You don’t need a special occasion to wear something special

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I sobbed a lot when I had to say goodbye to my childhood home (you can read about that and sob a bit by clicking HERE). The good news is that when going through all the things and saying goodbye, I came across some magnificent treasures that made me happy. Here is one such treasure.

Fancy, yes? I know.

Fancy, yes? I know.

The sweater belonged to my mother. It’s softer than a newborn baby’s bottom, made of cashmere, yo! The fur is fake, I think, I can’t be sure, as I don’t know shit about this kind of thing and the label inside doesn’t give me any info on it. But oh my gawd, look at the buttons…

More fancy, yes? I know.

More fancy, yes? I know.

I die.

It’s well known that I have the fashion sense of a demented, drunk hobo, but even I know how fancy and classy this thing is, and it’s special too, because it belonged to my momma and she is fancy and classy. I didn’t inherit any of her fancy class. It’s a sadness, I know.

Not fancy and classy.

Not fancy and classy.

I may not be fancy and classy, but that doesn’t mean I can’t wear the sweater, right? I just couldn’t think of a special fancy occasion to wear the thing and this made me frown. Some friends suggested that I wear it anyway, that I didn’t have to be going somewhere or doing something fancy at all to wear this special sweater.

Oh my gawd, why didn’t I think of that? So I wore it today.

Fancy dishwashing!

Fancy dishwashing!

I do feel like every day is special, because I get to breathe, and wearing the fancy sweater did make me feel more fancy when I was cleaning up, so I have decided that I’m going to start wearing this fancy sweater a lot more often when I’m doing stuff and breathing, even if that stuff isn’t fancy at all.

Maybe you want to be fancy too? Well, just be fancy then. Wear your special fancy stuff, you know, because life is special and short and before you know it, you will run out of breathing time, and let’s be honest, do you really want to waste your fancy stuff on your dead, rotting corpse? So not fancy.

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Some gifts are actually better than a glazed Poop Ninja

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Say hello to the Poop Ninja.

Last night, my son gave me a gift. No, it wasn’t Poop Ninja. He gave me that incredible something many years ago. Last night, he gave me something different, something that can’t be photographed or touched at all. It’s even better than Poop Ninja, if you can believe that!

Mom, what the hell is this? – Him

I have NO idea, but I love him. – Me

I’m serious. – Him

So am I. – Me

Where did it come from? – Him

Um…you! You gave him to me. – Me

No. Noooooooooo! – Him

Yes. Yeeeeeeeees! – Me

When? Are you sure? – Him

I am 145.45% sure that you made him and gave him to me. I was a long time ago. – Me

I’m sorry. – Him

Why? I loooooove him. – Me

You don’t have to pretend anymore. Dump it. – Him

Not it. Him. I love him. He’s my friend. His name is Poop Ninja. – Me

Throw it out. – Him

No. He is too blob-tastic. He’s mine always and forever. – Me

Fine, you keep your glazed turd pal, but if you throw out other crap that I gave you when I was a little weirdo, I won’t be mad. I know you love me. – Him

I do. I love you so much it hurts sometimes. However, I consider your permission to toss stuff you’ve given me a gift of sorts, a really generous one too, because most of what you have given me over the years is crap. – Me

So get rid of it. – Him

I will probably get rid of nothing. It’s a mom thing. – Me

It’s a creepy thing. Just get rid of stuff, you hoarder. I want you to. – Him

No. – Me

At least get rid of some stuff. – Him

Fine, but not everything, because someday you might find out you are shooting blanks and you might want to make a mini-me and you will be very glad to have all the teeth and hair and nail clippings and dead skin I’ve saved over the years. – Me

(Gives me a hug) I love you, Mom. Even if you are completely psycho. – Him

I love the Poop Ninja, but I think that hug and confession of love is my favorite gift of all. Ever.

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Sucking your way into a happy ending

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This post is not about sex. Gotcha. I know, I suck. But stay with me. This is a story with a happy ending. I promise this blog post won’t suck.

Last week, Cate and I were playing a little Injustice on X-box before dinner. She was kicking my ass, but not because I was not trying. I was! I can kick her ass right good when I’m focused, but I wasn’t focused and she was! I was listening for the stove to ding, letting me know that dinner was ready, and also aware of many other things that were happening at the same time we were playing the game – dogs barking, phone text alerts going off, washer and dryer churning and thumping, etc. I was just very, very overwhelmed with life that day and I felt just in feeling the injustice of being repeatedly humiliated in the game because I had to be a goddamn grown up and be responsible and all that other bullshit. Poor me.

