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

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

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

Cuts Like a Wife

Two bloggers. Two different hemispheres. One vision (largely impaired by too much clutter, dirt and booze). Exposed for all the world to see as Housekeepers of Ill-Repute, Proprietresses of Dubious Maternal Instinct, and Woefully Neglectful Wives.

Here they are, flashing their dirty bits yet again in the third (and final) of three simultaneous postings. Click here to read the sister-post. 

___________________________________________

We are stay-at-home mothers and wives, among other things. We’ve already come clean about our not-so-perfect attempts at housekeeping and child-rearing, and now it is time to spill the beans about our marriages. 

Marriage is hard. There are ups and downs. If it were easy, everyone would or could do it. But we all know what the divorce stats are these days. This is not something to be entered into or written about lightly. I knew I’d need some input for this post. 

I asked my husband, The Gatekeeper, for ideas on this topic and he just sniggered.  I prodded him: “Come on Honey, here’s your chance… I’m writing about what a shitty wife I am… let me have it! What should I say?” His response was, “Well, basically just write about what you do any given day.”  

Nice. 

“Very funny,” I chided. “Yes, your life is so awful, isn’t it?!”

“Did you say life or wife?”

“Dude. You are askin’ fer it.” 

“Yep. Am I gonna get it?” 

Cut to the Barry White music, dim the lights, wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, and 30 seconds later we were smoking cigarettes and checking our pulses. Kidding. We don’t smoke. 

My point is, I think we have a pretty good marriage. We like each other most of the time, we have a few laughs now and then, we love each other unconditionally, we support each other, and we both seem generally satisfied with the status quo… or so I thought. 

But last night we were both reading in bed and he started laughing out loud. I found this interesting because he had just started to read Team of Rivals by Doris Kearns Goodwin. It was a Christmas gift to him from my parents all about the political genius of Abraham Lincoln. President Elect Obama said that if he could only take two books with him to the White House, one would be the Bible and the other would be this book. Now, I have a hard time imagining that this nearly 1000 page historical tome would be laugh-out-loud-funny, but whatever. I, on the other hand, was reading Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank by Celia Rivenbark. This ought to give you a clear understanding of how different we are. But you know what they say about opposites attracting.

Anyhooo, I was just dying to know what in that big ol’ boring book could possibly be so damn funny and asked him to share. He turned to me with a smirk and told me to listen to this journal entry written by Judge Edward Bates in the 1850s (Bates was one of Lincoln’s opponents in the race for the Presidency in 1860):

“How happy is my lot! Blessed with a wife & children who spontaneously do all they can to make me comfortable, anticipating my wishes, even in the little matter of personal convenience, as if their happiness wholly depended on mine. O! it is a pleasure to work for such a family, to enjoy with them the blessings that God so freely gives.” 

Yes. Well that is pretty damn funny, isn’t it.  And funny that it is from a book called Team of Rivals, because isn’t that what marriage feels like sometimes? 

But back to that quote… now, is it just me, or have times changed quite a bit? 

I mean, excusez-moi, but I don’t know a single woman or child who lives purely to provide comfort and joy to their husband or father. Am I wrong here? Or am I just associating with the wrong people? 

Not only do I NOT do ANYTHING to anticipate the wishes and needs of my husband, but it is not unusual for him to flat out tell me to my face what he wants and for me to still not do it. And yet, I think he has it pretty good. Sure, there is a shirt of his that has been buried under a pile on my ironing board for close to two months that I keep forgetting to iron for him. And yes, I sometimes forget to buy his favorite soap or deodorant at the store, to the extent that he has to remind me umpteen times and then often ends up going to the store himself for it. And of course, I have been known to secretly stalk ex-boyfriends on Facebook once in a while. So what. 

I had one of my Aunties visiting me a while back and she was watching the clock one day. It got close to 5 pm and she said, “Aren’t you going to go get cleaned up a little? Put on some makeup? Your husband will be home soon.” I laughed until I practically peed my pants. “WHAT?! Are you kidding me? Should I mix up a martini and meet him at the door with his slippers too? Hell no! It’s garbage night. He needs to take out the garbage when he gets home, walk the dog, and then take Nature Boy to scouts. In about an hour I will be busy wiping the food off the floor and walls that Bucket Head tosses all around the room while he eats. Why on Earth would I go get gussied up NOW?”  But again, it’s a different world today. The way I see it, marriage is an equal partnership. Serve and be served. Give and ye shall receive. The wife is not property. The wife has a lot more on her plate than merely anticipating and acting on every need and desire of her master husband. 

