Whore

My Mama always told me, “Be a lady on the street, a cook in the kitchen, and a whore in the bedroom.”  I think she’s got this one all wrong, folks.  It can be really fun to be a whore in your kitchen.  Or on your dining room table.  Why restrict this kind of activity to just one room?  After all, what is a whore, if not flexible and creative?  

The American Heritage Dictionary defines whore three ways (ironic? I think not): 

1. A prostitute.
2. A person considered sexually promiscuous.
3. A person considered as having compromised principles for personal gain.

Well, clearly I am not doing it for money or often enough or with enough people to be considered a big old nasty whoo-ore in the literal sense.  But as far as making compromises for personal gain…ladies, don’t we all do it?  I trade sex for favors in my home all the time.  Sometimes it is subtle…like that time I gave up the pooty right after dinner knowing full well my husband would do the kids’ bedtimes while I basked in the afterglow. (Hot tip for the husbands: we’ll do almost anything for an occasional night away from the cling-ons.)  Other times it is an outright barter: “Honey, take the kids to the birthday party.  Please?  I just can’t spend another afternoon at Chuck E. Cheese.  I’m on the verge of a shooting spree.  Please?  Come on!  If you do Chuck E. Cheese detail, I will give you a blow job when you get home.  I mean it this time.”  This is just smart business acumen.  Nothing wrong with a little give and take, I always say.  

There is another saying I grew up with courtesy of my good ol’ repressed mother that also just burns my biscuits: “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free.”  First of all, no, I am not so daft as to think my mother was calling me a cow.  It is just a euphemism.  Not an insult.  For some reason, farm animals make for really good metaphors.  No, the thing that pisses me off about this one is the fact that it is just so sexist and misogynistic.  I am going to raise my daughter with more of an equal rights approach.  She is going to go through life thinking “Why buy the pig when all you want is a little sausage.”  Of course, I will school her properly that if possible, try to go for the big sausage instead of the little one.  And speaking of little sausage, listen to this Jimmy Dean customer complaint.  This is a man who definitely smells what I’m cookin’. 

Oh my heavens!  Did he just say “Fuckin’ pussy roll o’ sausage?”  I think I love this man.  So back to the whore thing…when I’m not in the mood to trade sex for favors, I use food…preferably hungry-man style junk food.  Again, compromising my principles for personal gain, since I typically like to feed my family healthy things that nourish their bodies and brains.  But come on – we all know that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and no self respecting whore would show up at a Super Bowl Party with a tray of crudites.  No – if you want your man to be putty in your hands without having to swallow or do some bush hogging, just shell out my famous Come to Mama Sausage Dip.  You will not be denied. We whores like to please others, so I’m gonna give you that recipe for free…just make sure you tell ‘em where you got it, ya’ll.   

Come to Mama Sausage Dip

Ingredients:

1 – 16 ounce roll of sausage (don’t get that 12 ounce shit…this is no time to settle for a little sausage)

2 – 8 ounce bricks of cream cheese

1 – 10 ounce can of Ro*Tel (Diced Tomatoes & Green Chilies; find it in the canned veggie aisle)

If you like to spice things up a bit, and I suspect that you do if you are reading The Bearded Iris, get either spicy sausage, OR spicy Ro*Tel.  Don’t double down on the spice unless you want to experience the double burn when you poop for the next two days.  Trust me on this one.  

So what you do is cook up the sausage.  Break it up with a spoon while it fries in a pan.  Drain the grease off and pat it dry with a paper towel.  Then chop it up like a proper pork monger.  Put it in a medium sauce pan and add the cream cheese.  Cook on med-low until the cream cheese gets all melty and slap yo’ mama good.  Then add the Ro*Tel and heat through.  Serve it with Frito’s Scoops.  Don’t get all fancy and try to serve this shit on a wafer-thin Carr’s Water Cracker.  This is a white trash, man pleasin’, artery clogging bartering tool and should be paired accordingly.  Enjoy!

 

 

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” – Proverb

 

Oh, THOSE Sexual Side Effects!

Good news/bad news.  The good news is that the cocktail of antidepressants I’ve been on for two weeks seems to be working!  I’m not nearly as negative and overwhelmed as I was a few weeks ago.  Can I get an AMEN?!  The bad news is the cavalcade of side effects.  Apparently that is the big trade off.  Feel better mentally, feel worse physically.  

Well I found out the hard way what all those antidepressant commercials mean by “sexual side effects.”  I always wondered…what is that?  When they say “low risk of sexual side effects,” does that mean you are less likely to start humping inanimate objects or suddenly have a penchant for bestiality?  No – it is nothing like that.  Sexual side effects specifically means loss of libido (so what’s new?), inability to get an erection (men) or attain sufficient lubrication (ladies), and/or an inability to achieve an orgasm.  (Insert sound of screeching tires and crashing car)  Stop right there, Dr. Feelgood.  Excuse me?  If I am gonna clean up my nether-regions, get all sweaty, and soil my sheets, there needs to be some kind of a prize at the end.  This is not a free lunch, dammit.  I’m no psychiatrist, but I’m willing to wager that having orgasms would actually be conducive to treating clinical depression.  And the more the merrier, eh?  So why on God’s green Earth would I want to take away one of the few rays of sunshine in my life?  Talk about depressing.  Sheesh.  This alone may be worth going off the meds.  But wait, there’s more.    

