Dirty Words

Last week, my oldest asked me what condoms were. Trojans, specifically. In a very clinical way, I explained the barrier method of contraception, and when I reached the part where I said "and the semen is unable to...", she held up a hand and yelled "OK! GOT IT!".

The only good part about sex talk with your tween is watching her get completely grossed out about it. So grossed out that, with luck, she'll not want to do it until she's thirty.

So imagine my surprise when, sitting in the waiting room of the doctor's office, she pointed out a Trojan ad in a magazine.

"Look here, Mom! These condoms are twisted!" she said. Complete with a finger shoot, wink and tongue click.

I died.

I can not remember when, if ever, I became comfortable with the fact that my parents had sex. I do remember one trip to the beach as an adult, where my parents occupied the room above mine. "Good hell!" the Husband said. "What are they doing up there?"

"Apparently, there is some furniture that needs to be moved around." I said stonily, turning over and covering my head with a pillow.

So it baffles me that my child would be comfortable enough to talk to me about these things. It's a good thing, right?

Before their daughter entered middle school, my friend D- and her husband decided to sit down with her and go over some of the new words she might be learning. Middle school is, apparently, the place where weenies become dicks and tee tees become pussies. They went down the list of every slang word and curse word they could think of, as their daughter sat there, wide eyed and jaw agape. How they got through the list with a straight face is beyond me. "Balls" is just about the funniest word in the world, and anytime someone says "play with your balls", I just about pee myself.

But, they get through the list and leave the room and do a little post-con in the kitchen.

"Oh, shit." D- says, "Did we forget cock?"
"Oh, I think we did. You're going to have to do that one." her husband replied.

So D- walked back to her daughter's bedroom while her husband skulked around the corner, walked in and said, "We forgot one - cock." at which point both she and her husband started laughing hysterically.

Their daughter rolled her eyes and said, "How mature."

I don't stand a chance.

That Sounds Delicious

I delivered four batches of sinful caramel rolls today, and responded to oohs and awes with the appropriate amount of humility. Oh, yes, it's homemade brioche. No, no big trouble. Only 3 sticks of butter. Just a few hours, really. Anyone could do it if they had the recipe.

Then I hesitate when they ask for the recipe. I consider leaving out key ingredients, or substituting salt for sugar. I consider changing the name of the recipe.

Sticky Caramel Pecan Rolls become significantly less appetizing when renamed Sticky Anal Gravy Rolls.

It's why those cookies are called pecan sandies and not nut sacks, and garbanzo beans are garbanzo beans and not faceless fetal baby heads. Snails are escargot because no one in their right mind would eat them otherwise, and rocky mountain oysters...well, you can fancy that up any way you'd like, but balls are balls.

Living as we do in a rural area, it is not uncommon to run across people who will admit to eating, and enjoying, all manner of woodland creatures. Squirrels seem to be especially popular out here in the county. I don't know what all a squirrel hunt entails, maybe enticing them into your backyard with one of those corncobs on a stick, and then hitting them with a shovel?

I'm not a very good country person.

The Husband has a friend who's going to get us a deer. But 'get' I mean 'shoot', though I prefer to believe that all meat comes directly from the grocery store, where it sprang forth from nothingness into neatly packaged styrofoam trays.

I might have a hard time if I think about it too much. If I think about that graceful animal prancing and overpopulating and whatever else deer do. Maybe instead of deer, I'll call it...chocolate.

Sympathy Pains

I am not good at sad. I have a hard time being sad, I have an even harder time helping someone else who is sad. It's not that I'm unsympathetic, or unfeeling, it's just that sadness makes me want to jump up and sing Hello! Ma Baby and make armpit farts and hump rubber chickens. Anything I can do to banish sadness, even if it's replaced by what the fuck is that?

Sadness turns me into Carrot Top.

So, when I hear of a particularly sad thing that has occurred in the life of a friend, I am loathe to sit down and write the sympathy card.
I am so sorry. 
It is an unimaginable grief. 
If there is anything I can do...
All true. All sad. What I really want to do is write a quick joke and draw a crude picture of a giant pair of balls.

When my dad died, I received so many lovely cards and letters and books. Each one carried a thoughtful message. Most of them I did not - I could not - read until much, much later. I would open the card, read the signature, and know that whatever the message was, it was heartfelt and genuine. I cherished those notes, and the emotions behind them.

I don't remember any of the specific messages. But I do remember this:
We pulled up to the cemetery for the graveside service. My father had proudly served in the Marine Corps, and had a Military Funeral. Present were the veterans in uniform who would be giving the gun salute. They were dignified, they were respectful, they were...ancient.  As we drove past, the Husband muttered "Holy shit. Are they veterans of the Civil War?" It struck me as so funny that I laughed out loud, a deep belly laugh that lightened my heart like nothing had since my dad's death.


I needed it. More than sympathy, more than fabulous frozen meals, more than books and cards and letters, I needed to laugh.

I will never say the right thing. I can not tell you when it will get better or stop hurting. But I can tell you a funny story or sing a crazy song or draw you some balls.

We do what we can.

(For Rachel)