Awwwwwkward

I’ve got two sick kids at home today sucking the life out of me, so I’ll keep this brief. 

If you go nowhere else on the Internet today, go see my new favorite thing: Awkward Family Photos.com, Sharing the Awkwardness. Hot damn, this is funny stuff. The concept is so simple… people send in, you guessed it, awkward family photos. The photos are priceless, but the real brilliance is in the captions and the comments. It is a hoot, ya’ll. Check it out and tell ‘em Iris sentcha. 

Specifically, you have to see this one, sent to me by one of my dearest friends who wrote in her email: “This hairy family made me think of you.” I’m sure it was because of the ginormous beave on the mom and not the creepy Electra Complex action. Thanks D! Love you too, Sugar! 

Here’s another gem not to be missed. That’s just not natural. Listen, I should know. One of my BFFs is a professional photographer and she tells me all the time about the crazy shit people want to have captured on film. No, nothing like that. Just stupid stuff like unflattering matching outfits and “silly poses” and crazy moms who shout things at their kids like “SMILE, GOD DAMMIT!”  Just curious, is there a school somewhere that trains budding Mall Photographers to make people pose in ridiculous ways or do you think there are just a lot of photographers out there with really sick senses of humor? Based on the shots I’m seeing at this site, I’ve got to believe that some of these photographers come home sometimes with a picture or two to share while they Pass the Dutchie with their buds saying, “Dude… check out how I made this family all put their fists under their chins. It was fuckin’ hilarious! I could barely take the shot, I was laughing so hard.” 

Something to think about next time you go to The Picture People, eh? Just sayin. 

Work it, you’re worth it!  And SMILE, GOD DAMMIT!  

-Iris

Sweatin’ with the Oldies

Know what I hate more than anything about going to the gym? It’s not the pain, it’s not the time out of my busy child-rearing/husband-wrangling schedule, it’s not even the increased risk of contracting necrotizing fasciitis… it’s having to socialize while I’m tired, sweaty, stinky and nasty. Shoot, if I wanted to do that, I could just stay home and have sex with my husband. Nothankyouverymuch. 

But alas, it’s almost swimsuit season and I’ve got to firm up these buns and thighs before someone tries to throw me on the grill and baste me at the Memorial Day Pool Party.  Besides, my extensive team of psychiatric advisors tells me that daily physical activity is good for all that ails me. And by daily physical activity, they mean more than just lifting my wine glass to my mouth repeatedly and/or kicking my dog. Dammit. 

So on Monday, I shoe-horned my ginormous post-partum goodie basket into a pair of high-waisted yoga pants and headed off for the YMCA… a.k.a., the “Y-ABC,” according to my scrumdeli-icious toddler “Bucket Head.” And after a very concentrated and effective 30 minutes on the elliptical and three sets of “ow-this hurts” on the machines, I managed to make it almost all the way to the front door without having to chit chat with anyone while pretending there wasn’t a big ol’ pool of sweat collecting around my camel toe, when what did I hear but, “Iris? Is that YOU?” 

Fuck. 

Oh, of all the people. It was Saint Margaret. She is seriously, no joke, one of the nicest people I have ever met in my whole life. And for some unknown reason, she likes me. She really likes me. And we hardly ever see each other anymore, what with all her volunteer work, and church-going, and tennis lessons and my rampant alcoholism, and clutter hoarding, and therapy appointments. 

But there we were, sweaty face to sweaty face, doing the “So, what’s new with you?” dance. I was clearly in a hurry to skedaddle and extract the lycra from my crotch, so she suggested we meet again later this week and do a class together.

“Uh… I don’t really do the classes, Marg.”

“How come?!”

“Well, the last time I did one, it totally kicked my ass. I couldn’t walk for days. And not only that, but it was humiliating. I couldn’t keep up and I was embarrassed. I ended up slinking out before the end of the class with my tail between my legs.” 

“That’s why you have to do the classes! The peer pressure forces you to go further than you normally would on your own! And if you do it with a friend, you will be less likely to sneak out before the end of the class! You’ll see results so much faster!”

“Ugh… really?”

“Yes. Do a class with me. It will be great! Only three more weeks until summer!”

“Oh…kay.” (with a heavy sigh) 

And so less than 48 hours later, there I was, back at the gym with Saint Margaret, walking into a class called “Stability Ball.” 

I know what you’re thinking… but don’t worry, apparently being stable isn’t a requirement. And they supply the balls. 

Neither of us had done this class before and had no idea what we were getting into, but we guessed it was going to work our abs and I’ll do anything to reduce the size of my stretch-marked-muffin-top… well, anything except refrain from eating an entire bag of Boy Scout “Unbelievable Butter” microwave popcorn every night in a reclined position while The Gatekeeper flips back and forth between Law and Order SVU or SUV or SUX and Law and Order Criminal Intent and Law and Order Mail Fraud Division. Whatever.  Just fucking shoot me. 

Now this next part is going to sound a wee bit agist, and it is. So to my more mature readers, I apologize in advance. When Saint Margaret and I got to the class, I noticed a few, ahem, “older” ladies getting settled in. With the exception of seeing their varicose vein covered legs ballooning out of their lycra short-shorts, having them there gave me a great deal of comfort. If the cast of Cocoon can hang with the Stability Ball class, hopefully, so could I. Maybe I wouldn’t have to sneak out halfway through and spring for a new tube of Ben Gay.

Anyhoooo…. two things. First off, I now see why they keep the music up so loud in these classes: to disguise all the noises coming from the vajayjays in the room. Seriously dudes, can’t someone design some workout clothes for women that include some kind of cork-like apparatus for the hoo hoo? No? Too misogynist?  Well then, how about some soundproof yoga pants? Hey, that is a great idea! I need to patent that. You heard it here first, peeps. 

And number two… why do instructors save all the really hard moves for the end of the class? It started off so easy… we were each sitting, SITTING, I say, on a big rubber exercise ball, lifting little three pound weights up and down, up and down. I especially liked the sitting part. Piece of cake! Then we were doing sit ups with our backs on the ball. Also, not so bad. I was hanging in there! But then, the class got a little bit harder. No more sitting, we were suddenly on our bellies, rolling forward on the ball, doing PUSH UPS with our hands on the floor and only our feet on the ball. I kid you not. You know you are doing something dangerous when the instructor says: “Watch your faces!” Yikes! Excuse me, but any kind of exercise where I have to watch my face is not eligible for the Bearded Iris Seal of Approval. 