You are sucking todaaaay! – Her

Truth. – Me

Mega-suck-a-tron suck-ness o’suckerson. – Her

I’m the mayor of McSuckville. – Me

What’s your problem, Suckwad? – Her

I’m distracted. It’s a long story. – Me

Mom stuff? – Her

Life stuff. I’m just feeling a little sucky right now. – Me

Just forget about it and focus on the game! – Her

Not so easy, Sucker! – Me

Yes, is is. – Her

No, it’s not. I have other things going on, people and pets to take care of. You can focus your full attention on this game and not worry about getting us fed tonight and making sure there is clean laundry so you aren’t going to camp in your birthday suit, because you know I’m taking care of it all and a lot of other stuff you don’t even know about. I have work stuff and family stuff and friend stuff and just stuff! My mind is always in ten places at once. It’s just the way it is when you are a mom. – Me

That sucks. – Her

Naw, not really. I chose this life. This is my story. – Me

Then why are you complaining about it?- Her

I’m not. I just answered your question about why I can’t stay focused and how that sucks sometimes. It’s like I’m writing a very big book with a lot of chapters and I keep having to go back and re-read them in order to keep writing the story so that it doesn’t suck. – Me

Well, my life will be a simple, awesome, interesting story. – Her

Oh really? Like a picture book? Pop up? Maybe a scratch and sniff? – Me

Yes. No. Maybe. Definitely a lot of pictures. It will be easy to write and read. – Her

I hope so, but just know that once you choose your story, and start writing it, there are things about that story that choose you, because they are part of someone else’s story, who happens to be in your story, and you can’t be in charge of their story, you have to write your story within their story all the time and pay attention to all the other stories you are involved in. – Me

I have no idea what you are even saying. – Her

I am saying that life is a big, fat series of little stories that eventually tell the whole story! If you simplify the plot and don’t have a lot of interesting characters doing a variety of stuff, even the sucky stuff, the story is just going to be dull and probably very sad, you know? And lonely. So you have to write the story carefully, which is hard work and sometimes distracting and confusing, but worth it, because good stories always are. – Me

My story will be short and have like, one person and a fish, because I’ll play video games and skip the cooking and cleaning chapters. – Her

That would suck, but I have a feeling that your story won’t suck and that it will have lot of characters who love playing games and eating dinners. I’m certain that it will be full of people who have success, despite sucking a little bit. Maybe you can write in a maid? – Me

I just hope I don’t suck at video games. – Her

Maybe you will suck at cooking instead. You will suck at at least one thing, but then you will find that you are very good at another. It’s all a part of your story. – Me

You suck at cooking AND video games. – Her

It’s true. My story is heavy on the suck. – Me

You aren’t sucky at love. – Her

That’s my favorite part of my story. – Me

Every day I get a little closer to my happy ending, because the recognition of my efforts not to suck are becoming fodder for some very not sucky chapters in the story of my people. At least I hope so. I told you this blog wouldn’t suck.

My daughter and I are writing our story in a journal that we share. It's rad. I highly recommend it. Here is one of her journal entries that she gave me permission to share.

My daughter and I are writing our story in a journal that we share. It’s rad. I highly recommend it. Here is one of her journal entries that she gave me permission to share.

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Anal sex: Thinking outside the Box

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Anal sex. Ka-pow!

Just like that, you are feeling funny in all of your twitchy parts, aren’t you? Me too! So let’s get to today’s post in the July series about sex and sexuality – Thinking outside the box when it comes to seeing anal sex as a healthy form of sexual intimacy between two consenting adults.

That pun just wrote itself, yes? Moving on…

There is a whole lot of incorrect information floating around about anal sex. I highly recommend learning a bit about it, you know, getting your facts straight, because doing so might make you feel a lot less twitchy. This is the case with most things. The more you know about them, the less you fear them. Now, I’m not defending it because I’m a fan of it, I mean, maybe I am and maybe I’m not. That’s not important. I do have an ulterior motive though and I’ll get to that later.

So… let’s say you are at a cookout and somebody bring up the topic of anal sex. It happens you know, but usually after the person who brings it up has been talking about sex in general and goes on to describe the baby back ribs with an adjective combination like “magnanimously orgasmic.” People who compliment outside the box tend to do a lot of other things outside the box.

I couldn’t resist that one.

Anyway…anal sex hasn’t asked to be defended, but Mr. or Mrs. Outside the Box will likely find himself/herself doing just that. I’m defending it, because anal sex is treated a lot different than any other sex act that isn’t missionary position penis in the vagina sex, and I think this is unfair! Different doesn’t mean wrong. Different anything is often misunderstood.

Anal sex is misunderstood, much like people who use the words magnanimously orgasmic when describing meat. What? It’s true. And what? You think I should stop complaining about things being unfair? That life isn’t fair and that maybe other things might be more important to address?

I suppose, but in July, on my blog, I am writing about all things sex and sexuality, so despite the reality that there are starving children and wars and all kinds of other terrible shit, I’m still going forward to write this blog post about butt sex.

My ulterior motive?

I hope that by opening up a dialogue about the unnecessary scandalazation of anal sex demonstrates a general example of how often people seek to associate disgust and outrage with anything they fear due to ignorance about the thing they are disgusted and outraged about! I want us all to take more time to learn before we judge.

I’m not saying that everyone has to like it or want to try it! Hells no! YOU choose!

