Don’t Call It a Comeback

“Where’ve ya been, honey?” she asked. “We missed you.”

“Thanks sugar. It’s a long story.” said I.

“Abridge it, bee-otch… I know it’s gonna be sick.”

“Why, thank you! Well… first I got bitten by a snapping turtle and couldn’t type for a few weeks. No lie. Then I found out I was being cyber-stalked by some misogynistic little-dicked punk ass bitch who was trying to scare me into the dark ages. But mostly, it was just summer. You know… three kids, long days, high humidity. The usual. All I had time for was slathering sunscreen and bug spray and when I wasn’t a-slatherin’, I was washing sand out of crevices and scalps, or busy refilling my glass and praying for the strength to make it to the start of the school year. I fucking HATE summer. Thank GOD it’s over.”

“Excuse me… did you just say you got bitten by a real-honest-to-God-snapping-turtle?”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“Shut up! You lie like a rug, bitch.”  

“I swear on my children’s children. I swear on the health of my retinas. I swear on…” 

“OK. I get it. Dammit, you are one hot mess, honey. A real snapping turtle? Are you sure?”

“Google it, bitch.”

“I am gonna pray for you honey.” 

“Thanks Grandma,” I said.

And there you have it. I’m back. And I brought you something! This is my new obsession. It’s a little ol’ website called Texts from Last Night… a place where people can submit texts they’ve received and we get to read them and laugh until our boxed wine spurts out of our noses. (Or is that just me?) Seriously ya’ll… thank God I did all my “dating” before the text-age. These kids today are crazy. ENJOY!    

xoxox,

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

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

But on the bright side…

One of the best things about having a blog, I’ve recently discovered, is that when awful/disgusting/frustrating/annoying things happen to me (almost daily), I have an appropriate outlet in which to express myself. Writing about these events is fantabulous therapy and so much less damaging than kicking the dog (or husband) or screaming at the babies. Blogs are good things. I don’t care what Sarah Palin says. If she spent less time fretting about blogs and more time reading things like newspapers and books, maybe she wouldn’t be such a laughingstock. But I digress. Back to me me me and why I blog…

Take yesterday for instance. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

This is the barely audible sound I heard as I was crouched on my office floor sorting through six months of medical records and bills that I had been avoiding. I had just gotten Bucket Head down for his nap and hoped I would have (kinehora) about two hours of uninterrupted time to knock off this dreaded task. I was halfway through writing out a check for a delinquent bill when my spider senses started to tingle. Thank God I didn’t have any music going or I never would have heard it. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

“What the fuck?” I mumbled to myself. Jesus. Is it any wonder I never get anything done? Isn’t the universe supposed to conspire to help people that are on the right path? Here I was, FINALLY hunkering down to do something important that I had been procrastinating about for months… and what do I get? A major interruption. Dripping water can’t be ignored. It’s not like a baby fussing, or a blaring smoke detector when I’m cooking, or a husband pawing. So I struggled to my feet and went off in search of the sound. It didn’t take me long.    

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

I turned the corner into the kitchen and immediately noticed a small pool of water on the floor under the windows. But it was a sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky, and it hadn’t rained here for days. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

I look up. The water was slowly trickling down from the top of the window casements. Huh. That’s odd, I thought. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Then it hit me. Those windows are right under the master bathroom. Right under our toilet, to be exact.

Noooooooooooooooooo! I took off running up the stairs, rounded the corner, burst into the bathroom, and set my eyes on the water pooling on the floor around the toilet. The lid was up. The seat was down. The water was all the way to the tippy-top, slowly streaming over the side, almost silently, and gently running downhill on our slightly warped linoleum floors toward the corner of the water closet’s exterior wall, where it was then leaking down through the floor to the window casements below it. 

My first thought was: “MOTHER FUCKER!” That damn husband. He pulled a “dump and run” this morning, the bastard! 

But once I got past the initial shock and anger, what else is there to do in a situation like this but jump into action. That, and start thinking about how I would blog about it later that night! 

I grabbed the bath towels and sopped up the water on the floor. The water in the loo was too high for me to start plunging, so I grabbed the hideous halloween bucket in which we store the plunger (which was conveniently located right next to the toilet for such an emergency) and started bailing out the dirty water and dumping it into the shower. Ewww. Great… more to clean. 

