Yeah, we're still on vacation. You got three original posts, pre-written, this week and I'm all out of creative juices here. For me, it's Friday night, the night before we leave, and I'm all Holy Frak! I've got laundry! And kids to bathe! And dishes to wash! And scuba gear to pack! And it's 9 PM! GAH! So, I give you one of my all-time favorite blog posts. Originally posted last year on January 12th, it makes me snort every time. Enjoy!
Snatch
Oh, yeah. You read that title right. But, you see, it's actually a double-entendre. One of my favorite bloggers, Functionally ReTodded, wrote a post a few days ago about how difficult it is to have a penis, how things dribble and can shift and that having a penis is not a guarantee of getting laid. Waaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh! Poor pitiful male me!!! Pity me! Boo. Hoo.
What a baby.
So, I'm "snatch"ing my comments from his post and creating a post of my own. Here are the ten reasons why I believe it's more difficult to have a 'gina than it is to have a penis.
OK. Maybe it's more like 12 reasons. And maybe it's more like "Twelve Reasons Why It's More Difficult to Have a 'Gina/Uterus/Ovaries Than It Is to Have a Penis."
Heh-hem.
NOTE TO MY SENSITIVE READERS: Yeah. I'm all "boobs-to-the-wall" on this post. I tend to cut loose more in my comments on others' blogs. So, I figured I might as well go commando here and just let 'em hang out. You have been warned.
1) Todd stated it is difficult for us ladies to get our groceries (my favorite genitalia euphemism) caught in a zipper. But when you’re eight months pregnant? And attempting to trim up the, you know, pubes (It's all downhill from here, people.) before the big day so the OB doesn’t have to hack his way through the sprawling rainforest Wookie-bush? You have a pretty good chance of ending up in the ER with a nicked clam-bake. Speaking from experience.
2) Shifting underpants may cause men to suddenly have to pee? Poor sweeties. Try a nine-month-old human standing on your bladder! Yeah. And then there's my personal favorite, Oh wait, gotta sneeze! Ker-chew! Aaaaaaaaand, now I'll go change my granny-panties. Gotch there, hon!
3) Todd was going on and on about "pee, yadda, yadda, shake it off, blah, blah, mouse (?), dribble on the khakis or down the leg." Um, yeah. All I’ve got to say about this is that when girls pee? We pee ALL over ourselves. Like, you have to wipe your back AND front sides. And the insides of the legs. And before you even sit down, you have to get half-naked and wipe the previous 15 ladies' pee off the seat because they all do the "squat and dribble" maneuver. It's never a straight stream. And it's never a dry moment.
4) Oh, please. The next time I hear some man-child whine about standing at the board in math class with a boner? I will LOSE IT! It is a known fact amongst womankind that every fracking time you wear white shorts or pants as a teen girl, you are guaran-fracking-teed to start your period. That day. No matter if you just had your period last week. Oh, yeah, big red stains on the crotch of your white capris is SUCH a popularity booster. That and cutting a big one (THAT ECHOED) while trying to hit a softball in sophomore gym class.
Repeat that last sentence to anyone? And I will cut you. Yeah, you.
5) When it comes to calming crying kids in the middle of the night and Daddy's Big Jim decides to take a peak at said kid? Us gals have the whole crooked tank top and nipplage issue. I'm just sayin'.
6) Todd says there's no guarantee of sex if one has a penis but if you have a vagina? You've got it in the bag. Did you people not read #4?!? Farting and visible menstruation does not a come-hither-gal make.
7) OK, seriously. Todd was just going on and on and on about how he has to concentrate on yaw, pitch, trajectory, WHATEVER, while he's peeing in the middle of the night. Think about trying to aim your flat ass for the toilet seat in the middle of the night. We chick-a-dees have to think about yaw, pitch, velocity, gravity and such. But if you miss? It's far less painful than my half-asleep ass trying to sit down on the john and hitting the floor instead. Broken tailbone? Anyone? Cussing that wakes up the entire house? Anyone?
8) Todd claims that no one complains if they are ever bumped in to by a rock hard vagina. I would never complain, but I would certainly call the CDC because that? Is a medical oddity right there.
9) According to Todd, his kids laugh and point at the Frank and Beans. Mine don’t laugh. But they do stare. At the previously mentioned, you know, overgrown lawn. That I don't have time to, you know, mow. And hiring a landscaping company would just be, you know, embarrassing.
10) And finally, Todd feels that a publicly masturbating man would be stopped, immediately, if caught. And that a woman? Would be invited to continue. Actually? I wouldn’t stop either one. Male or female. I would blush the deepest of reds and run, RUN! away, I tell you.
And here's where I add two more...
11) Guy is in a bad mood? People blame it on his team losing. Woman is in a bad mood? People blame it on her reproductive system. God, Heather! You're such a bitch today! Are you on the rag?!? No. Are you about to die from asphyxiation while I slowly choke you to death? I thought so.
12) Men go through male menopause? Meaning, their testosterone levels go down? They go out, buy Corvettes and cases of Just For Men, and marry women half their age. Women go through menopause? We're told it's like an illness that must be treated with hormones or supplements and then everything gets hot, then cold, then reeaaallly reeeaaaalllly hot, then cold, then CENTER OF THE SUN! and then you will just shrivel up, SHRIVEL I TELL YOU! and, oh, by the by, the hormones will make you feel better but will probably kill you with breast cancer so you get the hormones and the cancer and you have a double mastectomy so you still have the hormones but you have no boobs, your male-menopause husband is out flirting with girls in his sports car with his freshly dyed hair and you're at home with your 50-11 cats and your flat chest.*
How YOU doin'?
