Condom-nation

I was talking to Number One Son on the phone the other night. He's getting ready to come home from his first year of college, and we were firming up the plans to pick him up.

Suddenly he said, I can't believe that you wrote I thought I had scalp cancer on your blog!

Wow, he reads my blog!

Usually I try to talk about my sons only in a general sense. If I have concerns that hubby might feel--ahem--violated over something I write, I let him have a look-see first. And I don't use names.

I mentioned to Number One that there's actually a lot of things I've refrained from blogging about, because I was leery about embarrassing him.

I don't want your friends to think I'm strange. What if you fictionalize it and make me into someone else?

Uh ok. Below is a--er fictionalization. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Late last summer when hubby and I were getting ready to take A Kid Who Is Not Related to us (from now on known as AKWINR) to college, I was at the grocery store grabbing every last minute thing I thought he would need at his new home-away-from-home.

I went up and down the aisles. Cold remedies. Garbage bags. Cleaning supplies. Deodorant.

Then I stopped dead in my tracks.

In front of an entire wall of condoms.

The Little Kid Who IS Related To Us said, What's wrong, Mom?

"Nothing. I'm thinking."

What a dilemma! To me, AKWINR will always be the little guy running around in his Power Rangers underoos. The thought of him getting jiggy with coeds is one I hate to entertain. Of course, thinking of the alternatives is even worse.

I called my husband on my cell phone.

"I'm at the store. Do you think we should buy him condoms?"

That's a really really good idea!

"Can you do it on your way home from work?"

I don't think I'm going to have time. You're right there, why don't you do it?

"Because this is truly skeeving me out! I don't want to seem like I'm encouraging him! There is something really wrong with this scenario!"

As much as being a grandma in your 30's? I'll give them to him.

"Good point. What kind should I get? There's a 100 choices here."

Do they have any double baggers?

"What?"

Never mind---guy joke. Just get the regular kind. Get the industrial sized box.

"Boy, these are expensive. Hey they've got generic!"

Don't even think about it! Consider it as an investment in his future! Gotta go!

The Little Guy decides to pipe up. Mom, what does lubricated mean?

By this time, I'm sure I was 10 different shades of red. I was still trying to find the "right" kind. Did you know they even have sizes?

"Honey, I'll tell you later. Go over there and read what's on those boxes!" I pointed down the aisle. Two minutes later I realized I had pointed him to the tampon section. Gak!

Later, when we unloaded the car, I stuck the box of condoms in hubby's golf bag. He slipped them to AKWINR on the sly later.

Wow thanks! Good thing Mom doesn't know about this! She'd sh*t gold bricks!

Guys. I gotta love them.

Even the ones who aren't related to me.

Beauty Queens

Started with a really bad hair day:

So I took Charlie and Molly to the beauty salon.

Now they look like they're ready to peddle their tails on the strip! Hoochie dogs!

Asshat Of The Week---Danny Vu

This weeks award goes to Danny Vu!

One morning Danny-boy woke up and realized that the paint in his living room looked tired. His curtains were tacky. The grout in the bathroom needed refurbishing. Maybe some new carpet wouldn't hurt.

Home improvements add up. Wherever could he get the dough?

When he heard that a client in his nail salon was looking to adopt, he offered her his 18-month old daughter for $7,000.

Thankfully the couple wasn't so infected with Baby-Rabies that they forgot to do the right thing (ala the Internet Twins couple who bought the babies and fled the country).

When Vu refused to go through the legal process via attorneys and just wanted cash on the barrel, they notified authorities.

Vu was apprehended on his way to deliver the "merchandise".

Well now it's curtains for you, Bucko!

You Asshat.
_________________

Previous Asshats:

April 10th's Asshat

March 28th's Asshat

On the Bloglines---One Ticked-Off Texan

In a society where celebrities receive "Goodie Bags" that are sometimes worth more money than many of our men and women in uniform earn in a year--just for showing up at an event--a few scofflaws down in Houston are complaining about overtime in the police department.

Texas Goodies takes offense at their offense, and dishes up her very own Goodie Bag of Whupputy-ass.

