About a month or so ago, I was talking to EL about her father, back when I first met him. I honestly don't remember the entire conversation, but was mentioning the fact that he had a large mustache... except I said, "When I met your father, he had a huge porn-stache."
My daughters are used to me being frank and slightly irreverant at times... so when I saw the horror on her face, I was trying to figure out which line I had crossed. It had to be the use of the word porn, so I apologized. She said no, it was not that, but that I should listen to what what I had said, and not think of the spelling.
This time the look of horror was on my face. No, I said.... no, no, no... your father did NOT have a huge porn stash...
I could hear my neighbor working in her yard today, singing along with the radio... and what did I hear as I approached? "Gimme summer lovin'..." I could not stifle all chuckling. I tried. She asked what I was laughing at when I replied, "Were you singing "Gimme summer lovin'??"
Well yes, yes she was. I was informed it was a classic. I said I was familiar with the song, but was pretty sure it was "some" lovin', not just summer lovin'... because, you know, lovin' is good year 'round.
She thought about it, but said she was pretty sure it was summer... I asked what the difference was?? Did she mean a short romance that only lasts the summer?? Or was summer lovin' "hotter"?? She paused... and pondered, and said she wasn't sure... It was at that moment that a bad, bad poem, from an inappropriate, former co-worker popped into my head and I had to leave before doing anymore damage to neighborly relations:
When the weather is hot and sticky
That's not the time to dunk your dickie.
But when the frost is on the pumpkin,
That's the time for dickie-dunkin'.
God, I can't believe I even remember that... but then I remember so MANY things he said to clients because he was so inappropriate!!!
Also... a shout out to Steve Winwood... my neighbor would like you to know... YOU'RE SINGING IT WRONG!!!
This morning I started to write a post about pussy willows... I loved them as a kid. I still like them. It's pussy willow season. I can't look at them and not think of the millions of them that I wished would come to life. I was certain they were really animals. I'd break off one or two of the catkins and would tuck them in my jewelry box, on a little piece of cotton, sure they'd move at some point, or would make a sound, or something. Sometimes I left water or some grass...
Anyhow, I started to write a post about them... I Googled to find their scientific name, but Google was not giving me the goods. Every entry said "Willow". I didn't want willow... I wanted pussy willow! I knew this was a common name, not some local term that only a handful of people knew! Where in the heck were all of the entries for pussy willows?? (insert your rude joke here)
And then I saw the little notice:
The word "pussy" has been filtered from the search because Google SafeSearch is active
And then it dawned on me that I'd be making a huge mistake if I wrote about pussy willows given the general crowd that tends to hang out around here... and I'd have to listen to a million p-word jokes... and be reminded of the one night at Brando's when I dropped the p-bomb and people realized I was not just some nice mother who liked to paint, but rather a filthbot in disguise...
I still don't like the p-word, but I can ignore it if it's attached to willow... and thank gawd it's not the other p-word. Had they been panty willows, I would have hated them from the get-go!
I also just realized I wrote "low brow" in my categories instead of "lowbrow". This is my latest deal... I want to make evey thing into a compound word, except for actual compound words... those, I separate.
I received this book as a gift waaaay back in my younger, sprier years... It had been tucked away, but I unearthed it while looking for something else... I showed EL. She got a kick out of it. I told her of how her grandmother and I had great fun with it back when I first received it... my younger, smoother hands making rude images, but her older, more lived-in hands, making for really rude images. My hands are closer to hers now.
I had forgotten I had taken photos of some of the pages... until I uploaded a slew of EL's photos to be printed out at a local store. I'm guessing they got a kick out of them. I'm surprised I haven't had the perv police show up at my door yet.
For anyone who has not yet tried the lost art of furtling, I highly recommend it. Hairy hands add to the laugh quotient as well.
Update: Adding one more... with directional prose.
A kindly reader pointed out that HDB was most likely not calling me out in this comment, but rather, was playing along. That could very well be. I wasn't exactly calling him out in a 100% serious way either, however, I was feeling a tad vulnerable given the fact that I had received email again yesterday (not from the kindly reader) telling me that I don't always conduct myself in a proper manner. I'm a female, a married female... and worst?? I'm a MOTHER! Mothers don't make rude jokes, it might harm the children!