OK. I am now going to go and hide.
*Actually, the Ty-man will be out in his Corvette, with his Just For Men still fresh on his head, scoping out the toy stores for the latest Star Wars Extra-Special Most-Bestest Favoritest This-Time-the-Death-Star-Blows-Up-With-Screaming-Voice-Effects-Added action figures. While I? Will be at home with the cats and the Sean Connery and the Godiva. And the hormones. But still. It ain't right.
Showing posts with label female genitalia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label female genitalia. Show all posts
11 February 2010
12 January 2009
Snatch
Oh, yeah. You read that title right. But, you see, it's actually a double-entendre. One of my favorite bloggers, Functionally ReTodded, wrote a post a few days ago about how difficult it is to have a penis, how things dribble and can shift and that having a penis is not a guarantee of getting laid. Waaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh! Poor pitiful male me!!! Pity me! Boo. Hoo.
What a baby.
So, I'm "snatch"ing my comments from his post and creating a post of my own. Here are the ten reasons why I believe it's more difficult to have a 'gina than it is to have a penis.
OK. Maybe it's more like 12 reasons. And maybe it's more like "Twelve Reasons Why It's More Difficult to Have a 'Gina/Uterus/Ovaries Than It Is to Have a Penis."
Heh-hem.
NOTE TO MY SENSITIVE READERS: Yeah. I'm all "boobs-to-the-wall" on this post. I tend to cut loose more in my comments on others' blogs. So, I figured I might as well go commando here and just let 'em hang out. You have been warned.
1) Todd stated it is difficult for us ladies to get our groceries (my favorite genitalia euphemism) caught in a zipper. But when you’re eight months pregnant? And attempting to trim up the, you know, pubes (It's all downhill from here, people.) before the big day so the OB doesn’t have to hack his way through the sprawling rainforest Wookie-bush? You have a pretty good chance of ending up in the ER with a nicked clam-bake. Speaking from experience.
2) Shifting underpants may cause men to suddenly have to pee? Poor sweeties. Try a nine-month-old human standing on your bladder! Yeah. And then there's my personal favorite, Oh wait, gotta sneeze! Ker-chew! Aaaaaaaaand, now I'll go change my granny-panties. Gotch there, hon!
3) Todd was going on and on about "pee, yadda, yadda, shake it off, blah, blah, mouse (?), dribble on the khakis or down the leg." Um, yeah. All I’ve got to say about this is that when girls pee? We pee ALL over ourselves. Like, you have to wipe your back AND front sides. And the insides of the legs. And before you even sit down, you have to get half-naked and wipe the previous 15 ladies' pee off the seat because they all do the "squat and dribble" maneuver. It's never a straight stream. And it's never a dry moment.
4) Oh, please. The next time I hear some man-child whine about standing at the board in math class with a boner? I will LOSE IT! It is a known fact amongst womankind that every fracking time you wear white shorts or pants as a teen girl, you are guaran-fracking-teed to start your period. That day. No matter if you just had your period last week. Oh, yeah, big red stains on the crotch of your white capris is SUCH a popularity booster. That and cutting a big one (THAT ECHOED) while trying to hit a softball in sophomore gym class.
Repeat that last sentence to anyone? And I will cut you. Yeah, you.
5) When it comes to calming crying kids in the middle of the night and Daddy's Big Jim decides to take a peak at said kid? Us gals have the whole crooked tank top and nipplage issue. I'm just sayin'.
6) Todd says there's no guarantee of sex if one has a penis but if you have a vagina? You've got it in the bag. Did you people not read #4?!? Farting and visible menstruation does not a come-hither-gal make.
7) OK, seriously. Todd was just going on and on and on about how he has to concentrate on yaw, pitch, trajectory, WHATEVER, while he's peeing in the middle of the night. Think about trying to aim your flat ass for the toilet seat in the middle of the night. We chick-a-dees have to think about yaw, pitch, velocity, gravity and such. But if you miss? It's far less painful than my half-asleep ass trying to sit down on the john and hitting the floor instead. Broken tailbone? Anyone? Cussing that wakes up the entire house? Anyone?
8) Todd claims that no one complains if they are ever bumped in to by a rock hard vagina. I would never complain, but I would certainly call the CDC because that? Is a medical oddity right there.
9) According to Todd, his kids laugh and point at the Frank and Beans. Mine don’t laugh. But they do stare. At the previously mentioned, you know, overgrown lawn. That I don't have time to, you know, mow. And hiring a landscaping company would just be, you know, embarrassing.
10) And finally, Todd feels that a publicly masturbating man would be stopped, immediately, if caught. And that a woman? Would be invited to continue. Actually? I wouldn’t stop either one. Male or female. I would blush the deepest of reds and run, RUN! away, I tell you.
And here's where I add two more...
11) Guy is in a bad mood? People blame it on his team losing. Woman is in a bad mood? People blame it on her reproductive system. God, Heather! You're such a bitch today! Are you on the rag?!? No. Are you about to die from asphyxiation while I slowly choke you to death? I thought so.