Drop in on her blog and give her a shout!

My Very Own Vagina Monologue

First and foremost, let me get this out of the way.

I'm not afraid of my vagina. Or anybody else's for that matter.

I'm not ashamed to own one, and although I have a few hang-ups, fear or disgust of mommy parts isn't one of them.

But for Heaven's Sakes, if you're going to display them on your walls, please don't invite me over! Let's go out instead.

A friend emailed me a website by an artist called The Vagina Lady. I'd post her picture here, but I don't want to scare the men or children. You can see it if you click on the link.

I looked at some of her art work and wondered---where in the world would I hang that stuff if I was inclined to buy it?

I realize that some people collect and display erotica, but I'm talking about old married people with kiddies here.

A long time ago, my first husband and I were making an effort to meet and get to know other couples who were also new parents. An acquaintance at work invited us to come over one evening for a night of cards.

She and her husband lived downtown in a very beautiful high-rise apartment--lots of glass tables and leather couches. They had kind of a combination foyer/dining room and groupings of large artsy framed black-and-white photos all over the walls.

Halfway through the evening, we all got up to stretch our legs, refresh our drinks, etc, and my husband went to peruse their art work. He promptly freaked out.

One of the groupings was large photos of my acquaintance giving birth in stages.

Up close and personal with the zoom lens.

You could even see the mole to the left of her labia. Gak!

I guess the only good thing about it was that they weren't in color.

The next day, my husband requested that he not be required to attend any future card games.

"I just think I don't have much in common with a guy who looks at that when he eats his Wheaties every morning."

Since the entire exercise was to make friends with couples, essentially this was a bust for us. The acquaintance extended a few more invitations over the months, which I declined with some excuse or another. I always felt horribly guilty about it, because she was a nice woman.

I didn't know what to say to her.

"Seeing pictures of your crotch doing the bendy thing while you pushed out Uncle Fester gave my husband a complex? Now every time he sees my lil buddy naked he runs screaming from the house?"

Please don't get me wrong. I have two sons. I get the miracle of birth thing. We all feel as if we were the first ones on the planet to produce a little person. I understanding about wanting to share the joy.

Whip out the wallet and show a couple of baby pictures, for pete's sakes.

I know that giving birth is beautiful and natural and that's what vaginas are made for.

They're made for the act of making babies too.

You wouldn't hang pictures of you and your spouse doing the matrimonial polka on your dining room wall, would ya (I hope not)?

And while I'm at it...

Don't let your kids show their friends home videos of you giving birth without asking permission first. Their mommies will thank you for it.

That sh*t put my 7-year-old kid off grape jelly for almost a whole freaking year.

From the "Our Tax Dollars At Work" File

I held on to this article for a month, hoping that Mr. Attila would blog about it, because this kind of thing is right up his alley.

But he's been busy, and I wanted to use it before it got all dusty and cobwebby.

In the Chicago area, around 30 students in two high schools have formed an advocacy group to change a particular school policy.

The policy? That students are required to pass Driver's Education if they want to graduate.

I don't know about you, but it seems pretty reasonable to me--at least from a safety standpoint. I think it's a good idea for teen drivers to be required to pass some kind of course before they're let loose on our highways.

Why don't these students want to take Driver's Ed?

Because they're blind.

Yes, that's right. They are required to pass the written part of the driving test if they want to get their diplomas.

How incredibly stoopid is that? Not to mention insulting and degrading.

We've had some personal run-ins with the "School Buttocracy" ourselves over the years.

But that's for another time.

It's a beautiful day and I don't want to ruin it.

Happy Spring, everybody!
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I have to add that our lovely and ladylike Yorkshire lass St. Jude did a chicken boob experiment after some back and forth in the comments section of my earlier post What a Boob! Go read it. It's hysterical!

I'm a Peckerhead in More Ways Than One

Last night, my better half and I were discussing a recent phone call from Number One Son, who is away at college, where he is obsessing about the idea that he might have some kind of scalp cancer.

