Yesterday the Bean and I went to a carnival. We found it totally by accident, on our way to another event called “Touch a Truck” which was basically just a huge, dusty field lined with big trucks, a partially deflated bouncy house, and a big pile of dirt for kids to fuck around in and then track back to their parents’ cars. Awesome name, lame event.
Seriously, the only real thing of note there was the vanilla-flavored Sno-Cone I ordered just so I could say things like, “Mmm, I just LOVE having Vanilla Ice in my mouth!” and “I am going to swallow all this Vanilla Ice!” while my friends looked disgusted and my son looked confused.
Anyway, after standing in line for 20 minutes so the Bean could sit in the driver’s seat of a fire truck and *not* pose for pictures, we were both like, “Um… FUCK THIS,” and left to go to the carnival instead.
Hey, here’s something:
Me, age 12: “OMG OMG OMG THE CARNIVAL!! I can’t wait to run around with my BFF like we own the place! I don’t care at ALL that all the carnies look creepy and smell weird! And who cares that each ride is held together with chewed gum and fishing wire and costs $43 to ride? Sure as hell NOT ME! I’m going on every ride at least twice! And then I will eat an entire candy apple and jump on those revolving swings so I can barf in a trash can later!* I hope no cute boys are looking because I might want to make out with one later! YEAH! Whee!!”
Me, yesterday: “Yay! The carnival! The Bean will LOVE it! Oh, look how happy he is! This is wonderful! Wait, why are there so many delinquent youths here? Are those two ugly preteen children making out on the Kiddie Barnyard ride? Gross. Huh… was the carnival always this expensive? There sure are a lot of people smoking around here. And that one gentleman running the Moby Dick ride looks an awful lot like one of those mug shots I saw on the Sex Offender Registry when I checked before trick-or-treating. Wait, you want me to ride what? Um, no thank you, I think I’ll pass on the Deathtrap Zipper Ride and the Vomit Spin. What do you MEAN children under 46 inches must ride with an adult? Fuck YOU, Sex Offender Carny. Just fuck you.”
But of course I DID ride every ride, because that was what the Bean wanted and if any kid has mastered the art of Getting What He Wants Via Sad Face, it’s my kid. (Inappropriately Proud Mama moment… okay, over it.)
So I tried not to barf on the Tilt-a-Puke (narrow success) and tried not to cry on the Demons of Speed and Force (less successful) and just blatantly SOBBED on the Paragliders of Death ride after my so-called “friend” Paige, who’s a court reporter, gleefully announced while we were still in line that she had done depositions on “lots” of injury cases thanks to carnival rides “just like this” and then I noticed that the fellow running this particular ride was missing several incisors. The Bean (who clearly doesn’t understand how unlikely it is that someone unable to perform even the most basic dental hygiene maneuvers will be motivated to follow carnival equipment maintenance guidelines to the letter) happily climbed on board without a care in the world and then laughed in the face of death while I wept openly and shouted things like “PLEASE GOD LET IT BE OVER” and “I WANT MY MOMMY DEAR JESUS WHEN WILL THIS END??!?”
Later, he told me that my torment only served to add to his enjoyment.
I’m just a *little* worried.
Anyway, I left about 80 bucks lighter and a bag of Kettle Corn heavier, with a stuffed unicorn and one very exhausted and satisfied Bean in my backseat. And on the way home, with sleepy eyes and blue cotton candy lips, he muttered (not to anyone in particular), “Best. Day. Ever.” And as much as I hate to admit it… he just might have been right.
* Really happened.
ME: Are you ready for some amazing news?
BIG BEAN: Oh, lord.
ME: No, really. This is fucking AMAZING.
BIG BEAN: Here we go.
ME: Wells Fargo has this new thing where you can take a PICTURE of a CHECK and send it in to deposit it!! You don’t even have to go to the bank or anything!! Isn’t that incredible? I mean, who knew?
BIG BEAN: Um, I knew, and everyone else knew, and all the other banks knew like two years ago.
BIG BEAN: I hate to tell you this, but other banks have been offering that service for years.
ME: No, they haven’t. If they had, I would have heard about it.
BIG BEAN: How would you have heard about it?