12) Men go through male menopause? Meaning, their testosterone levels go down? They go out, buy Corvettes and cases of Just For Men, and marry women half their age. Women go through menopause? We're told it's like an illness that must be treated with hormones or supplements and then everything gets hot, then cold, then reeaaallly reeeaaaalllly hot, then cold, then CENTER OF THE SUN! and then you will just shrivel up, SHRIVEL I TELL YOU! and, oh, by the by, the hormones will make you feel better but will probably kill you with breast cancer so you get the hormones and the cancer and you have a double mastectomy so you still have the hormones but you have no boobs, your male-menopause husband is out flirting with girls in his sports car with his freshly dyed hair and you are at home with your 50-11 cats and your flat chest.*
How YOU doin'?
OK. I am now going to go and hide.
*Actually, the Ty-man will be out in his Corvette, with his Just For Men still fresh on his head, scoping out the toy stores for the latest Star Wars Extra-Special Most-Bestest Favoritest This-Time-the-Death-Star-Blows-Up-With-Screaming-Voice-Effects-Added action figures. While I? Will be at home with the cats and the Sean Connery and the Godiva. And the hormones. But still. It ain't right.
What a baby.
So, I'm "snatch"ing my comments from his post and creating a post of my own. Here are the ten reasons why I believe it's more difficult to have a 'gina than it is to have a penis.
OK. Maybe it's more like 12 reasons. And maybe it's more like "Twelve Reasons Why It's More Difficult to Have a 'Gina/Uterus/Ovaries Than It Is to Have a Penis."
Heh-hem.
NOTE TO MY SENSITIVE READERS: Yeah. I'm all "boobs-to-the-wall" on this post. I tend to cut loose more in my comments on others' blogs. So, I figured I might as well go commando here and just let 'em hang out. You have been warned.
1) Todd stated it is difficult for us ladies to get our groceries (my favorite genitalia euphemism) caught in a zipper. But when you’re eight months pregnant? And attempting to trim up the, you know, pubes (It's all downhill from here, people.) before the big day so the OB doesn’t have to hack his way through the sprawling rainforest Wookie-bush? You have a pretty good chance of ending up in the ER with a nicked clam-bake. Speaking from experience.
2) Shifting underpants may cause men to suddenly have to pee? Poor sweeties. Try a nine-month-old human standing on your bladder! Yeah. And then there's my personal favorite, Oh wait, gotta sneeze! Ker-chew! Aaaaaaaaand, now I'll go change my granny-panties. Gotch there, hon!
3) Todd was going on and on about "pee, yadda, yadda, shake it off, blah, blah, mouse (?), dribble on the khakis or down the leg." Um, yeah. All I’ve got to say about this is that when girls pee? We pee ALL over ourselves. Like, you have to wipe your back AND front sides. And the insides of the legs. And before you even sit down, you have to get half-naked and wipe the previous 15 ladies' pee off the seat because they all do the "squat and dribble" maneuver. It's never a straight stream. And it's never a dry moment.
4) Oh, please. The next time I hear some man-child whine about standing at the board in math class with a boner? I will LOSE IT! It is a known fact amongst womankind that every fracking time you wear white shorts or pants as a teen girl, you are guaran-fracking-teed to start your period. That day. No matter if you just had your period last week. Oh, yeah, big red stains on the crotch of your white capris is SUCH a popularity booster. That and cutting a big one (THAT ECHOED) while trying to hit a softball in sophomore gym class.
Repeat that last sentence to anyone? And I will cut you. Yeah, you.
5) When it comes to calming crying kids in the middle of the night and Daddy's Big Jim decides to take a peak at said kid? Us gals have the whole crooked tank top and nipplage issue. I'm just sayin'.
6) Todd says there's no guarantee of sex if one has a penis but if you have a vagina? You've got it in the bag. Did you people not read #4?!? Farting and visible menstruation does not a come-hither-gal make.
7) OK, seriously. Todd was just going on and on and on about how he has to concentrate on yaw, pitch, trajectory, WHATEVER, while he's peeing in the middle of the night. Think about trying to aim your flat ass for the toilet seat in the middle of the night. We chick-a-dees have to think about yaw, pitch, velocity, gravity and such. But if you miss? It's far less painful than my half-asleep ass trying to sit down on the john and hitting the floor instead. Broken tailbone? Anyone? Cussing that wakes up the entire house? Anyone?
8) Todd claims that no one complains if they are ever bumped in to by a rock hard vagina. I would never complain, but I would certainly call the CDC because that? Is a medical oddity right there.
9) According to Todd, his kids laugh and point at the Frank and Beans. Mine don’t laugh. But they do stare. At the previously mentioned, you know, overgrown lawn. That I don't have time to, you know, mow. And hiring a landscaping company would just be, you know, embarrassing.
10) And finally, Todd feels that a publicly masturbating man would be stopped, immediately, if caught. And that a woman? Would be invited to continue. Actually? I wouldn’t stop either one. Male or female. I would blush the deepest of reds and run, RUN! away, I tell you.
And here's where I add two more...
11) Guy is in a bad mood? People blame it on his team losing. Woman is in a bad mood? People blame it on her reproductive system. God, Heather! You're such a bitch today! Are you on the rag?!? No. Are you about to die from asphyxiation while I slowly choke you to death? I thought so.
