The girls...

Joan Rivers used to politely ask “Can we talk?” as one of her tag lines during a stand-up comedy routine. I am not going to be polite…

“Girlfriend, sit the hell down; I need to tell you something.”

Since Breast Cancer Awareness month was October, let’s talk about your girls. Now, I am just going to come out and say it. I know I am a human being of the female persuasion, but I like boobs. Maybe it is because I have small ones and different size boobs seem to fascinate me. There are fat women with big or small breasts, and there are skinny women with big or small breasts. The intriguing part is how women treat their own mammary glands (because that what they are; mammary glands whose initial purpose is to feed babies).

Some ladies celebrate their hooters by putting those puppies right out there for all to see. Some ladies cover them up for various reasons. And some ladies just ignore the fact that they have boobies, and let them have free range around the front of their bodies. The rest of this blog is to the latter set of women.

Are your ta-tas are tickling your belly in any manner? Hoist up those puppies because it is GROSS!

The first modern bra was invented at the turn of the 20th century. There was no Victoria’s Secret store in the 1900’s so bras pretty much sucked, and to be truthful, they still suck. However, this is no excuse for letting your girls run about wildly as you go about your day. If you are under the age of 25 and have had no children, then great, wear your tightest t-shirt, and let those babies show all their perkiness to the world. Celebrate them, show them off. I will be happy to attend a party in the honor of your snappy, happy knockers. However, once you are over 25 or have had children, GET YOURSELF A DECENT BRA!

Now when I say ‘decent’, I don’t mean expensive. You can buy some excellent bras in Wal-mart. This is where the bitching starts…

· The elastic pinches my torso: Then either you have gained weight (go buy a bigger bra) or you bought a bra that was too small (go buy a bigger bra).

· The cups are too big/too small/ too itchy/ too see-through/ too hard/ too soft/ too pointy: This could go on for days, and when you talk bras with women, it does. Why did you buy it in the first place? You need to try on bras before you buy them.

· The straps dig into my shoulders: Loosen them; they are adjustable. If they keep digging into your shoulders, go buy a new bra.

· The straps always fall down: Tighten them; they are adjustable. If they keep falling down, go buy a new bra.

· Underwire bras hurt: Let me say this, and I want to make sure I am absolutely clear with my next point. STOP WHINING and SUCK IT UP! Because if I don't want to see your boobies dangling on your belly looking like tube socks, and I can pretty sure guess that your boyfriend, girlfriend, or spouse doesn't want to see them there either.

Here is the thing. The framework for any bra is fabric and elastic; guess what, they wear out with washing and general use. Bras are good for about a year if you have 3 or 4 of them; two years if you have 8 or 9 of them. Yupe! one year, so those of you who are wearing an 8 year old bra. Knock it off!

How do you buy a bra, you say? Well first, there are two sizes. The number (34, 36, 38) refers to the inches around your rib cage. The letter size (A, B, C) is the actual cup size of the boobs. These sizes are mutually exclusive. During your life time, you will gain and lose weight, so your boobs and chest will grow and shrink and usually not together. So, go celebrate your girls and buy yourself a bright pink bra with good support. The people looking at your breasts will thank you.

Snapped

Every person has a breaking point. For some people, it may take years for them to hit it or it could be just a matter of moments. The moment can be an earth shattering event or just the smallest comment that just pierces you like a knife. However, what do you do at that moment when the mental snap occurs in your head?

Heather stopped dead in her tracks and just stared at her husband for a moment. “What,” was all she could think of saying to him? Tom repeated his comment and turned back to watch the football game as if nothing had happened. In Tom’s mind, nothing had happened; he just stated an observation and moved on with his life. Heather’s life, however, came to a complete halt. She walked into the kitchen and started the kettle for some hot Darjeeling tea. She always loved this tea; it was so smooth and calming to her. Maybe it would give her some clarity. She closed her eyes just as she started to replay the moment; the tea kettle started to whistle. As she walked up the back stars dunking the tea bag up and down in the hot water, Heather kept thinking. “What in the hell just happened? What did I do wrong? Why do I keep fucking up like this? What in the hell is wrong with me?” She passed her kids in the bonus room and lightly kissed them on the top of their heads. They gave her the “Whatever” grunt and a “Mom, I am trying to talk to Sophie” comment.