ME: On the news.
BIG BEAN: You don’t watch the news.
ME: Well, I read the Internet, and it would have been on the Internet.
BIG BEAN: You read the Internet?
ME: Well not the whole Internet, obviously. But I read some of the Internet. The part with the news.
BIG BEAN: You read the part of the Internet with the news?
BIG BEAN: So what did today’s news say?
ME: Today is Saturday.
BIG BEAN: Yes, it is.
ME: I don’t read the Internet on Saturdays. I take Saturdays off.
BIG BEAN: Okay then, what was yesterday’s news?
ME: Well, yesterday they decided to cancel the New York City Marathon and everyone was really happy about that. And Joss Whedon made a funny video about how Mitt Romney will lead the country to a Zombie Apocalypse. There were some SUPER cute Halloween costumes this year, New York & Company is having a big sale on tops and a lot of people are really thankful for stuff this month.
BIG BEAN: You got all that from Facebook, didn’t you.
ME: Does it really matter?
BIG BEAN: Just make your deposit.
He’s sexy and sparkly and a girl’s true desire.
So what if he’s an old, dead vampire?
It didn’t stop Bella from lighting his fire…
Shut the fuck up about Twilight.
I get it — this story’s the stuff made of dreams.
Panties cream, from old moms to young teens.
But these books have been out fifty years, so it seems…
Shut the fuck up about Twilight.
The truth is, you just wish that you could be Bella
Young and dumb, with a rich, gorgeous fella
And an endless love bond, like you’re under a spell… uh,
Shut the fuck up about Twilight.
Yes, Edward gets you hot, bothered and weepy
But he’s pasty and broody and way too grim reap-y
And a soccer mom pining for him is just creepy
Shut the fuck up about Twilight.
The last movie’s coming, I hope that’s the end
Of the vampire-loves-dumbass-chick trend
Let’s start loving books that don’t suck balls, my friend.
Shut the fuck up about Twilight.
I just had a really terrible, stupid idea. And then I followed through with it, so now it’s more than just a terrible stupid idea, it’s an actual terrible, stupid thing I did.
If you’ve never had a blog you won’t understand how sinister that picture is up there, but trust me when I tell you, it’s fucking evil. NaBloPoMo, in addition to having the lamest name in the history of lamely named participatory events*, can challenge the resolve of even the most confident, prolific, hearty writers. For a writer like me, who’s pretty much the opposite of all those things lately, it’s downright brutal.
So obviously I’m totally doing it!
Here’s how it works: You sign up, you write a post. Every day. For the entire month of November. Which is 30 days, or so the little rhyme tells me. That’s 30 DAYS of panicking, grasping at straws, pulling your hair out, creating sub-par content that you would never publish on your blog ordinarily** and then blissfully hitting the “Publish” button anyway because what-the-fuck-else-are-you-going-to-do? and not even feeling bad about it later because seriously-you-got-nuthin.
I would write more about what a stupid idea this is, or about how tremendously I’m going to suck at it (because hello?? I never even write on this blog anymore!!)… but I’m already wondering what the hell I’ll pull out of my ass for tomorrow’s post so maybe (teaser!) I should save my bitchfest for then.*** Really, why waste words today when I can wait and waste them tomorrow?
JESUS it’s going to be a great November.
** Ah, hell. Who am I kidding? This entire blog is basically nothing BUT sub-par content.
*** I know, right? You already can’t wait to read it.
Disclaimer: The title of this post is “How I Spent Three Hours Looking at Fake Vaginas.” I called it that because I actually DID look at fake vaginas, and then I wrote about it. Here. In this post. There are also pictures of fake vaginas. Here. In this post.
If you don’t want to see pictures of fake vaginas, or read about fake vaginas, you should probably leave now. Because, again, YOU ARE ABOUT TO SEE FAKE VAGINAS. I don’t want to hear any whining about it. You’ve been warned.
So I have this friend who has a friend who works for a company called Fleshlight. And one day my friend was all, “Hey! You should totally pitch some freelance work to Fleshlight!” and I was all, “I don’t know what that is but it sounds horrible,” and he said, “No, it’s awesome. Check it out, I bet you could really write some great stuff for them.” So, being interested in marketing my superior freelance writing services to a higher end, corporate client fucking desperate for work, I opened the web site to see what it was all about.