I was pretty impressed with myself that I could hang with the modified pushups. I looked at the clock… only ten minutes left! YES! I was going to make it! And then, we entered the Sudden Death Round. Seriously. After 45 minutes, who has the energy to take it to the next level? This crazy bitch instructor (who could not only do all these moves while talking, smiling, and squealing “Whooop-Whoop” to the music) told us to lie on our backs, hold the balls straight up in the air with our feet, and pass the balls back and forth to and from our hands, like inverted jack-knives opening and closing. I never felt so stupid in all my life… including Senior Prom Night 20 years ago, but that’s another story. Nor did I know that I could sing the Star Spangled Banner with my other lips, but apparently I can, and this was just the move to prove it. 

To add insult to injury, not only could I not do the ball handling jack knife move, but one look in the wall-to-wall mirror showed me that everyone else in the class was doing just fine with it, including the one who looked like Kathy Najimy and the three Golden Girls. I’m only 39 years old, and every single person in that class could have kicked my ass with one liver-spotted arm behind their back. Dammit. No wonder my Wii Fit Age enables me to receive a virtual AARP discount card.

But am I a quitter? Especially with the end so near? You betcha. Once I realized there was no way in hell my arms, legs, back, abs, and hoo hoo were going to cooperate with that jack knife move, I snuck outta there faster than you can say “queef.” I was like the old timers at church on Sunday who take communion and keep walking… right to their cars… you know, to avoid the traffic. I’ll just tell Saint Margaret that I sprung a leak and had to go change my Poise Pad. Maybe if she thinks I’m incontinent, she’ll be less likely to invite me to another class and I can go back to exercising the way I like it: alone and without shame, pain, or embarrassing noises. If you don’t hear from me for a while, just assume I pulled a muscle and am nursing myself back to health. Later, taters! 

xoxo,

-Iris

©  2009 The Bearded Iris

Where There’s a Will, There’s a Way

Well, The Gatekeeper put the big kibosh on my spending. Dammit. Always the practical one, he’s a little concerned about the state of our economy. He actually told me, and I quote, “You have to stop buying things.” I’m pretty sure he means clothes and shoes and makeup, and not things like the economy size bucket of Oxy Clean required for fighting the omnipresent stains in his drawers. (Note to self: it appears as though saving grocery money by serving lots of bean burritos only increases the laundry expenses… something to consider when planning our weekly menu and budget.) 

So, always wanting to be an obedient concubine wife, I needed to find a way to get my shopping fix and save money at the same time. I don’t use coupons… even when I go to the trouble to find them, and clip them, and bring them with me (and that’s three strikes against me right there), I invariably forget to hand them to the clerk during checkout. Never fails. 

Nor do I wait for sales. Timing isn’t my thing. Neither is patience. Or self-control for that matter. 

Luckily for me, I have discovered the perfect outlet. It’s a little ol’ thang called Goodwill. I know, I know, it’s a thrift store… ick! Honey, listen, don’t get yer panties in a wad. It is totally different than it used to be. Thrift stores are not just for homeless people and Halloween costumes anymore. They are veritable treasure troves of goodness! Yes, it is true, you may have to dig a bit to find that buried treasure, but believe-you-me, it is so worth it.  

You see, there are two coexisting trends right now that are working together to create the perfect shopping environment! First of all, people are desperate for ways to cut back and save a buck. Being thrifty is totally hip right now. It is the new Green. And secondly, people all over this nation are striving to simplify their lives. They are glued to shows like Clean Sweep and Clean House and some poor schmucks are even sending pictures of their cluttered homes to Oprah in desperate hopes of landing a free clutter-busting-makeover from Peter Walsh himself. Suckahs. How desperate can you get? Bygones. Anyhooo, everywhere you turn, people are filling their SUVs with STUFF they no longer want or need and are dropping them off at thrift stores left and right. And wouldn’t you know it? Some of that STUFF that people are just dying to get rid of is pretty darn nice! We’ve been a nation of excess for so long, charge-charge-charging our way into this economic crisis, that many of us who are “drowning in clutter” are actually drowning in a pretty fancy sea of Pottery Barn knick knacks that just have to go! 

And here I am, smack dab in the middle of a perfect storm of clutter-clearing, treasure-hunting, bargain-shopping, and husband-evading. The air is ripe with possibilities. 

My goal is to take more to Goodwill than I bring back home with me, but so far I’m about dead even. I feel pretty good about my purchases though and have strived to buy only things that I think we truly need.

Here is one of my favorite purchases to date… it is a hand painted lampshade that I procured for about $2.00. 

Isn’t it purdy? Only problem… I figured out pretty damn quickly why someone got rid of it…

Here’s what it looks like when you turn on the lamp:

Fugly. Oh well. I still like it during the day. And for two bucks? Shoot. Can’t beat that with a stick! 

One thing I’ve figured out is that not every Goodwill store is the same. Here in North Georgia there are a few Goodwills that are much nicer than others. Sometimes they are very disorganized and it is hard to find what you want. At other stores, you walk in and I swear you can hear angels singing. Have you ever seen organization in a thrift store like this?

Seriously ya’ll. That is so pleasing to the eye, ain’t it? All the clothing racks in this particular store are like that. They must have Rain Man managing it or something. Me likee. 

Another thing I’ve noticed at these thrift stores is the plethora of discarded teacher appreciation CRAP. Por examplo:

This tells me two things:

1.) teachers do not appreciate this junk. You should see the number of “World’s Best Teacher” coffee mugs lining the shelves of these thrift stores. I know you love your teacher, but he/she does not want another apple-shaped Christmas ornament, coffee mug, or pencil holder. If every parent in the class pooled their $5.00, that hard-working teacher could buy something they really want and save themselves the hassle of making another trip to the thrift store to drop off all the clutter they keep receiving from you people. 

2.) if you insist on buying this tacky shit for your teachers, go buy it for pennies on the dollar at the Goodwill! Then, put a gift card or a nice crisp five or ten dollar bill in that hideous mug and know that you are supporting a local charity and your teacher in a way she’ll appreciate. Trust me on this one. 

And speaking of teachers… 

Damn. Where are Stacy and Clinton when you need them? And Richard Simmons too. 