In addition to not being able to reach the top of tingle-mountain, I am also incredibly constipated.  This is a problem.  I’m a big fan of pooping.  I am normally as regular as the pedophiles at church every Sunday.   Missing a chance to drop the kids at the pool each morning is a major drawback.  I am quite fond of my daily release of the hostages, or as my friend JB calls them, Chattahoochee Brown Trout.  And keeping all that stinky poo-poo inside you for so long leads to the next unpleasant side effect: gas.  

Remember the campfire scene in Blazing Saddles?  Worse. Way worse.  Lord have mercy!  I’m as gassy as the Alaska pipeline.  You know your farts are lethal when even the dog leaves the room.  And my trusty canine companion usually appreciates the smell of my junk.  But lately he has been steering clear of me and my deadly beef darts.  So sad! These farts are like nothing I have ever smelled before, which is how I know they are a product of the strange chemicals I’m ingesting everyday.  I know, it is truly awkward to hear a lady with such a pretty floral name like Iris discussing her flatulence.  But let’s get one thing clear people: I’m no lady. So back to the paint-peelers.  Even my feisty daughter, who loves a good “pull my finger” joke, won’t play along.  She’s all, “Whoa, Mama…was that YOU?!  I thought maybe the doggie ate another frog. Remember that?  That was double gross.” And my clever 8 year old told me the other day, “Mom, it’s called Beeno. Look into it.”  Seriously, I’ve smelled road-kill more pleasant than these SBDs.  And this brings us back to the issue of sexual side effects…there is nothing that will ruin the mood or spoil your ability to achieve a good old fashioned toe-curler like an unintentional dutch oven.  Sorry about that last one honey…I’ll lay off the cabbage.    

In terms of other unpleasant side effects, there is also dry mouth, dizziness, and headaches.  Is this shit an antidepressant or birth control?  Damn!  ’Cause there is definitely no baby-makin’ goin’ on in my house right now.  I’m also experiencing some ear-clogging when I exercise, but that might just be a hygiene issue. Have I mentioned that I’m a mother of three with very poor time management skills?  

So anyhoooo, now we just have to sit tight and wait.  Will the improved mental health be enough to compensate for all these crazy side effects?  Or will my new sense of optimism be blown asunder by all the wafting?  And will my dog run away in search of a fresher fanny?  You have questions. I have answers. Tune in next time for another riveting episode of The Bearded Iris: Battling Depression from the Bottom Up.  

 

And speaking of farts…this is just pee-your-pants-funny.  
LOVE her honest reaction!  These Canadian Judges are priceless.  
As if Mike Meyers and Seth Rogen aren’t proof enough: Canucks are naturally funny. Must be in the water.  
And that is a good thing, because if McCain wins, we are moving there.

Appliance Heaven

Girls, if you are ever feelin’ unappreciated by your man or gaggle of kids, Iris has a hot tip for you! 

Get all gussied up and go shopping.  And by “gussied up,” I mean the works!  Do your hair.  Shave your toes.  Grab your highest heels, your tightest jeans, your best engineered push-up bra, and some drop dead red lipstick.  Now this is important: I’m not suggesting that you go shopping just anywhere. At a time like this, you certainly don’t need some under-commissioned department store dickwad to tell you that the whole point of eyebrows is that you are supposed to have two of them. No ma’am, you need to high-tail it to the nearest used appliance store you can find and strut your stuff.

It is amazing how much better you will feel about yourself when you have a few hard working men dropping everything to wait on you.  Of course, testing out the used appliances by sitting on them like this might have something to do with all the attention you’ll get…

It also helps to have a good friend who is a photographer follow you around the shop, taking your photo doing all sorts of crazy things. This always attracts a lot of Looky-Lous, and nothing says “PAY ATTENTION TO ME, PEOPLE!” like having your photo taken in public. I also highly recommend wearing an apron on these outings.  Used appliances tend to be a teensy bit dusty and you do not want to soil your best hot pants just for the sake of a little public admiration.  Do be sure to choose a cute sassy half-apron that accentuates your outfit and not the ginormous, stained “Recipe? What Recipe?” apron your mother in law re-gifted to you for Christmas.  

Oh, another hot tip ladies, especially if you are having trouble getting a salesman’s attention…bring a juicy ripe peach with you and start eating it right there in front of God and everybody.  You may also try bending over a bit, while eating the peach, to inspect the merchandise a little closer.  Salesmen always appreciate a shopper with an eye for detail.  