The old sleeper sofa in the sewing/office/guest bedroom was her destination. Heather kicked off her shoes and wrapped a blanket around her as she drank her tea. Her mind was blank as she faced the Monet print; she didn’t see it before her. When she was finished with her tea, she quietly curled herself into the couch and blanket so it almost looked like she wasn’t there. With her eyes closed, she drifted back. It was like watching a video. She was on the couch in the living room reading a Nora Roberts novel. The sex scene was a good one. The leading man slowly, gently caressed the leading lady’s body. The kisses were soft and lingering just a hint of tongue here and there. It was the kind of smoldering kiss that they do in the Hollywood movies. Heather looked up with a girlish grin at her husband and thought “Why not.” She closed the book, and walked over to Tom. She bent over him and kissed him as the characters had just done in the novel. After about 5 seconds, she pulled away slightly and looked into her husband’s eyes as she smiled. Staring back at her were these angry eyes that seemed to pierce through her. “Who in the hell are you kissing?” barked Tom. “What?” replied Heather.

She opened her eyes and looked around the sewing room. There was a Monet print of an open meadow where the flowers seemed to sway in the wind. She glanced at them and desperately wanted to be there or anywhere in the world but not here. That is when Heather snapped.

She stopped reading the romance novels and started reading murder mysteries. Each book was darker than the last. The murders were more gruesome and cruel. With each story, Heather replaced the victim’s character with Tom. She would relish in the way the murder would plan, stalk, and kill his victims. As she finished reading the kill scene in this latest novel, Heather with a malicious smile glanced over to Tom and thought “Why not.”

What plagues me?

As people grow up, create their lives, start a family, they bring bits and pieces of their life with them as gentile reminders of where they come from or how far they have gone. My mom’s objects were very simple, sea shells from the beach, which was 20 miles from our house and a few family heirlooms that seemed to anchor the house with their presences. There was Great Uncle John’s piano that moved from our house to my brother’s house and now resides with my niece, and a dining room set from my Great Grandmother on my Dad’s side of the family, which now is at my house, and books. My mom loved books. Some were old; some were new. No matter how busy mom’s life was as a single mother, she always read to us. Some people have to have a swing set in the yard, ice cream in the freezer, candy stashed in the bottom of a drawer (It’s the secret candy that everyone knows about ; everyone eats, but for some reason, everyone sneaks into the drawer as if it was a hidden treasure).
These are the things that we choose as comforts to give us peace and a sense of belonging. Then there are the things that for some reason just seem to plague us no matter where we go in life. We can move out of state, move up or down in the social latter, be unemployed or a millionaire. But for some reason, you always end up with a house with a rose bush and you hate roses, a boy dog that loves to jump the fence and chase down girl dogs in heat, the relative that seems to eat at your house more than their house, or you always seem to break mirrors (hand or wall mirror doesn’t matter you will break one very 2 to 3 years). For me, I would gladly take one of the above inconveniences.
What do I get?
Poop. Yep. You read that correctly. My life has been plagued with crap. For a woman who is naturally constipated, I certainly have a lot of fecal matter issues to contend with for one person.
It all started when I was young. You see, my mother believed that administering a lukewarm enema would cure most common ailments from the common cold to food poisoning to mental illness. “You’ll feel much better after all that stuff clogging you up is gone.” From an early age, I learned to monitor my bowel movements for signs. After writing that statement, I am completely surprise that the study of BMs did not require chicken bones and a brewed concoction of chamomile and eye of newt with a pinch of licorice root although it would account for my fascination with the forensic sciences and the occult world.
In Kindergarten, I found out that being afraid to go the bathroom in the middle of class has various side effects. One of which is a really bad nickname that can stick with you for several years and is only relieved when one changes schools. The second being that labeling of human waste as dirt when discovered on the floor near your shoes fools no one, not even other 5 year olds.
From this point on, my life seemed to take a turn for the better with only a few incidents of an old dying dog with weak bowels or a niece or nephew to change their diaper during a babysitting gig. Even after having kids, the monitoring of my family’s bowel activities was something I did quietly in the background of living life in the suburbs.
Then one day I did something that was totally out of character, and it must have thrown the Fecal Gods into a tizzy. I decided I would travel France to visit my brother and sister-in-law and to take a book art class. I am not sure how this offended the Gods of Shit, but it did. I had just finished up a day of book making when a screaming email came to my attention. Back home, the family dog had just crapped all over the house. My then husband had to take off the rest of the afternoon from work to clean it up. The next day, a similar email arrived from home only this time, the dog had wrecked havoc upon the master bedroom. This lead to a total melt down in judgment, and my x-husband decided to wash one of the Dupioni silk curtains in the washer and then run it through the dryer. From a small reading nook located in a turret of a 16th century chateau, a horrifying scream was heard for miles. After the news that bathroom cleaner, which contained bleach, was used to clean the celery colored bed skirt from the Pottery Barn, I simply passed out from the shock of it all.
My relationship with bodily waste was improving and then a warning sign came from nowhere. After walking the dog one evening, I notice dog poop on my shoe. Now typically, this happens from time to time when walking a dog along the same path in the woods. However, I knew something was askew when the poop was on top of my shoe and nowhere else. I promptly called Dateman to inquire if he was breaking up with me. He said no. A few weeks passed, and I completely forgot about the pending doom that was before me. Then it came from nowhere in the middle of the day. College Dude (my son) called my cell phone frantically. The call went something like this…
“Mom, the dog just crapped all over the house, but mostly in the kitchen.”
“OK, where is the dog now?”
“Outside. We opened up all the windows because it stinks in the house. We thought we were going to throw up. I think she is sick because it looks really red.”
“OK, take the dog to the vet;’ I’ll meet you there. Make sure you take a stool sample for the vet to test.”
For a stool sample, a large size Tupperware container filled to capacity with poop was transported to the vet’s office. The Vet tech commented on the “ample amount” of the stool sample the boys (College Dude and neighbor side-kick) had gathered and praised them highly for their efforts.
$200.00 later…we all were back home. The boys ran across the street to the neighbor’s house so they didn’t have to finish cleaning up. I walked into a kitchen with dried diarrhea covering floor and a serving spoon lying in the middle of it. To collect my composure, I closed my eyes and thought of the beach for 10 seconds then turned on the radio, grabbed some paper towels and a garbage bag and sang as I cleaned. After the Hazmat team certified that the house was now fit for human occupancy, the dog and College Dude both came back into the house.
Quietly, I monitor the fecal cycle of everyone in the house and wait for the next bowel explosion to occur.