Which brings me to my next point. If you are new to thrifting, you might want to stick to housewares and books. It can be difficult to find clothes you like or want at thrift stores. There is a lot of stuff like that dress above. I did find a fabulous “like new” winter coat for $4.00 that I am just tickled about… and hopefully once I wash it in extra hot water it will be much less likely to tickle me back. I also found a really great pair of pajama pants. They were the right size, a good brand, a great fabric, already broken in and soft, and in great shape:

… at least I thought they were in great shape, until I lifted one of the pant legs to check for rips and discovered this:

 

Look closely at the crotch (like you usually do, ya cheeky monkey!).  D’ya see that? Yep. It is a big ol’ blood stain. Ewwww. Ladies, ladies, ladies. How could you? Didn’t your Mama ever tell you that you can’t just leak your monthly moon juice all over your PJ pants and stick ‘em in the Goodwill bag?! For Pete’s sake! That is why God invented Oxy Clean, honey. Gross. 

Yeah. I bought ‘em anyway. So what? 

OK, one last tip. Don’t take your kids with you when you shop at Goodwill unless you are well medicated, have a strong stomach, and are in the mood to negotiate. For starters, as you well know, kids are nasty little varmints. Maybe that sounds a tad negative. What I mean is that children, being so trusting and adventurous, and enthusiastic, don’t necessarily mix well with “previously owned” housewares. In other words, if your kids are anything like mine, you can bet that they’ll stick used Scooby-Doo sippy cup straws into their mouths and lick dusty artificial fruit while simultaneously trying to convince you to buy these items for them. Or they’ll grab a hideous dusty figurine, hold it up to their little face, and plead: “Oh MOM! Look how cute! How could anyone part with this?”

Yep. You guessed it. I am now the proud owner of this sad little cow. Don’t worry, he’ll be back at Goodwill sooner than later, I hope. Along with those previously stained pajama pants, once I get my fill of them. 

Happy Thrifting! 

xoxo,

Iris

“my friend’s hot mom porn”

Huh?

Yeah, that’s right. Do not adjust your screen. I just said “my friend’s hot mom porn.” 

That is the search engine phrase someone used last week. 

And this is the URL their search engine generated, or one of them, anyway. My little ol’ blog: The Bearded Iris: A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All. 

Well, alls I gots to say to that is: why, thank you, sugar! What a compliment… I think. I don’t know whom to thank. The perv looking for hot mom porn or the search engine who considers me hot and porn-like?!  I sure hope that sweet little hornd0g wasn’t disappointed when he got here. Although, I’m gonna guess that me vividly detailing the, ahem, “ins and outs” of my post-partum-poonanny doesn’t really cut it as porn. Birth control, maybe… but porn? I wish. Poor thing. Sorry to waste your time, hon. 

I just don’t get it. I’ve been told that the whole MILF (”Mom I’d Like to Fuck”) concept is very real… but I personally don’t see it. Would someone please enlighten me? I don’t know if these men are attracted to the fruit-bearing, nurturing thing, or to the “experienced woman” mystique. I suppose they could be turned on by the curves and softness that go along with a maternal body. Or perhaps the whole frazzled, not-very-hygienic,  pharmacologically assisted woman juggling multiple extra curricular activities and myriad household duties stirs the loins of the hunter-gatherer type who is looking for an easy target. If that is the case, welcome home, Sugar. Come to Mama! 

Seriously, I feel bad about someone looking for porn being directed to a blog like this. What a waste of their precious one-handed time. I mean, really. A blog like mine hardly constitutes genuine hot mom porn. I’ve posted pictures of my dog’s shit, for chrissakes. True, I also have been known to occasionally write about things like brazilian bikini waxing, but still. Porn? I think not. Although it does give me some ideas for future posts. I’ve had a bit of a writer’s block lately and maybe experimenting with a new genre is just the ticket to build my readership.  Dad, you might want to stop reading after today. 

But back to the whole search engine thing. As the official administrator of this here blog, I have behind the scenes access to honest-to-God statistics like how many people stop by each day, what they click on while they are here, and how they found me in the first place. It is fascinating! Ya’ll… you would not believe the things people are searching for in cyber space. There are some sick fuckers out there. And I should know… because I’m definitely one of ‘em. 

Here is a small sample of some of my favorite search engine terms that have brought people to my blog one way or another:

• “bitches”
• “sexy+woman+vibrator”
• “pregnant farts”
• “tiny skank”
• “how to make a homemade pocket pussy”
• “brazilian asshole”
• “gywneth paltrow”
• “bikini wax”
• “ham hock stink”
• “it is not pms i am always a bitch” 
• “debbie downer wah wah sound”
• “daddy my panties are sticky”
• “McCain – mental instability and US Navy”
• “vulva candy”

and my favorite: “bearded iris wordpress dirty girl.” 

My word. Isn’t that a hoot? What a colorful and multifaceted collection of topics! I feel two inches taller all of a sudden. 

And speaking of search engines, I’d like to apologize to all the gardeners out there looking for information about the ever-so-popular Bearded Iris family of flowers. I’m just imagining my great grandmother (if she were alive and capable of using a computer) sitting down with a nice, hot cup of chamomile tea to do some research about how and when to divide the irises in her heirloom garden and inadvertently getting a face-full of this:

Ooops. Sorry Grandma. I can just see her adjusting her bifocals and thinking: “What in the Sam Hill? THAT is the strangest looking iris root I’ve ever seen… but isn’t it nice that the gardener in the background is so happy and proud of her special flower?” 

Good Lord. Oh, that reminds me, must add some Magic Cream to my shopping list… bathing suit season is just around the corner. 

One last thing: if you are a decent person with any sense of privacy or shame, you really have to be careful what you do on your computer. Everything you do leaves a cyber-trail… like the line of Graham Cracker crumbs on my kitchen floor that I can follow to find my hiding toddler. Yep – like my oh-so-practical husband likes to remind me, once you click “send” or “publish” (or “BUY IT NOW”), it is out of your sweaty hands and out there in cyber space forever. Scary. And speaking of scary… you do not even want to know where I had to go and what I had to see in order to get that picture above! Holy guacamole! Who knew there were entire websites dedicated to “mature and hairy” women? Ahhh…home sweet home. 

Well, gotta run. I suddenly have a burning desire to update my virus software and scan for virtual STDs. Thanks for stoppin’ by, Sugar! Happy surfing! 

