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25 reasons not to have sex every night. Or much at all for crying out loud.

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Frugie blog- reasons not to have sex with your husband. HUMOR, Marriage, life

There was an article in Huffington Post this summer about why I should have sex with my husband every night that made me roll my eyes out of my head. Like, I think I sprained something.

Power to that woman and her husband. But gobsdangit, she just convinced about 8 million husbands that they should be gettin’ some on every day that ends in Y.


Disclaimer- I’m a happily married woman of 17 years who gives and gets it from her hubs plenty. So there.

But here’s my list on reasons not to have sex.

1.  I haven’t showered.

2. It’s Tuesday.

3. I had to clean the cat box earlier.

4. I have gas. Again.

5. I’m constipated.

6. I’m feeling bloated.

7. I had to put the kids to bed.

8. I made dinner.

9. I did the dishes.

10. I’d rather watch Downton Abbey.

11. I had to go to our kids’ school and it was exhausting.

12. I had to go grocery shopping.

13. I just washed the sheets.

14. I ate too much bread today.

15. The dog is snuggling me.

16. Our son is sleeping on our floor again after his nightmare.

17. It’s Thursday.

18. We did it last week. Or month. Whatever.

19. You promised me a back rub and only a back rub.

20. I need to exfoliate my face.

21. I’m tired.

22. We talked about our financial situation.

23. I’m worried about a UTI.

24. I just showered.

25. I painted my nails and they’re still wet.

Well, I could go on and on. Couldn’t you? I mean, let’s not get carried away. Sex is natural, sex is fun, just like George Michael sang. But good gracious, I’ve got things to do. I’m middle aged and tired. I don’t need no twentysomething who hasn’t found her first gray pubic hair, or crows foot, telling me what to do. If he wants sex every night, he can have it. By himself. But see, even he’s too tired for that. So there you go. It’s called life.  And nobody needs to tell you what to do. So there.


The definition of a slut

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Wow. We hear that word a lot these days. There’s slut-shaming posts everywhere. Slut-shaming is the new black. Let’s talk about sluts shall we?

What is a slut?

A slut is a woman thought to have a lot of sexual partners. A woman considered unclean, sullied. A female considered to be a prostitute.

Huh. So wearing a plastic bra and underwear on stage for millions of people to see, or swinging from a wrecking ball (okay, while NAKED) is considered having a lot of sexual partners? Or maybe it’s unclean? She looked showered and clean to me. I hope she was sitting on a towel though on that wrecking ball.

We all know who I’m talking about. I read comments on the internet from all kinds of folks. Whether it be trollish internet dwellers that like to just comment on a myriad of entertainment websites or YouTube videos, or even kids on Instagram commenting, everyone is using the word slut. Or maybe it’s parents describing the way teenage girls dress these days.

“It’s a shame they wear such short skirts, those little sluts.” Or a news talk radio host in my area calling Miley Cyrus a slut on his radio show after her VMA performance.

Considering she’s had 1 relationship (that we know of, of course) over the last 3 years; I don’t think she fits the definition of a slut. Right?

Now if we’re talking about that other little pop princess, what’s her name? Taylor something? Yeah, I think she’s had one or two partners. Can’t say we know if she’s slept with them, but yeah she sings about them any way. Must be those cute Coca Cola ads and her KEDS endorsement that keep us from calling her a slut.

I recently wrote about my struggle with seeing the woman wear hot pants, or short-shorts  in Target. I was struggling over the fact that my gut told me she shouldn’t wear that, and then my mind had to think it over and I realized, it was none of my business if she wore them. And what a woman wears doesn’t define her sexuality.

Now let’s turn the tables.

What is a stud? A stud is a man who has a lot of sex and considers himself good at it. Or others think he’s good at it too. Or according to the Urban Dictionary, a man that is a stud, is a cool dude that people want to be with and be like.

Huh. Interesting. So a guy has sex a lot, he’s a stud. A girl has sex a lot she’s a slut. What in the ever loving crazy fucked up logic is this? One is a high-fiving fist bump status, the other is a derogatory label.

I’m going to go with hetero relationships here, just for this post’s sake. It’s what I’m familiar with so that’s fair. Not sure how it relates to gays and lesbians.