Preference for anal sex is just that, a preference and a choice that can and should be made by individuals involved in an intimate relationship! Sexual intimacy often makes or breaks relationships, and so, there has to be some openness to trying new things. Am I saying anal sex should be on the new things list? No. But I’m not saying it shouldn’t either. What I’m saying is that it shouldn’t be ruled out due to incorrect or incomplete information about it.

Ill-informed fear mongers or religious leaders don’t belong in the bedroom. The two biggest arguments against anal sex are myths that are simply half-truth hearsay and outdated dogma, and neither of these things happen to be even a little bit magnanimous with their dealings in the sex department.

The most common argument against anal sex is religion or faith based. Pa-thetic, because throwing a faith-based statement into any argument about individual beliefs and preferences immediately invalidates the statement. Faith isn’t rooted in fact! By definition, faith is a choice to believe without requiring fact! Faith is a preference, much like anal sex.


Let’s address the half-truth hearsay blathering about anal sex causing damage and disease. Yes, those blathers are rooted in fact, but damage and disease don’t have to be. They aren’t always the result of anal sex. You can read about that HERE and HERE and HERE, when you are done reading my magnanimous anal sex defending blog post. All sexual activity comes with risk and should be approached with information, gentle care and consideration between consenting partners.

Sexual intimacy is all about two very important things – consent and preference. Sexual activity in general serves numerous purposes, only one of them being procreation. There are some serious benefits to exploring every last one of our human parts in order to make stronger and more pleasurable connections with other humans. Anal sex is one of those ways.

Do it up the butt or don’t.

It’s none of my business.

What is my business, and really everybody’s business, is the lack of accurate and fair minded information about sex and sexuality that is a bit outside the box, and as a result, people miss out on the most important thing this life has to offer in any relationship, and THAT is opportunity for a relationship to be the healthiest, happiest and most comfortable relationship it can possibly be.

All I’m really saying here is that it’s good to think outside the box. Or inside.

You never know what's insiiiiiiiiiiiide!

You never know what’s insiiiiiiiiiiiide!

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Debating with devoted dick suckers is pun

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So yesterday I posted a blog about blowjobs that was full of penis euphemisms and women (and men) came out of the woodwork declaring their love for sucking dick.

First of all, before I address the enthusiastic goddesses (and gods) of the knob bob, I just want to say that I think it’s bullshit that the euphemisms for the penis so much funnier than the ones for the vagina. Granted, sausage pocket, ham wallet, spunk bucket, skin mitten and fun burger are pretty funny, but goddamn, almost all the rest of ‘em are metaphors for pocketing a penis or derogatory terms. It’s bullshit, right? I can’t wait to write more about the brilliant lady garden, or as the Brits call it, Fuckingham Palace.

Snogging logs. Is that what the Brits call it?

Snogging logs. Is that what the Brits call it?

But I digress. I have more bullshit to address.

Women (and men) who are fond of fellating the fun gun shot their wads of woe all over my blog, Facebook page and email, talking smack about their talent and passion for all things peen. As a blogger, I expect a certain level of bullshit in response to my writing, because not everyone takes the time to carefully read my bullshit writing and comprehend the message, but sometimes it’s more bullshittical than I can bear. I blows my mind that people on the internet can turn something general into something personal, especially when they don’t take time to finish reading a goddamn article.

Yesterday’s post was NOT a diss the disco stick suckers or anti-oral rant, but an effort to call attention to the troubling trend of declining intimacy in long-term relationships. It is a fact that in far too many long-term relationships, men and women are struggling with intimacy! In general, men want more oral and women are giving less. There are several reasons for this, however the one I chose to address was a complex one: The idea that the very intimate act of fellatio is hard for women for both physical and emotional reasons. Good head is an art form. Anyone who has received bad head knows this is fucking fact-based factoid.

Another fact is that a lack of physical intimacy is very often a direct result of relationship problems, frequently a long-term problem with communication. If a couple once enjoyed a fulfilling and interesting sex life is experiencing a steep decline in their sexual activity, it can be very hard to get back to the level of easy intimacy, especially if the reasons for this change in frequency and comfort are complicated.

There is nothing wrong with loving every inch of your partner. I would never judge the lover of one-eyed snake sucking! Go YOU! I get it. Especially when you are in a healthy relationship! Oh, that’s the good stuff, right? I confess that I love making my husband happy, yet that doesn’t mean I always love the way he prefers his joy to be delivered. Sometimes I am laaaaazy and so is he! After 20 years of marriage, there is nothing simple about our relationship. We all have our own unique challenges.

Strong love lets you see the beauty in your partner and that beauty transcends the pounds, wrinkles, scars and strange changes the years inevitably bring to a human body. When a relationship is a bit sick and unbalanced, physical intimacy always suffers. It can be hard to see the sexy when sadness and isolation acts as a shield. For thousands of years, millions of songs, stories, sonnets, and plays have been written about ins and outs and ups and downs of relationships because this shit is universal and complicated and intense!