And then I spent three hours on the Internet looking at fake vaginas.
With an expression on my face very similar to this:
I think I’ve hit a new low.
Anyway I told my friend that I’d never forgive him for making me know that fake vaginas exist and he was all, “Well JEEZ, Beej, I just thought you could write some funny copy for them or something, I didn’t know you’d get all into it or whatever,” and I literally gasped at the offensiveness of that. And when I recovered I explained that I wasn’t into it, but rather shocked and mortified and holy-shit-fake-vaginas-yuck… and all those things fall into a completely different emotional category.
He wasn’t convinced but whatever.
So then I took a hot shower. Scalding hot. For an hour and a half. Which, for the record, did nothing to cleanse the images of Fleshlight from my eyeballs. And when I finally got up from my fetal position, I started thinking about how I should maybe start doing a better job of time management in my life. Because three hours, y’all.
This is when I decided to break down all that time I’d spent looking at fake vaginas. You know, for better analysis and stuff. Because clearly this was a MUCH better use of my time than paying the mortgage or picking my son up from Kindergarten or finishing that project I was supposed to turn in yesterday.
And here it is.
MY THREE HOURS ON FLESHLIGHT
12:00-12:30 Opened home page to find a shiny, golden naked girl covered in chains. Why aren’t the chains attached to anything? Is she a slave who’s escaped from an underground gold mining operation? Is her punishment just to CARRY the heavy chains, like Jacob Marley? So many questions. So few answers.
Wait. Why she is holding that magic golden eye? Why is it winking?
12:31 OHMYGOD THAT IS NOT A MAGIC EYE.
12:31-12:45 B-b-b-but… where does the… how does the… what do you do with the… ???
Realization: I can never un-see this.
12:45-1:00 Initial shock wore off. More information needed. Commenced investigation. Located selection of fake vaginas…
…and assholes. Because of COURSE assholes.
1:00-1:15 Time spent feeling insecure about the inadequacies of my own vagina. Research on possible surgery to improve my vagina’s textural condition, because apparently this is a thing that’s important. I had no idea.
Particularly intimidated by the “mature orifice” and “prize-worthy texture” of the M.I.L.F. Hunter.
Product description: “Get your cock loaded and assume the stealth position! Introducing the M.I.L.F. Hunter by Fleshlight. Made from our patented SuperSkin™ material, the M.I.L.F. Hunter Fleshlight product features a mature orifice with a prize-worthy texture, and comes with a camo-green case. Order now before you miss your shot!”
1:15-1:30 WAIT. STOP. NO. WAIT.
Is that vagina…
(Additional time spent coming to terms with the knowledge that I will never be okay again.)
1:30-1:45 Perused the new and exciting “Sex in a Can” product line of fake vaginas/mouths/assholes — cleverly disguised inside fake beer cans. For when you need to take your vagina/mouth/asshole on the go, obviously. Yes. This is necessary.
Product description for Lady Lager: “Born in the heart of Texas’ hill country, Lady Lager is carefully handcrafted by masturbrewers with our patented SuperSkin Material for a truly lifelike feel. This lady combines the choicest lips and the rarest sensations you’ll always fill up and will never let you down.”
Masturbrewers? Never let you down? Everything about this makes me realize that I am a total failure as a copywriter.
1:45-2:00 Oh hey! They have a Halloween section!
Oh. Dear. They have a Halloween section.
Seriously? Bumpy, veiny zombie and Frankenstein vaginas and dildos? THIS COULD NOT POSSIBLY GET ANY SEXIER.
2:00-2:15 Um… now, wait a minute. I’m confused.
Isn’t this the kind of thing that penises usually wish to AVOID?
Here my confusion led to extensive polling of my male friends, with questions like, “But… ouch? Right?” and “In what way is this good?” Their answers were generally just as confused as I was. (Favorite comment: “I think my penis just tried to crawl back inside my body.”)
2:15-2:20 Hmm. Now, what could this cute little contraption be?