Remember how I recently said that my parenting sins aren’t so bad compared to others’ sins and how life is all about making comparisons and justifications?

Well, I figure, I may not be the most attentive wife on the planet, but my husband could have it so much worse.  

One of my best friends was telling me just the other day that her husband was nagging her about not getting the laundry done. Been there. When my husband gets on my back about me not meeting one or more of my homemaking obligations, it usually lights a fire under my ass and makes me want to show that bastard by getting it done faster/better/more whatever, so I can then say “SO THERE!” But not my friend. You know what she did? She secretly took her hubby’s dirty undies out of the hamper, folded them, and put them back in his drawer. That poor bastard is probably wearing dirty skivvies right this very minute! HA! 

I know another woman who once peed in her husband’s chicken soup because she couldn’t stand all his bellyachin’ when he was sick and he had been treating her like shit. No lie. 

And I can’t even count how many of my friends hate having sex with their husbands and joke about how they avoid it at all costs and can totally live without it. Or how about that poor woman on Oprah last week who has been faking orgasms for 24 years?! Lordhavemercy. See that… there are a lot of people out there with wives way worse than me. 

So you see, I think my husband has it pretty good. Yes, I’m not the best housekeeper or cook. No, I don’t knock myself out to look pretty for him at the end of the day… who has time for that shit?  I may e-flirt shamelessly with Facebook friends, and forget to pick up the dry cleaning, or buy the right snacks. But I make sure that my husband has clean undies most of the time. I cut his hair every few weeks. I call his parents just to say hi once in a while. I give him back scratches and bake him cookies now and then. And I love him… with my heart and with my body, and way more than the national average for married couples, thankyouverymuch. 

So husband, you go ahead and laugh about how absurd it is that over one hundred and fifty years ago there existed a man who wrote in a journal that his wife lived to please him. I agree. That is hilarious. I’d really like to read HER journal entry. Oh wait, she probably wasn’t allowed to learn to read and write. Yes… times have changed, haven’t they? And honey, would you care for some more chicken soup?

Gilding the Lily

Well, who knew this whole vulva candy thang would be such a crowd pleaser?

Kidding… of course it is! They are delicious, easy to make, and fun Fun FUN to talk about and share with all sorts of people!  I have a feeling we’ll all be eating these little salty/chocolaty/creamy-in-the-middle delicacies for years to come. Vulva candies… they’re not just for Christmas anymore. In fact, several of my friends and I have been brainstorming about other ways we could share the fun. One suggested bringing a tray of them to the gyno/midwife for their annual pap smear. They would also be a suitable snack for any bachelor/bachelorette party, don’t you think? Of course, a lovingly garnished plate of vulva candies would be the perfect salty-sweet treat for any menstruating woman on the verge of a shooting spree. Or for my hispanic readers, nothing says “Happy Quinceaños!” to a budding 15 year old Latina like a pretty tin full of delicious vulvas! Welcome to womanhood, chica! De nada. (Thanks L.L. – that one’s for you, sister!)

But wait. There’s more. 

My super fun and über competitive neighbor/BFF “Tammy” called me last night, giggling like a hyena and said, “Oh my GOD! I made the vulva candies to mail to my Aunt Catherine, the Nun! Only, I added my own twist!”

To which I lovingly replied: “Of course you did, you whore! You always have to one-up me, dammit! Remember when I gave you my recipe for broccoli salad? And then a few months later I asked you for a suggestion on what to bring to a pot-luck and you said, ‘I make a great broccoli salad!’ to which I said, ‘BEAVER! I am the one who gave you that recipe!’ and you then FYI’d me that you doctored it a bit and so now it is YOUR recipe. Then you showed up at my house with a vat of it for Nature Boy’s First Holy Communion party and it was indeed spectacular. Of course, adding a pound of cheddar cheese cubes would make my kitty litter spectacular, but whatever. I’m not bitter.”

And then I continued, “And how about that time I introduced you to the Internet Scrabble Club and you started playing it like a crack whore, got wicked-good at it, and ritualistically beat my hairy ass with Q-laden triple word score bingos every time we played? Yeah. I’m used to it. Your sole purpose for living is to be better than me at everything I do. Lay it on me. I can take it. How’d you improve the vulvas?… beeotch.” 

“Well… (she giggled)  I toasted the pecans. It added such a nice nutty flavor! Then, after I smooshed the nut into the melted Rolo, I rolled the whole thing in coconut! You know I love coconut!  Well get this, the coconut just sticks to the outer edges of the smooshed melted Rolo… and it looks like… a sparse (giggle)… white (chuckle)… geriatric (trouble breathing)… BUSH!” At this point she was literally cackling. I totally would have had no idea what she was saying if we weren’t capable of finishing each others’ sentences. 