I received many more comments and emails from women who agreed with my statement about the magical mind-body connection than messages from women who disagreed, yet I take both to heart. I hear all sides and although this is also a very complicated issue, for now, I’m just going to say that when it comes to sex, as a general rule, women are wired a bit differently than men. This is an inarguable fact, although there are always exceptions to every rule. I certainly didn’t mean to offend those consider themselves to be exceptions.

I really didn't!

I really didn’t!

Like eating, drinking and sleeping, sex is a strong biological urge. And like eating, drinking and sleeping, people have different appetites and preferences. I prefer my potatoes baked, served hot, with butter and sour cream on the side. Maybe you like your taters in tot form, cold and ketchup free. We both like spuds, we just like ‘em cooked a bit different, that’s all!

They really are...

They really are…

I like my sex served hot, with a side of emotional connection and good communication. I hope you don’t judge me, because I am certainly not judging you if you don’t require the same thing. However, I do judge and occasionally mock people who can’t get through an article on the internet without taking it personally or picking a fight. I guess it’s a lot like how I cannot resist dropping shitty puns and loosely connected metaphors into my blog posts.

So, since the over-sensitive types can’t lighten the fuck up and constantly miss the goddamn point because they are too busy feeling offended and defensive, I just want to say that I didn’t really set out to have a debate and hope that I didn’t throw down all those puns just to slut shame you. I just wanted to have a laugh and make a point about intimacy.

The drama is sort of annoying for everyone involved, but I’m glad it happens. Because it really is great fucking example of how hard it can be for anyone to understand each other at all when there’s a communication breakdown. Which was really the point of my last blog post. So…


I told you that July was going to be interesting, didn’t I?

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The hard truth about why you aren’t getting a blow job

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Blow jobs. Where to start? Just kidding. I know exactly what I want to say. Clears throat.

Pun intended.

There is nothing particularly enjoyable about the purely physical act of deep throating a hunk of erect flesh for a prolonged period of time and then swallowing the lumpy, warm blob of foul tasting semen dribbling out of the end of it.

There. I said it.

The are several different reasons why women give men blow jobs, but not one of those reasons has anything to do with how much they enjoy extended blocks of time having their head repeatedly pushed into your crotch, lips going numb and jaw popping and clicking harder than if they just drank a twelve pack of Red Bull and then snorted a gram of blow, as they try to keep their teeth from gnawing on your tender flesh and refrain from making phlegmy gagging noises each time you plug up their narrow airway with your meat popsicle.

That’s what it’s like, you know?

This IS exactly…what…it’s…like…to…suck….a…schlong.

Put yourself in the position of a meat whistle blower. As much as you want to bring your loved one into bliss, gagging and drooling them into climax is not often going to be your first choice if there were less sucky options. And as we all know, there are plenty of ‘em.

Pun Intended. Again.

That's what HE said.

That’s what HE said.

I mean, based on the research I’ve done on this subject, being asphyxiated with a pork sword isn’t a common fetish, so if given the option, even the ladies with boundless enthusiasm for all things boner draw the line at letting the bratwurst take their last breath. But fear not, this doesn’t mean a gal is going to forgo the sucky option.

This is so pun to write. But I digress…

Most women willingly tolerate and even truly enjoy having an adventure with Captain Winky for a bit if there’s some specific communication about mutual comfort during the escapade. Because preferences tend to be somewhat unique to the individual, it’s important to talk about it. I mean, who doesn’t talk about the details when they are going on an exciting little excursion together?

Yep, just like any other thing you plan to do together, there should be some communication about it! I repeat…talk about it! If a maiden whose mouth you are asking to manipulate your manrod doesn’t know the rules of the rod, how do you expect either of you go get where you are going? Think about it: The key to getting good head is using your head.

Seriously though...don't be one.

Seriously though…don’t be one.

I can’t stop with the puns. I just can’t do it.

Use my other head to think about what you ask? Well, because there are several reasons why a woman you are in a relationship with would actually take on the task of taking your tonsil toothbrush into her face hole, the most important one is plain and simple. She probably cares very deeply you. Women tend to connect physical intimacy with emotional intimacy. If you care deeply for her, the least you can do it to put some thought into her feelings about fellatio!

Must resist pun….

I know that you want to know how to get more blow jobs, or maybe even just A goddamn blow job when it’s not your birthday or Christmas, don’t you?

Of course you do. So give it a think!

Your sexual health is negatively affected by neglect, so even if your lady loves you, if she’s not whacking your willy weekly, then you are left to do it yourself, and I know you are nodding your other head in agreement, self loving on Spanky really isn’t the same scintillating experience as a good skin flute suck.

But you want to know why your girl is neglecting to noodle slurp your nozzle!! You’ve read through 500 plus words, several bad puns and graphic goo pipe references to get your answer, so I’m finally going to tell you one of the most important reasons and it’s probably not what you think.

Sure, giving blow jobs IS a little bit gross and awkward and uncomfortable, but really those things aren’t usually what prevent the ladies from sucking the stink hammer. The thing that stops most ladies from choosing the sucky option is because giving a good blowjob is hard emotional and physical work.