Don’t worry, I took all these photos after the fact. I did not stop to photograph this situation while I was ankle deep in poo-water. Speaking of which, I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that it was only two months ago that we replaced one of our other toilets due to similar issues while we had a house full of guests over Thanksgiving. We now have not one, but two TOTO toilets in our home. My husband and I have discussed this many times as it is not an uncommon occurrence for him to dump and run and unknowingly leave me to plunge his shit while he is at work. Now, in his defense, he always says that he watches it flush and that it always appears to go down just fine. Whatever. My point is that I have asked him, a number of times, to NOT poop in the one non-TOTO toilet as a preventative measure. Does he listen? No. No he does not. And so here I am, wiping poo-water off the kitchen windows and floor when I should be paying the backlogged bills that he is always harping on me about. Ironic? I think not. 

Which brings me to the next thing. My husband is the only human being I know who actually eats 5-7 full servings of fresh fruits and vegetables every day of his life. Needless to say, he is incredibly regular and lays pipe which resembles regulation size NFL footballs. I would like to now refer you to the Bristol Stool Chart, a very useful tool that we should all know and love: 

This fabulous visual aid was first introduced to me last summer by my very fun and clearly uninhibited friend JB who is a huge fan of adding bulk fiber to his diet in his quest for the ultimate pooping experience. According to the Wikipedia’s explanation of the Bristol Scale, “types 1 and 2 indicate constipation, with 3 and 4 being the “ideal stools,” especially the latter, as they are the easiest to pass, and 5–7 being further tending towards diarrhea or urgency.” Isn’t that fabulous?! Aren’t you so glad to know this? Listen, I’m telling you, print one of these per bathroom and post it on the bathroom wall so that people can rate their poop everyday. Then you can discuss it objectively with your family and friends. Next time someone asks, “How was your poop today?” You can intelligently say, “Thank you for asking! It was in between a 3 and 4 on the Bristol Stool Chart!” or “Well unfortunately, it was a little low on the Bristol Scale… I need to drink more water and add some fiber to my diet!” or “Holy guacamole! I just had a 7 on the Bristol Scale!” which sounds so much more refined than: “I just peed out of my ass! No more licking the subway hand rails for me!” 

I bring this up because my fresh fruit and veggie loving husband routinely deposits the most perfect 3s and 4s I’ve ever witnessed. I’m telling you – his shit is perfect. He practically doesn’t even need toilet paper because his poop is usually in one big curved piece and a “clean break” to boot. And the girth! Lordhavemercy. It makes my hindquarters quiver just thinking about it. His poop would make Dr. Oz sing an aria. The angels weep when he shits. I totally envy his poop. Not enough to replace my daily wine serving with real grapes like he does, but still. Yet, the one drawback with having such perfect poop is that it tends to clog all but the most powerful toilets. Which is why two thirds of the toilets in our house are TOTOs and why my husband and I have agreed (or so I thought) that until we can afford to redo our bathroom, it needs to be a poop-free zone. 

So anyhooooo… the bad news is that I never did get those medical bills sorted through and paid yesterday. I had a bunch of unexpected cleaning to do and tons of towels and rags to wash. But the good news is that I sat down and wrote all about it rather than call my husband at work and cuss him out for all the trouble he caused us with his “dump and run” in the wrong toilet. It was a very messy, disgusting, frustrating event that totally derailed my day, but on the bright side, it gave me an opportunity to share The Bristol Stool Chart in a (hopefully) entertaining way and publicly embarrass my husband enough that he’ll never repeat this mistake again.  Ah yes… the power of the blog. Therapy. Entertainment. Educational tool. Husband tamer.

Now, back to those bills…

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?

The Booger Heard ‘Round the World

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 in the first of three simultaneous postings. Click here to read the sister-post. 

___________________________________________________

It all started with a booger.

A single booger, which I found stuck to a semi-freshly painted wall in one of my kids’ bedrooms. 

What? Can’t see it? Oh sorry… let me help you with that:

It was the proverbial straw that broke this camel’s back. That wall is painted with Behr Premium Plus paint in Shortgrass Prairie, 760D-5. It is my favorite paint color in the whole house. My husband and I lovingly painted that room as a peace offering to our oldest child for having to switch bedrooms when our third and final baby was a few weeks shy of  becoming a “fire in the hole!” 

