Strangers

Why is it that sometimes people takes such liberties in telling you their opinions, like you really care? It's one thing for a goodhearted friend to offer a tidbit of advice (i.e., you might not want to wear white shorts when you're on the rag). It's entirely another thing for a complete stranger to take it upon themselves to comment on your life when you haven't even solicited their input.

So I'm at the grocery store the other day. The bagger woman is filling my bags. She's probably in her late twenties. Typically my conversation with the bagging person is limited to "is plastic okay?" me: "yes." Or "how's your day going?" me: "fine." On this particular day I was wearing my Bolder Boulder tshirt from when I ran the 10K two years ago. The bagger was all, "Have you ever run that race?" me: "Yeah, it's really fun." Bagger: "But it's not even for charity or anything is it?" me: "No, but it's really fun." Bagger: "But I mean, why would someone run something that's not even for charity?" me: "Because it's really fun." Bagger: "So how far is it?" me: "It's a 10K; 6.2 miles." Bagger: "And you don't mind running 6.2 miles for NOTHIN'???" Me: "Look bitch. Lay off. I said it was for fun. Go take your menial close minded opinions and stick them up your ass" (that's what I wanted to say) what I really said was: "NO I DON'T MIND BECAUSE IT'S FUN." Now put that gorgonzola cheese and triscuits into my bag so I can be on my way.

Gushing and Squirting

Female ejaculation. Ever experience it?

I was female-ejaculation-ignorant until last weekend. Don't go getting all excited. I didn't ejaculate. I merely learned that FE was even possible.

Here's the back story - my friend Clair was visiting from Richmond, VA. Her speech is splattered with ya'alls and references to vacations spent at the "rivah." She still sometimes dresses up when she's flying on a plane and only recently started to fart in front of me. In sum, she is truly a Southern girl (much like our guinea pig, Betty Sue).

Here's the thing - one would not expect little ol' Clair to be the one to introduce me to the concept of FE. But come to think of it, she has introduced me to a lot of things over the years. That Clair can surprise you. Once she told me about going on a date with a guy who had Tourettes. When she got into the car he started uncontrollably calling her "clitface, clitface." She by far wins the prize for best worst first date (even topping my flying story). I won't even go into her story about orgasming in the restaurant. Let's just say it involved a big toe.

So over wine and tapas the other night Clair proceeds to tell me that her husband was all excited because he thought she FE'd one night during sex. The story goes that they were getting it on, she in a squat position when the FE supposedly took place. Clair, however, doesn't think it was a true FE, but thinks she peed. This sent me into gales of her laughter. Her husband, on the other hand, saw the wet spot on the sheet and declared that this was something to celebrate. More laughter. Clair didn't have the heart to tell him she's sure it was urine.

How can she be so sure?

Wikipedia says that squirting and or gushing is involved during the FE. And this happens while having an orgasm. Clair thinks if it was the legendary FE, she would have flown through the roof in ecstasy. Not the case. She just needed to wipe.

So if you see her husband on the street, let's not ruin it for him. He is the MAN in his own eyes, having brought his wife to this rare state that is only rumored to be true on Sex and the City and other fictionalized shows.

I ask you - any experience with this? Is it an urban legend, or can this really occur?

What's in a name?

Emma started swimming lessons yesterday. At the last minute a new boy was added to the class. The mother, rather pushy and emphatic in my opinion, said, "This is David-Walter. David hyphen Walter. He goes by David-Walter." I, like the swim instructor, was thinking David has to be his first name, Walter his last. So the swim teacher refers to him as "David." But DW does not respond to "David," does not even bat an eye or look in her direction when called "David" without the "Walter." The mother yells "It's DAVID-WALTER! That's DAVID HYPHEN WALTER! He will not respond to anything else!"

And that is fine. I guess if my name was Mike-Hunt (Mike hyphen Hunt) or Seymore-Butts or Mike-Hawk or Hugh G. Rection I would only respond to the name in total.