Yep. Giving a blow job is hard!

Go ahead and re-read that graphic and descriptive paragraph that started this blog post and absorb the reality that the act of fellating a fetus feeler is tricky business. I repeat. Giving a blow job takes considerable effort and focus! There, I said it. Licking your love muscle takes some mental and physical might from momma!

There is nothing easy about performing the act of fellatio, just as there is nothing easy about doing the hard work it takes to keep a relationship healthy and energized and intimate. Giving good head is hard, so imagine how much harder it feels to initiate an enthusiastic fellate when your relationship is running on empty in the emotional intimacy department.

If you, and by you, I mean the collective you in a relationship, are not doing the work it takes to work together to foster the kind of mutual respect and reciprocity that makes every last physical gesture of intimacy, from hand holding to penetration feel like a comfort, rather than a chore, it shouldn’t surprise you when a pickle ain’t getting no pucker.

Sex is easy. I just saw a couple of stupid squirrels schtupping on the fence on my backyard. Ok, no I didn’t. I just couldn’t think of a good pun and I want to make a point about the massive difference between s.u.c.k.i.n.g and f.u.know what-ing.

And the point IS that it is often just easier for a woman who is feeling not just physically empty, but also emotionally empty, to choose the less sucky, simple, slippery fook! Riding the bologna pony takes so very much less effort than bobbing on it and that, my friends, is the truth! I mean, you don’t even have to make eye contact or move around at all if you don’t want to.

It really is that simple. If a fella in a couple wonders why he is no longer getting any fella-tio (ZING!) and/or the lady wonders why she can no longer get herself motivated to give the knob a bob, this couple needs to do some very HARD work on reconnecting emotionally. And that is the topic of my next blog: How to get you back to blowing each other in every way.

In the meantime, here is a picture of a whale’s penis, sent to me by a lovely MWDAS reader. Just be glad you don’t have to choke on this ten foot, purple-headed womb broom and also click HERE to see a photo gallery and read some hilarious sexting messages.

Freeing his Willy!

Freeing his Willy!

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On Wednesdays in July we talk about sex

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Blow jobs. Fellatio. Polishing the knob. Giving head. Oral Sex. Blah, blah, blah…

Men love getting it. Women love…making men earn it.

What? It’s true.

Let me tell you something that is also true. A number of years ago, after having my second kid, my sex drive briefly went completely kaput. It hasn’t been the same since. But the kaput was the beginning of my arousal being what I thought was inexplicably tied to whether or not I felt like my husband was pulling his weight with regard to all of the things that made up our life and marriage. If he was being lazy and leaving too much of everything to me, I wasn’t open to him. If he was being particularly helpful and attentive, sharing the load, I wanted to give him what I knew he wanted, which was…you know. And I wanted it too. I thought this was totally abnormal.

I asked friends if they experienced anything similar.

Oh boy did they!

How sad, right? I mean, it seems that the norm is that most women not only dislike doing extra sexy stuff, like giving blowjobs, but often confessed to only giving them, or any other sexual anything to their partner, so they can get something in return. You know, like an engagement ring. Or cash. Or getting the bathroom cleaned. Or a full night of fucking sleep. Or giving up the guilt sex on certain holidays, because you can’t remember the last time you did.

Where's the Father's Day section on the wheel?

Where’s the Father’s Day section on the wheel?

Or, women put out after getting something. Like this.

And so, as I’ve been thinking a lot about what might be an interesting blog series for the month of July, all my sex thoughts and a re-watching of the movie Mean Girls, gave me an idea! In the movie, Mean Girls, they wear pink on Wednesdays, which inspired me to create a moms who drink and swear tradition.

In July, we will talk about SEX on Wednesdays! I will also be wearing pink, but that is, of course, optional for you. I mean, maybe you look like shit in pink.

Why just Wednesdays?

Because like blow jobs, blogging is hard work.

But you might also be asking why blog about sex at all?

One reason is that I think we ladies need to stop justifying our blow jobs in exchange for chores, jewelry and cash mindset, but also because I think that there are a never ending supply of stories to be told and ideas to be shared that can help people improve our attitudes about sex and our sex lives. Sex is important. Even when we aren’t in the mood, sex is something that can help improve our mood and our connection to our partners so that we don’t feel isolated and moody.

Did you know that…

“Sexual desire in women is extremely sensitive to environment and context,” says Edward O. Laumann, PhD. He is a professor of sociology at the University of Chicago and lead author of a major survey of sexual practices, The Social Organization of Sexuality: Sexual Practices in the United States. – Web MD

Source  Web MD

The truth is, that in general, women’s sexual arousal is FAR more connected to emotions than a man’s. This is not because men aren’t emotional, it’s because, in general, men, on a fundamental level, can experience sexual arousal separate from an emotional attachment. This can be a serious barrier to intimacy in relationships.

And so, during the month of July, here on Moms Who Drink And Swear™ will talk about sexy things, like how when Goopy threw her smack down about consciously uncoupling, despite the unnecessary stink of pretentious fuckery attached to it, it really make some good points about long term relationships in general. Like this.