I mentioned this in a previous post--our guy suffers from OCD, and takes medication for it.

If he remembers.

Anyway, when he gets stressed (finals are coming up), one of the things he fixates on is his health. So we get lots of odd phone calls from him at different times of the day and night.

The back of my head itches and my hair feels kind of crackly. Did I get a lot of head sunburns when I was a kid? I read on the internet that excessive sun exposure can cause cancer. Do you think I might have scalp cancer?

"Tell him to wash that &*$% hair gel out of his hair once in awhile," said my husband.

The conversation veered when I bemoaned the fact that many funny things have been happening in our lives recently, but I don't feel like I can blog about them. I don't want to embarrass the people who are involved, because I love and respect them.

I would LOVE to write about the recent excursion to buy Number One Son's first tailored suit, but he reads my blog and I don't want to embarrass him.

"Why should HE be exempt?" my husband grumped. "You intimately made fun of ME on your blog!"

Whoa, Nellie! Before you go looking in the archives to see if I made fun of hubby's daddy-parts, I didn't.

Last week I made fun of his driving.

So in an effort to even things up a bit, I decided to share something personal about ME.

I have a stalker.

He stalked me last year, and now I think he's back.

Last spring, odd happenings were going on in the Attila house. We have a huge, heavy antique cylinder wood stove right in the middle of our living room, with a pipe that goes up through the roof.

Early one morning, before anyone else was up, I was having coffee. The stove began to rattle and shake a bit. Badadadadadadadadadadadada!

I looked around. What the hell was that? It happened again. Badadadadada! I looked in the stove. Nothing there.

When my husband got up, I told him what happened. We listened for a bit, but it didn't repeat itself.

He went to work, and it happened again. Badadadada!

This went on for a few days, but I was the only one who was hearing it. Was I going insane?

Hubby went on his annual spring trip back east to visit with the parents, and I was left holding the fort.

One morning I opened the garage door to bring in the garbage cans. I bent down, and something swooped down and pecked me in the back of my head. Twice. Really hard.

Yowtch! WTF was that? It was gone before I could see it. I ran in the house.

It's a bird, I think! I howled to hubby later on the phone. It bit me on the head!

The next day I went out and the bird swooped down at me again. I was able to catch a glimpse, and it was a pretty big honking bird!

Every time I went out, it was waiting for me.

I was afraid to go out of the house. It didn't attack the boys, or even the dogs. Just me.

If I had to leave, I'd get in my car before opening the garage door.

Hubby finally came home from his trip. We were talking in the living room, and the stove started to shake again. Badadadadadadada!

Did you hear that? He did.

He went outside. Badadadadadadada!

He came back in. "Did you know we have a big woodpecker pecking on the chimney?"

Do you think that's what attacked me? Geez, what's it doing---calling me--as in "I know you're in there, come out here you beyotch?"

"You're a peckerhead," he snickered.

He got a lot of mileage out of it until he realized that sleeping on the couch made his back hurt.

The woodpecker invasion lasted about a month. By then, I guess the feathered fella figured that I wasn't coming back outside, no matter how much he tried, and decided to bother someone else.

A couple of mornings ago, my little guy came downstairs with a scared look on his face.

"The stove is making funny noises!"

I went up and sure enough.... BADADADADADADADA!!

No freaking way!

He's back. And if I'm not careful, I'm gonna be a peckerhead again.

Asshat Of The Week

This week's award goes to: Rep. Cynthia McKinney!

I tried to stay away from this one, I really tried.

But as this has escalated over the past couple of weeks, it occurred to me that some very basic tenets most of us learned in childhood could have gone a long way towards nipping this in the bud.

Kindergarten 101 Refresher Course

1. Rules are there for a reason. Although sometimes it might feel like it, rules weren't made to specifically screw up your personal day.

2. The rules apply to everyone.

That means you.

Mom and Dad might think you're precociously special, but to everyone else, you're just an Asshat.

3. A little courtesy goes a long way.

4. Hitting is bad.

5. Hitting Officer Friendly is really bad.

6. Hitting Officer Friendly and then making inflammatory statements that he "inappropriately touched" you to excuse your own behavior is really really bad.

