Do NOT Read This Post if You Do Not Like Buttsex!

Many people are offended by the word Buttsex, and this post will say it a lot, so I suggest skipping this one (or closing it out if you are at work) if you will only sit there with a look of horror and disgust on your face while reading it.

It all began as I was getting into the shower and my friend Stephanie (whom you may remember for her brief - haha- modeling career showing off her HAUGHTY shorts) texted me something like,

"I told Mike his cologne smelled so good I wanted to have buttsex with him."

I told her she should go into advertising,

"You'll smell so good, she'll want to have buttsex with you!"

That rapidly deteriorated into us just inserting "buttsex" into all existing slogans:

"Got Buttsex?" (milk)

"Buttsex- it's what's for dinner." (beef)

"When you say Buttsex, you've said it all." (Budweiser)

"I can't believe it's not Buttsex!" (margarine)

"Buttsex- The best a man can get!" (Gillette)

"This is not your father's Buttsex." (Oldsmobile)

"It must be love. Buttsex." (Honda)

"Buttsex. First man, then machine." (Honda)

"Driven by passion. Buttsex." (FIAT)

"Buttsex. When you get it, you get it." (Subaru)

"Buttsex. Driven by what's inside." (Subaru)

"Buttsex. Beauty is not enough." (Alfa Romeo)

"Buttsex. Feel the difference." (Ford)

"Everyone dreams of Buttsex." (Audi)

"Oh, what a feeling! Buttsex!" (Toyota)

"I love what you do for me Buttsex." (Toyota)

"Buttsex- the power to surprise." (Kia)

"Buttsex. There is no substitute." (Porsche)

"Buttsex. Break through." (Cadillac)

"Buttsex. Grab life by the horns." (Dodge) [Oh my!]

"Buttsex. It's all good." (Buick)

"Buttsex. New doors opened." (Mercury)

"Buttsex. Like always. Like never before." (Saturn)

"Buttsex relieves gas pains." (Volkswagon)

"Think small, Buttsex" (Volkswagon)

"Grace... space... pace... Buttsex" (Jaguar)

"I have a headache this big- and it's got Buttsex written all over it." (Excedrine)

"Sometimes you feel like Buttsex, sometimes you don't." (Almond Joy, Mounds)

"Sometimes you need a little Buttsex, sometimes you need a lot" (Finesse Shampoo)

"Buttsex keeps going, and going, and going... " (Energizer batteries)

"The best tires in the world have Buttsex written all over them." (Goodyear)

"Buttsex- it does a body good." (milk)

"Buttsex is good for you" (Guinness)

"There's a smile in every Buttsex" (Hershey Bar)

"Buttsex- it beats as it sweeps, as it cleans." (Hoover Vacuum Cleaners)

"Buttsex- the best seat in the house" (Jockey Underwear)

"Buttsex inside." (Intel)

"Buttsex- Just do it." (Nike)

"The joy of Buttsex" (Pepsi)

"I liked Buttsex so much I bought the company!" (Remington)

"You can't resist the Buttsex." (Twister)

"Buttsex- Don't leave home without it!" (American Express)

"Buttsex- Good to the last drop." (Maxwell House)

"Does she, or doesn't she?" (Clairol)

"Buttsex- When it absolutely positively has to be there." (Fed Ex)

"I think, therefore IBM" (IBM) which was even funnier than "I think, therefore Buttsex"

"Buttsex- Think different" (Apple Macintosh)

"Buttsex- the quicker picker upper!" (Bounty)

"Buttsex- Capitalist Tool" (Forbes)

"I (heart) Buttsex" (NY)

"Buttsex is for lovers" (VA)

"Buttsex- Like. No. Other" (Sony)

"Buttsex- connecting people" (Nokia)

"For everything else, there's Buttsex" (Mastercard)

"Jump in- Buttsex" (Microsoft)

"Play beyond" (Sony)

"Buttsex- I bet you can't eat just one!" (potato chips)

"Buttsex - we'll get you there" (Delta)

Actually, most of Delta's slogans are awesome for this:

Speed, Comfort and Safety (1929)

Delta Air Lines—The Trans-Southern Route (1935)

Speed, Comfort and Convenience (1930s)

The Airline of the South (1940)

None Faster—None Finer—To and Through the South (1948)