Sooner or later, the honeymoon ends and reality sets in. This is usually when we stop projecting positive things onto our partners and begin to project our negative issues onto them instead.

Source  GOOP

It really is so very important to many of us to improve the quality of our long term relationships. So many of us are fighting to keep our love happy and healthy so that we can keep our families intact. One of the main reasons long term relationships bite the dust is the decrease in sexy time and affection. There’s exhaustion, bitterness, illness and hormones. I could go on and on listing the reasons women lose interest in sex.

But I’m not going to be quick to completely blame our ladyship for not being interested in daily dick sucking, okay? It’s not that simple. It takes two to keep the sexual part of a relationship going, so logically, GIRL issues are important to consider, but BOY issues, attitudes and behaviors can’t be counted out.

We is gonna talk about all o dis shiz!


in july

Yes, that’s me wearing pink!

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Moms Everyday: The television adventures of a smelly pirate hooker

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Some of you might already know this (I doubt it), but I allow Gray Television Media to modify the content of my blogs for their rad parenting website called Moms Everyday. It’s supah weird to see my blogs cleaned up and fuck you free, but it’s also oddly comforting. You know, there is a method to my madness, and the clean versions of my rantings appeal to those who aren’t smelly pirate hookers.

I really just want to normalize the “abnormal” enough so that parents don’t feel so shitty about all the things that really ARE normal aspects of family life, because goddammit, family life isn’t always full of sunshine and roses.

I stand by my ramblings. In my book, I say that parenting ain’t for pussies. I guess I should be sorry for using the word pussy to describe wimps, but I’m not. I’m not sorry for anything I say or write, because there is no malicious intent and I am a huge fan of the vagina. Especially a whale’s vagina!

Can you imagine how majestically massive a whale’s vagina must be?

As a matter of fact, this weekend, when I was in Colorado Springs, not swearing, and filming some Moms Everyday television show shit for parents, every time I had to do a mic check, I said whale’s vagina and regular vagina no less than ten times in a row.

Fast. Slow. High and Low.

VAGINA! Vagina. Vaaaaagggiiiiina. VA-GIIIIIIIna. Vaaaaaaginaaaaaa..

My jewelry is making a statement. You know, because it's statement jewelry, motherfucker!

My jewelry is making a statement. You know, because it’s statement jewelry, motherfucker!

Other people doing the show counted to ten. At first. Eventually they couldn’t resist.

But who can resist the power of the mighty vagina? That’s right. Nobody.

My writing reflects my personality and that personality didn’t change just because I pushed humans out of my majestic but not massive vag. This is who I am, and you either like it and read it, or don’t and find another source to grab your entertainment and information. Whatever floats your vagina. But sometimes, in real life, especially in my professional life, I have to reel it it a itty, bitty bit.

It’s all about balance, you!

However, despite the balance I seem to be managing to maintain, I struggle with specific physical, emotional, mental and spiritual challenges. I have issues, okay? I think most people do, but don’t know how to talk about it. Sadly, there is still a lot of stigma, judgment and shame in parenting circles. I want to smash that shit to smithereens with my whacky words. Knowledge is power!

That’s why I let Moms Everyday clean up my stuff. It is also why, this past weekend, I was part of something that, just like my plain spoken, profanity laced blog posts, has the potential to give struggling families some support as they navigate the inevitable fuckery that is family life. There should be no limit to the reach of positive, HONEST, supportive parenting dialogue.

At the end of the day, there’s a little bit of smelly pirate hooker with whale vagina envy in all of us (Yeah, even YOU Katie Couric).

And this smelly pirate hooker had a fucking television adventure! And not HBO stuff where I could swear and let my nipples roam freely. I agreed to do it this mainstream shit, because the purpose jibes with my values, even if the deliver of the messages and information was strictly f-bomb free and stunk of Katie Couric soft cheese grinning at the camera awkwardness. No offense, Katie, but you come off as more of a virgin maiden than a smelly pirate hooker. Not that it’s a bad thing but…

Do you see me making sweet love to the camera? OF COURSE YOU DO!

Do you see me making sweet love to the camera? OF COURSE YOU DO!

Strangely, I didn’t find it as hard as I thought it would be to keep the language clean, but the clothes, well, fuck clothes and make up, those were just torture.


So, between takes, I channeled my inner Anchorman, and spoke about the wonder that is a whale’s vagina. Over and over and over. Seriously, can you imagine how BIG it is? And how big is a whale penis? I know! There’s a lot of down time, you know? I got thinky. And uncomfortable.

I stood up and yelled bad words and jumped up and down to get my underwear untangled from my labia and was distracted by my eyes, whose muffled screams of, “You are a smelly pirate hooker, smothering us with this black paint and powder! We are going to punch you in the baby maker.”

I was thinking about a whale's vagina and murdering someone for some meat. But you can't tell, right? I KNOW!

