telling teens to get to know their vaginas and expecting them to take it seriously, REALLY? That’s fodder for parodies. In fact, all I could think of, while perusing your literature, was the SNL skit “You and Your Uvula,” which I’m sure dates me even more than the School House Rock reference. If you must tell girls to get to know themselves, at a bare minimum, slap a picture of Justin Bieber on the cover.
YOU, should get to know your vagina!
Most importantly, after pondering this piece and spending some QT with my vag — you know, dinner and a movie, non fat no foam lattes at Starbucks, a raucous round of kegals, panty shopping… I’ve found vaginas, like their owners, are complex creatures, who deserve the right to be themselves, to roam free, to explore. That’s right, we not only deserve better pamphlets, but free range va-jay-jay’s as well.
Ones, who don’t need to be pigeonholed into one personality trait, but can be all things at once (just like us): Happy, sad, elated, shy, giddy, self conscious, confident, and insane.
Have you never seen a woman simultaneously laugh and cry during an orgasm?
I rest my case.
PS – Take a good hard look at your va-jay today, it would be really embarrassing if she ever got arrested!
Well, since we established in yesterday’s Magic Mike post, that I’m possibly addicted to “Mommy Porn” and Channing Tatum’s abs, I thought I’d write some ecards to commemorate the occasion.
Not that finding out you might be addicted to porn or abs, is an occasion, but, it’s a while until my birthday, so why not celebrate? I’ll pay for it later with a 12 step program that hopefully involves full immersion therapy. Or maybe I’ll have to apologize to all the abs I’ve coveted in the past, which would totally suck, but I guess recovery is never an easy road.
On my way to see the Magic Mike with my besties, all I could think was, Are we the only ones rushing out to see this peep show… and how hard up does this make us?
Hard up enough to go on opening night and see it with a theater full of gawking teenagers. Wait, did I say teenagers? Because I meant 30-50 year olds. Continue reading
