Mish-mash and flash, possibly NSFW

Today is my BFF's birthday. She's the awesomest for many, many reasons, but I think what drew us together was something very special.

Flashers.

You see, when I was about 11, I was walking down a fairly rural road with a friend I've long since forgotten, when a car drove slowly by us. It drove up the street, turned onto another road, did a three-point-turn and parked in front of a bridge.

It was a brilliant, sunny day, and I remember feeling particularly attractive in my rolled-up, cut-off jean shorts, Coca-Cola T-shirt, and Keds, so I really can't blame the driver of the car for what happened next.

When my friend and I looked back, a man had gotten out of the parked car and was, as I later told the police officer, "wiggling it around." (I would use the phrase again in 8th-grade math class, but that's a story for another day.)

I can still picture how the man looked. Shirt unbuttoned, tan shorts unzipped, mustache (of course), crappy red car.

My friend was devastated. The display had clearly ruined her childhood.

As we ran for her house, she screaming for her mother, I turning around for additional glimpses, I had a hard time keeping up. It's so hard to have enough breath for running when you're doubled over with laughter. Add pointing to the mix, and it's amazing I ever made it back to my friend's house.

Flash forward a few years, and I'm a freshman in college. I make friends with a girl in my dorm and we get to talking. Turns out? She was flashed, too.

One day, BFF and her grade school classmates were enjoying recess on the playground, when who should show up? A man with a penis, and he was ready to share.

While the other children were horrified, crying, scared, yelling, calling for their mommies, what did BFF do?

She went back for a second look.

And that, dear readers, is, I believe, the foundation of our friendship. I heart you, biffles. To the max, 4-evahs.

And now ... on to our regularly scheduled post ...

PHubby and I were tired last night, and we spent a lot of conversation not-really-joking joking about how lazy we could be about sex. It was mostly a tired barter over who would take the lead.

I considered offering a future BJ in exchange for not being on top, but let's face it, I'm about 48 years backed up on blow job promises, and we all know it.

He said maybe we should just do it sideways and hope for an earthquake to provide movement. Not a bad plan, really.

I was contemplating our sex plans as I was completing a few evening chores, when I passed the litter box in the upstairs hallway. After the ammonia sucked all the oxygen out of my lungs, I passed out for about 40 seconds.

I came to, scraped myself off the floor, and walked downstairs with a deal in mind.

Me:  Tell you what, honey. If you change the cat litter, I'll consider it foreplay. Wash your hands afterward, and we can skip cuddling.

PHubby:  Heh.

Me:  Oh, come on. That deserved more than a half-chuckle.

PHubby:  I know. I'm laughing inside. I was just trying to figure out how I could turn that into a standard agreement.

****
I have all sorts of saved drafts of blog posts. Some of them are just lists of one-sentence ideas, such as:

"The time my dad ate Snausages."

"The time I stuck a clothespin on my dad's nipple."

"The time my dad set a pizza on fire."

I'm going to have to get him something good for Father's Day.

****
I use Palmolive Eco dishwasher detergent, because I am an environmentalist, and why aren't you?

But here's the problem: it looks and smells exactly like semen. I try not to think about it when I get my coffee cup out of the dishwasher in the morning.

PHubby was all, "You should write a blog post about all the things that smell like semen."

I'm aware of only two things: Bradford Pear trees and Palmolive Eco dishwasher detergent. If we're not counting semen itself, I mean.

Before you ask - No, Palmolive is not paying me to push its product, although I'm sure my ringing endorsement will cause a run on it.

PSA: Non-Date-Rape Etiquette

Subtitle: The Kind of Class You'd Expect from Someone Smoking Weed out of a Milk Carton


By the way, this weekend, I made an ass out of myself at a cocktail party. Surprised?

I was thinking about other times I've been awesome at social gatherings, and I think the most interesting party I ever attended (other than the really molesty one with all the chiropractor students who never blinked and spent the evening massaging each other and groaning orgasmically - another time, perhaps) was a keg party way, way off campus when I was in college.

PHubby thinks it's important that I mention that I (we) attended a very small liberal arts college in a rural area. He likes to set the scene.