-Iris

Wonder Years

Hey ya’ll… sorry I’ve been away for so long. I haven’t thrown in the towel, I’ve just been airing it out a little. You’ll thank me later. Nobody wants a musty, stanky towel all up in their biscuits. 

Things around here have been crazier than a soup sandwich lately. Here’s just a sampling of some of the bacon-infused side dishes overlapping on my cafeteria plate the past few weeks: 

• The Gatekeeper and I were called in for a “conference” about Klepto’s behavior with four of her Kindergarten teachers (including Art and P.E.), the Assistant Principal (i.e. “Bad Cop”), and the school counselor. Turned out it was actually an invitation to a “Let’s all complain about how much we can’t stand your evil child” bitch session. Yikes. It was bad ya’ll. I cried afterwards and I wasn’t even riding the cotton pony that day. 
• Klepto (the very same 6 year old girl middle child) was diagnosed (for the second time) with Sensory Processing Disorder. Totally accounts for all her wacky antics over the years. Who knew there was a medical explanation behind sticking ABC gum to your twat? 
• Klepto had a friend over to play who picked at a scabby wart on the back of her knee and bled all over Klepto’s dress up clothes, my sofa, and the carpet. Let me tell you something… nothing puts a damper on a play date like hearing your child scream “MOM! Amber’s BLEEDING!” No, wait… there is one thing worse… it turned out that the bleeding “wart” was actually an infectious disease known affectionately as Molluscum Contagiosa. Nice. Thanks a lot, bitch. And my kids wonder why I don’t schedule more play dates. 
• My perfect first born stole a Lego Star Wars Storm Trooper head from our friends’ house and then lied to me about it. As if my world needed to crumble any further. Is nothing sacred? Poor thing, he’s so damn attention starved. 
• And speaking of petty theft, Klepto stole something from her art class and was ratted out by her peers. Assholes. Yep, got a conference call from the teacher and the assistant principal that day. Ah, good times. I’m pretty sure this poor girl is being profiled. She can do no right at that damn school. 
• Flew to Miami with my husband for a weekend without the kids! Lord have mercy… my knees are still wobbling from all the Mojito inspired hotel sex. That town is crazy, ya’ll. 
• My baby turned two years old a couple days ago. Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset… seems like just yesterday I was holding an ice pack up to my battered hoo hoo, cursing the day I drank too many margaritas and let The Gatekeeper play “just the tip” without a rain hat. Memories. Time sure flies when you’re fighting the axis of evil (aka The PTA and The Ultra Conservative Fucknut Neighbors proudly toting their anti-Obama bumper stickers) and trying to raise a family of non-hydrogenated global citizens. Sigh. No wonder I drink. 

So anyhoo, I’ve clearly been too busy to attend to things like my hygiene, my taxes, and my blog. Sorry about that. Especially for you fellow suburban hostages who rely on my Mommy Smut for your cheap, voyeuristic, daily “Oh Thank God My Life Doesn’t Suck as Much as Iris’s” fix.

Hopefully it won’t be so long between posts, but I can’t make any promises. Shit, if things don’t calm down around here soon, I may be writing my next post from the Betty Ford Center. Do they have Wi-Fi there? 

One more parting thought: don’t look back… you never know what you’ll see. 

Kiss kiss,

Iris

Helicopters-R-Us

Oy vey iz mir, ya’ll… I am turning into one of those mothers. 

You know exactly what I mean… the kind of mothers I frequently write about in less than flattering terms. In my neck of the woods, we call them “Helicopter Moms.” In other words: mothers who hover. They are as common in suburban Atlanta as Loblolly pine pollen spores, and about as appealing too. But now that I’m fixin’ to become the spokesmodel for Helicopter Moms International, I’m thinking that the hovering mother archetype is about to become a whole lot more interesting. 

It’s funny. I used to pride myself on my anti-hovering ways. My children are pretty independent… mainly because they have to be to survive (”Hey, put that homework down… this cocktail isn’t going to refill itself you know.) But suddenly, I’ve been backed into a corner and the Mama Bear in me is coming out with a vengeance. That’s right people… the tide has turned. One of my children is in danger at school. That changes everything. Helicopter Mom? Uh, no. Try an AH-64A Apache Attack Helicopter armed with AGM-114 Missiles & Hydra Rockets.  How do you like me now, muthahfuckah?!

The Apache Military Helicopter... or what it looks like when a foul mouthed, easily provoked, booze whore with anger management issues becomes a "Helicopter Mom."

How did this happen? 

Well, you may recall that my middle child, Klepto, is a bit of a, oh… shall we say… handful? If you’ve spent more than 30 seconds perusing my smutty blog, you are already well acquainted with some of her antics. If you are new to my world, you might not realize that in the past six months alone, this child has: 

• stuck a wad of nasty chewed bubble gum that she found on an arcade floor into her panties
• trashed every pair of shoes she’s owned within minutes of placing them on her feet
• stolen numerous insundry items and lied about them
• started a dog-riot at the animal hospital and then told my vet that I had diarrhea

and there are probably more that I either couldn’t bear to write about or have unconsciously blocked out of my mind because they were so horrid. 

Now listen up, because this is important: it is totally acceptable for ME, her mother, to say these things and label my child “a handful,” but if someone else does that… they better prepare to have their limbs ripped from their body and shoved up their ass. 

In the interest of brevity, I’ll spare you the gory details for now; but let’s just say that Klepto is struggling with some mild behavioral issues at school and I am less than satisfied at the approach the teachers and administration are taking to support her. More details to come, but just prepare to be disgusted with the failings of the public school system. Don’t get me wrong, public school is perfectly fine for some, maybe even for most kids, but it is not working for my Klepto, and I’m definitely not the kind of woman to stand by and idly watch that happen. Look at me… do I look like the type of person who does anything half-ass? 

Thank you. I rest my case. This is just how I eat a piece of fruit on a balmy summer day… imagine how I’ll take on the superintendent of education. 