I was thinking about a whale’s vagina and murdering someone for some meat. But you can’t tell, right? I KNOW!

You can imagine it was very distracting…

So, this fall, if you are watching television and the anchor introduces a segment called Moms Everyday, and you see me all shiny and appropriately underweared (because mainstream television peeps frown on swearing about crippling debt that makes you consider ending your life while wearing a t-shirt with coffee stains and yoga pants with wafer thin fabric and bleach stains), please don’t think that I’ve sold out.

I just did it for the free food and a family-free weekend in Colorado Springs. I called home and not one of my motherfucking loves of my life had any interest in talking to me, so I had a nice FaceTime chat with Brody.

"And then I said 'labia' and my labia instantly responded, but you can't even tell. I am such a good actress."

“And then I said ‘labia’ and my labia instantly responded, but you can’t even tell. I am such a good actress.”

And this was my smelly pirate hooker television adventure. Stay classy, MWDAS. Stay classy.

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Blogs, boobs and sanctimonious bullshit

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I receive a good amount of email that contains links to articles or blogs that address hot button issues. The senders always say something along the lines of “Hey, what do you think of this?” or “I’d love it if you’d blog about this.” As a matter of fact, I just received one with a link to a sanctimonious pile of bullshit of a blog written by a whiny, middle age woman who is sick of seeing so many photos of women’s fit bodies on Facebook. But let me back up and start from the beginning…

So I clicked on the link, which I’ll provide at the end of this post, but because I think we deal with enough whining from our kids on a daily basis and shouldn’t have to tolerate a grown woman’s boo fucking hoo, I caution you up front that her post might trigger your what the fuck button. But I digress…

So, I clicked on the link and I started reading. Hmmm..daddy issues. Ooohhhh this is gonna be good! I read on. And then I had to stop and take a few deep breaths. I don’t even know where to begin to address how this blog post set off all kinds of holy shit this chick needs some therapy alarms. I felt sad, sad, sad. And confused.

You know how in cartoons when a character ricochets off the walls, bouncing all over the room squealing and screaming? Well, that’s what this blog was like. I have read the post numerous times and I still don’t know what the point is aside from her revealing her deep insecurity and self loathing. She portrays herself as a victim of circumstances beyond her control. It’s borderline delusional if you ask me.

She wants women to “keep their boobs out of (her) marriage.” She’s worried that her husband will compare her to these other women. She sees photos of women in bathing suits on Facebook as “a stumbling block in (her) marriage,” and feels the need to “Protect(ing) his eyes,” and “Protect(ing) his heart.”

What in the ever love of FUCK?

Her husband is a grown man and doesn’t need to be protected from a bunch of tit shots. If he chooses to fap his brains out to pictures of his female Facebook friends, well, that’s his business, isn’t it? Christ on a cracker, this chick is off her nut if she believes herself when she says, “I’m not judging you,” to the fit, tan, bathing suit, cellulite-free women she’s afraid will cause her husband to fall out of love with her.

Sure she is. But she’s mostly judging herself, and in my opinion, quite harshly. It must be hard to live everyday plagued by fear and self doubt. Exhausting, I am sure. I can’t imagine how blogging can help her, because from what I can tell, she’s not taking any responsibility for her own mental health and well being. She’s just fucking complaining.

On occasion, I rant about something that has me revved up, but my typical rants are more about a concept of a source of half truth or misinformation that I feel might be detrimental to the health and well being of the people who read my blog. Writing about mental health is my passion. If there is one thing I hope people take away from my social media platform, it’s self acceptance.

From the get go, I have shared blogs, articles and information with you, both on my blog and on my social media platform. I want to know what you think and how you feel. I want to use my reach to draw attention to things that are presented in a way that makes an impact on you, things that will make you think and even take it upon yourself to do a little bit more digging if you want to learn more.

But this kind of blog post, I don’t typically share. It makes me too sad. And I’ll be straight with you when I say that as much as I’d love to take more opportunities to shred illogical and incomplete internet arguments, I force myself to resist.


Because nothing I say will change your mind and that’s how it should be. You should make up your own fucking mind. Nothing anyone can say is going to change this woman’s mind about how her relationship is being challenged by a flood of flouncy, bouncy internet jugs. It’s as if she and her husband and being pushed apart by a force outside their control, a force so powerful they can’t resist.


So what is my point?

This situation is a brilliant example of how seriously I take the responsibility of what I put out there and why I write the way I write about the things I write about. Bloggers like Lauren reinforce why it’s important to inform rather than inflame. Invoking the Grace of God doesn’t make her heart and mind any less dirty than she’s accusing her husband’s of being as a result of his chesticle filled newsfeed.

Post like the one Lauren wrote are, essentially, why I started blogging and why I keep going.

I catch some flack for my fucks and shits and I get it. I use very bad words and there are people who are offended by my offhanded and gratuitous use of profanity. The beauty of free will is that it’s free and it’s WILL and we can choose what we want to see on the goddamn Internet. If people don’t like it, they don’t have to fucking SEE it. However, you might have noticed that for the most part, my potty words aren’t directed at anyone as much as they are used as color fucking commentary.