It was the week before classes started, and somehow I'd convinced my parents I needed that time to settle in and really prepare for rigorous academics. Shut up. I was very responsible.

One night, after I'm sure I'd spent all day pre-reading all the literature for my courses and making practice runs to the library study carrels, my roommate (Hilarious by Nature) and I decided to go to a party with some friends.

It was to be held at another student's parents' house, about 20 minutes outside of town, somewhere in the middle of the woods. Apparently, I was born without fear of townies, which is considered a disability in some cultures, in which they take you out back and beat you for being a dumbass who apparently likes ruffies.

We arrived at the party and - HEEEEEY! SO MANY PEOPLE CAME BACK TO TOWN TODAY! LET'S CELEBRATE WITH 12 CUPS OF GRAIN PUNCH! - I had a few drinks.

At some point in the evening, I started talking to a young man I didn't know. He said he remembered me from elementary school, and he knew my fourth-grade teacher's name, and he remembered I was one of the top readers ever in that class. Yes, thank you, I was a brilliant, well-read child. It has served me well, see?

Shut up.

So anyway, I didn't know him, he knew details about my life I barely even remember ... he seemed super safe.

"Hooray!" I thought. "A new BFF! He went to my elementary school. Nobody who went there could be even the slightest bit rapey! He's probably awesome and definitely doesn't want to rub his penis all over my skin or possibly under my skin after he removes it from my young, supple muscles. Surely not. Cheers, new friend!"

Seven or eight cups of grain punch later, and we were talking Plato on the steps to the deck, I'm pretty sure. (Fuck if I remember.)

I looked around and realized everyone was gone. There was a raging party, and then? Everyone disappeared. What the hell? Where did everyone go?

The kid throwing the party invited us inside. There was some, ahem, partaking, and the last thing I saw was Grade School Lover ripping a gravity bong hit out of a milk carton. (Kids: do not try this at home. Your parents will know you're on drugs.)

The next thing I knew, my neck and chin were wet, and they tickled. What was going on? I opened my eyes. Blurriness.

SHIT.

The kid was slobbering all over me. Creepy townie kid was sitting across the room watching. I had no idea how to get back to campus. I was drunker than I had ever been. I did a quick check of my clothing and was thankful it was still on.

Still. The situation was ungood.

"FUCK," I thought. "I'm a fucking after-school special. This is exactly what Alan Thicke said would happen to latchkey kids."

I made a mental note to blame whatever happened next on my mother's career.

My head was fuzzy, and my hands felt just like two balloons. ('sup? You don't like Floyd?)

I did what any normal, run-of-the-mill, drunken college girl in a scary situation does: I wigged thefuck out.

Next thing I knew, I was in the passenger seat of Grade School Lover's car, and we were driving. Driving, driving, driving.

I had my eyes peeled wide open, so I could watch the road. I'm 800 percent sure the kid should not have been driving, but I was much more interested in not becoming an urban legend. #Ilikemyliverinmybody

Where was he taking me? I don't know.

But, we ended up at a dead-end in the woods at which point I completely lost whatever cool I had left.

I remember screaming and yelling to get the fuck out of there. Where was he taking me? Get me home now. Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God.

To his credit, he didn't scream, "Chill, bitch. I'm turning around. I'm drunk, too, and I'm trying to get your drunk ass home. All I wanted was a piece of ass and an awkward morning drive, not a night of drunk-driving a hysterical idiot too drunk to protect herself from possible rape and dismemberment."

Instead, he turned the car around. I remember screaming at him to drive toward the orange glow in the sky, because that was our college town.

He drove me to my doorstep and let me out. Seriously. The guy did not lay a finger on me after I told him to get off me. He drove me home, turning when I told him to turn, and delivered me to my front steps. He did everything I asked.

So, of course, when I got out of the car, I slammed his door and screamed in the middle of my quiet little street, "THANKS FOR NOT RAPING ME!"

I walked up to my apartment, where I collapsed on the floor laughing because I wasn't being barbecued over a spit in the woods.

Later, I found out the guy felt really horrible about the whole situation and that he actually is a nice human being who is - I'm fairly certain - not a serial killer or rapist.

