Motherhood Uncensored

The Super Secret Bastard iPod Song

If there's one thing that my husband and I don't argue about on a daily basis (His obsession with golf shirts -- eep, a Moroccan themed bedroom -- double eep), it's music. Sure we've got our own personal tastes. He tries to convince me of intrinsic musical value of "traditional irish music," like some guy singing about wearing no underpants has some higher meaning. And I continue to explain to him that while I don't listen to the Dixie Chicks, I still think they are three very talented girls -- although I admit the little [yeller] singing one does sort of resemble Jack Black with a southern accent.

So, when out of the goodness of his [cheap ass] heart he offered to load up all his downloaded music onto my new iPhone so I could actually listen to music during the day, I had absolutely no qualms.

Now don't get me wrong. Letting someone else put their music on your mp3 player is pretty damn brave. It's one thing to pick a song on a juke box or request something from the DJ because when it comes down to it, if you happen to like Stacey Q. and her one song and her kinky blonde hair atop her size -2 body, you can always just stop the urge to sing along and point the blame on some other poor unsuspecting soul.

"I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I. I need you."

But my husband has really great taste in music. He listens to all the local college alternative stations and writes down new music to download by groups whose names are rashes or shirt patterns on scraps of paper that I get to fish out of the washer in small tiny bits. So not only would I be getting some great music, but chances are I'd be upping my cool factor as well, you know, just in case I find my large pregnant ass and two children in a situation where I'd need to discuss some obscure song.

And not surprisingly, he didn't disappoint.

That was until I hit what could only be described as "My Husband Dancing With Light Sticks at Some Bad Club in 1996."

There it was. In all its ass bumping, arm pumping, female voice singing about who knows what because who the hell cares we're drunk and dancing with light sticks MUTHAFUCKAS! song.

It's the bastard iPod song that everyone has. The one song that you just fucking love for whatever reason. And the one song you do not want anyone to know that you actually know every single word of -- that is if it's possible to sing along to some dj's club remix of a remix of some crappy European song.

Of course, I shouldn't talk considering I can sing all parts (including rapper and Female "Hook" singer) to Good Vibrations by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. If you don't believe me, just ask all the poor souls who listened to me sing it a few months back.

And I was stone cold sober.

What's your bastard iPod/mp3 song? C'mon, spill it.

I Saw Sparks

Along with my breasts getting a bit friendlier with my waistline, my thighs have become overly infatuated with each other. Actually, they're more like two horny teenagers who require a crowbar to separate them.

My thighs have been making out with each other for longer than I can remember. Like good friends turned lovers, they grew together over time, becoming closer during my pregnancies and enjoying some much deserved time apart in between, sometimes thanks to post-partum weight loss, and other times because of a fantastic invention called pants.

But now, in part because I'm pregnant (again) and because you'd have to pay me cold hard cash or my weight in swedish fish to get me to wear maternity shorts, my thighs are like old married couple who have traded in their gym membership for snuggling on the couch.

So when I was walking home from the pool, my thighs nearly glued together thanks to the lovely combo of pool water, sweat, and warm lumpy cellulite, I realized that I'm just going to have to surrender to the evil that are maternity shorts or figure out a way to channel my thigh friction for good.

So with all this "save the earth" shit, you know, "use alternative energies" or "power your car with soybean oil," I'm thinking the combined heat generated from all our thighs bumping uglies could seriously offset carbon emissions. Hell, just my thighs rubbing together on a short walk could probably be measured in kilowatts.

But then I read about women climaxing just from their thighs rubbing together (go ahead and google it if you don't believe me).

Fuck the earth. I need an orgasm. Bad.

At Least She's Honest. I Guess.

"Holy Cow, Mommy! Those skirts you bought are huge!"

Fear Factor? Pshaw.

Try flying alone and pregnant with two kids under 4 with one little boy who can only be occupied by an activity that involves sitting for no longer than 10 seconds, unless you have food. Then it's a whopping 15. I even timed him eating a lollipop. It was 2.8 minutes and that's basically about as long as it takes to back up the dang 757 out of the gate.