Another crowd pleaser that I like to use once in a while on these shopping excursions is to bring a frozen tray of meat along with me.  Lord knows you do NOT want to buy a deep freeze and find out after you get it home that your meat is too big for it.  Don’t you just hate when that happens?  So do yourself a favor and bring your family sized value pak of the Other White Meat along for the ride.  By the time you get home, it will be nicely defrosted and ready to cook for supper.  And it is environmentally friendly too, as no polar bears will be killed in this process.

Naturally, bending over just a bit while you clutch your family pak of frozen pork will only help you attract the attention of the salesmen, and/or manager.  

Lastly, if all else fails and you are still not getting the attention you so desperately crave, grab your apron, your peach, and your tray of frozen pork, and lie down somewhere prominent.  Toss your head back and eat that peach, honey!  If you don’t get a little love from this maneuver, you must be doin’ it wrong.    

“The best accessory a woman can wear is confidence.” — author unknown

 

Stop the Madness

Just when you think you know your kids, they go all haywire and switch bodies in the middle of the night. Do the Santa Ana winds reach North Georgia?  It is windy and hot here today and my children are acting very strangely. Cue the creepy music…something wicked this way comes.    

The other day we found a bizillion caterpillars devouring one of our oak trees.  No joke.  They were hanging from every leaf, defoliating entire branches at a time.  It was like a Hitchcock film.  You could literally hear the munching.  They are scary looking too….black and furry with horns (horns!) and when you knock one to the ground they thrash around violently.  These are not the sweet furry brown and black striped caterpillars I remember slowly inching across my driveway as a child in Pennsylvania.  These fuckers look like devil larvae.  They are clearly some form of pestilence and I’m hoping they’re not a punishment from God for writing that bitchy post about the homeschooling über-mom in my neighborhood.

 

As if the swarm of ravenous caterpillars wasn’t scary enough, the way my children reacted to finding them was even more bizarre.  

Normally, I would expect the first born kind and gentle 8 year old son to be all “Oh Mom, look!  Cool!  Can we keep a few?  Let’s study them!”  and my fierce and furious violence-prone kleptomaniac middle girl child to start plucking their antennae off and squishing them by the fist-full, but what went down was totally the opposite.  My boy grabbed the biggest rock he could lift with one hand and started smashing caterpillars and eggs like Godzilla on crack.  My girl, in response, began shrieking “STOP IT!  YOU’RE KILLING THEM! MOM, HE’S KILLING NATURE!”  She was literally in hysterics — huge tears rolled down her face as she begged for me to stop the madness.  ”But Mom, they are pests!  They are eating the trees!  The trees are nature too!” my son calmly countered.  

He had a point.  And I love it when he defends his actions with such intelligence and fortitude.  But my 5 year old daughter was beside herself witnessing the violent holocaust of the “calerpitters.”  And given her proclivity toward random acts of violence, I wanted to reward her compassion and newfound morality.  What is a mother to do?  They were both right.  Killing nature is not good.  But standing by and letting an unwelcome pest destroy our trees is also not good.  Think, dammit, think!  

So I did what every semi-sane Mom on the spot does.  I lied.  ”Guys – I think I just heard the Ice Cream Man!  Come on!  Let’s go get some ice cream!!!”  

Crisis averted.  Of course there was no Ice Cream Man, but I always keep an extra quart of rocky road on hand for emergencies.  

Later that night I scoured the Internet for information and discovered that they are called “Orange-Striped Oak Worms.”  They are indeed pests, but they are also good food for the birds and are not a big deal on a large tree that will lose its leaves in the fall anyway.  So, interestingly enough, the “do nothing” approach actually works in this case.  Sweet!  My favorite philosophy!  Do nothing.  Kind of like my current approach to house cleaning and skin care.

Hello world!

Why “Bearded Iris,” you ask?  Oh, so many reasons, so many meanings.  

First and foremost, my name is Iris.  So there you have it.  Sort of a no brainer there.  I am a writer and a mother and a wife, not necessarily in that order, depending on when you ask.  

But what’s with the beard?  Well, it’s kinda funny.  The word bearded can mean several things: having a beard or hairlike growth, or having a sharp barb as on a fishhook.  Interesting, right?  As a verb, bearded can mean to confront boldly or to oppose to the gills, as in ”I bearded that bitch in carpool yesterday!”  Wow!  So in theory, this might be a blog that hooks the reader in with its sharp wit and clever ideas!  It might be a blog that goes where no blog has gone before.  It might even inspire you to start bearding those people in your life who deserve it most…I’m thinking mouthy kids, oppressive husbands, disapproving parents, random PTA members, the potential is limitless.   Yeah, that’s good.  Good stuff. 

So yes, The Bearded Iris Blog might be all that and more someday.  Kinehora!  But I gotta level with you.  I actually have a little bit of a facial hair problem.  What can I say.  I have three kids.  Birthin’ all those babies really fucks with your hormones.  So on top of all this rage and angst and wit, I also have a little bit of a beard.  That’s me.  I’m Bearded Iris.  Welcome to my blog!

Bearded Lady image copyright by Michelle Knowlen, 2008