My point is, kid names have gotten so out of hand. What was once Joe, Dick (my favorite), Bob, Mary and Sue has become Apple (Gwyneth Paltrow), Sunday, Liquisha, T'nisa, etc. Emma had a little girl named "Cutter" in her camp last week. I hope this isn't what her parents want her to be when she grows up. My theory is that parents want so badly for their kid to be *unique* to *stand out* in the crowd, that Betty is just not going to cut it anymore.

Everyone knows some kid from childhood that had the weird name. But they were one in a hundred. My story is that I went to Young Life camp with two sisters: Cheddar and Swiss. No kidding. Those were their birth certificate names. And, no, I don't think the last name was cheese. A friend of mine knew two twins (or this could be an urban legend) named Lemonjello (prounounced Lemahnjello) and Orangejello (Or-anggjello). You put a french sound twist to the name and you can make lemonjello sound very chic.

I personally like the game where you can make your own god-given name a porn star name. You can do one of two things. Either go to Tim's Web Porn Star Name Generator, select if you want to be a "Pimp" or a "Ho" and enter your name. For example, husband Ken's PS name is "Cockney Velvet" and my dad would be "George Dicks." It is way fun to do this. The other way to get your authentic porn star name is to use this basic formula: take the name of your first pet + the name of the street you live on. So I am Duncan Purdue. That's pretty lame, but I'm sure there are some good one's out there.

What's yours?

Do Southern Belles Poop?

My son's fish, Sharky, died on the Fourth of July. Wasn't that a movie? Anyway, I always thought goldfish lived nice short lives. As in, maybe they would die before you had to clean their tank. And then you could tell your kids, "Well, we tried the fish thing. Sorry." Not Sharky. That damn fish lived on and on. Three years and nine months to be exact. We got to the point where we wouldn't even have any one take care of him when we went on a trip.



The last trip we took to Boston, it was *HOT* here. Our house was all closed up, no A/C. So for Sharky that meant no food and a hot tub for a home. I'm pretty sure he wiggled up to the air hole, mermaid-style, and reached around for tidbit of food that had dropped on the lid. He probably did this with his fins. He also somehow turned on the A/C. There is no other explanation why such a neglected fish could have survived. I don't think anyone from PETA reads this blog, but please don't email me about how abusive I am. I am fully aware and have full disclosure as you have read.



So, with the patriotic death of Sharky, it was time to try a new pet. Ken said no to any cats. We went the rodent route and came home from Petco with a guinea pig. Back in the car, the kids and I were trying to find the perfect name. Emma said, how about "Sunday?" I had never heard of that name for a person or a guinea pig. Turns out, on that same day, Nicole Kidman had her baby and named her "Sunday." I'm not sure what this means but I'm pretty sure Emma has a telepathic relationship going with Nicole.



While the name "Sunday" is perfect for a movie star's baby, it was not good enough for our guinea pig. Sam suggested "Betty Sue," and Betty Sue it was.



And she is a Betty Sue. Sort of a Southern belle with a genteel, sweet personality. She's already referring to our house as "the plantation," and requesting mint juleps with her pellets and lettuce. I think she called Sam a "yankee" last night.

We found out yesterday that Betty Sue doesn't like bananas. We tried putting one by her food bowl. How do we know she didn't like the banana? She shit on it. That's right. We found a nice, perfect turd lying on top of the banana. I'm not sure how she got it up there, cause I did not witness her putting her ass on the top of the fruit. Maybe she crapped, then managed to roll the turd up there with her delicate Southern claws. Anyway, I did not think that was very ladylike of her. What would they say at the country club?

Let Us Pray

On my family-style blog (the "other" blog) where I refrain from cussing and being crass (http://www.risdonnews.blogspot.com/), I gave the following account of a conversation in our house today:

Sam (bouncing while he's talking): "Mom can I play some Playstation?"
Me: "Maybe after breakfast. But STOP bouncing."
Sam: "I only bounce when I'm asking a question and I want the answer to be yes."
Emma: "Oh, like when you ask 'am I a poop?'"
Sam: "What I meant is when I want the answer to be good. OK fartface?"