So. Who wants to party?

C-U-Next-Tuesday: Turf War

A couple weeks ago, I was chilling with my friend and a work contact, when the work contact asked me if I knew Paul Worky (not his name), a writer attending the same event.


Back up, son. There was another writer? On my turf?

Back in the day, I never much worried about competition. Then, I met Joe Man (not his name), the regional reporter for a big-name publication. Joe Man shouldered me out of interviews, rewrote articles from our publication for his publication (without any evidence of his own research contributing to it), and hungrily jotted down the answers to my very poignant questions.

So, now, when I hear there's a writer on my turf, I go all, "Whaaat? My story, bitchez. Let's roll."

I turn into a territorial writer monster. I'm not sure what that looks like, but when I'm done writing my post, maybe I'll work that out in MS Paint.

On this particular day, I dealt with the enemy in absolutely the bitchiest, mean-high-school girl way possible: BGJ, my friends - befriend, grill, judge.

To be fair, Paul Worky, who henceforth will be called "Mayim Bialik," had the most ridiculous fucking hat I've ever seen. Take away the flower, and cut the hair short, and he looked precisely like this:

Pretty sure this is a "Blossom" publicity shot, but if it happens not to be, let me know if it's yours. Thanks.

Which? Is adorable on 13-year-old Blossom. However, a 45-year-old man with a cutesy fold in his fishing cap needs to be taken down a peg. His outfit screamed "dickhead."

I know this makes me sound ugly. I know you're all thinking I must be that girl.

I guarantee you, I am not. I am a straight-up ladyist, and I love befriending people for real. Most of the time, I'm too friendly, hand-on-Bible.

But, this guy ... this guy had it coming. I sidled up to Mayim Bialik, and as soon as I felt he was comfortable enough with me, I started in on him.

During my mean-girl interview, Mayim claimed the following:

 - He is a freelancer from the tri-state area and has been published in several places.

OK. Believable.

 - It is impossible to live off freelance writing alone, so all freelancers must edit, as well.

Hm. I know some freelance writers who are doing just fine. Perhaps, Mayim Bialik needs to work on his writey skillz. As your TV brother, Joey, would say, "Whoa."

 - No one makes money blogging. He laughed at the idea.

Should I start a list, Mayim Bialik, or should you and I have a father-daughter talk about how lots of writers use their blogs to market their work and that a blog could be a great tool for someone who is having a hard time selling his work? No?

 - He has been published in a variety of big-name publications, which he tried to list a little too casually.

It was at this point that my friend, City Girl, stopped believing you. I googled you, dude. Not seeing a whole lot. I'm not sure I believe you, either. I find scant references to your work online, and that makes me doubt you have published in the places you were so quick to list. Do you feel you're not legitimate if you don't have big names behind you? Would you be selling out if you, say, marketed your writing? How about a LinkedIn page, my friend? Business cards? A website? Anything? Bueller? Bueller?

 - He was asked by The New Yorker to write something, but really wasn't interested.

I totally know what you mean, man. If you really want to be serious about freelancing, you don't want one of the country's most prestigious publications holding you back. Look at Malcom Gladwell and Joyce Carol Oates. Both still writing for The New Yorker, careers in the toilet. It's a real shame they don't have your insight.

Sarcasm aside, dude, this is when I knew you were full of shit or crazy. I'm guessing by your ridiculous hat, it could go either way.

*Sigh* I always feel so guilty at the end of C-U-Next-Tuesday. By the time I write about something that annoyed me, I'm not that angry about it anymore. Plus? It just doesn't feel like me. C-U-Next-Tuesday might not be long for the world. Maybe I'll come up with a new blog gimmick. You people like gimmicks, right? Maybe "Free Car Deodorizer Friday" or something ... I'll work on it.

Ninja Psychics are Assholes

Years ago, my mother and I came up with the million-dollar idea of designing inappropriate greeting cards. The idea came out of a fit of giggles over hearing a radio DJ cheerfully proclaim, "Happy Good Friday, everyone!"

Yes, of course. Happy Good Friday indeed! Jesus died on a cross so we can have a half-day off work! Woot! Golf game or margaritas?