“GET OUT! Geriatric bush?!” Oh man. She’s good. I never would have thought to do the coconutty senior-beave! Wow. I love/hate this woman. Damn her!… she’s fabulous. 

Then she had to rub it in a little: “You have to try it! It is SO GOOD! The toasted nuts are the perfect compliment to the pretzel/chocolate/caramel trio. And then the coconut on the edges… it is amazing.” 

Of course it is! She is a fucking VAGenius. I should have known she’d take this idea and run with it. That’s what I get for having a blog and telling everyone and their mother my secrets (Hi Mary!). Damn that Tammy… her kid is smarter than my kid. Her husband _______s more/better/faster/longer/smarter than my husband (pick a verb, any verb). Even her dog is better than my dog. There is not one thing I have ever done in my entire life that tops what this woman can do blindfolded, backwards, in her sleep, and with a coupon. So naturally, her vulva candies are going to be better than mine. Duh. Who wouldn’t want their nuts slightly toasted? And the coconut? Come on. That is just brilliant. Damn, I suck. Why do I even bother? What do I possibly have to contribute to the world that can’t be IMPROVED upon by people like Tammy? Oh look, it’s time for a cocktail. Be right back.  

Fast forward thirty minutes. 

OK, poured my “after-school special.” Made some geriatric vulvas, ate about half a dozen, and washed ‘em down with my fish bowl of Twisted Pig. And all while supervising the children doing homework, practicing musical instruments, and rescuing vintage Fisher-Price Little People from vacuum attachments. 

Well, what do you know? I am just a teensy bit excited to report that the geriatric vulvas WERE NOT all that and a bag of chips. Neener neener neeeeeeener! And, how symbolic! The bearded vulva was not as good as the plain and simple one. Wow… that is deep, dude. 

But I had to try it. Tammy is a flat out baking genius. I just couldn’t stand the idea of missing out on a new-and-improved vulva candy! So I did what she said. First, I toasted my nuts (heh heh heh). It makes them slightly darker than the raw pecans, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m all about multicultural vulvas. But it also makes them a little brittle. This is a problem. When you are smooshing your nuts into the ever-so-slightly-melted Rolos, you don’t want the nuts to break. Quelle horror! I don’t care how good they taste, nobody wants brittle nuts, thankyouverymuch. (Tammy says I over-toasted them… but she is also a poor sport and a sore loser.) 

So then, as I’m gently smooshing my ethnic, brittle nuts into the melted Rolos, they are totally cracking and the chocolate isn’t fanning out in the perfect labia majora formation. Instead, I’m getting fingertip indentations all over the chocolaty labia as the chocolate and caramel oozes up between the cracks of the dark, brittle, breaking pecan.  Now they look like war-torn post-partum vulvas… very messy. Don’t ask, don’t tell. 

Surely, rolling them in coconut will hide all the ugliness! Well, yes. Kind of. But the coconut also hides all the splendor. Kinda like pubes in general, eh? And again, just like the nut-toasting, the coconut rolling is yet another step, and more mess. Who needs that? The simple elegance of the pure untoasted pecan vulva is totally compromised by the messy, distracting coconut. Oh Lord, what have I done?! Why couldn’t I just leave well enough alone and appreciate a good thing when I had it. I’m so sorry, sweet simple vulva candy. I have forsaken thee. 

 

BEFORE TAMMY: simple, elegant, unsullied vulva candy.

 

AFTER TAMMY: messy, chaotic, "is-there-even-a-vulva-under-there?" candies.

Now, I would like to give my dear Tammy the benefit of the doubt. This woman bakes like I cuss – effortlessly and with panache. The coconut and the toasted pecan actually did taste delicious. No doubt. Although the sweetened coconut tips the scale a bit and makes the whole thing a little too sweet for my taste. I prefer the balance of salty and sweet in the original recipe. And frankly, the extra effort and lack of visual appeal make this recipe redux a royal reject in my book. Sorry Tammy. Stick to the pumpkin bread, honey, and leave the vulvas to me.  

Folks, I don’t mind tellin’ ya that I learned an important life lesson today. Believe in yourself. Stand up for what you know in your heart and don’t be a follower. When you have a good thing, recognize it and treasure it, even if your friends are doing something different. It’s perfectly fine to respect others’ ideas, but like my Mama always said, “If Tammy jumped off a bridge, would you jump too?” (Clearly, my answer is yes, Mama… thanks for the great self esteem.) To which I think my Mama would say,”let Tammy slather her vulva in coconut if that is what floats her boat… but don’t go copy-catting that red-headed-hussie if you know that your vulva is just fine the way it is. Now quit your bellyachin’ and fix your Mama another cocktail.”  

