I’m Not Bitter: ESS EEE EXX

May 19, 2011 | Filed Under Random Silliness, The Morrigan | No Comments

May 18, 2011

I’m Not Bitter

My parents recently moved to town to be closer to me (sweet, eh?) and my mother was obliged to clear out decades worth of stuff in order to downsize.

One of the treasures she unearthed was a long forgotten second hand copy of Our Bodies, Our Selves.  She bought it used years ago when I hit puberty and she knew she’d have to come clean about the facts of life pretty damn soon.  If you knew my mother, you’d understand that this was a traumatic moment for her.  Until I was well into my 20s, she couldn’t even utter the word sex.  She always spelled it out with a hiss — “ESS EEE EXX”.

As time marched on, she knew she’d have to tell me something lest I think I was bleeding to death when I got my first period, but when push came to shove she couldn’t bring herself to do it.  Instead, she skulked off to a used bookstore and furtively purchased this book to bring me up to speed even though the thing was already years out of date when she acquired it. I think that may even be why she acquired it – how racy could it be if it was written a decade earlier?

Then she got it home and read a bit of it.

She was so horrified by its contents that she hid the book away in the fervent hope that (a) I’d never find it and (b) I’d have a vocation for the church so the subject of sex need never come up. She wouldn’t even throw it out because she was convinced that the garbage man would somehow trace it back to her and tell all the neighbours that she knew what fellatio was.

I guess she thought it was finally safe to trust me with this sort of subversive literature because a few days ago, she gave it to me.

After perusing it myself, I think she did the right thing.  This would have scarred me for life.

Revolutionary for its time, the authors of this appalling tome advocate frequent self-abuse as a way to become familiar with the concept of orgasm and to get comfortable with what turns you on.  Great advice as far as it goes but then, almost as an afterthought, they added the following comment: “Sex toys can add to the experience and enhance pleasure.”  Apparently, you don’t even have to buy an actual sex toy. Just about anything will do.  If you’d put it in your mouth, it’s OK to use it as a masturbatory aid and you shouldn’t feel awkward, ashamed or silly doing it.  “Rejoice in your womanhood”, they repeatedly urged me, “and let yourself experiment”.

Now wait just a minute.

For dinner this evening, I had mashed potatoes and gravy, three bean salad and a chicken leg:  I was delighted to put those things in my mouth but I’m not prepared to shove them up my kitty.  That goes double for the sad, wrinkled parsnip of indeterminate age currently residing in my crisper.  I may be desperate but I have not reached the point where I’d consider having congress with vegetables.  You won’t be seeing me strolling speculatively through the produce department of my local supermarket just yet.   No doubt that day will come but for the moment, the legumes of the world are safe from me.

The book recommends squatting naked over a mirror in order to become more conversant with the appearance of your genitalia.  “You’re a woman,” trilled the authors, “and you are beautiful.  Explore your body.”

Well, OK. If you say so.  Here goes nothing.

Holy Mother of God, what the hell is that?!  Is it supposed to be that colour?  It looks like something I’d bring home from the butcher to feed to the cats.

Yeef.  If I’d seen that at age 13, I’d probably still be on Thorazine.

Hmm…if this is their idea of beautiful, clearly they’re not setting the bar very high.

They devote PAGES to masturbation – and I’ll bet you anything this chapter convinced my mother that if I ever found out that masturbation existed, my life would be ruined.  She feared I would be doomed to an eternity of compulsive wanking and pictured me skulking around unsavoury neighbourhoods at all hours in a stained raincoat, on the lookout for a dark corner and the slightest opportunity to stick my hand down my pants.  I’d never go to university and no man would ever want me.  I’d die a lonely old spinster with carpal tunnel syndrome and crippling laundry bills.  “Oh hell no”, thought my mother grimly, “Not on my watch.”

Keep in mind that this is the same woman who told me I couldn’t read Seventeen magazine until I actually was 17 so I’m pretty surprised she didn’t drop down dead by page ten of this thing.

The chapter about having sex with another person even has pictures.  OK, they’re drawings but memorable nonetheless.