The silver lining is this: through these trials and tribulations of motherhood, I am becoming a more compassionate person. Instead of continuing to feel so annoyed, and yes, threatened by these mothers in my town who seem on the surface to be so over-involved, I am finally starting to adopt a “live and let live” attitude. We are all just doing the best we can for our kids. Each child is different and who am I to make assumptions or judgements about what those mothers are choosing to do to care for their kids? In fact, I think I might even have to change my tune about homeschooling. Shit, for me to say that, you know that things are really bad for my poor daughter right now. But also, I have a couple of really good friends who have recently embarked on the homeschooling journey. These are phenomenal, well adjusted, balanced women… not your typical Helicopter Moms.  And they made this choice due to the shortcomings that they found to exist in their local public schools and the frustrating untapped potential of their children that they alone are uniquely qualified to recognize and develop  in their own loving homes, at their children’s own pace. I salute these women and I pray that if the time comes when I need to make a similar decision that they will guide me with their wisdom and experience and ample supplies of humor, organic produce, and tequila. 

And so, I’m off to learn the ways of the Helicopter Moms. Look for me in the carpool line, at the cafeteria, and volunteering in the classrooms on a weekly basis. You can’t miss me, I’m the potty-mouthed woman in the cute apron feeding my children organic fresh-baked goods and fighting with “the man” to change the world one fucked up school policy at a time. See you on the side-lines, fuckahs. 

Peace out,

Iris

©  2009 The Bearded Iris

The Valentine Blues

Valentine’s Day is not my fave. 

If you love someone, you should tell them all the time… not just on one over-the-top day. Just sayin’. 

I told my husband this when we first started dating back in 1995 as part of my “I’m really low-maintenance… you hit the jackpot with me, pal” façade. Mistake. Big mistake. Now the man thinks he can just skirt through every holiday without giving me cards and flowers and candy and jewels. Dammit. I had no earthly idea that in less than a decade I would become an invisible vessel for grandkids and PTA sponsored fundraising. That changed everything. I am definitely no longer as low-maintenance as I was 10 years ago… and not just because of all the new hormone induced facial hair. I need some attention, fuckers. Is it me, or can you relate, ladies? 

Maybe I’m just bitter because I didn’t get a single Valentine this year. Yeah yeah, I know, I’m being a hypocrite. That whole “T’is better to give than to receive” thing is a load of crap, sorry Jesus. I want to receive. And by receive, I’m talking about more than just a bean burrito dinner followed by falling asleep farting in our Snuggies watching You Don’t Mess with the Zohan (note to self: must reorder my Netflix queue to coincide with holidays more appropriately.)  Mama needs some romance. And for the record, “Are we gonna do it later, or what?” doesn’t really get the juices flowin’, if you know what I mean. 

Unlike their bitter mama, my lovey-dovey kids really dig this Hallmark holiday. So, for them, I did my darndest to hide my “cupid-is-stupid” ire and rise to the occasion. Awwww. I helped them make their Valentine’s Boxes and cards and we even whipped up a fabulous and funky Valentine  Tree, which took near heroic measures since I absolutely abhor crafting with children. Don’t get me wrong, I love crafting. I’m crafty. I can make pretty much anything. Anything. Seriously. But bring a kid into the equation, and I’d rather donate a cornea or two. 

Isn’t that just fabulous? Klepto and I decoupaged tissue paper onto an old plastic flower pot we found in the garage. I cut the branches off a big old fallen tree limb that was cluttering up my yard. And Klepto made a majority of those ornaments herself with crap we had lying around the house. My friend Jennifer says I have no right to be making fun of “Über Moms” when I have a homemade Valentine Tree like this in my house. But Jennifer, I gotta tell you, not only was I probably drunk as a skunk when we made it, but I am pretty sure I made Klepto cry five minutes into the decoupage process when she got bored and started to decoupage her hands to the table with the glue. So no, drunk screaming lunatics and Über Moms are mutually exclusive groups, in my humble opinion. 

Speaking of being crafty… I am learning how to crochet. My BFF/neighbor Tammy (you remember her… the one who always one-ups me and tries to improve my recipes and then take credit for them?) gave me the most amazing birthday present last year. She cleaned out her overflowing craft closet and put together a lovingly recycled “Teach Yourself to Crochet” basket containing an instruction book, a bunch of crochet needles, some yarn, and a few handfuls of stale Easter candy that was calling her name a little too close to swimsuit season. Bitch. Anyhooo, the thought behind this gift was extraordinary. She knew that I had always wanted to learn to crochet and she gave me a gift to help me achieve that goal. That’s a good friend, ya’ll, stale candy or not. 

The only problem with trying to teach yourself to crochet from a book is that it is really hard. I tried and I tried, but I just wasn’t getting it. Oh, I’m left-handed too, which makes everything harder, except making obscene gestures out my window while I drive. I do that with excellent dexterity and enthusiasm. 

But you know what they say… when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. About a month ago, a lovely muse named Lara appeared on my doorstep. She and her groovy husband are my kids’ music teachers. They come to my house once a week and fill my home with song and love and a variety of talents. Lara can crochet like nobody’s beeswax. She sat down with me and showed me how to do some stitches and instilled me with confidence that crochet is really not that hard. Reading crochet patterns is not for pussies though. I still can’t really do that. 

But Lara also taught me something phenomenal. She taught me that you can learn pretty much anything you ever wanted to know on YouTube. And the coolest thing about it is that you can start/stop/repeat lessons until you get it and not have to worry about annoying your teacher to death. 

Want to learn how to use a Neti Pot? How about Body Party Math?  Would you like to rewire a lamp? Learn to do the splits? Be prepared to deliver a baby in the backseat of a taxicab? (Check out the giant rubber teaching vajayjay!!!)  Learn Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” dance moves step by step? (OMG, “The Spank It” and “The Pump Walk”… these are must-have-moves for any dance repertoire!!!)  Or hey, aren’t you the least bit curious about what happens when a goat licks an electric fence?  You can learn all this and more on YouTube. 

Me? Well, after I mastered all that stuff, I taught myself how to crochet a heart for my sweet little girl. I even found a crochet heart tutorial for left-handed mamacitas like me! YouTube rocks, ya’ll. See? I did it!

 

Bet you didn’t know I was such a crafty beaver, did you?! Well I am. Get over it. Don’t worry, I can combine all my favorite things and still be the same slutty booze whore you’ve come to know and love.  Next, I want to learn how to make one of these:

No, it’s not a papoose in a canoe. It’s a hand-knitted vulva I found on the Internet. God bless you, Al Gore! Wouldn’t that be the most darling change purse?! Imagine the looks you’d get at church if you pulled that out when they pass the basket!  Or how about a set of vulva coasters or beer can coozies? See, with all this crafting to do, I won’t have time to feel sorry for myself that I didn’t get any Valentines. And for those of you who missed the boat this year, you have a whole year to shop. Buy me some yarn, would ya? I’ve got some vulvas to knit.