He didn't feel you up. He restrained you when you were breaking the rules (see #2) and trying to push your way through a security checkpoint put there for everyone's safety.

7. Fibbing is bad. Going on National TV and fibbing is even worse.

You are there to do your job. Officer Friendly is there to do his job. If you had practiced a little of #3 instead of hitting him with your cell phone, you could have saved a lot of your time and taxpayer's money that is being wasted on this nonsense.

Besides, you and your escapades are hogging all the news channels, taking precious air time away from Jen and Brangelina who clearly deserve it more than you do.

8. Saying you're sorry is good. Recognizing that sometimes saying you're sorry just isn't enough is even better.

9. There are consequences to our actions.

I think you need a time out, young lady.

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Last week's Asshat.

Husbands and the Zen Of Mountain Driving

Or, if HE was telling the story:

Driving Miss Crazy


I worship my husband, who is a man amongst men. The problem is that when he is driving, he seems to be a man amongst men.

When he turned 40, he didn't do the stereotypical "mid-life crisis" maneuver by buying a flashy car. He also had the good sense NOT to buy a Corvette (any year) which automatically sends up secret snickering smoke signals from the womanly population (if you don't know, I'm not going to tell you).

Hubby bought himself a fully-loaded Range Rover. Used, of course, but with low mileage. What a sensible choice. Luxurious SUV with the sooper-dooper kerfluferrampshidt suspension that makes the hulk supposedly perform like a race car around curves.

Yeah.

My Aunt Fanny.

When we take short excursions together as a family, he's a safe, considerate driver.

When we go on long trips, however, he morphs into Speed Racer. Kind of like Dr. Jekyll/Mario Andretti. In an SUV.

This past fall, we drove our oldest to college for the very first time. We could have gone the front way, which would have entailed a 2-hour drive to the interstate, and then an additional 3 hours up into the mountains.

Or we could go the back way through the mountains. Over two mountain passes (one without guard rails) and one long, winding stretch on a steel road suspended over a river in a canyon. Total drive time? 3 1/2 hours.

Hubby opted for the back way.

3 1/2 hours of hell.

Oops. Did I say that out loud?

Have I mentioned that I hate driving through the mountains?

It's kind of stupid, considering that I love living up here. It might be anxiety, but it manifests itself into a very real physical affliction. I don't have a problem on straight roads, and I don't really have much of a problem on roads that are ascending.

It's the curving descending roads that make me feel ill. When we're going fast, I literally feel as if my stomach is crawling up in my chest and will ultimately end up in my lap still attached to my intestines.

Anyway, we loaded up the Rover with every conceivable thing Number One Son would need for his first year of college. Then he added all his cds, his computer, his video game system, his video games, his TV and his stereo with 8 speakers and a woofer.

Woof is right. It's a miracle we could make it up the driveway.

The first part of the trip wasn't too bad. The roads are straight, and there wasn't a lot of traffic two miles ahead to lead foot-it to catch up with (why, why, why?).

Hubby was going a little fast, but I wasn't worried.

Don't do that thing with your hand. It's distracting me.

"What thing with my hand?"

Squeezing the armrest on the door. It's bothering me.

You're looking at my door? My door? Why aren't you watching the freaking road? Now I was starting to worry.

We got over the first pass (the one with the guardrails) without any issues. Going over the second was another story.

The ride up is pretty smooth. The ride down is as hairy as Hagrid.

There are tons of switchbacks. If you don't know what those are, they are curves with their own curves. When I had taken big kid up to the college earlier in the summer for his orientation, somebody who was 3 minutes ahead of me misjudged a curve and went over the side.

Did I forget to say there are no guardrails?

It's not a huge drop-off, but it's still pretty scary.

I guess that's why there's little signs under the curve signs that say "10 mph", or "Slow the bleep down!"

I mention it to my husband as we're barreling head-first down into the switchbacks.

"That's not an official speed-limit", he responds. "It's more like a guideline."