Since then, I've become acutely aware of DJs' propensity for proclaiming somber holidays "happy." It's become a somber-holiday tradition for me to hear a DJ do it, in the same way some people need to hear a certain Christmas carol to really get into the holiday spirit.

Also, I spend a great deal of brain time writing inappropriate greeting cards. Sometimes, I wonder if my mother would have laughed so much during that initial discussion, had she known how much time I would devote to the idea.

Actually, lots of times when I'm thinking things that might not be normal, I start wondering if other people know what I'm thinking, like "what if there is a psychic in this room who hasn't told anyone he can read minds and totally can see the things I want to do in bed with my husband later, or maybe he knows that I'm secretly thinking about how pandas must get really sick of eating bamboo shoots and if I were a panda I'd send out for sandwiches at least once a week or something, or he's laughing at me because I should be paying attention to the presentation about this forest preservation area but all I can really think about is how weird my shoes smell or how awesome bananas are."

And who is this judgmental psychic asshole, anyway? Wait. Now that I'm thinking about a possible psychic being in the room, does he know that I'm thinking this?! That sneaky son-of-a-nugget.

So yeah, I'm afraid of ninja psychics.

You might be thinking, "That's weird," but I really feel like everyone should have this fear, and I just thought of a good metaphor to explain why you should hate ninja psychics, too.

You know how when you go to a public restroom and you have to pass gas, you are really hoping no one is in there because if they are in there, you don't want them to hear you fart, and you're not sure if you can keep it in?

And then, when you go into the public restroom and find a stall, and you know people are in there and could hear you, you have two choices?

1) You can really try to refrain from farting, or 2) You can go ahead and do it and then wait it out in the stall until everyone who heard you leaves the restroom.

Of course, the whole internal debate is null and void if someone else is pooping in that restroom. Because that person is disgusting and should have held it, and also should be filled with shame and self-loathing, and probably should cut back on the fiber during the work day.

Anyway, my point is that your brain is kind of like a public restroom. It's the appropriate place for inappropriate things to happen, and you shouldn't have to feel bad about it. All I'm saying.

Having a ninja psychic in the room would be like someone sneaking into a public restroom to listen to you fart when you thought you were alone.

Not cool.

This post was supposed to be about inappropriate greeting cards, but it's really taken a turn and I'm feeling kind of lost now. How about this? I'll just post some greeting cards, and you unsubscribe when you read the one that offends you?

Great. Here goes:

Memorial Day

(front)

(inside)

Birthday

(front)

(inside)

Arbor Day

(front)

(inside)

Maybe near the graduation cards?

(front)

(inside)

I'mma be over there in the corner. Where the bad kids stand. Feeling ashamed.

Choose Your Own Blog Post!

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Wear Your Bug Spray in the Projects

Last year, for work, I went on a history hike! It was so fun, I went again this year! :D

No, don't stop reading. Come on. It gets better!

This year, I brought a friend who was interested in the subject matter for a short story she's been considering. Henceforth, we shall refer to my friend as City Girl. She is no stranger to the outdoors, but I refuse to let go of this opportunity to tease her.

You see, after watching me take a DEET shower, City Girl gave herself two delicate little sprays of Off Deep Woods on her wrists, powdered her nose, adjusted her hoop skirt, and filled her canteen with enough mint julep to kill a horse.

Somehow, I just turned City Girl into Scarlet O'Hara, but whatever. It's my blog, and I can make her seem delicate however I want. Roll with it.

The first part of the day (not in the woods) is boring, but goes pretty much as planned. We break for lunch, with instructions to meet up at a parking area on the edge of a large forested park. I assume we'll be meeting at the same spot as last year, so that's where I lead City Girl.

To get to the parking area, we have to drive through the projects. Now, City Girl lives in a bona fide city with a crime rate that makes politicians just kind of throw up their hands and say, "Eh. What can you do?"

Given her experience with seriously crime-ridden areas, City Girl is ready to go buy an armored tank to drive through five blocks of low-income housing. The area indeed has a drug problem and random violence, but we're not talking daily, weekly, or even monthly drive-bys. There's a stabbing there, like, once every two years.