I have had a rude mind forever. I've been a fan of the double entendre even longer. It's just a part of me. Yes, even I have my limits, and too much time spent in the comment locker room of some blogs can make even me cringe, roll my eyes, or declare, "Grow up!" Chances are though... I'm thinking of 20 comebacks that never make it onto the page because blue comments by women carry more risk of judgment about the woman. Even worse?? They carry the risk that the dolts won't understand that the woman was joking and will think she's a needy stalker... (is that redundant?? Is a stalker by its very nature, needy??)
I've gotten used to this double standard over time... I usually know when to play and when to be quiet. I know Brando's comment threads are usually safe for unleashing although a specific one still haunts me to this day. I know that fish will delete for me when I feel I've gone to far. Oh hell... fish will delete his entire comment history!
The fact remains... I love filthy humor. I can turn anything into something off sounding. It doesn't make me any less of a lady, or any less of a mother. (If the evil PTA ever finds my blog, I hope they remember that. I'm not the one who was dancing on the table at last Saturday night's party and flashing my neighbor... ok??) I would like to think I'm raising two wonderful kids and that their mother's excursions into questionable humor is either strengthening their own funny bones, or causing them to lighten up about things in life that just don't need to be that serious.
And for those of you who have suggested that my humor is disrespectful to Grizzled, don't worry... my humor was one of the very first things Grizzled noticed... after my rack...
Grizzled also knows I like men. I married one... and even though I married one, I still like bantering with the wide selection of wonderful specimens out there. I find them intriguing... and I find their freedom of humor appealing. I count it as a blessing to occasionally be allowed into the locker room, and get a little irked when I feel I'm being called out for by breaking rules they themselves don't have to keep.
Not being much of a wine drinker (it usually gives me hives if I have more than a little and who just wants a little??), I don't pay that much attention to it. Grizzled usually purchases what we have on hand.
Last night while shopping to stock up the holiday liquor cabinet, I saw Gnarly Head wine. Gnarly Head? Really? Yes, I realize where they said the name came from, but still... if everyone's inner-filthbot doesn't scream out when seeing that name, I don't know what's wrong with you.
And yes, I bought Grizzled a bottle just so he couldn't say I never gave him any...
Taking a page from the Snag Handbook of Parenting, I decided to embarass my Eldest Lamblet in front of a friend while driving them to dance... as usual, the topic was veering towards boys... who was cute, who was not. Who was smart, who was not. I chimed in on a couple of the boys who were mentioned to which EL replied...
"Mom! EEEEEW!!! You can't say that!"
"Why not??" I asked. "I'm not dead. I have eyes... I can see what someone looks like and share my opinion. I can appreciate a quit wit and a sharp mind!"
She didn't think so. Her friend giggled. Her friend having told her before that she enjoys the frankness of our conversations, whether serious or not.
At some point during the drive, the topic turned to a teacher that another mother thought was *hot*. I spoke up here and said hot would not be my adjective of choice, but I would say *handsome*. So and so was definitely a handsome man, to which EL's friend replied, "But he's MARRIED! You can't comment on a married person! And... YOU'RE MARRIED!"
EL slid down even further in her seat... obviously knowing I was not going to stop talking. I informed the dear friend that just because you're married doesn't mean you stop appreciating people and whatever charms they might have... and this man was handsome and nice, married or not. I also mentioned that I wanted nothing to do with this man, even if I we were both single. He was 27 and I'm not Sean Penn or Michael Douglas, I've always prefered the company of an older person, but... I could appreciate his looks. He was handsome. End of story.
And then we arrived at our destination with EL making a dash to get out of the car before I said anything else... she was fast, but I was faster. I informed her friend that appreciation never goes away and thank gawd for sunglasses... watching suntanned college-aged swimming teachers is what makes swimming lessons bearable...
And off they ran, but not before I heard a giggle emanating from EL's friend.
I may be married, happily married, but I'm not dead.