Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Snap into a Slim Jim?

As I sit here with a belly full of bratwurst and mustard, my thoughts turn toward January Jones and how she admitted that she is consuming the placenta from her most recent delivery.

To her credit she's consuming it in the most sterile and wimpy way possible.  Her placenta was dried and put into gel capsules.  When January feels a little dumpy she pops a placenta pill.  They brighten her mood because they contain more protein and hormones than vodka.

I can't say I have anything against eating a placenta.  Meat is meat.  Not that I order placenta at Applebee's.  We consume worse food every day and think nothing of it.  Edibles that we don't literally make ourselves and really can't vouch for the processing or preparation.  When you eat your own placenta you can relive every pregnancy craving, from that bakers dozen of warm glazed donuts to those Taco Hell nacho cheese gorditas.

January should be eating her placenta the old fashioned way though,  Tearing it to shreds with her teeth, and then sitting back belching with a toothpick.

Strong women do shit like that.  So we can hear them roar.

You strong womyn can join the Placenta Pack but I wanted nothing to do with any of the byproducts  of my births.  The most spiritual experience I expected after my deliveries was praying that stool softeners would do as the label described, for the love of God and Tucks pads.  As a new mother, suffering from hemorrhoids, engorged breasts, and meconium diapers, I can't say I was dreaming about closing the circle of life by getting crafty with afterbirth.

There was to be no taking cutesy photographs of the placenta for the birth announcement.
There was to be no making art prints from the placenta.
There was to be no burying of the placenta under the old oak tree that your mother planted as a toddler in Nana's backyard.
No placenta chanting or ritual line dancing.
No placenta stuffed animals.
No making moccasins out of tanned placenta.
No making decorative soaps or lip balms out of the placenta.
No throwing placentas at anyone wearing fur or leather, unless they are wearing placenta moccasins.

The hospital staff took my placentas away for incineration.

Or home to feed their cats.

Meat is meat.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Sinking Motorboats

Back in 1997, when Celine Dion was screeching about how her heart would go on, my husband and I did the unforgivable at the time.  In some sort of early adulthood hipster protest we did not go see Titanic.  Neither of us has ever seen Titanic and we wear that badge proudly.

In fact, we made fun of those who had seen Titanic.  We know why the women flocked to see it but why the men did had more dubious motives.  Motives more than likely lubricated with spermicide with a reservoir tip.

Just like we make fun of people who have seen Twilight today.  Point finger.  Laugh.  You silly glitter freaks...and the men that love you.

We were happy when the tide of Titanic finally washed away.  Then George W. got elected.  Then James Cameron directed Avatar and we traded in freezing to death together to "I see you." resurrection.  Unfortunately my husband and I went willingly enough to that one but wouldn't pony up for the 3D effects.  Avatar made us question our better sense.

Our James Cameron is re-releasing Titanic in 3-D.  Silly moviemaker!  Won't go see it.  Nope nope nope.  No one's making me see it.

That is, until the man you married questions his better sense...

...and remembers that this scene, a scene he has not experienced before but read about in People magazine, will appear in HD right up in your face.

I hope he falls in a freezing ocean and loses all sensation in his balls.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Make it so, make it so, oh God, make it so.

When you have a crush on a celebrity, a crush that has lasted since you were 13 years old, you find reasons to humor, no, cultivate that crush so you can enjoy a heady rush of warm and swollen feelings.

Like, when he's on TV.  You anticipate the show all week and on the night of you wear that matching bra and panty set you bought two years ago, wore once, and then put in a drawer.  It's too uncomfortable to wear all the time.  Besides, you have to hand wash them.

Or when he updates his Twitter account...you soak in his 140 characters and then feel an urge to smoke a cigarette.

Or when he finally joins Facebook and you comment on every single post hoping beyond hope that he will respond to you, yes you, and ask you to become Facebook friends so he can comment on photos of your pets and your trip to the Liberace Museum.

...and when some talented and witty person writes compelling fanfiction about your celebrity crush, you fork out 3 bucks and have it instantly uploaded to your Kindle even though you are an Amazon Prime member and you can borrow it for free.

A gallon of milk for my children or the Wil Wheaton of my wildest dreams?  Is that even a contest?  Sue me, I enjoy fine literature.

Wil Wheaton won't waste time on this book.  On Twitter, he responds, "I don't have to read 'Wesley Crusher: Teenage F«ck Machine,' I lived it.  Well, except for the f«ck machine part."

Wil's modesty is a big part of why I lurves him.  It's okay if you don't have a quarter for the little horsey ride in front of the grocery store to make it go.  It's still a fun ride when you use your imagination.

The plan is to read this book in the bathtub with my last box of Thin Mint cookies and a three dollar bottle of artificially flavored strawberry wine.  I'll get a gallon of milk next week.

Oh Wil Wheaton, you cyber geek bowhunk!  Why am I so inexplicably drawn?  Oh, that's right, we looked eerily similar until I grew boobs at age 28.

Uh...I need a moment.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Class fieldtrip to The Bunny Ranch

When you live in a house full of male personages, the nightly conversation usually centers around butts, farts, burps and wieners.

As in the line: 

Hey girl, you oughta be selling hot dogs because you already know how to make a wiener stand.

And the response from my 13 year old son:

I get that!