In one of them, a hippie couple is entwined in a fog of bliss (and probably weed).  He looks like one of those scrawny artistic types with bacne and Birkenstocks.  He has a straggly beard, long wispy unwashed hair and a non-threatening physique. You know the type:  he carries his guitar everywhere and croons bad folk songs at unsuspecting females until they sleep with him just to shut him up.  I suppose I shouldn’t judge – after all, here he is about to get laid.

The lucky lady with him has rolls of fat, presumably to impress upon the reader that this is what real women look like.  Which is fine.  Laudable even. On the other hand, none of the real women *I* know have pubic hair that begins at the knee and continues to the belly button.  Or if they do, they haven’t said a word about it to me.

The authors invited me to view this illustration as a celebration of love and sexuality and by God I tried but for the life of me I couldn’t shake my conviction that what I was seeing here were two mangy orangutans wrestling.

I studied the drawing more closely.  They think this is a celebration of love?  Really?

Then again, these are the same people who promised me I’d see something beautiful if I squatted over a mirror, so I guess the lesson here is “consider the source”.

You’d think that the wanking chapter would have been as bad as it could get, but I have to hand it to these women: their minds are even more lurid than ours.

 

The next chapter was about STDs but remember, this was back before the days of AIDS when the diseases you could contract were non-lethal and relatively easy to deal with.  They called them “venereal diseases” and even provided helpful slang like “the clap” and “a dose”.  But before they got to that part, they started with something truly horrifying.

Yup.  Crabs.

Let’s put this in context, shall we?  My mother’s goal in life was to keep me pure and that meant keeping me as ignorant as humanly possible without having people think I was mentally defective.  She told me nothing about ESS EEE EXX at all.  In fact, when I finally found out where babies came from I thought somebody was having me on.  I had no idea that people even had hair down there, much less that they could serve as hosts for a different species.

This book could have cleared all that up.

Once more unto the breach came the same artist, this time lovingly enlarging an intricate drawing of a pubic louse.  It was HUGE.  If my mother had been wise, she would have read me bedtime stories out of this chapter.  If I had seen this thing at puberty – the authors just assumed everyone would realize the illustration was not to scale but I wouldn’t have known the difference – I’d’ve been convinced that a nest of gigantic lobsters would immediately colonize my crotch if I so much as glimpsed at a penis.

She could have scared the pants on me in one fell swoop.

Thanks to the synonyms these filthy bitches provided — crotch critters, Sandy McNabs, snatch monsters, gentlemen’s companions, pants rabbits, dick scorpions – who could blame me for misunderstanding?  I mean really:  they sound enormous, don’t they?

At this point, I was becoming almost fond of whoever was providing the illustrations.  Clearly, alcohol and/or illicit substances were involved. I couldn’t wait to see what s/he would come up with next.

I was doomed to disappointment because for the next chapter – pregnancy and childbirth – they hired a photographer.

Remember that whole squatting over a mirror episode?  At least I could put the mirror down and walk away but just try to un-see a close up shot of a baby’s head crowning. I dare you.  Yeah, yeah, the miracle of birth and all that, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.  http://www.midwife.nu/birth-pictures.html

Viewing this caused me to immediately (a) slam my legs shut (b) wince and (c) involuntarily perform 400 kegels in 35 seconds.

Of course all of this is moot now because (a) I’m really outdoing myself in the Marathon of Hope and (b) my mother has changed her tune.  She’s constantly nagging me to “find a man before she dies” and doesn’t seem to be satisfied with my standard response to all of her observations on my life (“Shut up old woman, or I’ll put you in a home”).

In an effort to get her off my back – but really to get some juicy material for this column and 36 hours’ worth of epic entertainment — I joined a dating website.  I posted my picture and within 2 hours, I had 187 messages.

Turns out spinsterhood is my choice!  Who knew?  It’s raining men out there and I’ve got my pick of the litter.

Or is that the Cream of the Crap?

You be the judge:

 

I WILL find you 

Till next time,

Morrigan

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Great new word…

December 7, 2010 | Filed Under Popculture, Random Silliness | No Comments

Heard the greatest new word on the TV show “Fringe”…

Walter: “It’s all because of that temptress… she tricked my son with her carnal manipulations and.. and.. he fell right into her vagenda!”
Astrid: “Vagenda?”