Hospitality and Service from the Heart (late 1950s)

DELTA the airline with the BIG JETS (1959)

Delta Is Ready When You Are (1968-Dec 1984)

Airlines Are the Same; Only People Make the Difference (1980)

Delta Gets You There (1984-1987)

Ready When You Are (1992)

You'll Love the Way We Fly (1994)

On Top of the World (1997)

"Buttsex, Buttsex, Buttsex, Buttsex,

Buttsex, Buttsex, Buttsex, Buttsex,

Buttsex, Buttsex, Buttsex, Buttsex,

Buttsex, Buttsex, Buttsex, Buttsex!" (Meow Mix cat food)

"Buttsex- a little dab'll do ya" (Brylcream)

"Buttsex is the place for the helpful hardware man" (Ace)

"Yo quiero culo sexo " (Taco Bell)

"Buttsex. What you crave." (White Castle)

"Have it your way- Buttsex" (Burger King)

"You're the boss. Buttsex." (Burger King)

"A day without Buttsex is like a day without sunshine" (Florida Citrus)

"Buttsex- makes hamburgers taste like steakburgers!" (A-1 Steaksauce)

"Buttsex. Because that's the kind of mom you are." (Rice Krispies)

"What would you do for Buttsex?" (Klondike Bar)

"Buttsex- it fills you up right!" (Campbell's soup)

"So rich, so moist, so very Buttsex." (Duncan Hines)

"Buttsex- all you add is love" (Ralston Purina)

"Like a good neighbor, Buttsex is there." (State Farm)

"You're in good hands with Buttsex" (Allstate)

"Could switching to Buttsex really save you 15% or more on car insurance?" (Geico)

"Buttsex. Gets you back where you belong." (Farmers insurance)

"Buttsex. Ask about it at work" (Aflac insurance)

"Buttsex- enriching the lives of the people we touch" (Guardian insurance)

"Have you Buttsex today?" (Met Life)

"Buttsex- take away the risk, and you can do anything." (Ace group insurance)

"Aren't you glad you use Buttsex? Don't you wish everybody did?" (Dial soap)

"No more tears Buttsex" (Johnson's Baby Shampoo)

"Double your pleasure, double your fun with Buttsex." (Doublemint gum)

"Nobody doesn't like Buttsex" (Sara Lee)

"Nothing comes between me and my Buttsex" (Calvin Klein Jeans)

"Promise her anything, but give her Buttsex" (Arpege)

"Our repairmen are the loneliest guys in town" (Maytag)

"The best part of waking up is Buttsex in your cup" (Folgers)

"Buttsex- the other white meat" (Pork)

"Buttsex- we try harder" (Avis car rental)

"Fill it to the rim, with Buttsex" (Brim)

"Buttsex- The San Franciso treat!" (Rice-a-Roni)

Aunticipation

"My brother is getting married. I'm going to be Aunt Lisa.

I never thought I'd be an Aunt."

"Tell them I said congratulations!"

"Them? This has nothing to do with them! Did you hear me say AUNT LISA? I'm 41. I never thought this would happen!"

"Yeah, you're getting up there."

"It seems like such a cool gig. I'll be the best Aunt ever!"

"Yeah, unlike your parenting..."

"He's little. I'm good with that age. It will be ok."

"Until he turns 13."

"Yeah, I totally suck at teen parenting, but maybe teen aunting is something at which I excel?"

"There's always that hope."

Make-Your-Own Pizza the Morning After

We had one overnight guest, and he was sweet enough to leave us a note:

In hindsight, I should have had everyone stay over, because this next morning, my fridge was packed with all the leftover pizza toppings!

Mushrooms, red and green peppers, jalapeño peppers, banana peppers, black olives, broccoli, bacon, ham, pepperoni, sausage, basil, and the list goes on.

What else could we do but make amazing frittatas?!

In my largest skillet (which is actually a chicken fryer), I poured delicious avocado oil, placed peppers first, then olives and mushrooms...

Then add the meats (bacon, ham, etc)...

Add the eggs, this one has a dozen eggs.

When the eggs are cooked through, top with cheese. (I used sharp cheddar)

Garnish with fresh basil...

We're having pizza again for dinner, to use up all this delicious fresh food.