I guess another way to say it is: keep it simple and don’t gild the lily. The lily is gorgeous just the way God made it. And Lordhavemercy, when you stumble across a simple, delicious, fun little pleasure in life – just enjoy it. Don’t complicate it. Don’t try to make it better. Don’t mess with it. Don’t toast it and roll it in coconut. Just enjoy it. This little nugget of wisdom applies to candy and men. 

Unless of course you actually like your vulva candies messy, more fattening, and  labor intensive.  Then have at it, sugar. It’s your vulva. You can gild if you want to.

“Yes, Vagina, there is a Santa Claus.”

Well I’m happy to report that my vulva candies were a HUGE hit at the annual Church’s Babysitting Co-Op Christmas Party! Nobody greeted me at the door with torches and pitchforks and even some of the most conservative members of the group were eager to learn the recipe. There were a few women who were a little hesitant at first to embrace the vulvas, but once they saw the rest of us gobbling them down and raving about how good they were, they relented and joined in on the vulva-nibbling-fun. And I was totally shocked to hear one of them quoting that recent Oprah episode by saying “Hey, if you don’t love your vulva, nobody else will.” WOW! Wonders never cease. 

And what’s more… I had a wonderful time the other night. You know, I think a big old tray of vulvas was just what this group needed to loosen up a little. Of course the never ending supply of wine surely helped. But also, the vulvas. Definitely the vulvas. 

One of the most spiritual members of the group, who always leads us in a prayer before we eat, even included the tray of vulva candies in her blessing as we all held hands and formed a circle around the kitchen island/buffet table: “Let us pray… oh, let’s pray around the food, including the vulvas! Dear Lord, thank you for bringing us all together safely tonight. Bless us O Lord, and these, Thy Gifts, which we are about to receive. And Lord, please bless this food and all the people who prepared it.”  Rock on, sistah friends. I think I underestimated these broads. I’m going to guess that until I showed up with that tray of goodies, a majority of these women had never even uttered the word “vulva” before. In fact two of them confessed that they call their nether regions their “girl parts”… and these are mothers of girls. I do believe I performed a valuable service to my community by bringing those edible vulvas to the Christmas Party. 

So there we were, some of us in our Mom Jeans and holiday themed L.L. Bean turtlenecks, and some of us in our True Religion jeans and heels, but all of us sharing a lovingly created meal of condensed-soup-based-carb-casseroles, venison meatballs (surprisingly good!), and vulva candies.  We drank way too much wine and talked about things like plastic surgery and our kids’ school challenges and weight loss secrets. But for me, the best part was learning that even though most of these other moms seem so together and organized, that they too are really struggling with the insane amount of extra work that goes along with being a Mom in the month of December.

This is a pretty special group of women. I have never heard any of them gossip about another member of the group. Ever. They are smart, talented, and compassionate. Some work at full time jobs ranging from teaching to physical therapy to human resources. Several are stay-at-home moms. One of us is divorced. Several of us would like to be divorced. Many are on some kind of pharmacological support. Some of us are transplanted Yankees… and I just learned that TWO of us are Yinzers (a.k.a. from Pittsburgh…how did I miss that accent on Nina before?) But all of us are loving mothers, struggling to manage all the day-to-day drudgery and still get out of bed every day. We each have different hobbies and passions and it is wonderful to have a built in resource pool to go to for questions about anything from Autism to Zoo trips. And you know what, I think many of them actually enjoy my company as well… apparently I fill the role of comic relief. Of course, none of them take me very seriously, so I never have to worry about being recruited for the role of Co-Op President, thank you Jeeeeezus, but it is nice to feel appreciated for my own unique skill set. And apparently they respect my parenting (or just geographic proximity) as well because several of them use me regularly for babysitting. 

And now that I know they can handle the vulva candies, I’ll feel a little more comfortable just being myself. And that’s a good thing. 

Of course, the bar has been raised for the next Babysitting Co-Op event! Now I’m going to have to whip my pastry bag into submission and figure out how to make these.  Definitely not as easy to make as the pretzel/Rolo/pecan vulvas, but aren’t they pretty?! Or these. Everyone LOVES cupcakes! Or this. Although, on second thought… I don’t like the idea of a vagina cheese cake… reminds me of my last yeast infection. Oh well, I have a whole year to decide. And my next mission will be to teach them the difference between the labia majora and labia minora! Oh what fun!!! I just love a project, don’t you? 

