Want to brush up on your oral skills??
Humor delivers truth in this clip. Watch and learn:
Have you wondered if the G spot is for real and how to find it?
I love how Conan O’Brien seems so disgusted by vaginas. To be fair, I’m guessing that most vaginas are equally disgusted by Conan O’Brien.
One final tip (yup, just the tip…):
Telling a woman how beautiful she is to you and how lucky you are to see and touch her body will lower her inhibitions better than a bottle of wine or the like.
Try it and get back to me…
I wrote this back in 2011 and am reposting now for all those who aren’t feeling the love today…
Let’s face it. Valentines Day only matters when you are single, or 14 years-old. I am neither, and both. I’m separated, so not quite single not quite coupled. And, though many would say I have the emotional maturity of a 14 year-old, I’m actually 37. Mercifully, V Day is on a Monday this year. Unmercifully, Monday is my kidos day/night with their dad. Per our current arrangement, he spends time with the boys at our house while I go elsewhere. Alone. On Valentines Day.
I could go to a friend’s house, but all of my friends are married and the only thing more depressing than being alone on V Day is being with happy couples on V Day. On any other day I love going to movies alone, but on Valentines Day? That is a level of humiliation even I won’t subject myself to. I could go to a bookstore and pretend I spend all my free time reading instead of surfing the net and watching trash t.v.. But I wouldn’t buy anything because I already own 7 self-help books that I’m certain will spontaneously open at any moment and start working their magic in my life. In fact, I feel more and more organized everyday when I wake-up and see “Power to the People, not the Piles!” on my bed side table.
However I choose to spend Valentines Day, I doubt I’ll remember it a year from now. I have very few Valentines memories. I mostly remember the awkward ones. I remember when I was 17 and this boy I thought was “just a friend” gave me a basket with balloons, a giant heart-shaped box of chocolates, a big white teddy bear, and underwear. I was horrified. I was horrified because I didn’t like like him. Not like that. I was horrified by the size of the gift. Mostly, I was horrified by the underwear. In retrospect my heart goes out to this brave young suitor and I give him credit for covering all of the “traditional” gift bases.
This Valentines Day I am hoping for no gifts. No odd declarations or representations of feelings left on my doorstep, please. No white teddy bears; no charcoal drawings of me you sketched in a bar one night; no poems you thought I’d like because don’t all women like poetry? I’m going to spend this Valentines Day like any self-respecting sorta-single 37-year-old woman would: watching The Bachelor. In times such as these I like to remind myself of how good I’ve got it: my love life might be in the pooper, but not once have I used the phrase “amazing journey.”
© Jennifer Sparklebritches and Poop In My Hair, 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Poop In My Hair with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
I like real food. I eat real food. (I also eat onion rings, but they have to be really good onion rings.) I think eating real food (instead of processed food) contributes positively to our overall health and happiness. Which is why I noticed and commented on this produce meme a friend posted on the facebook:
I never would have thought there could be a connection between carrots and vaginas (what you do with your veggies is your own business) and yet, there it is!
So that got me thinking about vaginas (why not carrots?) and so of course I googled “pretty hairy vagina art.” (I must destroy this computer before my sons are old enough to google.) This was the first work of art that caught my eye:
I don’t know what this is, but I want one!! I want a big vagina pillow pet that my kids can sit on while they watch tv so I can take pictures of them to post on the facebook. I’ll bring it to parties and everyone can have their picture taken with it! Will someone please make me a big vagina pillow?!
After I returned from Giant Vagina Party Pillow Dream Land, I started thinking about my own vagina and all the sites she’s seen.
We’ve been through a lot she and I; she is one of my most loyal and trusted advisors (maybe). But after two kids, let’s face it…
Overall I think vaginas are pretty (regardless of how many children or glasses of wine you’ve had)… at a distance… and with a reasonably fuzzy buffer. To be fair, I think a lot of things are prettier from a distance and with a reasonably fuzzy buffer.