In order for a guy to have sex a lot with multiple partners, he needs to have girls to HAVE SEX WITH HIM. If he did it alone, that would be called masturbation. No one is a stud because they have a lot of sex with THEMSELVES.

Can we just stop? Can we just stop using the word slut? I don’t want to slut shame anyone. I don’t want anyone calling a girl who wears a provocative outfit that might be inappropriate, a slut. I just don’t want to hear it. A woman can have consenting adult sexual relationships with as many or few partners as she wants. Just like a guy can.

And a young girl wearing a revealing outfit is NOT a slut. She’s just trying to figure out her body, her sexuality, what gets people’s attention. Maybe she needs guidance is all.

The word sounds out-dated. Like Negro or Oriental. It doesn’t seem to have a place in our society any more. Or it shouldn’t. Not if we want to stop the perpetuation of the rape culture we live in. That’s right. I said rape culture. Shaming women about their sexuality, making them feel guilty for being sexual creatures, and blaming them for the tempting of the male species are just some of the ingredients to this rape culture soup we’ve tolerated over the years.

Now, is a woman promiscuous because she is having unprotected sex, or sex without knowing her partner’s history? Then that’s a different story of concern. That’s not favorable for either man or woman. But having safe sex, lots of it, with lots of people is an adult’s choice. It’s the two adults that are doing it. It is not the clothes they wear or our job to define someone’s sexual prowess by our own assumptions. It’s none of our business.

Miley swinging on a wrecking ball naked or making out with a sledge hammer, doesn’t make her a slut. It makes me confused about construction sites and then I want to put underwear on her. Preferably a pair that isn’t white that she’s rolled around in over a pile of bricks.

Stop using the word slut and judging women unfairly for their sexuality. I am woman, hear me roar.


The White Queen and magic penises.

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I’m only one episode in, but I kinda love The White Queen. It’s the latest series on Starz and it is ‘historical’ fiction. You know, kinda historically accurate but they don’t use it as a text book in schools. Based on Phillipa Gregory’s books of the series, The Cousin Wars,  it promises heaving bosoms, deception and plenty of sex. Apparently.

I love Ms. Gregory’s books! They are titillating, engaging, and fascinating. I usually read one cover to cover pretty quickly. I haven’t read this one. But based on Starz’ portrayal, I think I will. I love steamy drama of the middle ages when thrones were over thrown and battles fought, on the field and (lowers voice) in the bedroom.

If you’re interested, the story goes- the war of the roses between the Yorks and the Lancasters wages on. Two houses divided but then joined (sort of), when, what’s this? The widow of the House of Kent whose husband was killed by the Lancaster Edward, who took the throne, marries this guy! Say what? Yeah, the woman marries the guy that killed her husband. But hey, this is the middle ages and cute guys were on short supply and she needed to keep her land and stuff, so I guess it all works out. If it sounds confusing, it is. It’s amazing England figured this all out!

Apparently, they Elizabeth (the widow) and Edward (the husband murderer) were hot for each other from the get-go. King Edward comes riding by with his men, to Elizabeth’s house (that’s the York) and the next minute he’s walking in the gardens with her and they are this close to getting it on in the primrose bushes.

Life happens fast in jolly old England and pretty soon they are having a secret wedding ceremony in a little chapel and running to a hunter’s cottage to have consummate the union. It takes only a few seconds to take off the yards and yards of brocade and then Edward gently caresses her boob. Wait does he? Or did I just imagine that?

And then, this is where the magic happens. He mounts on top of her, and low and behold, she starts making sounds of satisfaction and then hot diggity dog, faster than you can say, “Corset strings” they simultaneously reach climax and lie in a satisfied heap together. Whoa. How cool is that? His penis has to be magic to provide so much instant satisfaction. Don’t you think?

Of course for the sake of the story, we don’t need their entire sexual episode. Producers need to keep the story moving. 1 minute, maybe 2, tops, to focus on some ‘sexual situations’ that the ratings board approves. It’s not porn folks. It’s not like they are going to show an entire 20 minutes of tantric love making, I get that. But the magic of Hollywood is very deceptive. Very deceptive.

Some thoughts I had while watching the beautiful Elizabeth (I think the actress wears a wig) and the sweet handsome Edward, of which the actor gets goosebumps on his butt cheeks during sex scenes. Yeah- the HD on this show is  THAT good.

