Dirty Catholic

Survey

Last night while Mr. Man was dutifully giving me a foot rub, we were discussing the generally accepted truth that for women, a foot rub is just a foot rub, but for men, a foot rub equals sex.  Then I unleashed this gem: "Provided that I was having sex regularly, if someone offered me an hour long professional massage or an orgasm, I'd choose the massage."

Mr. Man stammered his disbelief. No! Surely not! How can it be?!?!? (Of course, he's never had a massage, so what would he know?) Anyhoo, we called my sister to pose the question to her. She agreed with me. So now my husband thinks that this preference is a genetic defect. I maintain it is a truth of female sexuality.

So, dear readers, I ask you:

Given the option between an orgasm or an hour-long professional massage, which would you choose?

Memory Snatcher

This morning Mr. Man and I were talking about wedding party favors after I mentioned that I was heading over to my friend's house later that afternoon to help make her favors. Mr. Man began to reminisce.

"Gosh, do remember when we made all those ginger snaps for your sister's wedding? That was a lot of work!"

"Yes it was- but sweetie- you weren't there."

"Yes I was! All that rolling and sugaring. And then we had to put 5 cookies into every little baggy and seal them. God it was a lot of work."

"Yes, sweetie, it was, but you didn't do it."

"Of course I did!"

"Oh? Can you tell me about the wedding?"

"Of course not! I wasn't at the wedding. We hadn't met yet."

"Exactly."

Apparently this memory snatching is not uncommon:

Code Words

My husband and I have a shorthand code for depression.  We call it "January '04," aptly named for the month in '04 when I was unemployed, sleeping more than I should, and generally in a depressive funk.  While clinical depression does run in our family, I learned from January '04 that I have yet to get there.  I still have non-medical resources for snapping out of it, and lo, they are called "Exercise!" and "Structure!" and "Something To Do!"  From the beginning Mr. Man was concerned about the part-time situation and its effect on my mental health, as there seems to be a direct correlation between me having something to do and being happy. I think he was also a bit worried because the other connotation of "January '04" is "not getting laid."

I've been spending a fair amount of mental energy trying to figure out what to do with all the new-found spare time. Mr. Man's initial suggestions of "Firing the house-cleaner!" and "Taking over the Bills!" somehow didn't light me on fire with a sense of mission and purpose. I was considering things like, "Cooking classes!" "Volunteer work!" and "Baking!" His counter offer, logical though frustrating, was "Things that make money!" This constant back-and-forth of what I should do has not helped to abate the onset  "January '04" symptoms.

This past weekend we came to consensus that I can investigate whatever options that I'd like (volunteering, cooking, etc) in order to keep myself busy until September. In September, I'd better get my arse in gear and get a paying job. So today I woke up relieved and for the first time, genuinely excited about working part time.  Mr. Man is handling it well, too. When he left this morning he wished me good luck on my first full day of semi-retirement.

Quote of the Weekend

"Well Jesus! I wish we were Jewish!"

Spice of Life

Not having a lot of experience with detention or remedial courses, I felt the slightest twinge of "so that's what it's like" when we walked into our Infertility Group Seminar entitled, "The Art of Conception." It was a sort of catch-all class, with an odd mixture of the fertility-challenged heteroes and the special-assistance-needed lesbian couples, who I am sure were bored out of their minds with the lengthy discussion of the male reproductive anatomy.

We spent the majority of the time on what amounted to Sex Ed. Apparently there are people in the world who didn't get this information in high school or have never bothered to read about it. Like my husband. He kept leaning over to me, whispering, "Did you know that?" and suggesting, "You should try that."  Apparently he hadn't noticed the thermometer I use every morning nor the pile of books by the bed that includes all the titles our instructor recommended.

Toward the end we covered a rather helpful guide to navigating the health care system and the bazillion tests they can run on women to figure out "your issues." Of course, the men only have one test, but who doesn't like to talk about that? At one point the instructor went on at length about the various types of containers that the "male samples" have been contained in. Spice jars are apparently the most popular, Cinnamon, Bay Leaves, Cumin, you name it. (I am surprised more people don't use Cream of Tartar.) In any case, to save us from the terrible spice-jar fate, we each got (several) sterile sample jars as a door prize.

Since Mr. Man has already been tested, I decided to balance the container-karma of the universe when we got home.

Who says HMO's aren't helpful?

Nice Rack

As all our friends can attest, my husband and I both love my rack.

It is perfectly perky and cute and just the right size for all our needs.

And Mr. Man has been begging me for ages to post a picture of my rack on the internet.

So fine. 

Here you go:

Reasons That I Am Glad I Married Mr. Man

1. Even though he's on edge about all things car related, he can really hold it together when I crash the car. Repeatedly.

2. He can read anything aloud and make it sound interesting and funny- even articles from the Wall Street Journal.

3. That one time, when I came home pissed off from stuff at work:
     MM: I know what will make you feel better.
     DC: Oh really? What?
     MM: Watching this whole DVD of Flight of the Conchords and sharing this                   bottle of girlie champagne.
     DC: It's like... you read my mind.

Used Book Store

Mr. Man: I just bought an book that you might find interesting...

DC: Oh yeah? What?

Mr.Man: A collection of Erotic Horror!

DC: Gross. I don't want to read about your parents having sex.

Happy Crappiversary

Today is our Second Anniversary.

This morning, Mr. Man said, "We're not doing gifts, right?"

I heartily agreed, as the idea had not even occurred to me.

But man, did I come up with a great gift this afternoon: A car accident!

He is such a lucky guy.

No Bull

In our many hypothetical discussions of pregnancy and childbirth, two things have become very clear:

1. Mr. Man thinks that I should follow every single restriction, rule, and bit of advice offered to pregnant women.

2. I do not.

If I ever get pregnant, I fear nine straight months of conversations like these:

DC: <breathing>
Mr. Man: "Should you really be doing that in your condition?"

DC: <blinking>
Mr. Man: "Are you sure that won't hurt the baby?"

DC: <bathing>
Mr. Man: "That won't make you go into early labor, will it?"

That being said, on the way home from Yosemite, we discovered the one thing that I will never do while pregnant.

We stopped in a small town off Highway 99 named Merced. Asking around for a dinner spot, we were directed to a place called "Big Bubba's BBQ." Perhaps we should have taken more note of the fact that our dinner adviser was wearing Hooters t-shirt, but we were hungry.

The food was fine but more astounding was the parade of characters riding the MECHANICAL BULL in the dining room.

I believe my reaction to the first rider was, "Whaaaa?" The second rider elicited a "Remind me to NEVER let my 13-year-old daughter do that."
Riders #3-10 continued with the theme of barely-teen girls whose parents didn't seem to notice the shady men checking them out them from the bar.
Rider #11 was a shady man from the bar.

At some point, we became increasingly bored and annoyed with the whole thing. We didn't really notice the blond woman, probably in her early 30's, get on the the mechanized beast until right before she was whip-lashed back and knocked off. We gasped as she jumped up and climbed back on the still-writhing bull.

As this took place, we looked around, squinted our eyes, and asked each other, "Is she....PREGNANT?"

After she was thrown off a final time, she emerged from the bullpen, cradling her head, and commented to a friend, "I don't think I should do that anymore tonight."

You think?

I still cling to the hope that the woman just had an unfortunate figure flaw that made her look pregnant, and that the thing that appeared to be her jutting belly button was actually the button of her jeans, but I am an optimistic fool.

While I will probably bitch and complain about (and break) some the "rules" for pregnant women, I can promise my husband this one thing: No Bull.