2:20-2:45 Ooooohhhh. I see. Oh, my.
2:45-3:00 And now, for the rest of my life, I will imagine every man who enters my frame of vision humping a cat tree.
Thank you for that, Fleshlight.
3:00 At this point, I realized that the Little Bean had been waiting for me to pick him up from school for about 45 minutes. And that is the one and only reason I stopped looking at fake vaginas.
Side note: I am the best mom ever.
So. The good news is, after proper analysis I’ve come away from all of this a little wiser and a whole lot more skanky. Which, I’m pretty sure, is EXACTLY the kind of freelancer a company like Fleshlight needs.
Forthcoming: My pitch letter to the Fleshlight Powers That Be. With samples.
Tags: my real vagina is sad
Any product that says “Guaranteed to make your straight hair curly!”
Diffusers with gel
Diffusers with mousse
Diffusers with root lifter
Diffusers with thickening cream
Leave-in curling conditioner
That stupid sock idea
Any instructions on the Internet
Anything recommended by a Youtube video
These fucking ridiculous things
Cursing your parents
Cursing your husband
Cursing your friends with curly hair
Sleeping in braids
Trying to sleep in even tighter, painful braids
Bargaining with God
Dear Old Lady Who Thinks She’s the Boss of Me:
I don’t know if you know this, but I’m FIVE. And when you turn five, that means YOU get to be the boss and you don’t have to listen to your mom OR your dad, especially when they’re telling you that it’s not “healthy” to play video games all day every day, or that you can’t get what you want by whining, or some stupid shit like that.
So I’ve decided to take over.
Now that I’m the boss, there are going to be a few new rules around here so I hope you’re ready. Take note.
- I CAN EAT CANDY WHENEVER I WANT AND YOU CANNOT STOP ME. You will buy me at least two cases of gummy worms and a satchel of candy corn every time you go to the grocery store and that is what I will have for dinner, with ice cream and frosting for dessert. Vegetables are for pussies.
- Miss Bossypants Two Doors Down is my VERY BEST FRIEND and there’s not a goddamned THING you can do about it. I will play with her every day and I will do everything she says, even if she tells me to break every rule you’ve ever had or wants to dress me up like a princess again.
- You are NOT ALLOWED to EVER take me to the grocery store again, I hate that fucking place.
- Every day when you pick me up from school you will take me to the place with all the games and buy me ONE THOUSAND TOKENS, and you will wait patiently for me to use every single last one of them. You will hold on to all of my tickets and when it’s time to cash in you will NOT confuse me with math questions (“So if you have 100 tickets and the green vampire teeth are 30 tickets, do you have enough?” I HATE THAT SHIT!) If I don’t have enough tickets for the prize I want, you’ll figure out a way, I know you can. I have faith in you.
Also, all of this will happen regardless of the color I receive in my behavior folder for Kindergarten that day. Don’t like that I got a “red” mark? Sounds like a personal problem to me.
- Speaking of Kindergarten, I don’t like it and I’m not going to go anymore. Find another solution.
- You will watch and applaud everything I do, except when I don’t want you to. You will provide your undivided attention and clap enthusiastically when I do any of the following:- Dance
- Play a video game
- Perform a musical in the bathtub
- Tell a story
- Jump on the trampoline in my underwear and Spiderman goggles
However, when I do other things like jump on the couch, slam the door or poke the dog in the eye, you will pretend not to notice or care.
- Speaking of the trampoline, I know we have one in the backyard but that doesn’t mean I don’t still get to go to the jumpy trampoline place anytime I want to. I don’t care how much it costs you, stop bellyaching and get with the program. Find a Groupon or something, I don’t care.
- You will finally make good on that promise you made to take me to the water park this summer and stop pretending like you don’t remember. I’M FIVE, NOT STUPID.
- I like to do stuff. Fun stuff. Stuff like the jumpy place (see Rule #7) and the water park (#8) and the arcade (#4) and the lake and the swimming pool and the park and whatever. Get over it and make some shit happen.
- Don’t even THINK about using Santa as a bribe again this year. He IS coming to my house on Christmas Eve and he WILL bring a Nintendo 3DS WITH Mario Kart 7, regardless of how I behave between now and December 25. You keep telling me you have an “in” with the guy, so it’s time to put up or shut up.
