The post where I admit that I may have branded myself stupidly. But not really. I’m just being sarcastic. Get it? Ahahahaha. Ha.

Because there have been, and will continue to be, plenty of times when my posts and thoughts do not reflect the name of this website at all. And me?  I couldn’t care less.  But every now and again someone mentions to me that I’m not being sarcastic or whatever, and then I think about it.  And I’m all anxious and nervous for a little bit, thinking OMG IT IS FINALLY OBVIOUS TO EVERYONE THAT I AM A FAILURE IN ALL THAT I DO.  And then it kicks in: the not giving a shitness, but rather being annoyed at having it pointed out to me. (Because I am nothing if not a sensitive jerkface douche who can’t handle a little bit of criticism without blowing things all out of proportion. I rule.)

My real name is Lotus and I can assure you I do not smell flowery all the time.   I am also not an expensive, fast sports car.  I am more of a rusted pinto with a rotten fish in the back seat.  Mmmm, rotten fish.  Sexy.

So yeah, when I started this blog, I was in a hurry to get the show on the road, and I was sitting here going, “What should I call this thing?”

Ideas I Had:

1. Call it the secret name that you have for your vagina.
2. Use a couple of words that best describe who you are right now.
3. Steal the name of a popular blog and then pretend you didn’t know it existed.
4. Pay a hilarious and witty celebrity to name it for you.
5. Call it Tit Fingers.

Outcomes:

1. Then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore. Especially to myself. Since my vagina hasn’t even told me its secret name yet. We have trust issues. That’s an entirely different story.  Anyway, a no-go.
2. Seemed good.  I asked myself, “Who am I right now?”
   SAHM who interacts with son & husband more than anyone else.
   Interaction with son: Mom
   Interaction with husband: Sarcastic Bitch (Loving Wife would be nice, but I suck.)

   Example Situation: I am standing at the stove with a spatula hovering over a pancake. John comes walking into the room, says, “Oooh, are you making pancakes?” I look at him in bewildered disgust and reply, “Hell no, I’m not making pancakes. I was just minding my own business when this flapjack jumped through the window, and then tried to escape through the back door. I am aware that this flapjack is harboring secrets against our government, however, and am currently administering heat torture to force him to speak. The spatula is just to keep him at bay. Damn communist flapjack. I tell you, I won’t have it. And you? You think this is just a pancake I’m making. You are a prime example of why this country is going to hell in a hand basket. Pancakes indeed.  I may have to kill you tonight.”

   I find myself incapable of giving him a straight answer. “Ooh, are you making pancakes?” “Yes, dear, I am.” WILL NEVER HAPPEN.

   So, it appeared I was: a) A Mom and b) An incurable sarcastic bitch in my daily life.

   Sarcastic Mom

3. The story I came up with to cover why I would call my blog Dooce was all about how I am obsessed with poop (Who does number two work for!?), but don’t spell well in French. Both of those things are actually true, so it’s this really awesome lie of a story made up of totally true elements. Which meant I might really even be able to pass a lie detector test and everything. Except for the part when they’d ask me if I knew that there already was a Dooce website. That and the thing about how Heather Armstrong would totally kick my ass stopped this plan dead in its tracks.
4. I was really keen on this but Conan O’Brien not only started refusing my phone calls, but informed me that used tin foil, dryer lint, and desperate sexual acts are not acceptable payment and that furthermore, he’s married, wasn’t interested, and I’m stupid and ugly. Then he requested a restraining order against me. It’s okay, I know it’s all a front to keep his wife in the dark about our secret love. Which is so secret that even he is not aware of it. But it kind of made me have to go with one of the other plans again.
5. This is totally still my backup blog name. I just checked; it’s available. Can you believe no one has snatched up TitFingers.com??? If this website ever disappears, and you want to find me, look that name up.

I have to warn. I might not always talk about tits. Or fingers. Or touching breasts with phalanges. You know, just FYI.

Oh, by the way, on the occasions where I say or write something that’s not sarcastic, please forget to inform me of this grave error.  I know it is highly unacceptable for a person to ever say or write anything that does not perfectly reflect their moniker or website name.  And yet?  Look how much I care.