You have GOT to be shitting me!

We made it through the switchbacks and through another hour without incident. Meaning I didn't yark on the fine leather interior of his Rover.

I did, however, entertain a couple of fantasies of ripping his arm off and beating him over the head with it at the next rest stop.

THEN we got to the canyon. A winding highway dug into the rocky side on some parts, dangling above a river in others.

Official posted speed limit: 45 mph.

When we hit 55, I started getting a little uncomfortable.

When we hit 65, I started squeezing the armrest and clearing my throat.

When we hit 75, I couldn't bear it any longer.

"Slow down!!"

Huh?

"Slow the [expletive] down right this [expletive] instant! 45 miles per [expletive] hour is NOT a guideline!"

There was quite a bit more foul language on my part, but I won't scare you with it.

He slowed down.

Later, when we were out of the car and I had calmed down a bit, he confessed that he really hadn't been aware of how fast we were going.

I don't always look at the speedometer. I just go with how the road feels.

How it "feels"? Like Zen? Are you insane?

Next month school is over, and we have to go back up and haul Number One Son and all his accumulated crap home again.

Hubby has decided to make the trip himself.

Smart man.

No wonder I love him so much.

Lazy Day Silliness

I've been so busy the last couple of days that I haven't had time to sit down and write anything. So instead of posting nothing, I thought I'd put this up here.

I got it in email a couple of days ago. It's been around for some months, but this is the first I've seen of it.

Click on it to enlarge.

It's an ad from Virgin Digital--The 72-Band Campaign. There are supposed to be 72 (some say 74) bands in this picture. So far, all I've been able to figure out are:

Alice In Chains
Guns N Roses
Smashing Pumpkins
Matchbox 20
U2
Rolling Stones
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Queen
Madonna
The Eagles


Anybody else? What the heck are those Gorillas? And what in the world is the Queen holding in her hands?

Never mind. I just figured it out. The Sex Pistols. Yikes.

Taser Nanny

The little guy is having a birthday later this month, and he gave us a list of things he would like for presents.

Included were DVDs of Super Nanny, and Nanny 911, which are his new favorite TV shows (I wrote about it a week or so ago in Parents On The Verge...).

Big problem. They're not available yet.

The ABC Family Channel had a Super Nanny Marathon on Sunday, so we thought we'd tape it for him.

Anyhoo, while we were busy getting our big guy washed, pressed and packed at the last minute to head back to college after Spring Break, we were all treated to some marathon action in the background.

On one episode-- it's a complete blur---either the parents who had 2 sets of twins under the age of three all screaming with need for parental attention, or the dolled-up hoochie-haltered mommy who made a big production of actually baking cookies for the camera while she was oblivious to her 3-year-old running bare-footed down the street with scissors, the Nanny asked, "have you ever thought about hiring help?"

Whichever parent Nanny was asking got all indignant over the question and said "I wouldn't trust my little angels to strangers!"

My husband, who is absolutely the most laid-back, easy-going and understanding spouse next to Charlie Callahan's wife Martha, said under his breath...

"They don't need to hire help. They need freaking Tasers."

This set off a discussion of a trend we've been noticing since being forced to watch these shows.

It seems that the kid with the most pretentious or porn star-ish name is the one you'd most like to hit on the head with a shovel.

Could there be some sort of correlation between bad behavior and hideous names?

I'm not going to start insulting readers for their choices, just in case someone really does think the name Seagrams is a good name for a girl.

The Misanthropic B*tch does it better (just be warned this is a very salty essay). So does the author of Baby's Named a Bad, Bad Thing, A Primer of Parental Cruelty.

Little guy went to kindergarten with an adorable girl named Felicia.

At least we thought that was her name.

At a school recital, in the program, it was spelled Phallicia.

I Kid You Not.

It makes you wonder what her parents were thinking.

Were they planning a career for her in the porn industry? Did they want her to be the girl voted "Most Likely To Go Postal and Blow Up Her Prom?"

Who in their right mind would name their daughter after a penis?

Sheesh! Tasers for everyone!