Prologue to Dagda’s Cauldron

Below is a prologue to a story I am writing. Let me know what you think. Good or Bad. Thanks

The cold winter wind stung her skin as she stepped through the circle. The sun was bright and caused her eyes to squint until she became accustomed to the light. It had been several months since Wicklow had been in man’s world. She was excited and full of mischief. She wanted to play with the humans; they always made her laugh. Typically, pixies didn’t come out during the winter months for a bit of tomfollery. But, Wicklow was always breaking the rules and getting into trouble; besides, she had a new game to show the children. She couldn’t wait until the spring ritual.

The house came into view; Wicklow stopped in her tracks. The human house she always visited was still and cold; something was terribly wrong. The front door was strangely open; leaves and animals had found their way into the home. Wicklow went inside and over to the window shutter to close it from banging in the wind. Where were the children? She flew up the stairs and into children’s room; the closet was empty. Where were the toys? One lone wooden soldier lay under the bed: alone and forgotten. The pixie slowly picked up the toy; a tear ran down her cheek. She felt just like the toy. As she made her way back to the living room, she noticed something on the fireplace mantel. There were two letters placed under what looked like a deck of cards.

She opened up the top letter. Tears came to her eyes. The children had gone away. Suddenly, a thought came to her. Flying from room to room, Wicklow franticly searched the house. It was nowhere to be found. The children had taken the stone. She began to smile. She knew would see them again someday.

When Wicklow returned to her home, she went straight to her room to put away her new treasures. There was a slight hesitation just before the cupboard door was shut. She picked up the second letter and began to read…

For those who wish to follow in my footsteps,

There is a story you must know. There was a time when Ireland was young and the land was full of promise. Invaders would try their hand at conquering this land, but the people were strong and full of fight. It has been said that one day a mist like no other descended upon the land. This mist was as thick as the rolling seas and with it came ships carrying our ancestors from Nemend. The Irish people called them, Tuatha de Danaan, since they were the children of the goddess Danu.

They were a mystical people who brought four magical treasures with them: The Sword of Light from the city Findias; the Spear of Lugh from the city Gorias; Dagda’s Cauldron from the city Murias; and the Stone of Fal from Fáilias. These treasures served their masters well. Then the Milesians, a warring band of invaders, seized the land. The Tuatha de Danaan vanished. Legend has it they found shelter within the hills, lakes and rocks of the land and took their treasures and mystical knowledge with them. These are our Forefathers; this is our history.

As a Shanachie, I roam the Irish countryside captivating farmers, merchants and their families with tales of old Irish battles and legends. But these are the hardest times I have seen. The Irish people have always dealt with invaders but the famine. It is a nightmare like I have never seen. The last hamlet was empty of people. As I walked over the last hill towards Donheadaly in the county Tyronne, a plain gray stone house came into view. The shutters were bright blue. It was a welcoming sign after months of wondering the countryside. I could not wait to share my new treasure with this family.