Movie sex doesn’t require lube, toys or time for that matter. How great to just get on the bed and get ‘er done. Forget foreplay.

Everyone is primed and ready to go, reaching climax in 3…2…1. Isn’t that awesome?

Those rooms are always warm and cozy, but just cool enough to get the girls’ headlights at attention. Everyone has really long, beautiful blond hair that doesn’t get tangled up or in the way, or in the guys mouth. It’s always done missionary style (except Game of Thrones), there’s plenty of candles that someone else had to light. The dog isn’t on the bed watching.The man’s sexy scruff doesn’t scratch the hell out of the woman’s delicate complexion. They cuddle so nicely in bed afterwards, the woman never having to use the restroom to prevent a UTI.

Nobody has gas.

I know, I know- it’s a show people! It’s not real! But, why does a woman’s satisfaction have to take so long? Why are we like the console of a Boeing dream liner, trying to figure out what button to push?

Why can’t the costume department of this show put the men in TIGHTER PANTS? Why must the women wear so much gauzy cotton? Does everyone from that time period have such perfect complexions? I want to know!

I can’t decide if I want this post to be about the fact that movie sex has ruined it for us women, because so many men think they have magic penises that will get the job done in 45 seconds tops. OR, that I wish movie sex was real life sex and things were good to go in 2 minutes flat.

Because then I would have more time for watching more episodes of The White Queen.




50 Loads of Darks

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*Disclaimer- this post is romanticized fiction based loosely on actual events. Sort of.



Another Monday night and I was putting the kids to bed. Hubs was snoozing on the downstairs couch. A typical long day at the office has killed any energy he might have had for some gymnastics between the sheets. Okay, not gymnastics, but some spooning that leads to forking anyway.

I make my way to the laundry room to check to see if the towels in the dryer were in fact, dry. I hate mildewy towels. I pushed the button for ‘touch-up’ and went to the hamper to sort some more dirties for another load.

The husband’s darks. How in thee hell does a man have so many socks and shorts? All black socks to be exact. The hamper is in our master bath and is parked outside our walk-in closet door. I made two piles- husband’s black socks, and everything else.

Then I remembered I needed to jot down on my shopping list that we are out of cat food and postage stamps. If I don’t write it down now, I’ll certainly forget.

I go downstairs to write on my list. Then I see dishes of various ice cream vessels that have been left on the side tables and couch from where the kids AND Hubs had their evening bowls of ice cream in front of the TV. Sigh. Picking up dishes all over the house is a full time job. Why am I the only one who seems to remember to put them back in the kitchen?

Hubs is still snoozing. His jaw is slack to the point where he’s almost snoring and he looks pretty wiped. I walk up to him, lean over, just enough to put my saggy bosoms up to his face and whisper, ‘How about a little nookie nook?’  No response. I proceed to give him a Wet Willy in his ear and when he snaps awake tell him, “hey, wanna make yourself useful and meet me upstairs?”

Despite his initial pissed-off reaction, his expression softens and the look of realization crosses his face. I can imagine it was probably the same look he got at 13 when he looked at a Heather Thomas poster.

I put the cat in his room for the night, and call the dog upstairs where she makes her nighttime spot on our bed. I make sure the children’s bedroom doors are shut and I wash my face of the day’s makeup and oily grime.

Wait- did I ever jot down cat food and postage stamps on my shopping list? Oh geeze, I don’t remember. Oh well. I quickly brush my teeth. If hubs does in fact come upstairs for a little whoopie making, I better act fast because he’ll probably fall back to sleep if I dawdle too much.

He heads to the walk-in closet to put on his pajama sweat pants. I figure, now is as good a time as any. I hit the lights so it’s just me and him in the dark. I reach to feel around his mid-section and feel the elastic of his shorts. I creep my fingers just below the waist band.

He asks, “Here?”

I say, “Sure.”

He asks, “On the dirty clothes?”

I say, “I’m washing them anyway, what does it matter?”

He doesn’t ask anything after that. It’s hard for him to think with my hands in the right place.

I decide to speed things up, it is getting late after all. That alarm clock doesn’t wait for anybody, let alone sleep deprived middle aged married couples.