- I will be something fantastic for Halloween and by “fantastic” I mean FUCKING SCARY. I haven’t decided what yet but whatever it is will involve BLOOD and GORE and probably a MASK, even though you said I couldn’t have one (which was a dumb rule to begin with – who cares how handsome my face is? It’s Halloween, for chrissakes). Also, any costume you like or think is “cute” is automatically disqualified.
- Bedtime is whenever I want it to be which is NEVER.
- The television is MINE. I can watch whatever I want, whenever I want and you can’t watch anything ever. Without restriction, I will watch all of the following:
- MAD, even though all the jokes are about Twilight and I don’t know what the hell that is.
- Shrek 2 for the 6,745,764th time (that part where Puss licks himself just never gets old!).
- Any of those shitty “sitcoms” on the Disney channel that you’re always complaining about.
Also, you have to stop trying to force Sesame Street down my throat. I’ve moved on and it’s time you did, too.
- I will continue to call you a “butthole” anytime I want to. (Thanks again, Aunt Sassy, for teaching me this awesome term. It’s so descriptive!)
- You are not allowed to make me pose for pictures anymore, and I don’t have to wear pants if I don’t want to which I don’t. I’m not your trained monkey, and pants make me sad.
So there you go. I’ll just make up the rest as I go.
I hope you know I’m not doing this to punish you, it’s just that I’m FIVE now and it’s time I took charge. I think these are all really good rules and things are going to work out great for everyone if you’ll just fall in line. If you don’t, I’ll have to send you to your room for at least ten minutes and I will NOT share any of my candy corn or fruit snacks with you. (I see you sneaking them all the time so don’t pretend like that doesn’t scare you.)
But hey — don’t be too scared. I plan to be a benevolent ruler, and I’m sure we’re going to get along fine. Just remember that I especially like people who follow my rules, let me have whatever I want and never, ever say “no” to me.
So don’t be a butthole.
The Five Year Old Who is Now the Boss of EVERYONE.
Since we first met, we’ve been best of friends
Held hands and each other’s hair, time and again
We’ve stood, strong and tall, through thick and through thin, and
We’re on our periods together.
Our husbands and children, all like family, too
They love, laugh and bicker just like we used to, but
When Auntie Flo comes they don’t know what to do
‘Cause we’re on our periods together.
Anniversaries, birthdays and family vacations
We all think of life as one big celebration
But our kids fear the reaper; our husbands, castration
When we‘re on our periods together.
I’ve heard it’s moon cycles that cause us to sync
A ribbon that ties us, smooth, satin and pink
Sisters held close by an invisible link
As we’re on our periods together.
For three days or so, we lock ourselves away
We eat sweets, watch Lifetime shows, cry and crochet
If anyone lets us out, there’s hell to pay
‘Cause we’re on our periods together.
Now the warning is out, Big Brother has spoken
From San Fran to Dayton, L.A. to Hoboken
Hide kids, pets and anything you don’t want broken
We’re on our periods together.
Next week you’ll be safe, you can come out from hiding
The mood swings will end, cramps should be subsiding
But start prepping now, for next month’s moon rising…
When we’ll be on our periods together.
Okay. So. This thing about the breastfeeding.
There she is, y’all. The perfect mom. She’s skinny and pretty and her boobs are still perky even, somehow, with a three-year-old kid attached to one.
Yep, there she stands – all “HELL YEAH THAT’S MY BOOB, BITCHES” – provocative, defiant, blah blah, while Internet moms falling squarely on one side of the fence or the other sharpen their pitchforks and light their torches, blah blah… and Time Magazine executives sit back and watch sales skyrocket, blah blah blah-dee blah blah.
Breastfeeders: “It’s about time! Go, girl! Other moms stink! Breast is best!”
Non-Breastfeeders: “STOP JUDGING ME YOU SKANK.”
Time Magazine: “Eeeeeeeeexcellent.”