So I guess the moral of the story is this… be yourself. If the people around you can’t handle it, then find new people. But always be yourself. And also, nothing loosens up a party like a tray of delicious vulva candies.

Pot Luck

 

Ooooh, these candies look delicious! Mind if I... wait... that looks familiar! Hmmm. I can't put my finger on it. What IS that? I know I've seen it somewhere before...

 

Ya’ll, check out what I’m bringing to my church’s Babysitting Co-Op Christmas Party this year! 

I originally signed up to bring a corn casserole, but then had a change of heart. Here is the email I recently sent out to the group:

“OK, I’m a little freaked out by all the starchy sides here, gals. Do we really need all these soup-based-carb-casseroles?  Geez m’knees! We’ll have to have a defibrillator at the ready! 

So even though I was one of the first to sign up and offer to bring my oh-so-popular corn casserole, I’m going to nix it and bring a dessert instead. Just in case Michelle and Alice can’t make it, I don’t want us to be stuck without a sweet treat! And besides, I just found a recipe for “vagina candies!” I swear to God. I could not make this up if I tried. It is a cookie/candy confection that looks like female anatomy. Actually, I believe the correct term should be “vulva,” not vagina. Yeah, that’s right. I watch Oprah and I’m embracing my vulva (although, not right this minute, because ewwww… hard to type.)  But I just wanted to prepare you all in advance because I am bringing AT LEAST one for everyone. Maybe two, so you can take one home and educate your husbands.

 

See you Wednesday! Oh, here’s the revised list for your convenience. I took the liberty of rearranging it by category. Looks like we’re good on the sides… but we don’t have any appetizers. 

Salad – Pauleen
Sweet Potato Souffle – Ginny
Onion Casserole – Caroline
Green Bean Casserole – Lucinda
Potato Casserole – Teresa
Meat Dish – Tammy
Raspberry Tarts – Alice
Cheese Cake w/Chocolate Ganache – Michelle
Vulva Candies – Iris

Well, imagine my surprise when only one person in the group replied to my email with an e-chuckle. Hmmm. Let me see. Church based Babysitting Co-Op, Christmas Party, and vaginas. Yes… one of these things just doesn’t belong. Kind of like me. 

But that is all part of my evil plan. You see, this is a group of twenty women who are incredibly conservative. I was invited to join purely by accident about 5 years ago because one of the founding members’ kids liked my kids. It was a great way to meet people when I was new in town and the free baby-sitting by very decent, caring, CPR certified mommies just rocks. So much better than opening my home to some meth-crazed teenager who is gonna neglect my kids, raid my prescription pill stash, and do it with her pimply teen beau in my bed. 

On the downside, however, is that fact that I simply don’t fit in with this group of women. There are 20 of us, and I am pretty sure that only two of us use the word “vagina.” Naturally I’m one of them. And the other one recently resigned from the co-op, unfortunately. Damn, she was great. One time we went to McDonalds together with our kids so they could run wild in the germ-infested indoor-climbing thingy while we hung out and talked about anything BUT our kids. She got a Filet O’ Fish sandwich and afterward she smelled her fingers and said, “Oh shit, my husband’s gonna think I was cheatin’ on him with you.” We belly-laughed until our Shamrock Shakes came out of our noses. Yeah, good times. But now she’s gone and it is just me and 18 women in “mom jeans” with holiday sweaters that you would expect to only see in a Dr. Seuss movie, talking about things like “I  just refuse to let my kids watch Nickelodeon! That Spongebob is an instrument of the Devil!” and “Don’t you just love the whole ‘Elf on the Shelf‘ thing! I wish we could keep him out all year!” ACK. I’m just there for the free babysitting. 

Can you blame me? Yes, I was feeling a little mischievous and bored; this is true. But I just could not sit idly by and watch the buffet table be overrun with soupy-casseroles! My goodness! Plus, I just had to do something to make this shindig a little more entertaining. Sorry gals, but the “Yankee Swap” ornament exchange just doesn’t cut it.  

So anyway, it’s tonight. Normally I just dread these things, but today I am just filled with anticipation!  This could either be *really* fun, or *really* bad. We’ll just have to see! Oooh, don’t you just love a good surprise?! In the meantime, I’m about to go whip up a tray of those vulva candies. I promised my husband I’d save him one. A big one. He’s pretty excited. 

Hopefully these women won’t greet me at the door with torches and pitchforks. Keep me in your thoughts and prayers, won’t you?