12) Men go through male menopause? Meaning, their testosterone levels go down? They go out, buy Corvettes and cases of Just For Men, and marry women half their age. Women go through menopause? We're told it's like an illness that must be treated with hormones or supplements and then everything gets hot, then cold, then reeaaallly reeeaaaalllly hot, then cold, then CENTER OF THE SUN! and then you will just shrivel up, SHRIVEL I TELL YOU! and, oh, by the by, the hormones will make you feel better but will probably kill you with breast cancer so you get the hormones and the cancer and you have a double mastectomy so you still have the hormones but you have no boobs, your male-menopause husband is out flirting with girls in his sports car with his freshly dyed hair and you are at home with your 50-11 cats and your flat chest.*
How YOU doin'?
OK. I am now going to go and hide.
*Actually, the Ty-man will be out in his Corvette, with his Just For Men still fresh on his head, scoping out the toy stores for the latest Star Wars Extra-Special Most-Bestest Favoritest This-Time-the-Death-Star-Blows-Up-With-Screaming-Voice-Effects-Added action figures. While I? Will be at home with the cats and the Sean Connery and the Godiva. And the hormones. But still. It ain't right.
18 June 2008
It's True Blog Love, People
Well, it's official. We are officially out-of-bounds, in unknown territory, testing out deep waters. You see, I hooked up with NATUI yesterday. No, not that kind of hook-up. Just keep reading.
Did we do lunch? Yes.
Did we exchange crazy kid stories? Yes.
Did we talk about the latest drama occurring in the People's Republic of Blogistan? Yes.
Did I go with her to her annual appointment with Dr. Miracle and stand by her side while she endured a Pap smear, pelvic exam, and vaginal sonogram to check the integrity of her ovaries since Mr. NATUI was unable to make the trip south (effing job) for said appointment and moral support?
Hell. To. The. Yes.
Yes, my friends and fellow citizens of the PRB, NATUI and I are no longer just blog buddies. We are more than that. We are true. blue. friends in fallopian tubes.
Allow me to explain. When you take a yearly trip to see Dr. Miracle, you get a hug, a kiss on the cheek, a question of "How are the kids/husband/job/you?", the usual breast exam, PAP smear, and pelvic exam. The difference between our Dr. Miracle and other OB/GYN docs is that your blood is drawn for a full hormone/triglyceride/lipid/insulin panel, and you receive a vaginal sonogram.
Yes, the dreaded vaginal sonogram. Not the pretty pelvic sonograms you see on TV where Insert Actress Name Here is placed perfectly on the exam bed, gorgeous make-up, cute maternity clothes, pelvic transducer gliding over her lubed-up belly, actor and actress smiling at the monitor and at the fake images of their TV show baby. Um, no, that's not even close to what I'm talking about. I'm talking about a vaginal sonogram transducer, a long, angular, plastic probe (covered with a latex condom and some lube - not kidding) that is not-so-ceremoniously placed in your vagina, up to the cervix (and sometimes past the cervix) and moved around to get perfect measurements and to look at your ovaries. That's the sonogram I'm talking about.
Now, some of you fellow bloggers who have been pregnant in the last ten years know what I'm talking about when I say vaginal sonogram. At times, when trying to ascertain precise cervical measurements during pregnancy, a vaginal sonogram is needed. I've had pregnant friends who wondered aloud, "Gee, Heather, I had a vaginal sonogram when I was pregnant with my baby and I don't know what you're complaining about. I didn't think it was all that bad."
Heh-hem. Yeah, um, be quiet and allow me to describe.
NATUI and I both suffer from endometriosis and ovarian cysts. Endometriosis makes the lining of one's uterus extremely tender. When Dr. Miracle inserts that vaginal transducer and begins looking around at your ovaries (this requires him to push that damned thing waaaaaaay the hell up your cha-cha) (yes, I used cha-cha-thank you Cartman), he's looking left, he's looking right, and each time he changes direction you. come. off. the table. Oh, yes. My last lovely sonogram was this past February. I'm due for another in September. I had more of these sonograms than I can count during my fertility treatments and both pregnancies. And every time Dr. Miracle changed direction yesterday while looking at NATUI's ovaries, she came off the table and I crossed my legs.
That, people, is love.
So, the next time you hear about bloggers getting together to share blog love?
Yeah, whateva.
Me and NATUI know what true blog love is all about!
Did we do lunch? Yes.
Did we exchange crazy kid stories? Yes.
Did we talk about the latest drama occurring in the People's Republic of Blogistan? Yes.
Did I go with her to her annual appointment with Dr. Miracle and stand by her side while she endured a Pap smear, pelvic exam, and vaginal sonogram to check the integrity of her ovaries since Mr. NATUI was unable to make the trip south (effing job) for said appointment and moral support?
Hell. To. The. Yes.
Yes, my friends and fellow citizens of the PRB, NATUI and I are no longer just blog buddies. We are more than that. We are true. blue. friends in fallopian tubes.
Allow me to explain. When you take a yearly trip to see Dr. Miracle, you get a hug, a kiss on the cheek, a question of "How are the kids/husband/job/you?", the usual breast exam, PAP smear, and pelvic exam. The difference between our Dr. Miracle and other OB/GYN docs is that your blood is drawn for a full hormone/triglyceride/lipid/insulin panel, and you receive a vaginal sonogram.
Yes, the dreaded vaginal sonogram. Not the pretty pelvic sonograms you see on TV where Insert Actress Name Here is placed perfectly on the exam bed, gorgeous make-up, cute maternity clothes, pelvic transducer gliding over her lubed-up belly, actor and actress smiling at the monitor and at the fake images of their TV show baby. Um, no, that's not even close to what I'm talking about. I'm talking about a vaginal sonogram transducer, a long, angular, plastic probe (covered with a latex condom and some lube - not kidding) that is not-so-ceremoniously placed in your vagina, up to the cervix (and sometimes past the cervix) and moved around to get perfect measurements and to look at your ovaries. That's the sonogram I'm talking about.