The Narcissist's Cookbook

I am unsure if this will be a book about Me, Me, Me... the Middle Years, or possibly an actual cookbook of recipes that make me look like a fantastic wife, mother, and hostess.

With my son's birthday party rapidly approaching, I am down to the wire to make the Last Airbender Avatar cake I was supposed to, not to mention the Appa cake he requested.

I'm even hard-pressed to make the Aang cake he said he'd settle for.

In the end, I just may opt for cupcakes with blue arrows and call it a day.

I may even buy the cupcakes.

I'm seeing a shift in my cookbook development.

Ok, new plan! It will be a cookbook of 'cheats', so that even though I'm the laziest person God has yet to create, I still look fabulous and amazing.

This would be easier to accomplish if I had maids, and caterers, and a team of nannies. But with little to no money, I'll have to improvise, while expending as little effort as possible.

The first step is cleaning the house for the party. Seriously, no one can know we live like this.

I could hire a cleaning service, but look at all the money I save by using slave labor teaching my kids responsibility.

Of course, the kids don't want to do the cleaning and go on strike, disappear, and roll around on the floor whining. Some mothers might say, "This party is for you. If you don't want to clean, no party.".

However, while the invitation reads that it is a party for my son, it's really a party for all the parents, and an excuse to get together and relax for a few hours. I don't want to give that up! So I crack the whip emphasize the importance of cleanliness when we have guests coming over.

Step two is making the cake. The first cake I made, I made from an off-brand mix, and it didn't turn out so well.

I put it in the freezer and went with cupcakes, with blue arrows.

Well, blue blobs. No one seemed to notice, complain, or even care that the arrows were Rorschach tests.

I bought most every pizza topping known to mom.

I mixed up pizza crust with a recipe that called for 12 cups of flour- twice!

I had several parents and kids in my kitchen, all creating personal pizza masterpieces.

Masterpizzas!

I was in party heaven.

The moms pitched in and helped with everything, so the work was light. I decided to make a cookie pizza, a dessert that looks like a pizza and is actually made from cookie dough and other things that resemble pizza toppings.

Charlene outdid herself, creating mushrooms from marshmallows, black olives from twizzlers, peppers from swedish fish, and pepperoni from fruit roll-ups.

I managed to set the smoke alarm off countless times when the sugar cookie crust liquefied and dripped all over the oven floor. Smoke from the oven filled the whole house, and we were forced to open windows and turn on the whole-house fan. It was 34 degrees out, so before long, it was freezing in the house, and the smoke just kept rolling out of the oven!

An added perk is that our smoke detectors are all hard-wired together, so if one goes off, they all go off, so that no matter where one went in the house, they were screaming next to one's head.

After a couple hours of this, we ran out of pizza cheese, and it became clear as an empty bottle of American Honey that a liquor run was also in order. I had my purse on my shoulder and my keys a-jangle before you could say, "escape route" and as I walked to the car I could hear the smoke alarm going off again.

I bought all the staples, plus the ingredients to make a drink called a Water Moccasin.

However, once I got home, I couldn't remember the right amounts of each, so I winged it. Also, I'd forgotten to buy whiskey. So I substituted Cap'n Morgan Tattoo rum for that.

And it was still amazing!

So my son turned 10 with a pizza party and smoke detector that had the effect of a car alarm going off every five minutes.

The cookie pizza that caused all the trouble?

Fabulous!!

Even so, I'm going to hold off on that book for a while, until I can find success stories to illustrate that I actually know how to host a party, instead of stories where I turn into a middle-aged dipsomaniac.

Placentophagy

Placentophagy (from 'placenta' + Greek φαγειν, to eat) is the act of mammals eating the placenta of their young after childbirth. The placenta contains high levels of prostaglandin which stimulates involution (an inward curvature or penetration, or, a shrinking or return to a former size) of the uterus, in effect cleaning the uterus out. The placenta also contains small amounts of oxytocin which eases birth stress and causes the smooth muscles around the mammary cells to contract and eject milk.

Most every mammal, with the exception of the camel, consumes the placenta at birth. Even vegetarian animals such as goats and cows, with no teeth for tearing and eating meat, will gag it down.

The first time I heard about humans consuming their placentas, I was horrified. Now, it's simply one more step in the birth process.

If you give birth at home, you can put the placenta into the fridge, or, if you feel up to it, start on it right away.