And just in case you want to try making these for your next pot luck, the recipe is below. Give unto others, eh? 

Oven at 250° F    

Lay out waffle pretzels on cookie sheet.

Top each one with a Rolo.

Bake for 3 minutes.

Top each with a Pecan and smoosh it down.

Cool before serving.

Eat. Moan about how yummy it is. Eat. Giggle. Eat. Repeat!

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

 

 

 

Supersize THIS!

Don’t you just love a Gyno with a sense of humor?  I had my annual pap smear today, and it was surprisingly not unpleasant. And do you know why?  Because my new midwife Rachel is a hoot!  We spent the first five minutes joking about how totally ineffective super-plus tampons are for women who have cranked out a few kids and have cavernous holes where their vaginas used to be.  At one point, we were laughing so hard, my cheeks started to cramp up (face cheeks, not ass). You know you are damn comfortable with a healthcare provider if you can verbally contemplate the notion of inserting a full roll of paper towels as a tampon. Too bad I would probably still need a pad. Honestly, whoever invented the super-plus size clearly hasn’t had any kids. How ’bout Super-Sizing THAT? Good Lord, women don’t need any more french fries or an extra patty of meat on our burgers!  We need more absorption from our tampons!  And while you’re at it, Super-Sizing Gods, could you please make something larger than a Venti sized latte?  How ’bout a 32 ounce cup-holder shaped vat like the “Big Gulp” at 7-Eleven? Sleep deprived mothers of young children need caffeine and lots of it.  Throw us a bone, dammit.    

So back to me and my legs-in-the-stirrups-laugh-fest today.  While Rachel and I were ranting about our heavy periods, she asked: “Have you considered the NuvaRing?”  

“Huh?  Nuva-what?” 

“NuvaRing!  It’s the best!  It is a plastic ring that you just insert in your vagina once a month. It’s birth control, but it is also great for managing your periods.  You can keep it in for three weeks, take it out for one week, and have a normal period, or you can keep it in all month and skip your period.  That is what I do.” 

“GET OUT!  That sounds FABULOUS!  No period?!  I didn’t know you could do that! Is it like the pill? I can’t do the pill.  Last time I took that shit I gained 10 pounds, got acne, and went on a shooting spree at a playground.  Not good.”

“No, I can’t do the pill either…that’s why I like the NuvaRing.”  Rachel said.  

“But is it like that SNL skit about the birth control where you only get one period a year and have to ‘hold onto your fucking hat!’ because the one period is so bad that anyone who gets in your way dies a violent death?” I pushed.

“No, not at all!  It is wonderful. I have no complaints. But do the research and call me. If you want to try it, I can phone one into your pharmacy whenever you want.” 

“So it is birth control, AND period management medication? And it’s safe? And you like it? Oh snap. You mean my husband didn’t have to have that vasectomy after all?”  Ooops. Shhhh. Nobody tell him, k?  

Oh, one more thing Rachel told me about the NuvaRing before she got all up in my goodie basket for a look-see: she said you should probably notify your partner that it is in there because it can just pop right out during sex! OK, that might be a deal breaker. Or not. I don’t know…that might be kinda cool actually. Like the prize in the bottom of the Cracker Jack box. Do a good job and you’ll be rewarded with a surprise! Not that a plastic ring flying out of your hoo-hoo like an alien spacecraft would be the kind of prize most men want. But maybe, if you play it just right, it could be fun, like a ring-toss game! Ooooh, I know… see if you can shoot the ring onto the pole! BONUS ROUND, anyone?!   

But I digress. So the appointment went well. My womanly parts are all functioning as they should. And I came home to research the NuvaRing®.

First I asked a couple of friends. One loved it. The other one said she had a hard time getting it in and keeping it in. And that woman watches Oprah, so I know she is familiar with the difference between a vulva, a vagina, and a very angry A-Hole.  I highly doubt she was putting it in the wrong place, and she’s only had C-Sections, so I would think she’d be able to keep a little plastic doohickey up there (lucky bitch).   