Now, some of you fellow bloggers who have been pregnant in the last ten years know what I'm talking about when I say vaginal sonogram. At times, when trying to ascertain precise cervical measurements during pregnancy, a vaginal sonogram is needed. I've had pregnant friends who wondered aloud, "Gee, Heather, I had a vaginal sonogram when I was pregnant with my baby and I don't know what you're complaining about. I didn't think it was all that bad."
Heh-hem. Yeah, um, be quiet and allow me to describe.
NATUI and I both suffer from endometriosis and ovarian cysts. Endometriosis makes the lining of one's uterus extremely tender. When Dr. Miracle inserts that vaginal transducer and begins looking around at your ovaries (this requires him to push that damned thing waaaaaaay the hell up your cha-cha) (yes, I used cha-cha-thank you Cartman), he's looking left, he's looking right, and each time he changes direction you. come. off. the table. Oh, yes. My last lovely sonogram was this past February. I'm due for another in September. I had more of these sonograms than I can count during my fertility treatments and both pregnancies. And every time Dr. Miracle changed direction yesterday while looking at NATUI's ovaries, she came off the table and I crossed my legs.
That, people, is love.
So, the next time you hear about bloggers getting together to share blog love?
Yeah, whateva.
Me and NATUI know what true blog love is all about!
08 February 2008
You're Gonna What?!? To My Where?!?
Wow. Still reeling.
Just...
Wow.
Went to see Dr. Miracle yesterday. He's the endocrinologist/OB-GYN/endoscopic surgeon who diagnosed my PCOS and helped me, and the Ty-man, to conceive and have our wonderful children.
He's their honorary uncle.
He's my savior.
He wants to perform a perineum reconstruction.
TMI?
Me too.
Basically, that "wall" that separates my vajay-jay (oh, GOD, how I cannot type that word here when referring to my own genitalia) from the poop shoot (again with the non-use of physiological terms) has been worn down and torn from birthing three kids, and not properly sewn back up post kid-birthing. That separation is dangerously diminished. And Dr. Miracle wants to repair it.
OK, I get that something of mine is damaged (and we're NOT talking about my brain - yet).
I get that if it's not fixed, I could really be in trouble.
But.
Damn.
When he told me he wanted to do... THAT to my... YOU KNOW I just...
Whimpered.
It was the equivalent of telling Ty-man he might have to get a vasectomy and watching him purse his lips and cross his legs.
Oh, yeah.
So, suffice it to say, I'm doing a lot of deep thinking, nodding of my head, pursing of my lips, and free-basing of chocolate.
I'll get back to you on this.
Just...
Wow.
Went to see Dr. Miracle yesterday. He's the endocrinologist/OB-GYN/endoscopic surgeon who diagnosed my PCOS and helped me, and the Ty-man, to conceive and have our wonderful children.
He's their honorary uncle.
He's my savior.
He wants to perform a perineum reconstruction.
TMI?
Me too.
Basically, that "wall" that separates my vajay-jay (oh, GOD, how I cannot type that word here when referring to my own genitalia) from the poop shoot (again with the non-use of physiological terms) has been worn down and torn from birthing three kids, and not properly sewn back up post kid-birthing. That separation is dangerously diminished. And Dr. Miracle wants to repair it.
OK, I get that something of mine is damaged (and we're NOT talking about my brain - yet).
I get that if it's not fixed, I could really be in trouble.
But.
Damn.
When he told me he wanted to do... THAT to my... YOU KNOW I just...
Whimpered.
It was the equivalent of telling Ty-man he might have to get a vasectomy and watching him purse his lips and cross his legs.
Oh, yeah.
So, suffice it to say, I'm doing a lot of deep thinking, nodding of my head, pursing of my lips, and free-basing of chocolate.
I'll get back to you on this.
30 November 2007
Somebody, Gouge Out My Eyes, Please!
OK, Andrea over at Mom to the Fey started this. It's her fault! Woman! Get thee down here to gouge out my eyes with a hot poker!
See, after my post about Vulva fragrance, we mentioned other female bodily secretions and ways to collect money from them. I joked that I had thought about reviving the whole wet nurse occupation but then found out that there are such things as donor milk banks. These places allow you, after a medical work-up and background check, to become a human milk donor to feed those children who are so lactose/everything intolerant, all they can consume is human milk. For some reason or other, though, their mamas can't breastfeed. Well, crap. Can't make money off a good deed like that.
Then, Andrea mentioned that there are fetishists out there who get off on watching lactating women... well, lactate. Or, fetishists who actually want to nurse themselves from lactating women. Holy jebus. So, of course, me being the inquisitive, messed-up gal that I am, I HAD to investigate.
I won't put the Web sites here. Firstly, they're too numerous to name. All I'll say is type "erotic lactation" in your Google search box and just have a good old time. You'll find all manner of Web sites that satisfy the lactating fetishist as well as those sites that specialize in the sexual intercourse proclivities of pregnant ladies. Well, ladies is too nice a term.
I'm just... speechless. I don't have the words. I mean, I know this type of thing is out there. I had to have known, like the back of my head/consciousness kind of known. But, I was denying it and in doing so, I was oh so innocent. Now, I'm damaged.