What am I standing on? Probably socks. I try all sexy-like to shimmy down my lady briefs. Not that he can see me anyway, since it’s dark, but our eyes are adjusting and I’m seeing some gray shadows to navigate around. Something is caught around my toe. Holding on to Hubs for support, I wrangle a pair of Fruit of the Looms (not mine) from underneath my foot. I kick around a pile of socks, definitely Hubs’ socks, and try to find a nice soft pile for us. There’s some shoes in the way and a couple of my handbags. A bigger walk-in closet would be really nice. Something along the lines of one of those Real Housewives of Beverly Hills closets with benches and fancy armoires. But now I’m getting distracted. Must focus on Hubs and trying to balance myself on this pile of dirty clothes. Maybe he should squat….? Hmm.. this is getting difficult.

If you think Monday night closet sex on a pile of dirty clothes is not sexy, then you are exactly right. But hey, sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.

And I gotta lot of laundry to do. That’s for sure.

Tune in next Chapter when Hubs decides to clean the garage in order to cash in on some marital ‘favors’.


The birds, the bees and uhm, ‘other stuff’

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Show of hands- how many of you included a discussion about oral sex in the ‘sex talk’ with your pre-teens?

Hmm? Not too many of you I’m guessing. Now I’m no expert on child psychology or ‘the talk’. But let me share with you a little frank discussion I had recently with Emma. And she caught me off guard. We were driving in the car, so I needed to answer these completely sober. No cocktails were involved. No liquid courage to help. Deep breath. We’re going in.

Okay, the other night, Emma and I had some time just to ourselves. Lately we’ve been getting these afternoons or an evening together because the boys are entrenched in select soccer try-outs and spring tournaments. So they get to do their thing, and we do our thing.

Emma asks as we’re driving home from dinner, ‘Mom, was dad the only person you had sex with?’ Cue breaks screeching sound. Uhm, whoa there chica. I didn’t know we were having THIS conversation right now!

Me, “Uhm, yes.” There was a hint of doubt in my voice she detected. (Mom you can stop reading right here. Thanks- love you!)

Emma, “Mom, be honest now.”

Me, “Well, yes and no. Had I been intimate with some fellas before your dad? – yes. I was 23 when I met your father and I had some time to make out with other guys in college (not many, mind you) before I met daddy and so I had some experience with uhm, that stuff.” AWKWARD!

Emma, “Have you ever touched a pee pee with your mouth?” Her words, not mine!

Me, “Geeze kid! What are you doing with me here?!”

You could tell it was taking a lot of courage on her part. So I kept my cool. I could see she had some things going on in her mind, and I didn’t want to ruin this moment of her opening up to me. I also didn’t want to talk about blow jobs with my 13 year old!

I literally pulled the car over into a neighborhood and put it in park. I realized this conversation needed some attention and I wanted to make the most out of it.

So this is what I told her.  Feel free to take notes because afterwards, I felt like I totally nailed this. Really, parenting win moment coming up in 3, 2, 1…

“A lot of kids in middle school and high school are probably experimenting with oral sex. Guys might tell girls that blow jobs are harmless, don’t count as sex and also, you can’t get pregnant so it’s a win-win, right? No. Oral sex is just as intimate, it counts for sex and it means a whole lot more than you think it means. You can still get an STD from it and it is a big deal.”

Emma, “Isn’t it weird? Who wants a penis in their face?”

This is the right answer coming from a 13 year old!! Yes, who wants a penis in their face anyway? (silent prayer to myself, please help me Jesus that this child will not see a penis until she’s 30!)

I immediately thought of the scene in the movie Bridesmaids when Annie and Lillian are having brunch and Annie (Kristen Wiig) is confessing of her sleepover with her ex and reenacting a penis or a one-eyed snake using her facial expressions.

Me, “What you need to understand is that there will come a time when you’re kissing a boy and he’ll want to go further than just kissing. You will probably too.”

Emma, “That’s gross, I don’t want to do any of that!”

Me, “Now, right. If you think penises are gross, you have no business being near one. This clearly shows you are not mature to handle the situation.  However,  maybe when you’re 15 or 16 you will want to. Not that that’s an okay age either to have sex. You are going to think it feels good to be with a boy and you will be just as interested in having him touch you as he wants to touch you. Sex is a nice thing. It’s awesome. When you’re an adult and responsible and with someone you can trust. Whether those grown ups have intercourse like regular procreating mammals (cue laughter from Girl right here) or decide they want to enjoy each others’ bodies with their hands, OR mouths- is up to them. (Cue grossed out noises from Girl right here.) Let me stress- adults- not teenagers.  Feeling in love, loving someone and enjoying them is a perfectly wonderful thing. Just not when you’re 14.”