Then I turned to my other best friend… the Internet. Here’s what I found. First off, NuvaRings are pricey: about $45 each. That’s way more money than tampons. In this economy, definitely something to consider. But more importantly, there is a whole salad bar of potential side effects:   

• Vaginal infections and irritation
• Vaginal secretion
• Headache
• Weight gain
• Nausea
• Vomiting
• Change in appetite
• Abdominal cramps and bloating
• Breast tenderness or enlargement
• Irregular vaginal bleeding or spotting
• Changes in menstrual cycle
• Temporary infertility after treatment
• Fluid retention (edema)
• Spotty darkening of the skin, particularly on the face
• Rash
• Weight changes
• Depression
• Intolerance to contact lenses
• Nervousness
• Dizziness
• Loss of scalp hair

Excuse me? Loss of scalp hair? Intolerance to contact lenses? Rash? Vomiting? Weight gain? Headache? Oh…of course! I see. Brilliant. Nobody with any sense would want to ride a fat, bald, rashy, coke-bottle glasses wearing, depressed, nervous, spotty-skinned vomiter. Birth control? Check. (And no wonder I was the only virgin in my incoming college freshman class!…late bloomer.) 

Nope. No can do. I already HAVE depression, nervousness, and spots on my face from my last three pregnancies. I’ll just deal with periods for the next 15 years. Looks like that vasectomy was the right decision after all. Thanks hon! ‘Preciate it.

She’s Not Fat.

I have to admit, I am one of the millions of people who has been talking about the obvious weight gain of Cheryl Burke, one of the professional dancers on Dancing with the Stars.  But let me clarify: I do not think she is fat. I just think she looks much different than she did during the previous seasons of the show. Not fat, just different. 

Here… see for yourself: 

See what I mean? This story has actually died down quite a bit in the past few weeks, but I’ve been too busy scrubbing vomit off the walls, administering antibiotics, and applying anti-fungal cream to my germ-infested spawn to write about it sooner. Sorry ya’ll. Being a mother sure does interfere with my hobbies. Sheeesh.  

So yes, being the wise-ass that I am, I did make a crack or two about Cheryl and her new bevy of back-fat to my neighbor when the season premiered a few weeks ago. I empathized with her! It’s sad that a two-time DWTS champion like Cheryl clearly pulled the short straw last season and got paired with Wayne Newton. She and doddering old Wayne finished 10th and I joked that the loss must have sent poor Cheryl into a downward-spiral-binge-eating-depression. It was mean. I feel bad about it. And I have to be careful… if my 5 year old daughter ever heard me calling an athlete like Cheryl Burke fat, I would surely fuck her up for life. So Cheryl, I’m sorry. You are not fat.   

And Cheryl, I truly respect that you are confronting the media and the public about all the negative comments. Good for you, girl. But, damn, Cheryl, if that is what you call “five pounds,” (which is what she said in a number of interviews), I’d like to see your boyfriend’s five pound pecker. Seriously. That is not five pounds, honey. I crap five pounds every day. Either your scale is incredibly kind, or the camera really does add 10 pounds and there are at least two cameras focused on you at all times. Put down the Pink Squirrel and eat some pink grapefruit.  

Look honey, I don’t really care.  You are still a knock out.  You can still dance circles around 99.9% of all bipeds on earth. But really, fess up, sister!  Sure, you took the summer off and weren’t dancing 7 hours a day. Plus, according to TMZ, you are a genuine booze whore like me. Party on, girl! I get that. And I truly appreciate you taking a stand and telling the world that you don’t appreciate all the criticism. But if you really want to do some good for the girls and the women of the world, claim your weight gain and say “SO WHAT?!”  Don’t lie and say it was only five pounds. You are NOT FAT. But you are definitely bigger than you have been in previous seasons, markedly so.  And look, I admit it, like many other viewers, I too thought you might be pregnant. But not because I thought you were fat. Mainly because I am a big fan who noticed the increase in girth and it struck me as odd given that you are a professional dancer who used to be so svelte.   

“I want kids or women out there to realize you don’t have to be anorexic to be beautiful,” Burke told PEOPLE magazine in an interview a few weeks ago. Here, here! I totally agree. I love that you are such a natural beauty, Cheryl. And I totally dig your curves. Women with a little “cushion for the pushin” are gorgeous, especially when they are strong and fit and talented like you. I would rather look like (or at) you than Samantha “Man Arms” Harris or Susan “Skeletor” Lucci any day of the week. And truly, I think your face is even prettier with that round softness to it.  Of course your short shag hair-do is perfect for your rounder face too…bravo. Good choice! 

But something else to consider, it doesn’t matter if you are a size 4 or a size 24… if you want to look your best, you have to dress for your body type.  Shame on your wardrobe people for putting you in those backless numbers, Cheryl.  Nobody wants to see your new back rolls all aquiver as you shake and shimmy across the ballroom.  It’s stressful! Here I am every Monday night, with my ass cheeks clenched tight enough to crack a walnut, thinking that one false move and a Twinkie you stashed for later is going to fall out from between those things. You’ve probably never had to think about this before, so let me help you out, honey. With your new curves, you need to accentuate your hot parts and camouflage the less desirable things. Cover your back and thighs; show some more cleavage and belly.  Just saying. You don’t see me walking around topless, with my 34-Longs grazing my knees, do you? No. Nor do I wear hipster-cut jeans that force my wrinkly old baby-bag to hang over the waist like a muffin-top. It’s just common sense, sugar. Try it. 