I need a piece of chocolate cake.
See, after my post about Vulva fragrance, we mentioned other female bodily secretions and ways to collect money from them. I joked that I had thought about reviving the whole wet nurse occupation but then found out that there are such things as donor milk banks. These places allow you, after a medical work-up and background check, to become a human milk donor to feed those children who are so lactose/everything intolerant, all they can consume is human milk. For some reason or other, though, their mamas can't breastfeed. Well, crap. Can't make money off a good deed like that.
Then, Andrea mentioned that there are fetishists out there who get off on watching lactating women... well, lactate. Or, fetishists who actually want to nurse themselves from lactating women. Holy jebus. So, of course, me being the inquisitive, messed-up gal that I am, I HAD to investigate.
I won't put the Web sites here. Firstly, they're too numerous to name. All I'll say is type "erotic lactation" in your Google search box and just have a good old time. You'll find all manner of Web sites that satisfy the lactating fetishist as well as those sites that specialize in the sexual intercourse proclivities of pregnant ladies. Well, ladies is too nice a term.
I'm just... speechless. I don't have the words. I mean, I know this type of thing is out there. I had to have known, like the back of my head/consciousness kind of known. But, I was denying it and in doing so, I was oh so innocent. Now, I'm damaged.
I need a piece of chocolate cake.
26 November 2007
You Can't Make This Stuff Up!
Dear God. Where do I start? I'm laughing with incredulity as I type this. I'm smacking my forehead in disbelief. I'm chanting ohmygodohmygodohmygod over and over again. I'm... completely and utterly speechless.
I guess you could call this post a public service announcement for my male readers - a bit of comedy for the ladies. Here goes.
There's a perfume out on the market called Vulva. (Whoops! There goes my blog rating again.) Seriously, something you smell called Vulva. Wait, just re-checked the site. It's not a perfume, it's a precious, vaginal odour. Allow me to quote directly, 'cause they do a better job of describing this stuff than I ever could:
The erotic, intimate scent of an irresistible woman... The precious, vaginal odour filled into a small glass phial. The phial is shaken gently, only a tiny amount of the precious, organic substance is applied onto the back of the hand... and the irresistible smell that exudes from a sensuous vagina immediately intensifies your erotic fantasies and starts the film rolling in your head...
Vulva Original is not a perfume. It is a beguiling vaginal scent which is purely a substance for your own smelling pleasure. Breathe in and enjoy, anytime, the odour of a beautiful woman.
OK. First (oh, this is going to be a long post) precious, organic substance? Does this mean that contained in these phials is actual vaginal secretions? Is there a mysterious, underground lab somewhere in Europe with a large group of European women, all sitting around watching porn and masturbating over beakers? That's the image I get when I think of the collection of this stuff.
Second, odour of a beautiful woman? How can we be sure that the essence in said phials is that of beautiful women? Personally, I think that squatting over these phials are some fugly-ass, nasty women, eating Cheetos and calling their kids about getting to soccer practice on time and not playing video games when they get home. Now, that would be justice.
When you go the site, you have the option of watching a video, a sort of how-to instructional video. There's a really creepy Euro-trash, male-model wanna be, watching two beautiful, naked women prance around. He's really creepy. He puts a drop of Vulva on his hand and takes a whiff. Then, his fantasy begins. Two chicks together, a chick wearing a Vulva t-shirt (which can be had off the site for the bargain price of 20,90 euros), and finally he begins watching the two chicks just off to his left. Finally, the how-to vid ends with a close-up of creepy boy, sniffing the odour, with the girls on either side of him. All I can do is laugh and shake my head.
Finally, the best parts of the site. You guys will say it's the Playboy-ish photo gallery. For me it's the t-shirt and panties you can purchase in addition to the odour. Now, the t-shirts and panties are for girls and I'm assuming that if a guy is buying Vulva, he doesn't have a significant other. This loser is buying a phial of vaginal essence to sit at home, in front of his video games, to sniff the back of his hand and to use the other hand to entertain himself because he has no female significant other. Why would he need to buy t-shirt and panties for a girl? There isn't one!
And it is here I finally impart to you, dear readers, the address of this Web site. It's emblazoned all over the t-shirts. Ready for it? Remember, I can't make this stuff up (and it's sooooo not work safe....
www.smellmeand.com
Go forth and enjoy!
If any of you are keeping track, my nasty, NC-17 rated, dirty word count is now:
penis - 9
hell - 13
orifice - 9
whore - 6
vulva - 12!!!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh, and? Time for my shameless plug. I'm participating in The Great Quill Driving Competition #4. The great Cindra puts this on twice a month (or whenever the heck she feels like it). She'll write a post, highlight 18 words in the post, then the entrants have a week to come up with a short story, poem, haikus, whatever, that includes those 18 words and more. I have entered. Head on over here and vote for your fave. Not telling you which one is mine. It's totally anonymous and telling you wouldn't be fair. Go and vote!
I guess you could call this post a public service announcement for my male readers - a bit of comedy for the ladies. Here goes.
There's a perfume out on the market called Vulva. (Whoops! There goes my blog rating again.) Seriously, something you smell called Vulva. Wait, just re-checked the site. It's not a perfume, it's a precious, vaginal odour. Allow me to quote directly, 'cause they do a better job of describing this stuff than I ever could:
The erotic, intimate scent of an irresistible woman... The precious, vaginal odour filled into a small glass phial. The phial is shaken gently, only a tiny amount of the precious, organic substance is applied onto the back of the hand... and the irresistible smell that exudes from a sensuous vagina immediately intensifies your erotic fantasies and starts the film rolling in your head...