(Despite her fear, she is prepared to jump out of the car and throw down with the a-hole keeping a pitbull penned in his backyard. And? I respeckit.)

We arrive at the parking area, which really is just a dead-end street adjacent to a cul-de-sac of Section-8 housing. We parallel park in the grass. Some cars are parked next to each other at the dead end and are not the type of pickup trucks, sensible four-doors, and Volvo variants driven by historical society folk, who are the hike leaders. Some young men in the cars were talking to each other.

City Girl's assessment: drug deal; we gotta skidaddle.

We split, leaving the projects for an empty lot next to a vacant factory, where we can wait for the hike leaders to drive by and lead us to the parking area.

Across the way, I spy a yard sale - not normally a huge draw for me, but I submit to you: what else do you do when you're sitting in a car across from the 'jects, next to a vacant industrial warehouse, waiting for some bearded men to come take you into the woods? When in Rome, I say!

For sale in the lawn across from us is a new, blue PowerWheels Jeep. You know who would dig a blue PowerWheels Jeep? Yep. LJ and H-Dawg, miracle twins of my heart who absolutely need no such thing ...

Only 40 bucks, and I'm nearly 35 percent sure it isn't hot. At such a low price, I won't care when someone steals it to sell to the electronics trafficker living across from the vacant warehouse a couple towns over.

Eventually, we find the historical society folk and follow them all the way back to Crack Alley.

I spray myself down with the DEET. City Girl powders her nose. We pound a couple of Mickey's. Let's do this bitch.

At the edge of the woods, people are already gathered.

This is how the woods look in the easy-to-navigate part (ignore collapsed building):

Other parts of the park include wetlands, sunken graves, briars, and probably - although not 100 percent proven - animals that eat weaker beings.

You can imagine our surprise to see a group of people approaching the age of 90, standing on the edge of the forest with - I shit you not - walkers, oxygen tanks, and - I'm fairly certain - nurses. (I can come to no other conclusion for young women in scrubs standing next to old ladies with walkers and oxygen tanks.)

A map, for your convenience:

After much chitchat, we split into groups to enter the woods. Three words: not. well. planned.

Our first, and in my opinion, most interesting site, is an abandoned grave site. The members of the group, however, have forgotten about the only person who knows anything at all about the site. She is 84.

So, we're all standing around the old graves and someone says, "Hey! You know, Miss Selma is still way back there."

We have all just abandoned a senior citizen in the wilderness.

We learn nothing. People are all over the trails, without guides, possibly without their blood thinners, and there's not a Life Alert tag with a decent range among us.

It's been hours. Following this portion of the hike, there is supposed to be a six-mile hike to see some other sites. At the rate we're going, we won't be out of the woods before breakfast.

I look at City Girl. She finds a tick crawling on her arm. Yeah. We're not going on a six-mile hike. We jettison.

Back at my house, I spot another tick crawling on her hair.

Later, I get this text from her:

"Check urself. I pulled 8 ticks off me mostly on the outside of my underwear in the fitting room at outlets. Thanks for today. Had a great time."

The next day, I get this text from her:

"Happy easter! I may have chiggers but it's better than lyme disease. had these once before."

A few days later, an e-mail:

"I think I’m prone to bug bites. Mosquitos flock to me and I got chiggers once before when I lived on the farm. They were awful then. This time, they’re not so bad. I don’t think I told you this, but when I went to try on clothes, at least 3 dog ticks fell out of my pants and I didn’t have anything to kill them with. They wouldn’t die under my shoe and there were no pins to cut them with. So I just tried to keep track of them on the floor as they crawled around. I basically left the fitting room, with all these ticks crawling around and then got out of the store quickly. I was so embarrassed. It was kind of funny. Then when I got home, there were still even more. I threw my pants and t-shirt in the washer immediately. Also, there was one crawling on my parking brake when I got back into my car at your house."

City Girl has been upgraded to Public Health Threat.

I am Georgia O'Keefe

Know that when readers ask, I deliver.

Scene: Kitchen. Water color paintings drying on the counter. Sarah P is dumping murky water, cleaning paint brushes, telling children to go wash up for dinner.