A Night to Remember

So, I know you are on the edge of your seat waiting to hear all about the “Pure Romance” smut fest I hosted for ten of my craziest (and apparently, randiest) girlfriends the other night. Sorry it has taken me so long to post this… I’ve been awfully busy trying out all my fabulous new products, ya’ll! 

Good golly Miss Molly – there was so much laughter, and surprisingly, so many “Aha Moments” of sex education, that I honestly don’t know where to begin. Perhaps the form of a list would be most efficient and readable? Giddy Up!

Iris’s Top Ten Favorite Pure Romance Party Moments 

10. Learning about “The Bowling Ball Hold,” also known as the “Inverted Half Pike Come Here” maneuver. So THAT’S how you get the G-Spot! Who knew? (Apparently several of my sexy girlfriends and their hunk-a-hunk-a-burnin’-loves at home. Dang. Lucky bitches.)

9. Having not one, but TWO of my friends call and say they couldn’t come at the last minute because they were either working on their sons’ Cub Scout Pinewood Derby cars for the next day’s race or that they wanted to get a good night sleep so they could be well rested for this crucial race. I found these excuses particularly enjoyable since my 9 year old son, who is also a Cub Scout, was not even going to this race. That’s right people, we never got around to building Nature Boy’s Pinewood Derby car this year. And yet, I was able to invest quite a bit of time and energy over the last few weeks into planning and preparing for a raunchy, booze filled “girls’ night in” Pure Romance Party… time that I surely could have spent helping my sweet little Bear Cub get ready for the Pinewood Derby. Ah, priorities. Go ahead and submit your “Mother of the Year” nominations for me right now (as if you didn’t already the time I shared my tip for how to carry an uncooperative toddler). 

8. Playing “Pass the Pickle” to disco music a la Musical Chairs style with a vibrating green glow in the dark vibrator, using only our thighs and knees. 

7. Witnessing beyond the shadow of a doubt that women, as a whole, are very practical and resourceful creatures. For instance, when our Pure Romance consultant demoed a product called Between the Sheets, a spray for instantly drying and deodorizing a wet spot on your bed, one of my very witty friends asked if it could be used for kids. I’m totally envisioning her giving each of her kids their own spray can and teaching them that if they wet the bed, just spray it and get back in. No need to wake up Mommy, ok honey? Right on, sister friend! Always using that noodle! (I’ll take a case of that too, please.) Another example: vibrators are great for massaging all kinds of body parts… not just the fun ones. 

6. Having Mr. Dependable, a gigantic, purple, suction cup mounted, jelly dildo stuck to my chest. Ah, good times. 

"Look Ma! No hands!"

5. Experiencing “first hand,” the important benefit of good lubrication during a fun little game I like to call “Finger vs. Fist.”  Sounds more painful than it really is… kinda like, oh I don’t know, unmedicated childbirth. Speaking of which, for those of us who have expelled multiple 10+ pound babies through our vaginal walls, lubrication might not be as important to have in the nightstand drawer as a miraculous little alum based shrinking cream called Like a Virgin. Several of my friends and I ordered this snake oil in bulk… I’ll have to get back to you about its effectiveness. One word of caution ladies, do not use this with the lights out… you definitely do not want to mistake this for Time in a Bottle and accidentally slather shrinking cream on your man, unless he’s John Holmes, and then God help you. Whatever works, honey.

 

4. Experiencing the very realistic feel of a “pocket pussy” with our fingers and then watching a majority of my friends purchase them for their husbands. Nothing says “Not tonight hon, but I still love you,” like handing a BJ Betty and a tube of Whipped to your man as you turn up the volume on Thema and Louise, readjust your Snuggie, and start crocheting a new Granny Square. 

3. Winning a tube of lipstick during an icebreaker game that just so happens to be a gorgeous color on me and, oh joy, it is shaped like a tiny little purple penis. Can’t wait to put this on at church one day! 

2. Practically peeing my pants anytime my friend “Filet o’ Fish” opened her mouth or played with some of the merchandise. Ya’ll, this girl is like an instant party. She puts the “O” in Karaoke. Seriously, if you are not already friends with this vixen (and you might be… she’s very extraverted), call me and I’ll introduce you. She should be at the very top of your guest list for any soiree where you want people to unwind and laugh ’till it hurts. In fact, I received several emails from other guests after the party telling me how much they enjoyed meeting and partying with this hot mamacita. Well, here… see for yourself. 

 

 

Vulva candy, anyone?

 

 

1. And the number one most memorable moment of the evening: (drum roll please)…. mixing up my free samples an hour before the party and mistakenly putting the Bosom Buddy (a tingly lip and nipple balm) on my clitoris instead of the Ex-T-Cee (genital safe) arousal cream. Lord have mercy! Can we say, “fire in the hole,” people? Honest to Pete – I have had episiotomies with tin-can lids that were less painful than this. Here’s what it looked like when I was retelling the story for my party guests:

By the way, the Bosom Buddy and the Ex-T-Cee, when used correctly, are both awesome. Definitely try some… just be sure not to mix ‘em up like I did. Der.

So, all in all, it was a very fun and memorable evening, acid-burned clitoris not withstanding. If you are looking for a fun way to get your girlfriends together and share some laughs and empowering info over a few cocktails, I highly recommend an evening in with a Pure Romance party. Their toll free number is 1.866.Romance. Give it a try – and tell ‘em Iris sent ya. 

© 2009 The Bearded Iris

And so it begins…

You would think that with three kids I would have experienced it long before today, but no. Today was my first time. My first time stressing over getting my kid into the right school. Preschool to be exact. 

Wait. Let me back up. 

You see, I wasn’t stressed about getting him into the right preschool because I want him to go to the right elementary school, which will lead to the most competitive high school, which will put him on the path to the right college. No. Nothing like that. 

For me, it was all about proximity and cost and convenience. Oh, and if it is a good school that builds a solid academic foundation, all the better, but honestly, not my priority. Oooh, can I say? Does that revoke my membership in the Good Mommy Club? As if. 