Vulva Original is not a perfume. It is a beguiling vaginal scent which is purely a substance for your own smelling pleasure. Breathe in and enjoy, anytime, the odour of a beautiful woman.
OK. First (oh, this is going to be a long post) precious, organic substance? Does this mean that contained in these phials is actual vaginal secretions? Is there a mysterious, underground lab somewhere in Europe with a large group of European women, all sitting around watching porn and masturbating over beakers? That's the image I get when I think of the collection of this stuff.
Second, odour of a beautiful woman? How can we be sure that the essence in said phials is that of beautiful women? Personally, I think that squatting over these phials are some fugly-ass, nasty women, eating Cheetos and calling their kids about getting to soccer practice on time and not playing video games when they get home. Now, that would be justice.
When you go the site, you have the option of watching a video, a sort of how-to instructional video. There's a really creepy Euro-trash, male-model wanna be, watching two beautiful, naked women prance around. He's really creepy. He puts a drop of Vulva on his hand and takes a whiff. Then, his fantasy begins. Two chicks together, a chick wearing a Vulva t-shirt (which can be had off the site for the bargain price of 20,90 euros), and finally he begins watching the two chicks just off to his left. Finally, the how-to vid ends with a close-up of creepy boy, sniffing the odour, with the girls on either side of him. All I can do is laugh and shake my head.
Finally, the best parts of the site. You guys will say it's the Playboy-ish photo gallery. For me it's the t-shirt and panties you can purchase in addition to the odour. Now, the t-shirts and panties are for girls and I'm assuming that if a guy is buying Vulva, he doesn't have a significant other. This loser is buying a phial of vaginal essence to sit at home, in front of his video games, to sniff the back of his hand and to use the other hand to entertain himself because he has no female significant other. Why would he need to buy t-shirt and panties for a girl? There isn't one!
And it is here I finally impart to you, dear readers, the address of this Web site. It's emblazoned all over the t-shirts. Ready for it? Remember, I can't make this stuff up (and it's sooooo not work safe....
www.smellmeand.com
Go forth and enjoy!
If any of you are keeping track, my nasty, NC-17 rated, dirty word count is now:
penis - 9
hell - 13
orifice - 9
whore - 6
vulva - 12!!!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh, and? Time for my shameless plug. I'm participating in The Great Quill Driving Competition #4. The great Cindra puts this on twice a month (or whenever the heck she feels like it). She'll write a post, highlight 18 words in the post, then the entrants have a week to come up with a short story, poem, haikus, whatever, that includes those 18 words and more. I have entered. Head on over here and vote for your fave. Not telling you which one is mine. It's totally anonymous and telling you wouldn't be fair. Go and vote!
30 October 2007
You're Looking for What?
I'm addicted to Sitemeter. It's this great little service that tracks who visits my blog and how they found it. Lately, people have been performing Google searches for costumes (that time of year, of course!) and if someone Googles Tinkerbell costume or coal miner costume they find my humble blog entry regarding Miss-Miss dressing up as Darth Tink and my blog's title page with the obvious banner title. Cool. OK, I can dig it.
Two days ago, I log onto my Sitemeter account to see what's up. It seems that someone in Canada performed a Google search and found me. What was their search criteria, you ask? Well, allow me to elaborate. This person Goggled, "Where is my cat's clitoris?" WHAT!?!?! I'm not sure what is more disturbing about this, that someone wants to know the location of their pussy's pussy (oh, we're going downhill fast!) or that asking about said location led them to my blog. Holy crap. NC-17 indeed! I would rather someone Google the terms funny or hysterical or pithy mom of three or even hot hillbilly mom who makes people snort coffee through their noses each and every day. Those are the Google search terms I had hoped to find. Not some lame-ass Canadian looking for their cat's clitoris.
Through all of this, I feel horrible for the cat. Poor kitty. I'd hate to see that gynecological examination. I can see the headlines now, "Barrie, Ontario Cat Owner Cleans Hospital Out of Blood Supply - Offended Cat Found Licking Blood From Her Paws." Film at 11!
26 October 2007
'Scuse me?
Yes, you've read right. According to justsayhi.com (yes, I know, it's a dating site, that also, I might add, offers widgets for blogs) my humble corner of the blogosphere is rated NC-17. NC-17?!?!? NC-Friggin'-17. Unbelievable. Following is the rating system's reasons for rating me NC-17.I have previously mentioned penis five times, hell four times, vulva three times, orifice twice, and whore once in all of my posts. First off, orifice? They're holding it against me for using orifice? I could have been talking about my nostrils, for chrissake! No, you're right, I was speaking of the human genitalia in that post, but still. Come on. Give me the benefit of the doubt!
My uses of penis, vulva, and orifice were for purely educational purposes. I was trying to point out how difficult it is to teach my kids the proper terms for their genitalia rather than cutesy euphemisms. Oh, and? I used vagina and clitoris in that post and they didn't count those. Hmmmmm. Hell is a just a very mild cuss word for me, and whore? Well, whore was used in a post title regarding my pitiful addictions and in another referring to my mother's late crack-whore, 'scuse me, crack-working-girl neighbor. And, why didn't they count against me for genitalia? I would say the word genitalia is more "offensive" than orifice. Sheesh.