PHubby examines the artwork. He focuses on one piece of paper and then holds it up.

PHubby: What's this?

Me: Hmmmm?

*pause*

Me: Oh. That! Um. It's just, um ... I was painting water colors with the kids!

PHubby: Right. Picked up on that. What I mean is, what IS this?

Me: It's uuuuhhhhhmm ... Cousin It!

PHubby: *glares knowingly*

Me: Fine. You know what it is.

PHubby: Sarah! The kids!

Me: They didn't know what it was! Plus, it's all Georgia O'Keefey and representative, not literal.

PHubby: Yeah. I can see that.

Me: What do you mean by that?

PHubby: It doesn't have a bottom.

Me: So?

PHubby: *slowly turning it sideways* It kind of looks like a ghost. Casper.

Me: *grumpy face*

PHubby: And, why is there a blue streak?

Me: The blue represents the sadness women endured before the suffragettes because they couldn't vote. Because they had vaginas? It's a metaphor.

PHubby: *cocks an eyebrow*

Me: OK. Fine. I had to use it to cover the yellow streak.

PHubby: *eyebrow goes higher*

Me: At first, the yellow streak seemed like a stroke of creative genius, but it looked a little too much like pee and I didn't want to have to answer questions about it from readers who thought I was trying to be gross because sometimes I am, but this time I'm not and also some people don't appreciate art in the grown-up, mature way that I do. *proud face* I very rarely giggle at nude statues, you know.

PHubby: Right. OK, then. *starts to put paper down* Wait. *picks it up* Are those ... ears?!

Me: Horns.

PHubby: Horns. *nodding* Horns?

Me: It wasn't turning out how I envisioned, so I decided to make it into a face. But it looked more like a monster. So I gave it horns.

PHubby: *quizical* *turns paper and cocks head to appreciate it from different angles*

Me: It's just-! Leave it. It's not important. The colors ran, and it didn't look like a monster anymore. And then I thought it could probably pass for a vagina, and I promised it by way of a poll. Now I have to follow through.

PHubby: I don't think this counts.

Me: *glares*

PHubby: I'm just saying it looks nothing like your vagina.

Me: *still glaring*

PHubby: Consider that a compliment.

Me: *snatches paper* Maybe you just don't understand art.

C-U-Next-Thursday? Spells the same thing anyway.

I intended a completely different post for tonight, but today I witnessed something incredibly interesting. I decided to dust off the ol' C-U-Next-Tuesday tradition.

PHubby and I went to lunch today at what is essentially an upscale soup-salad-sandwich place with a wine menu and overpriced apps.

I was about to order a half-pot of french press while PHubby finished his organic beer, when several parties arrived to be seated within a few minutes of each other.

The hostess/waitress became very busy, so I chose to skip the coffee. While we waited for our bill, two women were seated at a table to my right, against the wall. The woman sitting on the booth side of the table began venting to her friend. Loudly.

Well, they're scheduling the ski trip now. They're doing the Alps again this year. And so I told him I don't want to give up my house in Idaho.
I want to go to Idaho, and it's my house. I should be able to go. It's my inheritance, after all. He does the ski trip with his inheritance.
When we married, I said, "Well, should I sell the house," and he said, "No, keep it."
I guess when I was single I didn't have to worry about such things, but since Peter came along ... there has to be a discussion. I mean, I'm used to doing things the way I like. Now, there's more to consider.


And, I just want to thank this lady. I mean, really. I had no idea how hard a person's life could be until she broadcast her misfortune loud enough for everyone in the entire fucking restaurant to hear.

Until today, I had no idea this world could be so dark, so unforgiving, so cruel. Someone should start an organization to help people in these situations.

Let's band together to fight heated discussions over vacation plans of the wealthy.

Pretty sure I've never seen a grown-up spoiled brat in the flesh until today. I had a rull hard time not smacking this stupid fucking cunt across her stupid blushy face and telling her about real problems. I mean, I feel pretty fucking grateful right now, and while I've had a few bright points this year, there have been some crappy times, too.

But you know what? I'm healthy. My kids are tucked safely into bed right now. My husband took me out for a nice lunch today. And, let's go ahead and address it: people still randomly offer me oral sex. My life is pretty sweet.