I have never waited in line before to enroll my kids in school. I picked Nature Boy’s Montessori school out of the phone book. It was close. They had openings. I took one. Klepto was next, so she just went where her big brother went. Not rocket science. And now it is Bucket Head’s turn, but in this economy, I am looking for something a lot less expensive than private Montessori school, and also, I’m just not ready to put little Bucket Head, my baby, my last baby, in a 5 morning a week program. I can’t do it. Not yet. 

 

 

So I want a two or three morning a week preschool that is extremely close to home. Oh, and it would be nice if that school doesn’t have a track record for children choking to death on hotdogs or being sexually abused by the staff.

Now, how to pick a preschool… hmmm. There are a handful of preschools near my house. I’ve heard good things about all of them. I need a sign. 

Wish granted! Last week as I was driving to the liquor store, of all places, I passed a local church with a sign that said their preschool registration was February ___ at 8 AM. I remembered hearing some of the über moms at my subdivision pool talking about how they had to literally sleep out over night to get a spot for their kid at this particular preschool… its reputation is that good. I never considered this school before because frankly, I have no desire to work that hard. But, feeling kinda lucky that I had randomly driven past the registration sign, I decided to call the school and find out what the registration process was like. If you know me, you know that I don’t usually call ahead and find stuff like this out. I usually just wing it. So the fact that I made this call was huge… another sign. The stars were aligning. Fate was driving the bus and I was strapped in and enjoying the ride. 

The school politely informed me that there were only two spots available for the 2 year old Mon./Wed./Fri. class, but that there were about 30 spots for the Tues./Thurs. one. They then told me that they no longer allow overnight camping out for getting a spot in the program. Instead, they have a lottery. All I had to do was be there at 8 AM, not one minute later, and they would let whoever was in line at that time pull a number from a basket. The numbers would determine the order for when we could approach the registration table and apply for a spot in their program. Wow – how civilized! 

But, uh-oh. First of all, I’m never on time. Secondly, I never win lotteries or prizes of any kind. I learned to accept this fact long ago and comfort myself in the idea that perhaps God already feels that I am plenty blessed in my life and that it wouldn’t be fair to others to also win random drawings and lotteries. Whatever. It’s less painful than believing I’m just an unlucky bastard. 

So the cards were already stacked against me, in my opinion. However, still feeling the power of “the sign,” and the need to think positively, I decided to go. What did I have to lose?

Naturally I was running late. Being anywhere at 8 AM is a big stretch for me. But I hustled the best I could, cut some corners in the personal hygiene department, got Bucket Head dressed, grabbed a sippy cup of milk and a cereal bar for him to eat while we were in line, and set off to be a part of the preschool lottery.  

Now, have I mentioned that I live in the ‘burbs of Atlanta and that most of the stay-at-home-moms here are crazier than shit house rats? These bitches play to win at everything they do, and preschool registration is no exception. 

My first hurdle would be to make it there on time, and miracle of all miracles, we did. I found a rock star parking spot with no problems, found the correct entrance to this enormous church/preschool right away, and walked in the door holding Bucket Head in one arm, my giant purse slung over my other shoulder, and in my two hands: the sippy cup of milk, a 12″ stuffed Big Bird toy, and my keys. We walked into the multipurpose room where the registration lottery would take place and immediately every eye in the place turned and focused right on us as if so judge and say, “We’ve been here for hours! Who do you think you are walking in just under the wire?” It was 7:59 AM. There were about 40 parents in line. You could tell immediately where the front of the line was because there were about 8 chairs lined up and the women sitting in them were the most smug and obnoxious passel of professional pissy-faces I had ever seen. At that moment I was SO glad I had called ahead and learned that it didn’t matter how early I got there as long as I wasn’t there later than 8 AM! Ha! So there, early birds! Take that worm and suck it! 

A couple of minutes later, the administrators were ready to begin the lottery. The head of the school got out her microphone, I kid you not, and said: “If you are here with another adult… a spouse or a friend, you may only draw one number for your team.”

Oh. My. God. People cheat at this! I never even thought of that! These people are sick, sick fucks. What a shitty thing to do… bring a partner, pull two numbers, and then use the lower number to go up and register so you improve your chances of getting a spot in the program. Holy shit. This is the major leagues. I hope President Obama doesn’t ask any of them to be in his cabinet. Hear me now kiddies…. cheaters never win. 

The Head Cheese started down the line with the basket. A majority of the people ahead of me were actively peering into the basket and looking at the folded slips of paper as they drew their numbers. MORE CHEATING! Jesus! When it got to me, I just closed my eyes and reached in and grabbed the first thing that grazed my fingers. I was going to let fate be in charge. It was fate that drove me past that registration sign on my way to buy booze, it is fate that is going to determine if I get my child into this program. There is no cheating fate.

8:05 AM. A harried mother comes running into the room. “I’m sorry Ma’am. We’ve already conducted the lottery. You are too late. You are welcome to stay and be the last one to register, if there are any spaces left (which there definitely won’t be), but you can’t draw a number.” GULP! Oh, praise Jesus that that wasn’t me. Yowza. 

With that little spectacle out of the way, it was time to see what number I drew. Deep breath. I slowly unfolded my slip of paper, feeling like Charlie carefully peeling the wrapper off his Wonka Bar. Would I find the last Golden Ticket?! I took another deep breath and looked at my number. 

4

Holy Shit! That is my lucky number! And, it is low enough that I might actually get a spot in the highly coveted MWF 2 year old class!!! Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful if Bucket Head could go to preschool three mornings a week instead of just two? It would be perfect! Three mornings a week for him to learn and grow and play with kids, and three mornings a week of freedom for me! Oh, it’s too good! Wait, don’t get ahead of yourself girl. Just be grateful you’ll probably get into the school at all. 

“One and Two – please come to the registration table.” The process was quick. The first two women enrolled their kids within minutes and then they called my number.  I gathered up my child, his sippy cup, the remains of his cereal bar, his Big Bird, my purse, and my Golden Ticket, and approached the table. 

“How old is your child?” the registrar asked. 

“He’ll be two next month.” I replied.

“There is one spot left in the MWF class. Would you like it?”

Oh. 

My. 

God. 

I got it. I got the spot. The one of two spots that people have slept out on the sidewalk in previous years to get. And I got it. 

“YES!” I blurted, feeling like she had just asked me if I would like to continue breathing… as in, der. 

