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
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 am EXACTLY the parent I swore I would never be. Are you?
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
Why do we need to “know our vaginas,” anyway? I’m happy keeping mine at arms length. Yet, I’m told we should be more acquainted. I have to be honest, I think we’re good, me any my hoo-hoo, that is. I’d definitely miss her if she wasn’t around, but we’re not conversing during long walks on the beach, though we do like to take them (so we have that in common — which is nice).
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 Please, it’s better reading than an outdated TIME, or a Highlights where all the hidden pictures are already circled (and they always are).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.
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.
Umm, just tell me you saw it too. Oh, and that you had similar eye-opening epiphanies…
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
I’ve found that this is a foolproof way to firm those dimply lumps of fat and lift that butt. Wait, did I say foolproof, I may mean fool-worthy, ahem, the jury’s out. But either way, I’ll tell you my theory, and I’m sure you’ll thank me later. Well, that or send me hate mail, but definitely one or the other.
Lately, I’ve been delving into how totally insane and irrational I am. I know, it’s fun for you too. So, I’m taking a look at one of my “tricks” that makes sense in my effed up mind. My rationale is that the more sagging and cellulite I have the shorter the shorts I must wear. Like, as a punishment. Oh, you think I’m kidding, but I kid you not. Continue reading
Sending the kids to camp is supposed to be this delightfully awesome time of freedom and reprieve, but it’s not for me.
So, as you can tell from the last post, (Confessions of an Irrational Mom), I’ve been totally anxiety stricken lately. I wasn’t able to put my finger on why, until I looked at my finger and saw that I’d done this to my beautifully manicured gel nails.
Then it dawned on me, it’s camp. Sending my son to camp makes me mildly certifiable. Knowing I have NO control over whether my baby puts on sunblock or brushes his teeth, or eats Fruity Pebbles everyday for breakfast, lunch and dinner, or runs with flip-flops on rocky terrain, or doesn’t make the intercamp team, or gets taken advantage of.
Look, I get it — Continue reading
The Christian Grey | 50 Shades Ecards are back… by popular demand. These are based on the article, What it Would REALLY be Like to be Married to Christian Grey, which takes a glimpse into what the Grey’s life might look like after years of marriage and children. But let’s face it, everything looks better in an ecard. So, here you go — Fifty Shades in the Future (insert wavy lines to imply future montage here)…
On The Usual Toy Clutter: Continue reading
Before having children, I had no idea how much of a control freak I actually was. Yes, I always had the anxiety part, but even that grew 10 fold. My hubby and I lived in an apartment in NYC, where he was able to mask his inability to do simple household things like, change lightbulbs, hang pictures… use a screw driver. We had people to do that. Yes, the maintenance men were my BFFs — a small tip and they were caulking or hammering away.
Then we had kids and moved to the ‘burbs, where I realized that not only was my hubby not the type to do stuff around the house. I was not the type to delegate. My anxieties and need for perfection made his work seem incomprehensibly inferior. (The cause of many an argument)
So, Continue reading
A League Of My Own -A mom’s story of humiliation and triumph… on the little league field, duh. Nobody puts mommy in a corner! Moms are IN the Game, in every sense of the word!
Saturday was my son’s “Kids vs. Dads” Little League game. Yes, it was named that, maybe to imply that moms were not invited, maybe it was too much of a mouthful to say Kids vs. Parents. Maybe the sign makers couldn’t afford the extra letters, or worse, those 3 letters would take too much time and energy to paint. Damn those crampy handed, arthritic kids, they always recruit to make the signs. Though, I have a feeling it’s just one of those unwritten laws, “Moms are welcome to play, but we prefer you not, didn’t you not read that implication on our signage?” Continue reading
What, are familial relationships not about winning? I’m sorry, I’m an only child, I never had to compete for parental favoritism with siblings. And I must admit, my son’s essay puts him slightly ahead of his sister in the race for my love. I’m totally kidding. I love them both, but you can’t love them the same, can you?…
As this is the end of the school year, all of my children’s work has slowly trickled into the house. You know, like the way Andy Dufrene releases the bits of wall in Shawshank? Tests, artwork, essays, scraps of scribble.
One of the prizes in the huge pile of things that will never make it to the circular file was a piece on who my son admires most. It started with this line, “I look up to my Dad and my Grandparents, but the person I admire most is my Mom.”
My first thought?
I won! Yep, you heard him. He admires you other people too (or maybe he just wrote that to be politically correct), but I’m in a class by myself. He said so… Continue reading