Emma didn’t believe me when I told her this. The part about her wanting to be with a boy. And that is understandable considering her age now. She’s convinced she’s not making out with a boy until she’s married to him. I explained that it’s unrealistic to think that. If she doesn’t want to kiss a boy or be with someone until her 20s or 30s, then great. But if she realizes that she’s kissing a boy and she’s 15 and she’d like to see how far it will go, then that’s when she needs to stop and think.

I want her to know that she needs to value herself. No boy is worth compromising for. Don’t do something with a guy because you’re afraid if you don’t that he won’t like you anymore. If you do end up doing anything you don’t want to, you’ll end up not liking yourself. And that’s more dangerous than any boy’s acceptance or rejection. Love yourself more than any other boy out there could ever say he loves or likes you.

But, if she’s the girl who wants the boy to do stuff with her and that boy doesn’t want to, she needs to respect him too. Boundaries are important for both sides. If she feels the little sparks of desire start to flicker, she needs to come to me and we can talk about what’s an appropriate solution with handling that until she’s 18 or 19 and on her own. Well, she already knows all about condoms and birth control. But what I want her to understand is that when urges come on strong, she can figure out what to do to not give in. I’m thinking jogging, shopping, macrame? Just kidding.

So there. I hope this helps you. Because heavens knows I got a few extra gray hairs from it and probably lost a few beats of my heart when it skipped.

Am I glad she asked me this? Hell yes. I’m so grateful to be talking with my teenager. That she comes to me with questions. I’m full to the brim with gratitude that she trusts me. I will cultivate this as long as possible. Even if it’s uncomfortable for me, it’s worth it.


For some references on talking to your kids about sex, check out Amy Langs blog, The Birds + Bees + Kids Blog.


7 Ways to Keep the Mystery in Your Marriage via Scary Mommy

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This post was featured on Scary Mommy last week. I was so excited that she let me contribute to her blog since she is pretty awesome and a published author, and widely known.

I posted it on my Facebook blog page and wasn’t sure if everyone saw it. So here you have my Scary Mommy contribution.

Let’s remember folks- I’m sarcastic, I’m putting it all out there, and don’t take me too seriously. (hee hee) Oh, and mom and dad, don’t bother reading. Thanks.

My husband and I have been together almost two decades. 17 years. That is crazy. Especially since I’m only 31. Just kidding. I’m 40 and everyone knows it.


I believe there are some things that should be kept from one another. Basic human nature aspects that really don’t need to be shared. Sure this guy is your soul mate, the love of your life. But I try to keep him from seeing the elephant ear shaped labias in actual daylight. I think romance needs to stay somewhat alive. I try to keep a shred of dignity around him. If my efforts keep him wondering, keep him thinking, “this woman has such a mystique, even though I’ve been married to her all these years,” I’m doing something right.


Here goes…


1. Only wear those pore trip nose thingies on your nose when he’s not around. I even have ‘Frownies’ which are these stick on tabs you use to immobilize your face instead of Botox. They are like postage stamps for your forehead. He will never see me in these.


2. Hide your Aunt Flo stained underwear at the bottom of the hamper. Better yet- wash everything yourself and keep your husband from laundering any delicates.


3. Don’t go #2 in his presence. Yes, my husband thinks I, like other women, don’t poop. And honestly, I’m just going to pretend he doesn’t either. There are limits in our marriage. We can go #1 in each others’ company, but #2 is strictly off limits. What’s the worst is when we have to go to a hotel and eventually I have to have my morning poop. I make sure the fan is on and I keep a travel Febreeze in my product bag.


4.  Keep from seeing each other’s anuses at all costs. I don’t think my husband has seen mine. I can’t guarantee what my husband saw of me during childbirth. It happened so fast and the poor guy was forced by the nurse to hold my leg. I told them no, that I wanted my hooha to be a sacred shrine of adoration kept intact in my husband’s mind, but they insisted. I don’t care that porn stars bleach their back door, this hemorrhoid addled (yes childbirth was retched on my body) butt isn’t going to be seen by anyone (except my gyno), not even a hand mirror I hold myself. And you can guarantee I will NOT be seeing his.