I really should have my ass kicked for that.

Just pretend that my not being sarcastic is just me being really sarcastic about being sarcastic.

Yeah.  Stuff that in your pipe.

Close Your Eyes and Think of England.

Editor’s Note: This is an anonymous guest post from someone who is looking for constructive comments and feedback. Comments are open on this post for your reflection and discussion, to communicate with the author, and to offer your own experiences. There will be ZERO tolerance for rude comments or ridicule. If you do that, I’ll delete your comment, and ban your IP.

You are encouraged to offer feedback. The author is interested in knowing what you have to say.

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I have a problem. It’s something I’ve struggled with all my life. I need help, and I also need to know I’m not the only one. Or am I?

I have no libido. I have no interest in sex at all. I guess a therapist would call me asexual, although somehow I’ve managed to conceive five wonderful children.

By the way, this is not Lotus of  Merry Crotchmas fame. I can’t speak for her but I’m pretty sure she likes sex. I am an anonymous guest writer. For a long time I’ve wanted to write about this issue, but my blog is very public and it doesn’t get much more personal than this.  In fact it borders on pornographic, so if you’re sensitive to that you may not want to read on.

It all started when I was a child. My family is very religious. In order to foster chastity in me, I was indoctrinated not just  to think of sex as something reserved for marriage, but something so disgusting it should be completely avoided. If there was a kissing scene on TV my mother made mock gagging noises, and my parents never kissed or hugged in front of me. I don’t want to sound like some self-involved whiner, but they never hugged me either or told me they loved me, though I know they did. When it was time for sex-ed, my parents had me pulled out of class so I wouldn’t be exposed to it. I learned about sex and periods later from my friends. When I did get my period I slipped a note under my parents’ door to let them know and maxi pads began to materialize in my bathroom. It was never discussed. As an only child I often wished for a sister that I could talk to about it.

At first this repression backfired. I discovered masturbation at an early age, though I didn’t know what it was. I just knew it felt good. Then when I was about ten a friend of mine showed me her stepfather’s dirty magazines, and I was far from repulsed, although in hindsight all that was shown was the female upper body. In junior high I discovered Harlequin Romances, which I had to hide under my mattress, and I marked all the sex scenes so I could reread them whenever I wanted. As I got older, I discovered Cosmopolitan Magazine and memorized every sex tip.

Somehow I made it through high school as the other kind of statistic: the odd kid that didn’t lose her virginity. I didn’t want to be a virgin, but I didn’t want to be a slut either. I’d decided that I wouldn’t go looking for sex, but if it came knocking I wouldn’t turn it down. I was a fairly popular and attractive girl, a cheerleader even, and I did manage to land a boyfriend my senior year. But I was so shy with him I could barely speak in his presence. I was saddened greatly but not at all surprised when he broke up with me after about a month of this.

When I moved on to college, all my friends were having sex. But not me. My virginity was its own chastity belt, enclosing me in a protective bubble. Anyone with a penis dared not approach, however much I wanted them to, and I was too shy to put myself forward.

I reached the age of 20 without ever having been kissed, or even having any idea what a penis looked like. Finally I found another boyfriend. He was someone I worked with. I had my first kiss, and it quickly evolved into full-blown make-out marathons. But nothing more. Oddly enough, John had a small penis complex. I told him I’d never even seen a penis before, but he was afraid to let me see how small it was. I put myself forward as much as I could stand, determined to lose my virginity. One night I even snuck into his bed with a box of condoms, but he wouldn’t have it. A few days after that he broke up with me, he said he wanted a relationship that was about more than sex and that was all I seemed to be interested in. The other guys we worked with were incredulous and rather interested at this news, but I didn’t want to continue working with John after that, so I left that social sphere.

The phenomenon continued. I’d hopefully go on dates, wearing sexy underwear, armed with the knowledge of Cosmopolitan, but my dates seemed to be as shy as I was, waiting for me to take the initiative. And my very conservative upbringing prevented me from taking that initiative.

I finally resolved myself to being single. Of course as soon as I did that, my future husband came on the scene. I was 26 by this time and felt old. Jeff was a known player in my area, but also the only man that was still single. So when he made his move, I went for it. Because of his reputation I was certain it would be a short-lived, sex only relationship, and I was okay with that.