In my pocket was a deck of cards found during my travels. The images on the cards showed the home worlds of the ancients along with places and things seen during their travels. The images would help enhance the stories as I weaved tales of old before the children.

As I entered the Fallon house, the hearth was cold; an open window was welcoming the autumn chill into the house. A note was resting on the mantel in the living room. I picked it up to read. I had to brace myself against the fireplace as I read the words. It was a note from one of their young sons, Mickey. The family had gone to America to flee the famine. My heart was heavy; my soul now broken. My protégé, gone.

My time has come for me to return from where I came; back into the mist. I leave this desk of cards as a reminder of our past and a guide to future.

Shanachie of Danu,

Henry Blackwell

Wicklow slowly folded the letter and then sat on her bed. She stared at the weathered paper being held in her hands. She knew she had to tell the others. The Shanachie of Danu has returned to the land of the ancients. All they could do now was wait… wait for a sign.

Reducing Stress

Good Housekeeping always has those articles about health and good living. Here is one I found entitled “Good Advice for Staying Centered, Coping and Living Fully.” It lists 6 simple ways to help reduce stress in anyone’s life. Let’s see if it will work for me.

At the beginning of the article, it says the first thing you need to do is define what the stress looks like in your life. For me, stress is 5’9” about 175 lbs with blond hair (what’s left of it), blue eyes with that ‘You turned out to be such a disappointment’ look in them. Once you have defined your stress, one needs to determine the best course of action for clearing the stress from one’s life. For me, this was accomplished in divorce court. However, this doesn’t work for crazy kid schedules, hectic jobs or shortage of cash for credit card debt that suddenly appeared out of nowhere. So what do the experts say?

1. Smooch Spontaneously: “A study of 2,000 couples showed that those who kissed only during lovemaking are eight times more likely to report suffering from stress and depression than those who frequently kiss on the spur of the moment.” Sweet! I like this study; however, Dateman lives 40 minutes from my house leaving the spontaneity out of any smooching plans that I might have. I tried kissing Mark Harmon during his NCIS reruns, but he never seems to kiss me back. Therefore, my only alternative is a 95 lb. Rhodesian ridgeback dog with toilet breath, and she is only too happy to slap her dog drool upon my face, which truly concerns me.

Calling Robert’s Rules of Order: Can we have a sidebar conversation? “This is not a meeting, and this certainly doesn’t qualify as a quorum because it is just you and me. Which technically, it is just you because I am just that nagging voice in your head,” said brain in his typical condescending voice.
“You just put my hand down! Control Freak”
Sidebar conversation:
Dateman doesn’t want to be called Dateman anymore because he has moved up the relationship latter and became boyfriend. To me, Dateman sounds more like a Marvel cartoon hero wearing tights and a cape while he is about to save the love of his life, Sweet Polly Purebred, from mortal danger because the bad guy, Dick Dastardly, has tied her to the train tracks, and the train is speeding towards her. However in my mind (which has been described as a mix can of nuts), the term boyfriend sounds more like the guy from 10th grade who may or may not meet you at the school dance. It all depends if he can get a ride from his older brother and passed his algebra II chapter test. Do you see my dilemma?

Therefore, here are some of the names I have come up with to elevate Dateman to a new alias. Send me a comment, and let me know if you think Dateman should get a new alias?

- Friend (which is how my aunt refers to him “How is Your Friend?” as she whispers the last two words as if he was a double agent of some kind, and the CIA and KGB are listening in on our phone conversation.)
- Marlboro man (given his propensity to chronicle the mid-western life style and to wear Wrangler jeans with boots)
- Magnum (since he kind of looks like Tom Selleck minus the Hawaiian shirt and those embarrassing short shorts)
- The Blade (defined as a dashing, swaggering, or jaunty young man. I love the word “jaunty” it reminds me of Gene Kelly and Cary Grant or Rock Hudson in those Doris Day movies. They were a dreamy movie couple. Weren’t they?)
- The Gaffer (meaning old man, and the term just cracks me up)

“Hey, can we get back to kissing?” demands brain
Most definitely, I would like to be kissing Dateman right now. Especially, if it is anything like the kissing scene from “Spiderman” where our hero is hanging upside down, Mary Jane peels back just enough of the Spidey mask to reveal his lips, and then they kiss and kiss and kiss. All of this is done while they are in an alleyway, and it is raining. “Good God, your libido is about to explode. Think of your Grandmother making you a cup of tea.”
“Lemon and sugar, Hey, I am so going to kick your butt!”