Now I suppose, if pressed, I would land softly upon the grass of the nonbelievers, but that’s really WAY less about my personal feelings on the issue and more due to a very persistent rebellious streak that sounds a screechy alarm inside my head whenever its Sanctimonious Ass-O-Meter reaches critical levels.
I simply don’t like ANYONE AT ALL EVER telling me what I should or shouldn’t do. I just plain don’t like it, never have never will – and my flight response when it happens is legendary.
(See also: Religion.)
The truth is, I tried breastfeeding but just kind of sucked at it (no pun intended). I gave it the good old college try and marked time until I could hang ‘em up, which I did swiftly and without guilt after putting in my requisite 8 weeks (plus an extra two, just to prove I really meant it).
Does that make me a bad mom? I don’t think so. In fact, I think I’m a pretty good mom – and to prove it I’ll point you to Exhibit A: my extremely healthy, happy, outgoing, well-adjusted five-year-old, who is SO perfect he could even give Perky McPerfectboobs up there a run for her money. (And while I suspect his perfection’s more about nature than nurture… I still could have made a real mess of this by now and I haven’t — so credit where credit’s due, and all that.)
If you’d still like to argue the point, I’ll now invite you to stare at this picture for 30 seconds, click on it and read him in his own words, and then please to suck my left nut.
The fact that I’ve managed to produce a perfect child without breastfeeding him into his twenties isn’t the point, of course. Nor is it my point that all women should (or should not) embrace attachment parenting (or the opposite) as either the best thing (or the worst thing) ever ever ever in the history of the world ever (period and amen).
No, my point here is this:
PLEASE PUT YOUR BOOBS AWAY.
I have a five-year-old, y’all. A five-year-old who’s very curious and very precocious and just happens to be showing a lot of interest lately in the differences between boys and girls and how babies get in bellies and that sort of thing. A llllllllot of interest. And all these boobies getting thrown around on TV, on magazine covers and in front of Panda Express at the mall have REALLY got him wondering.
Now, I’m not scared to talk to him about these things, most certainly not – in fact, I kind of welcome the chance to educate him in my own words before some douchey playground know-it-all decides to take care of that for me. However, I would like to exercise as much control as I can over when and where those conversations take place, and your boob poking right out there in the middle of the food court, or staring down at us from a magazine rack while we unload groceries at the checkout line, is yanking what little control I have left right out from under me.
So, please. For the love of all things easy and pleasant and non-controversial. IX-NAY ON THE OOBS-BAY.
If attachment parenting is your thing, I applaud you. You are clearly better at the breastfeeding thing than I ever was so yay, you. I can only assume that you’ve thought this through, done the proper amount of research, and made the decision that’s best for you and your family. As a result, I’m sure your child will grow up knowing that his mother loves him and has done her best by him. Yay for you both. You’re awesome.
But — and I’m sorry for this, I really am — I just don’t want my five-year-old to see your tits today.
Let’s be clear. I have nothing against boobs. I LOVE boobs. I especially like my own, but I’m sure yours are wonderful, too. They’re terrific on many levels. I am grateful for mine, yours, big, small, long, short, stretchy, plastic, whatever. Yay, all of us, for having boobs!!
I will someday teach my son to appreciate the beauty of them – of the entire female form, in fact. I’ll explain to him the miracle of childbirth and help him recognize the wonder of the mother-child bond. I will do my best to de-sexualize the breast for him in this context, so that he sees a mother feeding her child as an act of nurturing beauty, with no stigma attached. I promise you, I will.
But right now? The kid is five. With the curiosity of a Cheshire and a verrrry vivid imagination. He’s also saddled with two parents who, combined, have the maturity level of a 14-year-old and can’t stop saying “that’s what she said” or high-fiving when someone farts. Do we REALLY need to throw a pretty lady’s boob (with kid attached) into this mix?
I think not.
Call me a prude, call me a killjoy, call me 1986 Tipper Gore. For the next few years I can live with that. I will OWN it. I will wear the dunce hat in the corner, I will sport a big nametag that says “SANTIMONIOUS ASSHOLE.” I will do whatever you want. Just, please. For the love of christ. Can we just shut the hell up about the boobs?!?
Seriously. I’m begging you.
PUT YOUR BOOBS AWAY.