If you give birth in a hospital, prepare for shock and disgust when you tell your practitioner you want to take the placenta home with you. Some will shrug and hand it over. Some will tell you that since it came out of your body it is now considered biohazard and cannot leave the hospital. If your practitioner tells you this, remind them that the baby also came out of your body, and ask them how they plan to now care for your child throughout his or her life, as according to their rules, the child cannot leave the hospital.

One client had her placenta returned to her floating in a jar of formaldehyde. Since the FDA has never established a safe minimum amount of formaldehyde that could be put into a living human, there was no hope of consuming the placenta, and I assume the placenta was instead placed on the fireplace mantel as a curiosity.

Another client had to sign a form stating they did not intend to use their placenta as a biological weapon. I cannot tell you the number of times a hi-jacking has been attempted by a new mom with PPD, and a placenta. Oh, wait, yes I can. Zero!

But that's only because they signed the form promising not to.

So, once you have promised not to use it as a weapon ("Oh, shit! They have placentas!"), you can bring your placenta home and prepare it for consumption.

There are lots of recipes online for placenta lasagna, placenta stew, placenta helper, placenta pizza, placenta smoothies, placentaccino...

Those are just gross.

I prefer to dehydrate the placenta and cap it up, to be taken as a supplement.

If you are interested in doing this, or are plain curious as to my method, read on.

Before I dehydrate the placenta, I show all the parts of it to the parents, friends, siblings, in-laws... and explain all about this amazing organ. I then make prints from it, onto white cardstock... my placenta prints are framed and on display in my dining room, but yours can be tucked into the baby book, if you prefer.

Once your prints are done, use a sharp knife to remove the cord and membranes.

If you have a vitamix, you can probably leave these on, but I have a nice, mid-level blender and it's no match for the tough, stringy cord and membranes.

After cutting the placenta into chunks, put it in the blender and just push play.

You'll have something that looks pale pink, like spam, all the way to bright red, like tomato paste.

There's always a moment where it first 'catches', that I have to look away. It's just for 'one mississippi', and then I'm ok. But it makes me wonder how I will be able to perform brain surgery, if I'm looking away for a whole mississippi. I've tried, in fact I always try, but there's always that "Gurk! Gurk!" moment, so I have to look away.

Once it catches, and turns into meat paste, I'm good.

I then spread the placenta onto a fruit leather tray in the dehydrator. I disassemble, wash and dry the blender.

Let the placenta dry overnight, and flip it over.

This part always reminds me of flinging 'cow flops', frisbee-style, when I lived in the country.

While the new family is busy doing this:

I get busy in the kitchen.

When it's completely dry, break the placenta into pieces and put into the clean and dry blender.

And just push Play!

(You put the lid on, right?)

When I did this one, I took the lid off to get the picture and got a face full of powder. I suggest you let the dust settle down for a few minutes, because I don't think worker's comp covers Placenta Lung.

I went to Rite-Aid and asked if they sold empty capsules. They asked one another if they sold "M-T Capsules" and no one had ever heard of them. I tried explaining:

Me: "No, plain empty capsules that you fill, yourself. Just hollow, empty capsules?"

"Larry, you sure we don't have no M-T Capsules?"

"Naw, I think we stopped carrying them years ago."

Me: "No, I want capsules that have nothing in them, so I can put my own stuff in them."

"What kind of stuff? Illegal stuff?"

Me: "Powdered placenta."

"We don't got that, neither."

So I went home and grabbed the bag I'd purchased at Sunflowers, where they sure as hell know what empty capsules are.

"Here, take these now, since I have them done."

While the family retells the birth story to a visiting cousin, I'm about halfway done.

This placenta made about 150 capsules.

Every time the new mom takes a drink, she'll wash down a few, until it's gone.

I remember sitting on my bed with my daughters after my son was born, and we were all in a circle around a bowl of powdered placenta, capping it up. They were 9yrs, 5 yrs, 4 yrs and 2yrs, so I doubt they remember much, but I know I'll treasure that memory forever.

Breakfast in Bed

I was awakened by having a plate of food thrust at me.

Angry Teen had brought me breakfast in bed.

Me: "Awww, Thank you, Angry Teen, this looks great!"

Angry Teen: "I hate you."