If you'll humor me for a few minutes, I'll add up how many lurid biological mentions came out of my sons just during dinner and then I'll share a box of my Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies with you. 

Hmmm...I'd give it around 20 for each of them.  That's 60 mentions of a burp, fart, butt or a wiener.  Twice a minute while we shoved tacos into our gobs.

Don't you dare.

At the very least my kids are the product of the Nevada school system where they receive a comprehensive sexual education.  By the time they are 16 years old they will have an understanding of how babies are conceived, how their bodies will change so they can eventually conceive babies, which diseases to avoid during the act of conceiving babies and how to practice conceiving babies without actually conceiving babies.  Then at home I talk about conception and wieners with them without so much as a blush or a stutter. 

This all translates into comfortably making uncouth jokes around one's mother.  Around your mother too if you give them half a chance.

This might be useful if your state of residence is Utah where the governor is mulling over vetoing HB363.  This bill allows school districts to opt out of teaching sexual education entirely and if it does decide it will offer sexual education, that education will not allow the mention of contraception in any form, the use of the word "gay" or any other term in the thesaurus for it, or any mention of sex being an activity one can participate in outside the bounds of marriage.  No materials may be used except for abstinence only materials. No mentioning masturbation or porn.  No pamphlets about herpes, syphilis, gonorrhea or even those innocuous crabs.

The sponsor of the bill, Rep. Bill Wright says, and I'll quote, “We’ve been culturally watered down to think we have to teach about sex, about having sex and how to get away with it, which is intellectually dishonest. Why don’t we just be honest with them upfront that sex outside marriage is devastating?”

It doesn't occur to Rep. Wright that men and women might need comprehensive education within the bounds of marriage well before the wedding night.  I can count on both hands undereducated men and women of MY generation who thought women peed out of their vagina.  I knew of women who refused to use tampons because it compromised their virginity.  That kind of knowledge is sure to lead to successful sex and marriage.

Most of the residents of Utah do not want this.  As it stands now, both in Utah and my state, sexual education is opt in.  That is, they send a note home, they tell you what subjects will be covered, give you the opportunity to review the materials, then check box any to all subjects you want your kids not to have misperceptions about.  Like, how it's so not possible to get pregnant if you do it standing up in a really hot shower and then you douche with Mountain Dew after.  If you don't click any boxes, your kid gets sent to the library to watch Milo and Otis.

If kids need to learn about sex, that learnun should be done at home, with Mom and Dad, who love each other very very much and were virgins on their wedding nights, peeing out of their vagina.

Parents of my generation are becoming more comfortable talking sex with the kids, which is great.  I know I have no problem with it.  However, how come too many of us are still embarrassed to do this?  This is how bills like this get past the legislature in the first place!  The thought of your kids knowing that you've actually done it, at least once for every natural born child in the household, shouldn't leave you catatonic!  You are having sex and still hoping for the intellectual dishonesty of getting away with it!  

Point is, sex should be discussed rationally.  It should be talked about at home with compassion, kindness and morality.  It should be talked about at school, in the presence of your peers, so you remove stigma, myth and the isolating feelings of a normal puberty.  Proper and factual information and services should be provided for kids that want and need them, without shame.

I once thought maybe I'd like to move my family back to Utah...

If this bill can pass through the legislature and is waiting for a nod from Governor Herbert, maybe not.

I'd barrell into the state and end up tarred and feathered.  My kids too.  Yup.


***Update:  Governor Herbert did veto the bill. 

Thursday, March 08, 2012

Descending to their level

It's quite something when public outcry has been heard and the folks who want us to buy their products and services pull their dollars from the kid in kindergarten who has eaten all the paste.

Lush Rimbaugh spent a lot of time eating paint chips. They are a crunchy snack.

Yet, here I sit, worried about Rush making less money than he used to. Everyone is these days. Paychecks aren't going up with inflation. The price of gasoline has risen a penny a day for the last month. Snickers bars are smaller for the same price. How will Rush survive?

I say, we find the man new advertisers. We shouldn't stress the idea that an advertiser has to support the content, but more that an advertiser should highlight the culturally significant points of the message. Product tie ins that make apologies, no matter how flimsy they are, unnecessary.

Let's start with the obvious:

For when political punditry gives you that not so fresh feeling.


An empty septic tank is a happy septic tank!

Delicious with Vicodin!

I got my degree in thinkology...and dental assisting.

If we all work together, reach out across those aisles, we can give Rush a break and he'll be able to afford cigars and Viagra again.

Or at least three ex wives will get their alimony checks this month.  

Wednesday, March 07, 2012

From the desk of a former slut and prostitute...

If I write a post about Rush Limbaugh will I still be able to keep my dignity and engage in civil discourse?

The answer to that would be no.

Guess I'll go load my dishwasher.

Friday, March 02, 2012

Dueling Blog Posts.

My husband, Justin, and I are watching "Pretty in Pink".

Justin tells me that he should turn the channel to the sandwich program on the Food Network, "...so you can learn how to make a James Spader and Andrew McCarthy sandwich."

I tell him that I've known that recipe by heart for at least two decades and that I didn't need any learnin'. 

He's an amateur.  He didn't even suggest a Duckie for dessert.

Warm chewy Duckie...

Yes, you may.  Yes yes yes YES YES OH YES!

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