2. Put the kettle on: The University College of London (of course) noted that people who drank black tea 4 times a day for 6 weeks had lower levels of Cortisol after a stressful task. Cortisol? Isn’t that a pain medicine? “That cortisone, Einstein,” says brain, “I hear Paris Hilton has a brain vacancy maybe I can apply for that job?”
Now, don’t get me wrong I love a good cup of black tea especially Earl Grey or some Irish breakfast tea, but the only side effects I ever seem to get are yellow teeth and having to urinate 20 minutes after each cup. Maybe it is the act of getting up and walking away from the stress to relieve oneself from liquid waste; thus causing a reduction in stress levels. “Maybe it is the 4 oz. of whiskey you dump into each cup that gives you the ‘I just don’t give a shit’ attitude towards your life,” remarks brain.
“Tattletale!”
“So when you are in a drunken heap on the floor? Don’t you find that a bit stressful to explain?”
“No, I just say I am looking for a contact.”
“What about the snoring?”
“I can find my contact better if it is reverberating from the noise.”
“Oh Lord, I am trapped the head of a loony.”

3. Eat healthy: Having a balanced diet will maintain your daily intake of much needed vitamins and minerals. In turn, your body will respond in kind with much more energy and vitality. I was raised on this advice from my mother who stated “Only bad mothers serve their children frozen foods, and I love you. Here eat an apple”. She was the master of manipulation. If she tossed in a hug and kiss, she had you eating a pork chop, which has been fried for 10 minutes on each side until it resembles rawhide. Anyway. This is fine as long as you are under the age of 30, and before your body starts doing all kinds of really weird stuff with the food you eat. Lactose intolerant, allergic to this or that, acidy foods causing mouth ulcers, etc. The food group I am the most pissed at is the fiber group. Eat fiber so you won’t get colon cancer. Eat fiber so you’ll have healthy regular bowel movements, and you won’t be bloated or grumpy. Eat fiber to get rid of toe nail fungus or whatever. See here is the thing. Scientifically, fiber is the rough stuff that scrubs your colon so no nastiness remains and causes harm to one’s intestinal track thus polluting your body with unnecessary byproducts from the digestion process. Great. It’s a sucky job, but it needs to be done, right? I don’t know why corn chips don’t qualify as fiber. Have you ever accidentally swallowed large broken corn chip pieces? Those bastards are like little razor blades shredding the sides of your esophagus as they travel down to your stomach.

“Get to the point,” cries brain.
This fiber thing has one tremendous side effect, which is gas. I am not just talking about gas as a cute little toot that squeaks out of your butt every once in a while. I am talking about the smell of a decaying animal that seeps from one’s rectum at the most inappropriate moments in one’s life. Like while standing in line at one of those fashion boutiques, you know the one where you make 4 times more than the sales clerk, but for some reason, she is condescending and treats you like crap. Or when you are having a performance review with your boss, and there are only two of you in the room. That one really sucks. How about when you are out dancing with the girls, all of a sudden you realize you are the only one on the dance floor, and everyone is looking at you and whispering. This is the moment I visualize when my therapist asks “Have you ever wanted to die?”
As a side note: I did just finish a bag of Bar-b-q Fritos, and I only had a minor incident with one stabbing my tongue. Now I have to run 83 miles just to burn off the 300 calories and 29% grams of fat. Holy freaking cow!
“Hey, ADD girl, fiber remember?” screams brain.
“Yum, Fritos. Oh, fiber, yeah I’m done with that topic,” says me

4. Take the Cuddle Cure: Researchers at the UNC – Chapel Hill recently found that if Dateman was naked while wearing the Batman utility belt…”System overload, let’s get to work,” commands brain. Dategirl slowly closes her eyes as she lays her head on the desk. “Oh come on, she is drooling. This is sloppy work, people. Visual! I need a visual. Oh my, definitely keep the utility belt!”

The Sexual Education of Molly Brown:Part 1

It was just a simple freaking question. I am not really sure why my mother had to go a screw it up. Now to be fair, I am sure mother had good intentions. However, it had the same results as dropping the atom bomb on your backyard and then saying “I thought it would reduce the grass cutting chore.”

Molly did what any child would do. When she had a question, she went and asked her mother. “How do babies come out?” It is a typical question from a 6 year old. The reply went something like this.

“Why do you ask,” demanded Mother.
“Lisa’s mom is going to have her baby soon, and I don’t know how the baby is going to come out of her belly?”

There was a pause…

“Go and get me one of your baby dolls and a turtleneck sweater.”