Look. Nobody’s perfect. We all have to work with what our mamas gave us (and your mama has just been very very generous lately… kidding, I am not blaming yo’ mama that you camped out at the Kraft Service Table as soon as you and Wayne were eliminated last season; that is your own damn fault.)  Anyway, I can see that you are already shedding pounds faster than Shannon Elizabeth shed her panties last season. You hang in there Cheryl. I’m rootin’ fer ya and that litter of pink baby piglets you’ve got riding around on your back. Kidding. Seriously though… wardrobe – come on! No more backless numbers for Cheryl. Please. 

But again, I reiterate. She’s not fat. She is curvy and not dressing for her body type. Big difference. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to shave my toes and get gussied up for a big trip to the Piggly Wiggly. Have I told you about my cute butcher yet? Well, that’s a story for another day, but I definitely see some tube steak in my near future. Meatloaf Monday, anyone?

© 2008 The Bearded Iris

Crush

I can’t sleep tonight. Maybe it is the Mexican food. Maybe it is the booze and the prescription drugs. Maybe it is the general malaise that I can’t seem to shake this week, what with all the vomit scrubbing and all. So I’m channel surfing like a hairy man.  Is this what men feel?  Restless? Or do they work that remote like a lab rat vying for another pellet because their brains are too small to stay focused on one thing for very long? Somnambulant, inquiring minds want to know.    

I have 921 channels and I can’t find a single damn thing to watch. But wait, not so fast. I just found The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson, and the clicking stops. That face. That devilish grin. That sexy salt and pepper hair, tousled just so. That suit…wow, this man can work a suit. That Scottish brogue. Oh for the love of GOD…that Scottish brogue. Stop everything. And what’s this? What is this feeling? Butterflies? Well, hello! I do believe I have a new crush. I might just be exhausted and depressed and in desperate need of attention from someone other than a potty training toddler with a turd in his hand, but I do believe Craig Ferguson is speaking directly to ME this evening!  Seriously…check out what he just said (in his ridiculously sexy accent): 

“Listen, I want to clear something up I said before the break…I said that, you know, boobies were the most important thing, and they’re not. The most sexy thing on a woman, seriously, honestly, is a sense of humor… If a woman has a sense of humor, an easy laugh, it denotes an enjoyment of life and a love of deviant sex!  If a woman has an easy laugh, she is good in bed! A woman should have an easy laugh!  Unless she just laughs when she sees your pee-pee and that is just never good.”  

Craig Ferguson, will you marry me? I promise I will not laugh at your pee-pee…unless you put googly eyes on it and make it talk or dance…I can’t make any promises if you do that. But seriously Craig, I really think you would get me.  I think we could make each other laugh and have lots of deviant sex. Craig, I realize we haven’t known each other for very long, but there is something about you that is stirring my heart, my soul, my loins. You look like you know how to treat a woman. Something about you tells me that when you get home from a hard day of work, and I make you dinner and kiss you longingly, and let you know that I’m in the mood for a little wink-wink-nudge-nudge, you won’t make comments in the kitchen like:

• “Wow, you just can’t walk on this floor in your barefeet…it is SO gross. I’m sticking to it.” or
• “Did the kids clean their rooms today?  They need to do a better job of keeping their rooms clean.”  or
• “Did you remember to [insert any mundane, non-sexy task here] today?” or
• “Hon, I have this weird rash on my ass…will you take a look at it?”  

No, Craig Ferguson, I don’t think you would say any of these things if you knew you were a shoe-in for a proper shagging with your funny, hot, deviant wife. Have your people call my people. 

To my loyal readers who may not know who Craig Ferguson is (we tend to pass out early in my family), here is a little clip.  I love this one because you get a good little taste of his delicious personality, and you can learn some new dance moves while you watch. Bon appétit! 

Seriously Craig. We were meant for each other. Let’s do the “Yes Dance” together. I don’t have a garbage disposal, but if I did, I would totally let you stick your fork in it. And by fork, I mean pee-pee. And by garbage disposal, I mean garbage disposal. Kidding. See? Funny. Call me. Seriously. 

© 2008 The Bearded Iris