5. Don’t vomit on your spouse. Thankfully this has never happened to us. Once I puked on the bathroom rug and he graciously took it out to the garbage while I crawled back in bed with the puke bowl. Which is also the salad bowl I take to our neighborhood block parties.


6. Refrain from farting during sex.  This I think I’ve done actually. We had Mexican before for dinner. I had too many margaritas. We were rolling around in the sack and I did a Carrie Bradshaw to Mr. Big for him. I think he was a little distracted about the other stuff going on and continued as usual.


7. If you’ve snuck his razor for lady grooming, rinse it off and put it back without him ever knowing. Pubes are kind of a mood killer. Hopefully he has done the same should he borrow yours ever. Guy pubes are pretty wiry. I’m counting on the fact that he doesn’t want my Lady Schick in that jungle of his. Not that he does any manscaping down there, but if he did shave his balls- it would so be some Mach 4 razor that is only man enough for the job.


So there you have it. I think I’m about 80% mysterious to my husband. I will do my darndest to keep from him my stained underwear, hemorrhoid asshole and nose strips till death do us part.  Truly, this is key to a long and healthy, happy marriage.


7 (LOL) Ways to Keep the Mystery in Your Marriage


Please and thanks – vote for me at the Circle of Moms 25 Funny Moms contest- WOO HOO! Click Here

I’m guest posting In The Powder Room

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Today I am so tickled, so pleased as punch, so EXCITED to have my debut at…….DUN dada DUN…..

In The Powder Room! Confetti cannons- pew pew pew pew!

I have been a huge fan of this site so today I feel like the new kid at the big girl’s lunch table. They feature fabulous women, hilarious articles and blush-worthy topics. It’s like girl talk in the bathroom. Hence- the Powder Room reference.

So run on over there already, why are you still here??

Today’s post- What happens when you buy something that doesn’t fit but you can’t return it?

I’m not talking about a shirt, or a nightstand, or even a pair of shoes. Something more personal ….

read HERE for the full article




Self love. Yes, THAT kind.

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Please be advised this is no pervy, whack-off post. Any of you who found this by Google or other key words, just go elsewhere. This is about parenting. If you’re looking for anything otherwise, move along.


Yep. That word. It’s a doozy. What comes to mind when I hear that? That character on Family Guy, was it Master Bates from the Morning Wood Academy?  Ha ha. Insert frat humor here.

Okay. Have you had THAT talk with your kids? I’ve had that talk with my kids. But I’m talking about this talk. The other talk. You know, where you tell them that if they touch themselves they will go blind. Or their hand will shrivel up and fall off. I’m kidding! I just said that small puppies will die. Okay, seriously.

I have NOT had this talk with my kids. We’ve talked about sex and how a baby is made. Emma is pretty clear on most things between a man and a woman. I mean, you know, the basics. She’s had family life in school, she knows about STDs and drugs and alcohol. She’s got it covered.

Okay, well maybe I did have THIS talk about Master Bates with Emma. But it was not on purpose.

My children have always been, uhm, you know, precocious. They are big farters and announcers about their farts. They talk about their privates. ALL. THE. TIME. We’re pretty comfortable talking about pretty much anything.

And then, the other day, Owen asks me if it’s true that when you rub your nuts your penis gets hard. Well, I said, I don’t have that equipment so I can’t say from experience. (Yeah, I know, easy way out.) But that if at any time you want to touch your privates, it’s totally fine to do as long as you are by yourself and privately at home. And then I asked him where he heard this bit of information. And he said a kid at school said that rubbing your junk makes it hard. Lovely.
AWKWARD. So I just casually said that if he had any questions he should probably ask his father. And that if he ever feels like touching himself, it’s totally not a big deal and again, reiterate that it is to be done in seclusion. And to please not talk about it with anyone outside our family, like at school or the playground.  It’s best to just come to me or dad with questions.

I think I handled that pretty well.

Moving on to a different day and Emma makes a joke about rubbing the cats balls while she was petting his belly. Technically he doesn’t have any balls, since he is neutered, which is also more fodder for discussion and jokes in this house. We like to talk in funny cat voices and talk about his missing balls. It’s a whole ‘nother story.  I said to please not molest the cat, it invades his privacy. One should only rub their own privates not anyone else’s or any animal’s for that matter. (Seriously, I need to have these conversations? WTF?) So she says, “Why on earth would anyone ever want to rub their privates?!”