Anyhoo, it’s Friday and my vagina needs a disco nap. Be good to yourselves and your lady parts…
Please take a moment to read this blog post by Luaren Nelson. Nelson’s explanation of our rape culture is simple and spot on. The images and media-driven messages shared in her post are great examples of why so few women feel safe speaking out about or reporting a rape. They are also great examples of why so many men continue to feel empowered to commit violent acts against women.
I remember everything that happened leading up to my assault at 19, and everything that happened after. My psyche took me to another place during the attack and (thankfully) left me with just one small memory: I opened my eyes to see an open window about a foot away. It was summertime, and I could hear people outside in the distance. I thought to myself, “What would happen if I screamed right now? Would anyone hear me? Would anyone help me? Or would it just make everything worse?” I didn’t scream, but I did survive.
It took many years and lots of therapy to be at peace enough with my experience to talk about it openly. I never reported my assault or outed my attacker to anyone who knew him. I think I would choose differently now– but I’m not the same person I was at 19. I made the right choice for the person I was at that time, in that set of circumstances.
If someone trusts you enough to tell you they were assaulted, please DO NOT tell them they have to report it. Don’t say, “You have to speak out or he’ll hurt someone else.” No one benefits from having guilt piled on top of their pain. No one else gets to decide what a woman can handle following a rape. And a rape victim is not responsible for the past or future actions of her attacker. It is the rest of us who are responsible for creating a rape culture in the first place. Like the old saying goes, “If you are not part of the solution, you are part of the problem.”
In case you haven’t heard… I’m competing in the 18th annual Eugene Laugh Off on March 31st. I might be great or I might suck eggs. Either way, if you want to be there you’d best get your tickets before they’re gone!
I’m a bit slow on the techno uptake; I just discovered the make your own meme websites. I feel like maybe, just maybe, pairing my crass jokes with pictures of 1950′s housewives is what I was born to do. Thank you internet.
I think I have a peeping Tom situation, of sorts. The of sorts is because I sort of know this person and because he isn’t exactly lurking in the bushes under my bedroom window. It’s my kitchen window he’s into and his view is from a busy bike path that runs past my backyard.
According to Wikipedia, (a great resource for lazy people who want quick and, sometimes, accurate answers to questions that vex) the original peeping Tom was a dude who was struck blind or dead after witnessing Lady Godiva riding her horse in the nude. For the record, and for any other creepy-creepers who might be reading, I do not own a horse. I also no longer walk around the house in my underwear.
Anyway, for the past few weeks I’ve seen the same guy walking by my backyard right when I happen to glance outside. Like I said, it’s a busy bike path and there are plenty of legitimate reasons for people to be on it; but I see this guy more often than my elderly neighbor who walks his dog at the same time every morning. At first I thought it was just coincidence; then I got the suspicious, creepy, am I imagining this? feeling.
That is, until this weekend…
On Saturday night, tired from work and chores, I was in the kitchen making the kind of dinner I eat when there are no children around: a big glass of coconut milk and toast with Nutella. Mmmm. As is customary, I used my index finger to wipe the remaining Nutella off of the butter knife and licked the chocolaty spread from my finger… with a normal amount of enthusiasm. When I turned to put the knife in the sink (finger still in mouth), there he was, standing on the path, staring right at me. It took about a millisecond for him to turn and dart away, looking both embarrassed and a little thrilled. I, on the other hand, was mildly embarrassed and deeply annoyed. I do not wish to have my pathetic (and unfortunately misleading) single-person dietary habits gawked at by others. Especially married male others.
So when I spotted him out there again last night, I planted my feet firmly on the floor and stared him down with a look that said, “I know what you’re doing and you’re messing with the wrong angry woman.” I think he got it. But just in case, here it is in writing:
Dear Mr. Peepers,
If I catch you hanging around my backyard one more time, looking in my window for a free show, I will not hesitate to embarrass you… AS PUBLICLY AS I PLEASE.
I know who you are, I know where to find you (even when you’re not on the bike path) and I know how to reach your woman. Costco sells the big jars of Nutella in 2 packs; go get your own and make your wife some toast.