I wrote at the end: "Is fartface a bad word?"

Immediately the grandparents wrote back and said that, yes, fartface was in fact a bad word and that perhaps it was time for the kids to start going to Sunday School.

As if Sunday School is the answer to everything. Admittedly, we don't go to church and never have as a family. I grew up Unitarian with ultra liberal parents. We celebrated Christmas and Hanukkah. My parents taught a sex ed class in our living room to my brother and his 7th grade friends. I came down one night to see a slide of a big, hairy penis covering the entire living room wall. My friends and I stuffed the question box with queries like, "what is a fetish?" My brother and I travelled to Israel alone with a priest named Father Paul when I was 15 so we could do a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and learn about the three big religions that have created such unrest in that part of the world.

My point is - my parents were all about openness and deciding for yourself. I think that's wonderful. I also think that it can be confusing. When you are left up to your own devices to figure out the world because you are basically told it's yours to figure out without any guidebook (i.e., Bible) it can be overwhelming.

I've tried many churches - Catholic, Unity, Unitarian, Methodist, United Church of Christ to name a few. I've never taken communion. One time I went to the UC of Christ and was the only one there not taking communion. Someone actually came up to me and asked if I was physically unable to walk and needed help. I never went back.

I have tried for so long to figure it all out. That is, where I fit, what I believe. Every time I decide, I can do this, I can just be Christian because then I will know what to believe and I will belong somewhere, I just can't fully do it. Maybe I am trying too hard to want to believe every little part instead of just taking the ideas as a whole.

Don't get me wrong. I would consider myself a spiritual person. I believe in God in a less traditional way that might be a subject for a future blog. I meditate, I pray sometimes. I see goodness in the world and have gratitude for the gifts and blessings in my life.

So it's not like we want our kids to grow up immoral and messed up. Hopefully saying "fartface" isn't an indication that they'll go to hell. In fact, Emma said to me the other day that if she had three wishes, one of them would be that people would not start wars because they believe different things about God. Rock on sister!

Back to the idea that Sunday School/church is a panacea. Don't we all know many the messed up person who went to Sunday School? Certainly this may be a place to learn and to grow spiritually. But to say that without church you can't be a good person, cannot have the proper guidance, cannot live a solid life in which you are doing the right thing and espousing values of compassion, gratitude, civility, and kindness is just untrue.

Fartface, fartface, fartface, fartface, fartface, fartface.

Buried in the Sand

I was watching Matt Lauer on the "Today" show this a.m. I have noticed a trend the past few days (although it has been going on for much longer, I'm sure). Everything and I mean EVERYTHING that was once fun or just "everyday" has now become extremely dangerous. Today's hazard was digging holes at the beach and getting in them. What kid hasn't done this? You bury your friend up to their eyeballs and while they're totally incapacitated you can flick boogers at them or worse (I'm sure someone has peed or defecated on their friend). The best is when the tide comes in.

Who knew that once you were in the hole and burried up to your neck, the sides of the hole could collapse, thereby causing severe injury or death. In my 41 years of living I have never heard this happening to anyone. I think Matt and Meredith just make this crap up to have something to say while Al and Ann are barbequing on the Plaza.

The joy is being taken out of every little thing. It seems the only way to not be in danger is to lock the doors and stay in bed all day. But then I'm sure there's some major risk of bed bugs or atrophy or Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Holy cow, I think of all of the stuff I did that actually WAS dangerous, and I am still living to tell about it. I'm cringing. God or someone must really want me here and alive.

-Swimming in the raging Atlantic, alone, after a major storm and being carried out by the undertow (defintiely the closest I've ever come to death).

-Driving while under the influence several times (many years ago, but still).