But there is real sadness and atrocity in this world. And I guarantee you, it has nothing to do with Bitchface McWaspy's vacation choices for next winter.

On Field Day, Everyone is a Winner

I declare today FIELD DAY, because everyone wins!

But really, Curiosity wins. I would love to offer here her winning entry (which she e-mailed), but it's up to her. She can post it on her blog, or I can post it here. Or, she could choose to make you all really sore losers who are undeserving of laughs.

If you all saw it, you would know why she won. If you haven't already, check out her blog, Emotional Umbrella. Genuine is the word that comes to mind when I read her writing.

I have e-mailed her with the news, so hopefully, we will pick a book that will be fun or meaningful for her.

Your entries all were truly great. You made me laugh, think and - maybe most importantly - slow down.

I really, really appreciate that.

To show my appreciation, I would like to send you each a birthday card. Or a holiday card of your choosing. E-mail me your birthday and the age (if you want) you will be on your birthday, or the holiday/event of your choosing, plus your name and address (which I obviously will never, ever give away and very likely will lose and have to ask you to send me again #iknowmyself).

I'll send you something fun and/or funny to commemorate the day of your choosing sometime in the next 12 months. I'm not sending you a birthday card in 2020. Sorry. I'm not that organized.

Also, maybe include in that e-mail whether you are for or against immature and/or pornographic drawings in your card.

My email address is naked cupcakes at gmail dot com.

Thank you, all.

Average Wife, Fair-to-Middling Partner

Hello, men! I stopped writing about my vahoojy for five seconds and start writing about blow jobs, and the men showed up for the game!

I so appreciate those men (especially you and you, who've been around since I started blogging and have been awesome and encouraging) who stuck with me through the vulvas and OB/Gyn appointments. Blow jobs (related-posts) for everyone!

PHubby pointed out all the comments from men in the last post. He said they all googled "blow job naked cupcakes" and found me. Sorry to disappoint. :(

I'll make it up to you with a dirty emoticon: 8==D

(Psst. It's a penis and balls.)

Last night, PHubby and I were talking about marriage and sex and stuff, like ya do on Easter night. We were talking about philanderers.

Me: I don't get it. A married man already has at least two holes in which to stick his one penis. I mean, if he has an average wife. How many more holes does he really need? He can only occupy one at a time.

PHubby: What?

Me: Well, I mean that I feel I offer you plenty of intimacy. Two orifices per one penis is pretty good odds, I'd say.

PHubby: *confused look*

Me: Well, I won't let you stick it there, but, I'm not going for world's best wife. I'm aiming for fair-to-middling. That should be enough.

PHubby: That's great, honey. "I'm as good a wife as I can be, without subjecting myself to anal fissures."

Me: *nods*

*****************

I will pick a winner tonight for the latest contest. I'll announce it tonight or tomorrow. Hope you all had a happy Sunday that may or may not have been Easter for you. I ate so much ham. Also, when did Easter become Christmas: the Second Coming for kids? My kids got serious loot. Crazy.

Also, see that poll I posted six years ago about you people wanting more or less of my vagina?

(Over there, on the right.) Yeah, I'll do something about that at some point. I'm basically the best blog master ever. That cupcake design up there at the top of the page? Yeah. Made it myself. *polishes nails on vest*

Took me 90 seconds. Decided to change it about three months ago. There it stays. I'll get around to it. Right after that blow job I promised.

For those of you who haven't figured it out on your own, the dick is back. We here at Naked Cupcakes salute his dickishness and his decision to return to the blogosphere.

UPDATE: Just wanted to say that OF COURSE I appreciate all the ladies who read and comment and have been super nice and supportive since I started blogging. I was just pointing out how "blow jobs" brought the boys 'round. K. Just wanted to clarify. Love the ladies. Love the gents. You're all awesome. *throws candy*

Putting the Anal in Holy Week

You ever try to pull something together into a joke and no matter how you force it, it just falls flat?

I spent the last few days at my parents' house. I had the luxury of showering, uninterrupted, for 20 straight minutes, two days in a row.