Me: "Well, this food looks delicious."

Angry Teen: "You're a witch."

I wondered if I should eat it.

I wondered if Angry Teen had spit in it, or let the dog lick my fork. I wondered if the food had lain on the bottom of the kitchen sink, absorbing germs before placed on the plate, or perhaps Angry Teen had swirled my fork in the potty, first.

I wondered if a person could really get sick from "potty fork".

The food smelled good, I hadn't eaten in two days, and so I decided to take the chance.

When I lived, I texted Angry Teen a thank you:

Me: Breakfast was fantastic!

Angry Teen: Whatever

Me: It's pretty good. You can hardly taste the poison.

Angry Teen: Yeah, I've been working on that. Thanks for noticing.

While I Was Gone

Right after my birthday, I fell ill, literally. I fell into bed and did not get out except to use the bathroom for nearly a week. I eat next to nothing. The kids bring me strange foods they've invented, the crusts off their sandwiches, and dubious teas. Ron brought me peach tea that tasted artificially flavored. But that could have just been my tongue on a virus.

I have fevered dreams of caves and woolly mammoths.

The moment I'd first gone to bed, I felt a stabbing pain in the back of my head. But that was just the fork I wore home in my hair. I stayed in bed, looking at my Mardi Gras beads, wondering when some kindly person was coming to euthanize me, or at least run me over with their car.

No such luck.

I asked someone the fairies to bring me the medicine box where we store the narcotic cough syrup. In a completely unrelated scene, Ron walked in with a plate of eggs and ate them himself in the rocking chair. He was angry that someone had left egg shells on the counter. The general consensus was if I had taught my children to clean up after themselves before I fell ill, there would be no need for someone to replace me, angrily or otherwise.

The narcotic cough syrup stays upstairs. Damn fairies!

My poor nightstand! That's a temporal scanner, by the way.

My view for a week.

I'm coughing until my throat bleeds. I'm coughing until I gag, and would vomit, except I've eaten nothing. Sudden sharp coughs that give no warning. At one point, I sit on the bed and cough and notice a spray of little blood droplets on the wall in front of me. Using wet toilet paper, I slowly wipe the wall clean, so none of my kids will need therapy later for doing so. Another cough and my laptop screen looks like it belongs in a horror film.

Coughing fits after five kids, you're lucky not to pee your pants. Fortunately, I'm so dehydrated there's little danger of that. However, on day three I start my period, and you ladies can imagine how this lends a whole new complication to the coughing thing. During the stronger coughing fits, I was able to achieve good range, if not accuracy, with my feminine hygiene products.

I use the house phone to tell a teen to bring me down the medicine box. She 'delegates' the job to a younger kid who promptly 'forgets'.

Please won't someone, anyone, have the decency to run over me with a mid-sized sedan?

On Friday morning, the text read, "I can't find my pink paper. Can you look for it?"

"What pink paper?" I send back.

Homework? Permission slip?

I pull myself from the bed where I have lain for the past five days in a flu coma, and head out to look for it.

Another text comes in, "Are you feeling better?"

A little... until I get upstairs.

I'm suddenly feeling much worse.

(Not true. These dishes were a fever-induced hallucination. The house was in fact spotless.)

No one was stepping up.

(Again, this was a hallucination... the trash was emptied daily.)

Kids construct barricades to keep the dog out, rather than pick up dishes and trash he'd get into. I cross the barrier. The rats lunge themselves at me when I come into the room. Water dish is bone dry and their food dish is buried somewhere in the bedding.

I can't see any pink paper.

Why is there a chair in the bathroom?

(There wasn't! Crazy fever dreams!)

My valentine's day roses still rotting in the vase.

Ancient weapons in the butter.

I find a birthday card from my brother that arrived a few days ago. No one brought it to me.

As I walk through my house, I find my house phone, smashed and broken, in two rooms.

No pink paper.

It's for scheduling, she says.

I take the dog out, and look for a pink paper, perhaps dropped on the walk up to the bus.

Broken goblet, thrown from the window?

I'm exhausted, and contemplating a nap among the glass shards in my flowerbed.

She texts back. "I found my pink paper."

I would like to take that narcotic cough syrup at this point, but someone else in the house is now feeling achy and fevered, so I dose him and figure one adult drugged into a stupor is plenty.