So Molly ran to her bedroom to gather the objects. Much to mother’s surprise, Molly returned. She handed the objects to her mother. Mother took the baby doll, shoved it into the bottom of the shirt towards the neck so the head was peeking out.
“Now, this part of the shirt is the woman’s vagina (What the hell is that? thought Molly). When the baby is ready, it simply comes down the birth canal (Molly pictured the boat ride at the shore.) through the vagina (Is that a city?) and is born,” said Mother. At that very moment, Mother took her other hand and went up into the neck of the shirt and pulled the baby doll out of the shirt and handed it to Molly.

“Any more questions?” asked Mother. This is the moment when I would like to travel back in time and say to my mother, “Have you lost your frigging mind?” You just couldn’t have said, “Mommies go to the hospital to have babies.” No, I have to get the 2nd year medical school dissertation from a woman who was an education major in college. Great! Let’s check in with little Molly to see what kind of radio-active, psychological fall-out has just occurred.

A look of desperate horror came over Molly’s face as she walked back to her bedroom and sat on the floor. She looked from the doll to the shirt and back again to the doll. The Epiphany: Oh my God, Lisa’s mom puts on a turtleneck shirt and then she reaches into her tummy and pulls the baby out through the neck. “Why do I have this baby shirt?” Molly screamed from her bedroom.

At that very moment, the psychological damage had been done. It would be the last sex question she would ever ask. And so began the sexual education of Molly Brown.

In tenth grade, Molly had the misfortune of having Miss Verbeck, a lesbian and part time chicken farmer, as her sex ed health teacher (Yes, there is some weird crap in my head, but that I didn’t make up). Since it was an all girls’ class, a great deal of time was spent studying the female genitalia and reproductive cycle. The information she imparted about the labia and the clitoris verged on pornographic. The only thing that was missing was the postman, plumber, or vacuum cleaner sales man showing up in the classroom with his special delivery (wink…wink). Let me put this in context for you, it was 1979, and parents really didn’t give a crap back then. But enough of me blaming the lack of parental interest in education for my problems, let us see how the semester unravels, shall we?

Since the class had spent 2 weeks on the female reproductive system, the time had come for the male talk. “Oh joy of joys,” thought Molly. It was just like the anticipation on Christmas Eve when you knew deep down in your soul you were getting your very first bike. Molly quickly sat in her seat and took out her notebook and pencil. She was ecstatic. This is it. The age of enlightenment was before her. With a pencil firmly at the ready, Molly waited for the slide. The lights dimmed, and the slide appeared on the white screen.

There it was in all its glory; the holy grail of Sex Ed. The cross section of a penis appeared before her like a glowing angel of Mercy. Molly quickly glanced over to Sarah, the girl sitting next to her, with great wonder and smiled. Miss Verbeck started talking.

“This is the male genital region (She makes it sound like a part of Switzerland). As you can see, there is a penis (giggling started), and a scrotum (A totem? What? Wait.) which contains the testicles which produces sperm. The sperm is transported via the urethra (Transported? As in bus or truck?) to impregnate the female egg. Any questions?”

Molly thought for a moment. Now she knew that urine traveled down the urethra causing boys to pee. While looking at the diagram, Molly determined that urine used gravity and muscle control. This made sense because the bladder was above the penis. However, the testicles were below the penis. How in the world would the sperm be forced out of the testicles? Molly looked at the diagram one more time.

“Next, we will discuss venereal diseases.” And just like that, the slide was gone. 53 seconds. What? Are you kidding me? That’s it. 53 seconds? (That’s the amount of time it takes for George Bush to sound like an idiot. Oh wait, that’s 5 seconds. Never mind…) we get more information from the bathroom walls. Sarah whispered to Molly as she began to raise her hand, “So, how does the sperm get to the egg?”

“Girls! Pay attention,” screamed Miss Verbeck as she slammed her wooden pointer on the desk. The girls jumped in fear and sank in their seats. And at that moment, Molly’s formal education in sex was complete.

So the good news out of this complete and utter mess called an education is that Molly was able to learn a vagina was a female body part and neither the neck section of a turtleneck sweater nor a city in Romania.

As for how sperm is extracted from the testicles and impregnates the female egg? Here is my diatribe: When you are working as a covert operative for the US trying to infiltrate the Nazi’s during World War II, it is good to leave out the important bits of information so your side can, oh I don’t know, win the war and stop genocide! This is when I find it completely acceptable to use knowledge as a weapon. To get to the point, as if I ever really have a point, is that Sir Francis Bacon (whose mother was Anne Cooke Bacon, which just cracks me up) had a point that knowledge is power.

So we leave Molly in a puffy cloud of ignorant bliss to learn the rest of her sexual education from deciphering the scribbles on the bathroom stalls and from those cunning snipers of sexual warfare, teenage boys.