-Having a one-night stand with a complete stranger (as in didn't even know his name)

-Jumping off of 50' cliffs in Greece into waters of unknown depths

-Rappelling off of my college dorm building with ROTC (10 floors high)

And those are just the few that come to find at this moment. WWMLS?? (What Would Matt Lauer Say).

This subject brings back a memory from my more daring and carefree days. I was in college - a sophomore going into junior year, I think. I was home for the summer, working at the Chesapeake Bay Seafood House. A dumpy, greasy, and dark all-you-can-eat establishment frequented by the obese. First course - fried hushpuppies, followed by bowls of fried shrimp, fried scallops and to drink - Stroh's beer, or Stroh's light if you were on a diet. It was one classy spot.

My parents, being chain-hating, deep fried food-opposed people wouldn't get near the place. One night, unbeknownst to me, they came in with my brother and asked to sit in my section. They were all dressed in hideous clothes. Someone wore a pair of those rainbow suspenders. My brother had one of those cylinder looking things that "moo-ed" like a cow when you turned it over. They kept yelling at me "Ma'am!!! Ma'am!!! We need some more fried crap over here."

But that's not the point of the story. The point is that while working at the CBSH, I met this guy Scott. He was a pretty serious and stiff type. Obviously not my style. But he did ask me out on a date and I was bored that summer, so I accepted. He showed up at my parents' house the night of our rendez-vous.

Dad: Hi Scott, nice to meet you. Where are you and Beth going tonight?

Scott: (Looking my dad in the eye) - I think we'll go to the Inner Harbor in Baltimore and get some dinner. It's a nice night

No sooner had Mr. Stiff and I gotten in the car, when he said, "You want to go flying? I'm trying to get my pilot's license and need to put in some more hours." I was all, "Sure, why not?" (which is funny, because I now HATE flying, am terrified of it, even when I'm flying on a commercial airline under the influence of Xanax and vodka with pilots who are not only licensed, but have hundreds of years under their belts. I guess getting older has made me more uptight. I would still dig a hole at the beach, though).

Next, we're off to some municipal airport. Scott gets some teeny single engine plane from a hangar. We climb into the two seater. I'm calm. It was getting dark, so Scott pulls out his flying instructions, i.e., the steps he needs to complete before taking off. I have this vivid memory of him holding a flashlight in his mouth and reading the guidelines from some book. I'm calm. We take off, and all seems to be going well. We fly from Baltimore to the eastern shore of Maryland. It was beautiful at night. I'm calm. We land at some small airport and have what should have been a romantic dinner if I had any attraction whatsoever to Mr. Stiff. I think I had Coquiles St. Jacques. We got back in the plane and headed back towards Baltimore. I had completely lost track of time, but it had to have been at least midnight. We're airborne, thousands of feet up when Mr. Stiff reveals that we're almost out of gas and that we'll have to land at some tiny landing strip by someone's house to refuel. I'm calm. We land and it is completely dark, no one in sight. We bang on some house and wake up Mr. Fuel Guy. He refuels us and we take off for Baltimore. We land safely, Mr. Stiff drives me home. I'm pretty sure I didn't kiss him, or else it was completely not memorable. He probably deserved at least a touch of tongue after all of that, but I wasn't giving it up. I had standards.

I'll never forget walking into my parents' house. I figured they'd be long asleep. Instead, all the lights are on, they're both awake and they start screaming at me. "Do you know what time it is? It's 3 o'clock in the morning! Where the hell have you been? We were just about to call the police. Do you have any idea how worried we were?? " I calmly said, "We went flying." "YOU WHAT? Who the hell do you think you are? Don't you have any respect for anyone but yourself..." Yada, yada. It's now a humorous story to tell around our dinner table, but back then, I was in the doghouse for quite some time.

And no second date with Scott. I don't remember if he didn't ask, if my parents forbade me, or if I simply said, "no."

So - Matt Lauer, how does that compare to your pussy sand hole?