Seriously, give me a live roach, hell, I'll eat 12 and you can fly with my kids today and then stay alone with my in-laws until Saturday while my husband goes to a pilot training graduation for some dude he doesn't know in Oklahoma.

But shit, it's all worth it because I get to take a big huge bite out of this little thing. Or actually, I probably won't get a chance thanks to the above-mentioned son who has really taken well to biting.

Do they have college scholarships for that?

So here's hoping for an empty plane. I'll let you know how long it takes him to consume a bag of jelly bellies or for me to do a Rachel Weisz and slug a few back, and I shall soon return with a Mominatrix column about what my diseased husband called my boobs the other day.

Hint: It did not get him laid.

On a perkier note (ahem), here's my daughter's latest gem.

"The Table Dancer"

[Don't ask why my 3.8 year old is drawing table dancers, but the body positioning and the Edward Scissorhands kills me every time]

Old Spice Hair and Body Wash: Like Dudes Needed Something Else to Make Them, er, Dudes

No no, this is not a product review. This is what happens when you discover a product that overtly supports men washing their balls and their hair with the same freaking suds.

Not that they didn't do that already. But who was the genius that said "Sweet! Now we can wash are asses and our heads without having to use a different product!"? Because, holy shit, people! Having to bend over and pick up a different bottle of shampoo is so taxing and complicated.

Yeah, you dudes can spend half an hour in the shower cleaning everything else out (read: yo pipes), but when it comes to actually washing something so that it is clean and not empty, it takes too much energy and strength to grab actual hair shampoo.

Here's a thought: Stop whacking off in the shower and save your energy for washing your hair with something that doesn't smell like some old guy's armpits.

Sorry guys, but when your feet, balls, and hair smell exactly the same, that doesn't exactly scream "Fuck me now." Granted, there are some women out there that love the smell of "Lazy Sunuvabitch," but overall, I'm thinking it's not the greatest move towards getting laid by a real live person.

Now I don't disagree with David, a reviewer at drugstore.com, who honestly took the time (time he could have used washing his hair with actual shampoo) to share this: "...it is handy to have a shampoo and body wash-in-one."

Sure, all-in-one body and hair shampoo is handy. For little babies. But for men who clearly do not need a product to make their showers quicker and more efficient. Um, not so much.

How about making something for moms who actually do have to take short showers, many times with a screaming baby in a bouncy seat. Why not make something for us? Like a hot guy who comes to our house and bathes us. Or a shampoo with some miraculous herbal scent that makes our children fall asleep long enough so we can actually wash our hair AND our asses (with different products, of course).

But no. Apparently we moms don't need our lives to be easier or more convenient. Truth be told, if "easier" and "convenient" means an all-in-one body wash, I'm okay with having a hairy knee and one slightly grizzly arm pit.

Now, there are some brilliant minds out there, like Josh in Elbert, CO, who liked the idea of not having to spend an extra $3 on hair shampoo and decided to try using plain old shower gel on his hair; he probably does need this product.

"I tried just using bodywash in my hair, but it became coarse and I had a lot of dandruff. Then Old Spice came to the rescue, if you have short hair and don't want to buy shampoo, this is about the same price as their normal bodywash."

So I suppose Old Spice Hair and Body Wash is preventing dandruff in a few idiots across this country. And it's filling the landfills with one less bottle per every gullible household. But I have to argue that the overwhelming and near toxic scent of Old Spice has got to be way worse for the ozone than dumping plastic into the trash.

My advice, dear male readers. Don't bother discovering what it takes to be an Old Spice man. Because from what I can tell, it basically resembles the priesthood.

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My thanks to Bobita, Mandie, and Stefani for nominating my post "This is My Mommy Blog" for a Perfect Post Award. To have something so dear to my heart be recognized by these three lovely ladies is extremely flattering. Thank you, thank you!