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

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.

Crackbook

“Hi. I’m Iris. I’m a Facebookaholic.”

“Hi Iris.” 

I didn’t even know what Facebook was four months ago. Then I met this friend of a friend at a wedding who sold it to me like it was The Bass-o-Matic I could not live without. And always shopping for the next major appliance that will exponentially improve my life, I bought his bill of goods hook, line, and sinker.

And here I am, four months and close to 100 “friends” later… and I can’t stop. I am completely addicted.

For those of you who may not know what Crackbook, I mean, Facebook is, let me explain. Facebook is a social networking website. You create a profile of yourself and indicate things like your hometown, the city where you live now, and where you went to high school and college. You can put as much or as little information as you like, depending on your level of paranoia and/or exhibitionistic tendencies. Then you search for friends with whom you’d like to connect. It is surprisingly fun. And it is a great way to keep in touch with family and friends without having to send out a gazillion emails and pictures individually. So it’s very efficient, and you know I’m always looking for time-savers so I can spend more hours Googling strange things like vaginoplasty. 

Well anywhooo, a couple months ago one of my high school boyfriends found me on Facebook through a mutual friend. Even though I live about 700 miles from where I grew up, it turns out he and his family live only 15 minutes away from me. We’ve gotten our families together a few times for dinner, and always have a great time. Which is pretty amazing, considering that he two-timed me 22 years ago, spurring me to retaliate with a vengeance befitting something you’d find in a Stephen King novel… publicly humiliating him and forcing him to beg for mercy. But that is a story for another day.    

Then last week I accidentally found a guy from my 3rd grade elementary school class when I was perusing another friend’s Facebook photo album. I recognized this man’s once boyish face immediately, sent him a “friend request,” and through him, I was reunited with about 15 other old friends from elementary and middle school. It was amazing. I love reconnecting with these people and finding out how they have turned out, what they look like, what they do, and who they are (or at least who they are presenting to the Internet). In fact, just yesterday I had lunch with one of my best friends from elementary school. Turns out she also lives in the area. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly 30 years, but we were able to pick up right where we left off, like we were giggling 8 year old girls again. We shared a special connection and history then, and I look forward to creating more memories with her and her family in the future. Thanks to the Internet, I can see us never losing touch again.

But the most wonderful surprise I’ve encountered through Facebook was reconnecting with a girl named Violet. This was a girl I knew for one year and one year only. Ninth grade. That was the year we both started at a very elite private girls’ school in Pittsburgh. We were both outsiders. Most of the other 18 girls in our class were “lifers,” meaning they had known each other for all or most of their incredibly privileged lives. They belonged to the same country club, attended the same dancing school, and went to the same Bat Mitzvahs and debutante balls. It was a tough crowd for outsiders. Think “Greasers” vs. “Socs,” but mean catty girls, no fist fights, and with 80s music blaring in the background. 

I was definitely a Greaser, not a Soc. I was at that school on a financial scholarship. Of course, I never wanted anyone to know that, so I did my best to fit in. I watched, and I studied, and I learned what to wear, and do, and say. I dropped my working class accent like Madonna in London, and learned how to embrace the hideous L.L. Bean Blucher Moccasins as THE shoe to wear with my uniform. My mom worked two jobs so I could afford to go to the ski trips and drive the right kind of car. I chased the “cool crowd” of girls, hoping they’d like me. I even eavesdropped to hear where they were going to summer camp and then signed up for the same session and met them there like, “Oh, cool! What a coincidence! You guys go here too?” So pathetic.  

Violet was totally the opposite. She was weird…on purpose! She had this funky Flock of Seagulls hair do, all swooped up in the front with a “rat tail” that she braided in the back. I think she had a pink stripe in her hair too. She painted her nails black. She wore combat boots and a military style belt, and makeup (that slut)!  And she had this mega crush on Simon Le Bon of Duran Duran, which was really different. All the other Muffies were into U2 and The Police and REM. Violet did NOT fit in. And worse, she didn’t even try! It was like social suicide. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with that girl and I wanted nothing to do with her. I was horrified about being associated with her since we both started the school at the same time and both came from the outside. So I did whatever it took to distance myself from her in the hopes of being accepted by the “in” crowd, including making fun of her, I’m sure. And that is how I eventually came to be accepted, at least on the surface, by the popular girls – by being funny. Unfortunately, I was the funniest when I was making fun of others. Or so I thought. But I knew I was selling my soul and I was sick about it. Those four years were terribly lonely and painful for me. I did get a great education, but I never did find my true niche and couldn’t wait to graduate and get out of that small, sheltered, stagnant pond.  

Violet only stayed at our school for 9th grade. Her family moved away and that was that. I never thought about her again until a week ago when she found me on Facebook. I couldn’t believe she’d remember me or want to be friends with me, but she did, she is that cool. Violet is still very different. But I guess I am too, because now I’m finally brave enough and decent enough to value her for her uniqueness instead of being afraid of it. She is the most interesting person I’ve come across in a long long time and I’m really enjoying getting to know her. Turns out we have a lot in common. Sure wish I knew then what I know now. If I could do high school over again, I would totally do it like Violet next time. She knew exactly who she was and was always true to herself. She never caved to social pressures or cared what other people thought. It took me twenty years to figure it out, but she is exactly the kind of person I want to be and befriend: unique, brave, passionate, and creative… very different from the homogeneous country club Muffies I chased for so long.

Those popular girls from high school? Well I wish I could tell you that they all got out into the real world and weren’t big fish in a small pond anymore. But that’s not what happened. They all look like they are doing just fine (from what I can see in Facebook). They all went to good colleges; the best their daddies’ money could buy. And it looks like they all learned THE most important thing from their perfectly coifed mothers: that it is just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a poor man. I must have been behind the 7-Eleven smoking pot the day my mom tried to teach me that one. Dammit. But truth be told, I’ll take my decent, loyal, middle class, Italian Stallion over those smarmy-pansy-ass-milk-fed-blue-blood-Socs any day. It will feel better anyway when I make my own money someday from my wild success as a pole dancer journalist/novelist/comedy writer/stand-up comedian/sex surrogate.  

So thank you Facebook. I feel like I’m walking a little taller lately (even without my signature 4-inch leopard heels) from the thrill of making new friends and reconnecting with old ones. There is something so special about childhood friends. Maybe because we met and knew each other before all the innocence and wonder disappeared. Maybe because our friendships were more genuine and uncomplicated. I’m not sure. But when I’m with old friends, I feel like I’m that fun-loving girl again… care free and adventurous and unsullied by the stresses and burdens of my day-to-day responsibilities. And getting the chance to become friends with people I missed out on my first time around the block is a wonderfully concrete way to see that I have grown up a little bit. It is a good feeling and it totally compensates for the very bad feeling I get looking around at the laundry that is piling up while I am so busy “reconnecting.” Thank you Facebook. I’ll keep coming back… it works if you work it.