Wednesday, in the shower, thoughts of blogging began to take over my brain, and I started thinking about writing another Lenten post, about how God must have a sense of humor, and how I'm probably going to Hell because I put the ... hmmmm ... anal in Christi-anal-ity? Mm, not quite. Cathanalocism?

I put the anal in ... let's see ... benevolence ... banalovence ... noooo, that doesn't work.

Let's just say it went downhill from there and that I came to the conclusion that I'm just a fornicator, but I'll never be a sexually-practicing gay man because, among other reasons (lack of penis playing a big part here), I will never, ever let anything in my outbox. Ever.

Ever.

Ever again.

Anyway.

Where were we? Oh, yes. I'm having a 30-something crisis. Gawd! Do you remember that show? Those were some melodramatic yuppies, man. I don't think television has since or will ever again witness such an influx of L.L. Bean. They're probably still riding off the profits from that.

Well, that, and from all the plaid flannel they sold to the Northern Exposure wardrobe department.

I don't mean to come down on Bean. They make a helluva duck boot.

And I hear their monogrammed, cedar-chip dog beds are quite nice.

It's just that I got over L.L. Bean in the 1988-1989 school year, right about the time I swept oak-and-brass furniture and Tretorns out of my life.

Incidentally, that's also the year of my second round of crushes, my first crush being the previous summer, when I found myself head-over-heels for a clueless, ruddy-cheeked, adventuresome boy called G. Willie (not a joke; really his name; I liked a cleverly disguised dick joke even before I knew what one was).

I met G. Willie at nature camp, and I went along with all his adventures, such as claiming an abandoned camp cabin in the woods as his new club house. He had this adorable lisp for a 12-year-old (I was 9), and he was so, so smart about naturey things and what to do with a stick. Honh, honh, honh! (Say it all Frenchy.)

Also? G. Willie had messy hair, which turns out? Total turn-on for me throughout my life. Mm. I love me some messy geek.

Anyway.

What was I saying?

Right. 1988-1989 school year. The year of Daniel and Larry. *sigh*

Daniel R. and Larry H. sat across from me in our four-square table of arranged desks next to the teacher's desk (partially because we were the smart kids, and partially because we never shut up), and I was romantically torn. Neither knew my feelings, but still, I couldn't decide.

Larry probably eventually won me over because Daniel was cast as Romeo in the 8th-grade play, so that pretty much gave Larry a big plus. Did I mention I like geeks?

Anyway, Danel R. and Larry H. both had messy chocolate hair, although Daniel's was a little wavier and Larry's was shiny and almost black. Ruddy cheeks on both. Both easy to blush.

Larry had a charming smile and a twinkle in his eye that were almost - dareIsay - complimented by his big, gapped front teeth.

Daniel had fair skin, freckles and was just a little bit whiney - which, for those of you not in the know of 5th grade lust - equals angst a la characters played by John Cusack. Also, he looked very similar to Harry Potter in the first movie. Totes adorable, no?

This is all completely pointless, and I really don't know where I was going with the Saga of Daniel R. and Larry H.

Somehow I was going to bring this story 'round to the reasons I cannot give PHubby a blow j. tonight.

Sooo, here: something, something, segue, amusing quip, snark.

I just spent several days with the kids, visiting my parents. He's been alone and lonely. I came home to a very clean and sweet-smelling house. He totally deserves some oral.

I curled up next to him on the couch, totally exhausted, and told him it's not just because I'm tired that I'm planning not to blow him tonight and that I would provide a list.

1. The flowering trees are blooming, and the postnasal drip makes me feel like I have vaginosis of the uvula. Scratchy and swollen.

This made him ask how many times I've had vaginosis.

Shit. *Busted.*

"Never. It's just what I bet it would feel like. Only in my throat."

2. Our son has been yelling for four days. (He's 3. I've now given up and am OK with being labeled a bad parent.)

3. Although tomorrow is the most solemn of the Christian calendar, I'm 90 percent sure our kids were conceived on Good Friday before service. We'll be fasting. I'll need the sustenance.

4. I'm fucking tired.

And for all of those reasons, I am prematurely ending this blog post. If PHubby prematurely ended anything, he wouldn't have to wait.