I noticed that booger the other day and bitched about it via email to a fellow mother/blogger friend I had recently met through the wonders of the Internet. “Not Drowning Mother” or “NDM” was very empathetic. “Kids are disgusting,” she agreed. Even Australian kids, it turns out. She said “I’ll see your booger and raise you a whole Wall of Mysteries, showcasing a full range of human excretia.” And thus, a plan for a tell-all “simulpost” was hatched.  

However, there was so much material that we decided it wasn’t fair to only focus on the kiddies and their nastiness. We would have to out ourselves as well. And in addition, why stop at only housecleaning (or lack thereof)… we also found loads of common foibles in the areas of child rearing and husband tending. But for simplicity, we decided to break it into three separate simultaneous, intercontinental, photo-filled posts.  

So here is my portion of part one. A photo-essay on the squalor in which I live. Some of it is kid-induced. Most of it is my own damn fault. All of it is bad enough that I actually did apply to be a home on “Oprah’s Clean Up Your Messy House Tour,” and they actually ARE considering me as a potential guest for the show. No lie. But I don’t want to jinx it, so let’s just leave it at that for now. 

Oh, one more thing. You may be wondering why on Earth we would choose to air our dirty laundry like this, and why now? It’s simple, really. A new year begins tomorrow. A new year filled with the promise for change. I am always abuzz with excitement at this time of year! Excited for the potential for living a better life and creating a better life for my family. But I am also a real fan of using one’s talents and treasures to help others. Thus, if I can help even one overwhelmed woman to feel better about her life by comparing herself to the trainwreck that is my home… well, so be it. You are welcome, overwhelmed woman! You are clearly not alone. But you better get on the stick, lady… because I am seriously going to get my shit in order this year. I fucking mean it this time. And once I do, you WILL be alone. So join me, won’t you? Let’s turn over a new leaf (or scrape an old booger off the wall) together. 

And now, more proof that your home is cleaner than mine:

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, my kids fingerpaint with toothpaste to have a ball!"

 

...but why stop at mirrors? Every surface in my home is a canvas for dirty, sticky fingers.

 

Every surface is an equal-opportunity canvas. Yeah, that's a permanent marker. Good times.

 

never a dull moment, or surface...

Alright, let me explain. I was worried that NDM was going to show me up with her Wall of Mysteries, so I went on a fact finding mission to locate anything of equal nastiness. It didn’t take long. Here you see a permanent party favor from Klepto’s not-so-recent bout with the stomach bug. Yes, friends, that is the “popcorn” ceiling in the master bathroom, and the stains you see are the remains of her regurgitated cheeseburger. Beat *that*, NDM! 

 

But they don't only create messes... sometimes they help me clean too. See? No rinsing required.

 

Typical kitchen counter any given day... notice clothes, crafting supplies, dirty dishes, an iPod, food...

 

... the aftermath of letting Bucket Head help me unload the dishwasher. This should really be filed under "Good Parenting" and not "Kids are disgusting."

 

... poor Ernie: drowning in a sea of dog hair and dust bunnies.

 

... my "craft corner" in the basement... only it is too messy to work in, so I have taken over every other horizontal surface in the house. You can see where my kids get it... bad Mommy. Bad, bad Mommy.

 

... underneath this mountain is our dining room table. Who has time to put things away with all this writing and crafting and present wrapping and booger scraping to do?!

Wow. That’s impressive, even for me. Who else do you know with a six year old plaster casting of her breasts and pregnant belly just sitting on the dining room table? I’d love to take credit for the gorgeous Mermaid-Nymph painting on that belly, but I commissioned an incredibly talented artist/sistah/friend to do it. I have BIG plans to turn that sucker into a night-light for Klepto’s room. Yeah, plans that have been in my head for 6 years. Sigh. Which reminds me…

"Iris, telephone! It's Oprah."

“Take a message, dammit. I’m writing.” 

Yeah. Right. Happy New Year, ya’ll! And happy cleaning! 

©2008 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.

Micro-Mangering

We have a Nativity Scene on our entryway table. It is a beautiful Fontanini set that my husband bought for me as a gift early in our marriage. Over the years my mother and mother-in-law have added to the set with additional key players like wise men and animals. The whole family treasures it. 