Blogging isn’t a lucrative business for most of us. So why do we do it? Well, to connect. We get paid in likes and re-tweets and re-pins. Emails and social media messages are likes too. They are feedback, positive and negative, and I am grateful for every fucking message you all take the time to send me. Keep sending them, especially the ones that fuel my passion for the dissemination of responsible, accurate, healthy, helpful information and the debunking of bullfucking shit.



Apples and Bandaids Blog whining about how her husband is being damaged and tempted by your beezer bongs

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Mental Health Minute: The Definition of Insanity is…

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During Mental Health Month in May, I bitched about the lack of mainstream media coverage about mental health and mental illness. No, I’m not over it. Yes, I’m doing something about it, even if I’m not considered mainstream. Welcome to the first of many Mental Health Minute themed blog posts. Today’s topic?

The definition of insanity.

There are several ways to evaluate whether or not you or someone you know is, in fact, fucking insane, but first you have to define insanity. Just for today, to describe how I feel, I’m going to use the third definition I found on Merriam-Webster…

Extreme folly or unreasonableness or something utterly foolish or unreasonable.

I’ve heard it said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Yeah, that makes sense.

Like many other middle age women, I juggle a lot of different roles. I have the extra challenge of managing my particular brand of mental illness every fucking day. Somedays are better than others.

Today, I was driving from one role to another. To prevent myself from perseverating and entertaining negative thoughts and anxiety, I decided to sooth my soul with some Richard Marx. My love for him is well documented. Fuck everyone who mocks me for this. Singing a duet with this motherfucker is on my bucket list. If I use Merriam-Webster’s first definition of insanity…

a deranged state of the mind usually occurring as a specific disorder (as schizophrenia)

…this bucket list item makes me sound insane. Fine by me. I know the truth.

So I plug in my iPod and scroll through songs until I get to my beloved Richard-ness. That is what I call him sometimes. Especially if I’m going to fantasize about our impending and inevitable duet.

“Summer came and left without a warning….”

Richard-ness and I are swaying back and forth, our arms around each other’s shoulders just like buddies, which someday we will be, but I digress.

Hmm…needs to be louder.

I turn up the volume.


I try again.

Weird. Now I can hardly hear the song at all. Is the car stereo broken?


I try again.


And one last time, but I realize that I’m turning up the air conditioner. I’m pretty sure that I’ve done this the past couple of times, which explains why the volume didn’t increase and why I’m freezing and why my nipples are harder than adamantium!

It was utterly foolish and unreasonable to think that the air conditioner knob would turn up the volume, but I kept trying! IN-SA-NE! But just temporary.

Twice last week, I waited for a stop sign to turn green. It never did. Thank gods for car horns honking, otherwise I would have sat there waiting all fucking day. No, I wasn’t stoned, just in case you were wondering, which would make sense, because what the shit?

What does this have to do with mental health and insanity?

A lot.

By definition, I am not insane. I am overwhelmed, distracted and struggling with some things that are making me feel pretty blue. I have moments where I feel like I am going insane.

And so I take a mental health minute. Or ten. Or thirty.

Yesterday I took hours and hours of minutes. I needed to. I asked my husband to take care of dinner. I told him that I needed some time to “get right.” I went upstairs, crawled into bed and read for a bit, losing myself in a book. I closed my eyes for a bit and did a little deep breathing and thinking. I got up and stretched and drank a bunch of water. Then I went downstairs and asked for hugs. I got hugs. I made myself something to eat. I ate.

No, I’m not insane, but I do have some challenges. I will always have to be proactive about keeping depression from sucking me into it’s vortex of lies. Having ADHD doesn’t help, as sometimes I get distracted from whatever I was doing to distract myself from being depressed.

Throughout the years, I have gotten a lot better at getting back on track post haste and catching that whore-bitch depression in her lies before they negatively affect my life.

Richard-ness helps.

I ache for the day when we harmonize. I hope he’s down with this, because I don’t have endless nights to wait. Neither of us are getting any younger.

So…you? Take a mental health minute, or million minutes, for yourself. No guilt. Do something healthy and healing. Make plans for these minutes every day. I do. I make them and I take them too!

I do this over and over and over and, because I am not insane, I expect the same result. I expect my mind to quiet and my soul to heal, and it does. Maybe it doesn’t last as long as I’d like it to, but I know that I can take all the minutes I need, when I need them.

I still do insane stuff, like expecting the knob for the air conditioner to turn up the volume on the radio, but not as often as I would if I didn’t take some mental health minutes.


Doowit. Take you some mental health minutes.

If you feel bored, read all my posts about mental health by clicking the tab at the top of this page. It’s not quite up to date, but if you dig around, you will find all the stuff I wrote in May. Pick and choose, there are so many. Click HERE to read one of my favorites.

P.S. Richard Marx retweeted the link to this blog. Told you I’m not insane. My bucket list is magnificent. And happening. Wait for it…

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