Fringe snippet (they won’t let me embed it from youtube)

LOVE the linguistic blending – VAGENDA – Vagina and Agenda – when a woman uses sexual wiles to further a hidden agenda…

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Take our Canada Geese, Please…

June 4, 2010 | Filed Under Random Silliness | No Comments

A friend was recently commenting on how he stumbled across a hunting program while channel surfing. In sick fascination he watched… because they were hunting Canada Geese. They had all this expensive equipment and decoys and a blind set up… and he said, “I just laughed. I mean, all you really need is a bag of bread and a golf club!”

And that’s the truth of it. They are so damn prolific here, and protected, that they are a menace. They shit everywhere, fouling lawns, sidwalks, beaches and bike paths. The feces have parasites which can cause swimmer’s itch.  They nest in our parking lots.  Where there isn’t a speck of water to be seen except when it rains, and then they stand forlornly in the puddles in the middle of the asiles. The are not bright creatures.  We have not been able to teach them to use condoms or birth control to keep the population in check.  They are also viciously defensive and will attack your golf cart (or you) if they think you are too close to their young.

In one tourist-town I inhabited, the debate raged every year – should they allow the flocks to be culled?  Perhaps the birds could be cleaned and given to the food bank? But always some vegan, every-animal-loving protest group would form and make a huge stink, and the birds would stay, and breed, and shit everywhere, unmolested.

And so I say to you my gun-toting, happy hunting American Neighbors… please, when our Canada geese migrate south, take out a few of them!  Hell, take out a bunch!  Declare “Kill a Canadian Goose Day” in your town.  Many Many Canadians will be grateful. Really.

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Only The Morrigan could find something like this…

January 2, 2010 | Filed Under Lifestyles of the Heartlessly Bitchy, Random Silliness | 1 Comment

The Morrigan sent this to me today, saying, “I have NO idea what it is, but it’s right behind Police Headquarters.”

Necessary Punishment

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Bad bathroom design

November 18, 2009 | Filed Under Lifestyles of the Heartlessly Bitchy, Random Silliness | 1 Comment

The tenets of good design don’t just extend to the web.  Virtually everything we use every day is subject to some kind of design process.  And perhaps it is because I have seen my share of odd and unusual bathrooms this week (including one I labelled the “claustrophobia closet”), that I feel compelled to share my views on some elements of women’s bathroom design that really bug me:

1) toilet stalls that are so small you have to straddle the toilet to open or close the stall door.
2) small bathrooms that put the sink on one side of the toilet and the paper towels on the other side. This leads to people dripping water all over the toilet seat after washing their hands.
3) motion-activated hand dryers in general – WHO designed these things? Every single one I have used, I swear, has the infrared sensor for your hands at the back, by the wall, and no where NEAR pointing to the stream of air that actually blows out of the thing. The net effect is that it shuts off the moment you move your hands INTO the airstream. *argh*.
4) and while we are on the subject of infrared, bathrooms where all the infrared taps don’t work except maybe ONE, and again, where it detects your hands, is NOT where the water stream actually comes down.
5) stalls with no hook for a coat
6) stalls with broken door latches – how hard is it to fix these things, or design ones that don’t break?
7) and finally, my biggest pet bathroom peeve:  overly sensitive infrared toilet flushers that go off prematurely with the force of a hurricane if you move at all while on the john.

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Chuckle of the day

July 3, 2009 | Filed Under Popculture, Random Silliness, The Heartless Bitch Way | No Comments

Heard during an episode of “The Listener”:
Oz: “Bein’ a guy is great. You don’t have to smell good you don’t have to pluck anything…”

Toby: “Tell me again why you don’t have a girlfriend?”

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I want this shirt….

May 7, 2009 | Filed Under Lifestyles of the Heartlessly Bitchy, Popculture, Random Silliness, The Heartless Bitch Way | 2 Comments

And then Buffy Staked Edward. The End.