The only problem is that nobody agrees on how to set it up each year. Every time I walk past it, the pieces have been moved. For a long time I thought this was the work of toddlers gone wild. But now I know differently. 

My husband is a control freak. 

He has a very specific idea of where each figure should go, the angle at which they should be facing, and the proximity of each figure to the others. He’s obsessed. We call it “micro-mangering.” The man knows his Nativity and likes it just so. 

It kinda pisses me off. I mean really, what a waste of energy. If you want to micro-manage something, how about the laundry? Or if only he had the same high expectations for the kitchen and would painstakingly care for and rearrange the pots and pans so carefully. Maybe if we had pots and pans with Baby Jesus painted on the side… 

So naturally, I find myself rearranging the Nativity pieces in crazy ways just to bait the poor guy. It is so easy and creates so much fun. It’s probably a tad sacrilegious… but I just blame it on the baby. Shhhh. Don’t tell him OK.  Besides, I figure any God who would create ME in his image clearly has a great sense of humor and won’t mind a little sheep-on-camel action in the name of a good joke.

 

"Um, excuse me, but your sheep is buggering my camel, dude."

 

"OH! Oh my goodness! Somebody... HELP! Don't just stand there Joseph! Help me for Chrissakes! This barn cat is trying to steal the breath of the new born King!"

 

The forgotten verse to the beloved classic carol: "Do you smell what I smell?"

©2008 The Bearded Iris

Grab and Go

Ya’ll, I’m busier than a one-legged woman in an ass-kickin’ contest today, what with all the holiday Room Mom requirements, and Thanksgiving cleanup, and the fact that if I don’t grocery shop my family will surely starve to death. 

But it is Tuesday. And you know that when I’m not busy trying to keep my children alive, I like to share practical tips you can use in your own homes to make your lives all that much better than mine.  It’s a little thing I call “Just the Tip Tuesday.” Catchy, don’t you think?

So here’s my tip:

Don’t you just hate when you are trying to leave a place and your kids dig in their heels and say “Hell no – we won’t go!” And meanwhile, your hands are totally full with a diaper bag and a poopy diaper that you need to toss and your cell phone and your purse and a Tupperware container full of the leftovers that your Mother-in-Law insists you take with you? Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. Next time you get some attitude from a stubborn child and don’t feel like investing any more of your precious energy verbally enticing them to get in the damn car already, transfer all your stuff to one arm. Then, without warning, silently walk up behind them, grab the back of their overalls, pick ‘em up, and just start walking. Like so:

 

Now before you call Social Services, I’ll have you know that no toddlers were harmed in this process. First of all, his diaper was probably totally saturated with urine, making it a very fluffy cushion for his goody basket. Secondly, he was so surprised by the maneuver that he said “WHEEEE!” I know, I know, not exactly the negative consequence needed to teach a life lesson. But sometimes a mama’s gotta do what a mama’s gotta do. The point is, this move shuts ‘em up and gets ‘em out. Then, when you get home, you can sit them down for a little “Come to Jesus” talk and let them know that if you ever, I mean EVER, have to physically extricate them from a social situation again, it will be the last party they ever attend. To which they will certainly smile and giggle and say something like “Mommy. More. Kiss.” and totally miss the point and melt your heart all in one fell swoop. 

But still. It’s a good move to try when your last nerve is on the verge of being severed in public. Now this is important… there are several key ingredients to being able to pull this off:

1.) Always dress your toddler in overalls when you are going somewhere that you suspect might be difficult for them to leave peacefully. A t-shirt just won’t cut it. You’ll rip the shirt and/or choke the child. Not OK. Also, these are little humans, not cats, so don’t just grab ‘em by the nape of the neck or someone really will take your children away, and that is never good.  

2.) Have an escape route mapped out. This move works best when you remember where you parked the mini-van and can get there without having to stand in line at a Chuck-E-Cheese security checkpoint apologizing to the other parents. 

3.) Make sure you are in decent physical condition before you attempt this move. Arm strength is important here, but the actual lifting should always be done with your legs. Trust me, nothing says “the party is over” like a toddler with a concussion and a frazzled Mom flat on her pimped-out-pooper with a back spasm from hell. Or so I hear. 

So yeah. Parenting. It’s not for pussies. Give this tip a shot the next time you need an emergency escape plan, and remember, you heard it here first. Giddee-up! 

©2008 The Bearded Iris