That was it. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. I filled out the enrollment form, wrote my registration check, and left… walking on air and totally in shock that I, the most unlucky, most unprepared, least punctual person I know would walk in and out of that room in fifteen minutes holding a Golden Ticket for next Fall. All is right with the world today.

Hopefully it is a good school. Oh who cares?! I’m in! It’s close. It’s way cheaper than Montessori school. And I have one more item on my To-Do List done. And all because I drove to the liquor store and saw a sign. Shoot… like I need any more motivation to shop there.  

Until we meet again!

-Iris

© 2009 The Bearded Iris

Party Planning

Hey ya’ll! I’m feeling much better, thanks for asking. And I’m so excited today! Not only did my beloved hometown team, the Pittsburgh Steelers, win Super Bowl XLIII, but I’m fixin’ to have a party in a few days… an adult sex toy party for women! WOOOO-HOOOO! 

It’s actually called a “Pure Romance” Party, but come on, let’s call a spade a spade, shall we? Romance? Naw. This is gonna be dirty… I’m talking “who’s yer Daddy,” spankalicious, XXX, batteries required dirty. 

Pure Romance is one of those ubiquitous home-based sales parties where a consultant comes in and does her dog and pony show and then all the guests fork out money to buy what she’s hocking. The hostess, in exchange for all the hard work organizing and throwing the party, gets a percentage of the party’s sales in free product. Think Tupperware, The Pampered Chef, Creative Memories, etc., only in this case, instead of cooking or scrapbooking tools, it is all vibrators, lingerie, lubes, and edible lotions. Totally up my alley, so to speak. 

I’ve been to one of these before… well, two of them, actually. They can either be really fun, or really awkward, depending on who is invited and how much alcohol is involved. The first one I went to was a work-related bridal shower for a co-worker in a very small town in North Carolina. It was a bunch of very uptight, sober Southern Belles. Nobody knew each other very well (at the beginning of the evening), and it could not have been more uncomfortable. Long story short: nobody wants to know that the new girl who is chronically late to work is interested in purchasing an econo-sized bottle of “Booty Ease” and a “Double Header.” The other sex toy party I went to was much more fun… everyone knew each other pretty well and we were at a resort for a girls’ weekend. There were a couple of wet blankets, you know the type… women who call their vaginas “down there” while pointing South and making an “icky” face. Look, if you can’t even say “vagina,” there is no way you are going to let your hair down at a sex toy party and be open to learning more about how to please yourself and your partner in the sack. Fortunately, the raunchy fun majority of us scared the repressed one or two away when we started trying on the strap-ons after our third round of shots. I vaguely remember one of my favorite nasty girls chasing one of the prudes down the hallway of the resort while wearing an enormous black strap-on number. That was just before the front desk called us for the second time asking us to keep the noise down and to please stay in our suite. Ah, good times. 

So knowing how much fun these parties can be with the right group of women and a competent bartender, my very good friend LL and I decided to plan one a few weeks ago on a gloomy winter morning right after we got the kids off to school. We were bored silly and trying to find something, anything really, to look forward to at this dreary time of year. Sex, we decided. We need more sex. Sex will keep us busy and healthy. We need something that will spice up our lives and help our friends too! Ooooh, let’s have a party all about sex. Ooooh ooooh, I know!…theme party. We’ll serve sexy foods, make sexy decorations, play sexy music, and bring in one of those “Sexperts” who can teach us new tricks and sell us things we can’t live without for the boudoir! YES! Let’s do it!!! Of course, it’s probably never a good idea to plan anything right after your ADD meds kick in and you are feeling extra capable and optimistic, but that’s another story. 

And so a plan was hatched, a Google search was made, a phone call was placed, and we are all set to bring together about 10 of our raunchiest girlfriends for a night of passion enhancing belly laughs.

I’m planning to serve Buttery Nipples shots, Sex on the Beach COCKtails, vulva candies (of course!), and some other finger foods made from readily available grocery store aphrodisiacs like pine nuts, avocados, chili peppers, and fresh berries (i.e., no powdered Asian yak testes required). Should be very stimulating.

As for decorating… we’re thinking of lots of sexy red, pink, and black for napkins, plates, and tablecloths. I plan on spending a lot of money on good booze and food, so I probably won’t do much more on the decorations. Besides, I’ll be so busy wrangling the dog hair tumbleweeds and gathering/stashing piles of clutter that I won’t have time to get all fancy with penis shaped drinking straws and such. I’ll just let the Pure Romance consultant be in charge of the eye candy with her table full of vibrating, glow-in-dark, strawberry scented thing-a-ma-bobs.  

This is just the thing to get us through these cold winter days and nights. And you gotta love getting a package in the mail from your party consultant with free samples! Check out what my “Sexpert” Heather just sent me: 

 

Free Samples!

 

The Post-It Note from my "Sexpert" explaining how to use the free samples. If memory serves, this might be the first Post-It Note I've ever seen with the word "clitoris" on it. Awesome!

Seriously? I love this girl already. She’s so perky on the phone and sounds very sweet and approachable. Judging by her voice and handwriting, she’s very young, but she told me that she is married with two kids, so I know she is going to have some great advice and product ideas for a bunch of stretched out old horny housewives women like me and my friends. 

And of course it comes as no surprise that all the husbands of the women I’ve invited are being very supportive of their wives all of a sudden. I’m sure not a one of these dudes will be getting home late this Friday, for once. They’ve all stepped up to the plate offering their wives carte blanche.  ”Spend whatever you want, honey!” “Do you need me to feed and bathe the kids while you’re gone?” “Would you like me to do some laundry while you’re out? Uh…which detergent should I use for the whites?” One friend even went so far as to say that she’s pretty sure her husband will divorce her if she DOESN’T come to this little shindig. Men. Sheeesh. Hey, whatever it takes, eh? Well, hopefully my guests will spend enough money that I can get a stripper pole for a steal. Kidding… I already have one. But truthfully, I’m just really looking forward to getting some good friends together who will make me laugh hard enough to keep me going until Spring… the potential free products are just icing on the cake.  

So that’s what I’ll be doing this week… cleaning and cooking sexy foods and making plans to get my husband and children out of the house for the night so that I can let it all hang out and be the hostess with the mostess. It’s so nice to have something to look forward to, isn’t it?! 

Stay tuned! More to cum, I mean come, about this naughty night of nympho knee-slappin’ fun! 

© 2009 The Bearded Iris