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Safe sex discussion with the spawn

March 15, 2009 | Filed Under Parenting, Random Silliness | 1 Comment

“We have this ‘worst pickup line’ contest at work.  It gets pretty bad.”

“Ok. I’ll bite, what’s your worst?”

“Hand a girl a drink and say, Hey, how’s about you and me go halvsies on a bastard?”

“*groans*  I can just imagine you trying that on a girl in a bar. You’re likely to get slapped. On the other hand, it might be a good litmus test. If she laughs, at least it shows she has a sense of humor.”

“Yeah, but what if it works on her – not because she has a sense of humor, but because she agrees?  What kind of girl would go for a pickup line like that?”

“Probably not the kind that practices safe sex.”

“That’s why celibacy is the safest form of sex.” 

“Celibacy isn’t safe sex, it’s NO sex.  The safest form of sex is the kind you have with yourself.”

“Are you kidding? Have you seen my hands? They’re filthy!  And who knows where they’ve been…”

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Chuckle of the day

February 6, 2009 | Filed Under Random Silliness | No Comments

The Onion...

(Thanks Fabs!)

 

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The foolish things we do for fun…

September 29, 2008 | Filed Under Lifestyles of the Heartlessly Bitchy, Random Silliness, Work | 1 Comment

Our CEO has this philosophy of encouraging people to stretch their limits – to try things they have never done before.  So when our corporate “fun day” options came up, I chose paintball over the other 4 activities offered.  Though I love laserquest, I’d never gone paintballing before because I bruise really easily, I’m just not into sharp nasty pain, and I’ve heard it really HURTS.  But my whole team was going, so I figured I’d face my fear of paintball head-on (so to speak) – and in the end  that’s where I took most of my killshots – in the facemask.

The night before, I asked the youngest spawn what I should do to prepare since both he and his older brother were avid paintballers in their teens.  He looked at me and said, “Do you have a winter vest?”
I replied “Yeah. Well, it’s kind of a fall vest…”
“And do you have a neckwarmer of some kind?”
I said, “Yep.”
“And gloves?”
“I have some old leather ones I can sacrifice.”
He looked at me gravely, “Good. Wear all that, and then pick out the baggiest set of coveralls there – because you’re gonna need them  – you bruise like a PEACH mom.”

Graphically descriptive, but very true.

I wore the vest, the neck protection, knee-high cross-country ski socks, jeans, the most padded bra I could find, my “batten-down-the-hatches” tank top from kick-boxing, and a long-sleeved jeans shirt. I took cheapo fall leather gloves, and then picked out that baggy set of coveralls.  They provide you with a mask and goggles, but in future, I’ll bring my own goggles – the ones there were scratched and terrible. I could hardly see a thing, fogging up aside.

They said I looked like the Michelin Man, and I suffered innumerable taunts, but I didn’t care. It was worth it to leave with my body relatively bruise-free.

I didn’t feel a single shot except one on my hand that didn’t break (thank god for the gloves – I can’t imagine how much it would have hurt if my hands were bare) and one that somehow came through the mask and left me with a mouthful of paint and a bit of a red mark above my lip that lasted a day.  I thank my lucky stars, considering that one guy left the field with 35 welts on his body.  One had a huge lump on the top of his head.  Except for the real hard-core paintballers, almost everyone else had multiple battle bruises.

The thing IS, it didn’t feel like the same adrenaline rush you get with LaserQuest (which I love) – my heart wasn’t pounding at the end of each game, and I wasn’t breathless.  You don’t do nearly as much running around – it’s mostly crouching, hiding and scurrying from cover to cover. But I felt kinda shaky after the 5th game and was glad it was over and lunch had arrived. 

That being said, it’s now brutally clear that the adrenaline WAS flowing and really masks a world ‘o hurt.  The next morning I was in AGONY.  I had two bruises on my thighs that spontaneously appeared, (I don’t recall being shot in the legs), and every fucking muscle in my body was screaming. I thought my shoulders were going to seize. I had to use my arms to lower myself down onto the toilet because my quads were too weak and shaky.  Going down stairs was torture.  The bf thought it was hilarious. He giggled at my every whimper, the bastard.

All I can say is, thank god I have a hot tub.

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