Uhm. Well. Uhm. No reason.

Is what I should have said.

But instead, I start to pontificate on the benefits of self pleasure. Well, not exactly. But I said that masturbation is totally normal and nothing to be ashamed or afraid of. It is perfectly common for when you start to reach adulthood and sexual maturity to want to touch yourself only with the means of making it ‘feel good’.

Insert big shocked face from Emma here.

“Oh my gosh!! There is NO WAY that I’m just going to stick my hand down to my vagina because I WANT to! Do I just start flapping around my labias and clitoris for fun? NO!” (okay, this girl knows her parts and it kinda freaks me out every time she uses them in context!)

Me- “Well, your brother was discussing that boys at school talked about rubbing their privates and it felt good, so I was just making sure you were clear on the whole parameters on that kind of thing.”

Her- “DISGUSTING! So dad rubbed his junk when he was a teenager? Like I want to think about that!! EWWW!!! No thank you!”

Me- (Totally not trying to crack up and make her think I think this is a joke. She makes Taylor Lautner pectoral jokes all the time, now she goes all prude on me?) “Hey, that’s fine sweetie, whatever you are comfortable with. And if you have any questions, feel free to ask.” (please, please, please, don’t have any questions.)

Her- “Okay, well thank you for that mom. I’ll just go to bed now and try not to have nightmares about this sort of thing.”

Drama queen much?

So there you go. If you ever need any advice on how to talk to your kids about anything sexual, feel free to ask me. No, actually, I’m kidding. You’re on your own.

But I have said this- as much as we parents squirm and dance around this stuff- if your kids can come to YOU about it, Elle Woods finger snaps to you.

Because parenting is about being there. And then blogging about it after they walk away.

Yep, parents have sex. Ew, gross!

Like the Modern Family episode- the Anniversary- the kids walk in on the parents to surprise them with breakfast in bed.

They get more than they bargained for.

Luke- “It looked like they were wrestling and dad was winning.”

I should send the following dialog to ABC. I think they would appreciate it. My screen play is in the works.  Okay, I will try to capture every essence of the HORROR my daughter experienced during this conversation:
(Some background, my daughter is 12. She is a very mature 12. Knows the birds and bees stuff. But she still thinks sex is icky (thank GOD) and she definitely thinks the thought of her parents having sex is SUPER ICKY)

Me: You and your brother need to go to bed before 10 tonight. You guys have been staying up too late. Plus, mommy and daddy need some mommy and daddy time.

Her: What do you mean ‘mommy and daddy time’?

Me: Well, you know, it is after all, your father’s birthday. It would be nice not to watch Phineas and Ferb before we go to bed, and also get some time together. (So trying to be subtle here.)

Her: Eww!!!! WHAT???? You do not DO THAT??? Are you saying you and dad do THAT in the house??

Me: Where would you like us to do it, in the back yard?

Her: MO–om! I mean, don’t you like, DO IT when we are gone?

Me: When are you and your brother gone and we are home alone? Never. So yes, when you go to Grandma’s in a couple weeks, we’ll have some time then. But every other week, we gotta do it under the same roof as you.

Her: So, when we are home sleeping in our beds, you and dad are all, like, kissing and stuff NAKED??? What if Owen walks in?

Me: We take our chances and lock the door. (seriously, I’m grinning so hard on the inside during this convo.)

Her: Well, then I’m coming in your room at night from now on to prevent that from going on!

Me: You sure you want to do that? I mean, what if you come in at accidentally the WRONG time?

Her: OHMYGOSH!!!! YOU’re right!! I’m never coming in your room again. Oh, I’m going to throw up.

Me: Seriously, sweetie. It’s no big deal. We had to make you and your brother at some point. Just think, each of your grandparents did too. And THEY have 3 kids each.

Her: OH MY GOD!!! SCRUB MY BRAIN SCRUB MY BRAIN!!!! WHY did you SAY THAT??? Now I can’t help but think…… oh….. EWWWWW!!!

Me: <giggling> I’m so glad we had this talk sweetie.

Her: I’m going to go scrub my eyes and watch kitten videos on YouTube. I might vomit first.

Me: You do that honey. Just remember, bedtime is 9:30.