Anyhoo, counting this post, my offensive word count is now as follows:
penis - 8
hell - 7
vulva - 6
orifice - 8
whore - 5
Stay tuned, people! More unintentional offensiveness to follow!
18 October 2007
Boys Have a Penis, Girls Have a 'Gina!
Yes, you read the title right. Tonight's post is a doozy and not for the faint-of-heart. If you think you can handle it, read on.
When pregnant with the twins, we discussed getting them to sleep through the night, breast- vs. bottle-feeding, stomach or back sleeping, twins sharing the crib or having separate cribs, yadda, yadda. Something we didn't talk about was "What will we call the private parts?" One morning while changing Bubba's diaper, Ty-man said something to the effect of, "I'm not sure how I feel 'bout touching another man's rhubarb." I, of course, immediately collapsed onto the floor snorting and laughing hysterically. Later, he referred to Bubba's manhood as his "peabody." So, Peabody was born. After that, anytime we referred to his penis, we called it Peabody. Peabody this and Peabody that. How cute.
Being fraternal boy/girl twins, Bubba and Miss-Miss watch one another during diaper changes. Miss-Miss began to notice Bubba's Peabody, pointing to it during bath time and looking down at herself. You could tell she was trying to figure out, "Where's mine?" About this time, the subject came up with Supermom Kristi and she said that you should use the proper words for private parts because if your child is ever sexually molested, they will be able to use the proper terms in a court of law and that would make a case against the molester more solid. OooooooKaaaaaay. I had never thought of it that way. This is why I consult Kristi on a regular basis. She thinks about stuff like this. So, Peabody went bye-bye and Penis came to stay.
Eventually, Miss-Miss began to ask about her private parts. She would point and make an inquisitive sound. Well, if you know anything about female genitalia, there's more to it than just the vagina. So, about a month ago, I found myself on the phone with friend Teri and mentioned my quandary to her. So, off to Wikipedia she went and there we were, looking at explanations, graphics, and pictures of the female genitalia. After much infantile snickering and juvenile comments, we got down to business. Let's see. There's the clitoris, the mons pubis (Sounds like something on the Moon.), the prepuce (OK, that sounds like a bug larvae.), the urethral orifice (One of my parts is referred to as an orifice?), the vagina (duh), the labia majora, and finally the labia minoria. Dear. God. Turns out, all of that is collectively referred to as the Vulva. Vulva. Let me repeat that to try it out. Vuuuulllllvvvvvaaaaa. Right.
So, now, whenever Miss-Miss points to herself, we say, (with respect to great friend Chip), "Those are your groceries." Hell, she'll be confused whenever she goes to a Kroger, but at least we've saved face when we can't remember the litany of proper names of the external female genitalia.
P.S. My apologies to you, Chris. I know you're sitting in front of your computer screen, in a catatonic state, unable to move, because of this post's content. When you've recovered, shoot me an e-mail and let me know you're alive!
When pregnant with the twins, we discussed getting them to sleep through the night, breast- vs. bottle-feeding, stomach or back sleeping, twins sharing the crib or having separate cribs, yadda, yadda. Something we didn't talk about was "What will we call the private parts?" One morning while changing Bubba's diaper, Ty-man said something to the effect of, "I'm not sure how I feel 'bout touching another man's rhubarb." I, of course, immediately collapsed onto the floor snorting and laughing hysterically. Later, he referred to Bubba's manhood as his "peabody." So, Peabody was born. After that, anytime we referred to his penis, we called it Peabody. Peabody this and Peabody that. How cute.
Being fraternal boy/girl twins, Bubba and Miss-Miss watch one another during diaper changes. Miss-Miss began to notice Bubba's Peabody, pointing to it during bath time and looking down at herself. You could tell she was trying to figure out, "Where's mine?" About this time, the subject came up with Supermom Kristi and she said that you should use the proper words for private parts because if your child is ever sexually molested, they will be able to use the proper terms in a court of law and that would make a case against the molester more solid. OooooooKaaaaaay. I had never thought of it that way. This is why I consult Kristi on a regular basis. She thinks about stuff like this. So, Peabody went bye-bye and Penis came to stay.
Eventually, Miss-Miss began to ask about her private parts. She would point and make an inquisitive sound. Well, if you know anything about female genitalia, there's more to it than just the vagina. So, about a month ago, I found myself on the phone with friend Teri and mentioned my quandary to her. So, off to Wikipedia she went and there we were, looking at explanations, graphics, and pictures of the female genitalia. After much infantile snickering and juvenile comments, we got down to business. Let's see. There's the clitoris, the mons pubis (Sounds like something on the Moon.), the prepuce (OK, that sounds like a bug larvae.), the urethral orifice (One of my parts is referred to as an orifice?), the vagina (duh), the labia majora, and finally the labia minoria. Dear. God. Turns out, all of that is collectively referred to as the Vulva. Vulva. Let me repeat that to try it out. Vuuuulllllvvvvvaaaaa. Right.
So, now, whenever Miss-Miss points to herself, we say, (with respect to great friend Chip), "Those are your groceries." Hell, she'll be confused whenever she goes to a Kroger, but at least we've saved face when we can't remember the litany of proper names of the external female genitalia.
P.S. My apologies to you, Chris. I know you're sitting in front of your computer screen, in a catatonic state, unable to move, because of this post's content. When you've recovered, shoot me an e-mail and let me know you're alive!
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