Mowing the Lawn

Monty Python’s Flying Circus Presents…

Neighbor: And now for something completely different: a man with three buttocks…
Mum, Dad: [from upstairs] We've done that!
Neighbor: Oh, all right. All right! A man with nine legs.
Off-Camera Voice: He ran away.
Neighbor: Oh… bloody hell! Er… a woman with a lawn mower…

The lawn mowing chore has to be the most annoying house maintenance job man has ever invented. Yes, even over cleaning gutters or kitchen floors. The latter being the worst task for me. I still think all kitchens should have stainless steel floors with drains in the middle of them, and a mandatory kitchen appliance would be an under the counter pressure washer. But I digress.
I have on rare occasion mowed a lawn. Growing up with a bunch of older brothers there was no reason for me to mow the lawn. Even if first string sibling was on the injured list, the second or third string lawn boy was waiting on the side line ready to prove that they had the right stuff. It was more like if you didn’t mow the lawn the way mother wanted it mowed, she would show you she had the right stuff which was either at the end of a ping pong paddle or her left shoe. And if you are wondering, no I didn’t grow up in the generation of “aren’t children precious, and please don’t stifle their individuality, children are people too” era of child rearing. The parents in my generation were under the firm believe that children were meant to be seen and not hear, and if mom didn’t see her kids all Saturday and Sunday because they were playing in the woods with some ax murdering psychopath, well that would have been just fine at least we were learning a skill.
“Oh boy, can we stay on topic?” moaned Brain.
So, I now have to mow the lawn. What’s the big deal? Well, dear readers sit back and relax as you observe from your front porch.
Issue Number 1: My front lawn is on a hill.
Issue Number 2: The middle of my front lawn is one of those lovely natural areas where the squirrels are happy to run and frolic about joyfully amongst trees and lots of shrubbery.
And now for something completely different…
Pet Shop Owner: Oh yes, the, ah, the Norwegian Blue... What's, ah... W-what's wrong with it? Mr. Praline: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. It's dead, that's what's wrong with it. Owner: No, no, 'e's ah... he's resting. Mr. Praline: Look, matey, I know a dead squirrel when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now. Owner: No no, h-he's not dead, he's, he's restin'! Mr. Praline: Restin'? Owner: Y-yeah, restin.' Remarkable squirrel, the Norwegian Blue, isn't it, eh? Beautiful fur! Mr. Praline: The fur don't enter into it. It's stone dead! Owner: Nononono, no, no! 'E's resting! Mr. Praline: All right then, if he's resting, I'll wake him up!
(shouting at the cage)
'Ello, Rocky! Mister Rocky Squirrel! I've got a lovely fresh pail of nuts for you if you wake up, Mr. Rocky Squirrel...
(owner hits the cage)
Owner: There, he moved! Mr. Praline: No, he didn't, that was you pushing the cage! Owner: I never!! Mr. Praline: Yes, you did! Owner: I never, never....
(He pulls the squirrel out of the cage and...)
Brain screams…”Put down the squirrel and no one gets hurt. Let the girl finish her insipid lawn mowing story.”

Issue Number 3. I have violets, clover, moss, vole holes, and 517 blades of rye grass which are clumped together in a pattern that resemble the country of Denmark.
Issue Number 4: I am the proud recipient of the water main pipe thingy (yes, 4 years of college and that is the only term I have for it) which sits 6 to 7 inches (that’s the imperial standard 6 inches not the men’s locker room six inches) out of the ground about a foot from the curb dead center in my yard. It is a lovely feature; I think I might place two rocks next to it and see how long it takes for someone to knock on my door.
Issue Number 5: My lawn mower is electric. Now before all you organic granola, tree hugging democrats get all orgasmic on me, please re-read the above 4 issues. Waiting…waiting… image coming…Yes, I know your rose colored glasses just shattered with a cold hearted slap from reality. Here’s a tissue, dab your eyes, and wipe the snot from your nose.
And finally…
Issue Number 6: The only electrical outlet is located on the back wall of my carport.