Her: <No words just the hugest eye roll EVER.>


Sex (or lack thereof) and the Married Couple

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Or as I should call it, How 50 Shades of Grey ruined my sex life. That’s right. I said ruined. I know, I know- you’re like, ‘WTF FRUG, you were all gushing about it in your music video. Yeah, well, that was back then. Now, unless my husband reads those books, (has any guy read them?) or any other middle aged-mom-soft porn, I can forget getting hot and heavy like Ana and Christian did. My husband will never look at me with smoldering eyes, fingering one of his silk ties in his hands, while he strolls on over to me wearing ripped up jeans and carrying a riding crop, telling me to ‘hold still’.  Our idea of kinky is when one of us gets a neck cramp during ‘relations’.

Who the fuck has time for hot sex anymore?  I’m talking monogamous, happily married, tear off each other’s clothes, pretend like you haven’t been married for 15 years sex. My body isn’t a robot. I don’t have a ‘TURN ON’ switch. So if it isn’t the time of the month, fatigue, sciatic nerve spasms, gas from too much bread at dinner… it’s a miracle there’s any relations going on at all. Seriously, mom- this might be where you stop reading- or put your fingers in your ears ‘lalalalala…I can’t hear you.’

Is it nature’s job to just mess with us? And by us, I mean women. It’s not that I don’t want sex, necessarily (oh dear God, mother, I am so sorry), it’s just that the urge for it really is sporadic. Here is a typical cycle of my libido in any given week-

Monday night= staying up to catch up on DVR shows and blog. Plus, my crops in WeTopia are far overdue to be harvested. Hubs is asleep on the couch. #Sameoldstory.

Tuesday= 11 am, started reading a book/ article/ or was watching Last of the Mohicans on one of the Encore channels with Daniel Day Lewis wearing deer skin pants- the only movie he’s ever looked THAT good- and think- hmmm, if hubby was home right now I would SO tap that keg.

Tuesday night= hubby’s home- and awake, but I have gas from that new quinoa and white bean recipe I tried. Plus, I snarfed that bag of Doritos when no one was around earlier, so the MSG is bloating in my intestines. This equals unsexy for sure.

Wednesday = Hubby’s working from home but I’m feeling glum and sad over how my jeans don’t fit me after I take them out of the dryer. I wish he would give me a back rub. And by back rub, I mean, back rub. And bring me donuts.

Thursday= holy hell- was surfing the web for blog material and happened to come across a whole handful of hot guys which got me thinking how nice it would be if hubby was working from home today. But he’s not. Once again, two ships- different ports.

Friday night= fell asleep in front of my lap top at around 9:30 surfing the web for swim suits that will never fit me. Got distracted and started watching cute kitten videos on YouTube, but my eyelids were so heavy, so now I’m just snoring on the couch. Maybe hubs will carry me upstairs, undress me and put me in to bed, which will wake me just enough for me to be aroused and he’ll pleasure me luxuriously for hours. Wait. Scratch that. Hubs hasn’t picked me up EVER since I weigh as much as he does, and he sure as hell wouldn’t make it up the stairs carrying my fat ass, especially with his bum knee. Plus he’s fallen asleep on the couch while updating his roster for Fantasy Soccer.

Saturday= went out with girl friends and got all dolled up to impress other ladies and get hit on by men that don’t mean anything to me. Stumbled home around midnight and took some Advil and went to bed.

Sunday= still recovering from the night before’s outing. Hubs gives me THE LOOK while we are brushing our teeth getting ready for bed. I’m like, “What?”, He’s like, “hey there”. I’m all, “hey there yourself”. Put in my night guard, throw my hair up in a scrunchie and call it a night. 6:30 am isn’t waiting for nobody and Monday mornings are always hell trying to drag my sorry ass out of bed. So no nookie for you my dear. Sleep time.

And there you have the random week in the life of a married couple that wishes, just wishes, that Afternoon Delights, Hotel Sex, or Anniversary sex, could come during random times of the day, conveniently when there’s no time of the month, gassy stomach bloat, constipation, or children around to bother or in their case, be bothered. OR telemarketers or the Mother In Law calling, or the dog whining at the bottom of the bed.

Yep. I went there. My next blog will be- ‘Why you shouldn’t blog about your sex life and humiliate your ultra, introverted husband.’

Stay tuned.