Each individual piece is rather delightful item to itself, but once combined; mowing my yard is like going to Disneyland with a broken leg and being tethered to a pole. It just not the pleasant experience I have seen on “Leave to Beaver” when Wally tried mowing lawn for the first time. So, what sadistic lawn mowing bastard decided an electric lawn trimming device was the best option for our lawn care services? Oh yes, it was Xhusband. Ug…
So the wild green plant life needs trimming. What is one to do? Well, I must drag the mower from the shed in the back yard through the dog poop and collapsing swing set, down the rock invested side yard littered with old kid yard toys (pretty much if I cannot see it, you shouldn’t be able to either) into the front yard. String three exterior extension cords together. Now this would appear to be a simple task. However, one has to twist the male and female plugs in a specific pattern to make sure they don’t pull apart. If you look in your sexual reference manual, page 53, the Pretzel position is how the cords end up looking. Refer the following verbal description:
Curling her right leg around your right side and straddling her left leg. Use your left hand...
“Stop,” yells Brain, “vomit impulse is coming in from the stomach…”
Where to start? Hum… left side near drive way. OK, seems as good as any. It is a thin strip of land; it would be a small accomplishment, and one that will build self-esteem with the new mowing skills I am about to acquire. Mowing down the property line, maybe. Make note to self to know precisely where the property line is. Nearing flower bed. Must make turn. But to where? Go straight back up from whiniest I came or just make a right hand turn? In my state of quandary, I just start mowing the lawn like one would vacuum a carpet. At this point a nagging feeling crept from my brain. “You look like an idiot; this isn’t a carpet. Remember what the Hubs told you?” I thought for a moment. It seems to me that some where during my 20 year marriage Xhusband made mention of mowing the lawn in a particular pattern. Yes, I am sure he mentioned it several times. Why didn’t I retain that information? Quite simple really, I saw no need for both of us to be experts in the same areas. So, I was happy to smile politely as he jabbered on about which mowing pattern was healthier for the grass. You might think it rude, but Xhusband did the same for me when I babbled on about the differences between using cleanser vs. soap scum removal liquids for the tub. So I searched my brain for any information at all on lawn patterns.
“What do you think I am a Google search engine?” Brain said to me rather rudely.
“Pretty much,” I replied back to myself.
In a mumbling voice, “Google search my ass…”
“What?”
“There are two entries. One stating that mowing needs to be done in some sort of grid pattern. The other entry states something about blade height. Here is the audio,” Brain stated
“Wow, you can do audio?” I replied as my X-husband’s voice started to replay in my head.
“During the summer months, the blade is to be approximately blah, blah, blah. Notice neighbor X has applied this rule and blah, blah, blah, blah. However, Neighbor Y did not abide by this rule and their lawn has died and has brown spots. Now here is the interesting thing about brown spots, [blank for 2 minutes]. “

“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air? Nixon playing with scissors again?”
“Nope from the looks of the data feed, you slipped into a short coma. Now if you had simply chosen to ignore him, which is where the blahs appear, I can run a dialog simulation routine against it. I would use the topic and various blah, blah. Hey, you cannot ignore a conversion from your own brain. This is [blank]” Brain said furiously to no one.
“What’s up with the several minutes of dead air?” I repeated
“I need to talk with my union representative, I need to reassigned. I hear Sarah Palin needs a brain…”
Little did I know that the lawn maintenance knowledge has been handed down from father to since 1919. From the dawn of time, men hung out in backyard sheds and made whiskey. It was not that men really liked making whiskey; they just needed a reason to get away from their wives. So once Prohibition was in place, the men all got together and decided that they needed another outdoor activity to keep them out of the house and away from chores and children. Thus, lawns were invented.
At this point, I head towards the green menagerie of vegetation near the curb I like to call a lawn. After surveying my options, I decide to run the lawn mower parallel to the curb. Seemed like a good plan until the mower stopped working. Crap. The plug must have come undone. I run up the hill to the carport and check the plug…looks good. I run down the hill and checked each attachment of the extension cord…everything’s fine. I get back to the mower and stare at it. “It’s a lawn mower; it cannot speak,” mocks brain.
“Good, that means the paranoid/ delusional meds I’m taking are working.”
“Not really, but check the plug that goes into the lawn mower.”
“Oh, look at that.”
The above action was repeated about 3 or 4 times. Each time a different plug in spot had come undone. Add in various cord trappings by bushes, trees, a water pipe, and a dog, and you have woman running around frantically in her yard wrestling with an extension cord. It has been about 30 minutes, and I am still not finished. Did I mention the size of my lawn? It is about 110 feet wide by 6 feet deep. So it should take anyone with a gas mower, what, 5 minutes? In the middle of my antics, my 80 year old neighbor who has a lawn which resembles a carpet came over to say hello. And it went something like this.
“Hello dear. It is lovely to see you as always.” He is such flirt.
“Hi, Howard.”
“I see you are mowing your lawn. Such a fine woman shouldn’t be mowing her own yard. Maybe we can find you a nice man to help you.” And with that, he literally looked up and down the street. Just then Eric Idle jumped out of the bushes wearing a garter belt, bra and panties and mows my lawn with a toy lawn mower that blows bubbles.