The experience of sex was not at all what Harlequin and Cosmopolitan Magazine had led me to expect. Sweat, hair, breath, sticky saliva, gross noises, after-smells, yuck. The greatest disappointment of all was oral sex. I knew it was supposed to be the greatest thing ever, but as Jeff’s head began to move down my body I became more and more appalled. And then seeing his head there between my thighs, I had never been more mortified in my life. He lifted his head and told me I had the most beautiful vagina he’d ever seen. That only made it worse. I was horrified.  My whole body was tense and I wished he’d just get it over with. As he worked at it my body responded, but my will was stronger. I didn’t like the physical sensations. I didn’t like the idea that I might lose control. I pushed him away.

And then it was my turn. I thought I knew exactly what I was supposed to do, but it was all theoretical. Remember, I’d never even seen a penis before. And there was hair, and smells, and strange alien movements. I gathered my bravado and went for it. But Jeff had also read Cosmopolitan, and had learned that you’re supposed to let your partner know exactly what you want them to do. He wouldn’t stop talking, asking me to do this or do that, use my hands more, go this way, stop this other thing, until I gave up.

I felt like an idiot and a failure. I was supposed to know how to do these things. Isn’t it instinctive? Why did I not find his penis attractive? Why did it, in truth, repulse me?

The logical assumption here is that maybe I was gay. Of course that did occur to me, and I gave the thought a good deal of consideration. But I found female genitalia even more repulsive.  I decided I’d simply placed to many expectations where they didn’t belong, and shouldn’t have assumed I’d be a sex goddess from the start, even though everyone seemed to think it was supposed to work that way.

While the sex was a disappointment to me, it wasn’t to Jeff, and what was supposed to be a physical relationship only developed into something more. We got married, and had a big wedding with all the pomp and frills. I spoke to Jeff about my inhibitions, and he promised to help me try to get past them. He understood that his attempted direction had put me off of oral sex, but I was afraid to tell him that it went beyond that. I didn’t like or want sexual pleasure. I didn’t mind trying to appease his libido, but that’s all it was for me, an appeasement. Because you can’t have a marriage without sex, can you?

When my first son was born, I saw a magazine with an article titled, “Get Your Sex Life Back.” I was thrilled, I thought it would have suggestions on how to increase my libido. Instead it was geared toward women with high libidos, explaining how to work more sex into your schedule. And ever since I have seen this as the general way of things. Women are expected to want to have sex, and to want it often. There’s no help or support for women who don’t fit this description. It makes me feel like a total freak, ashamed and afraid to ask for help.

And now the years have passed, and having five kids with busy schedules has made it all too easy to avoid sex.  I feel horrible about this. My husband deserves more and better.

I know I need help, but I don’t know where that help should come from. Jeff has not tried to help me get over my inhibitions as he said he would, but has been very understanding about my aversions, far more understanding than the majority of men probably would be. I don’t know if this is psychological, a result of my upbringing, or if it might be something as simple as a hormone imbalance. Some might even say that if my experience was broader I might feel differently. Maybe that’s true, but I doubt it.

I wonder if I’m really the only one on the planet that could happily live out my life without ever having sex again. Scientists seem a lot more interested in giving men erections than in making women receptive to them. Maybe there are others out there who are ashamed to come forward, as I certainly have been. But I want to like sex. I want to be that sex goddess I always thought I’d be. But for me, that’s like wanting to be a rock star and yet not even capable of speech.

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Remember, comments are encouraged on this post, and the author is very interested in receiving reader feedback, experience, and insight.
But ridicule her or say anything rude and your comment will be deleted.

ALL-ONE-OR-NONE!!! Just use the soap. Don’t drink the Koolaid.

I do a little thing around here where I post about ways that John and I try to become more environmentally friendly (and I invite people to link in with any of their recent “green posts”). I call it Project Support Beauty in Nature (PSBN) and I kind of declared that I would do that every month, on the second Monday of the month.

But I didn’t take into account the fact that:

a) At some point, the second Monday of the month would be when The Blood Curtain Dropped,

b) That when The Blood Curtain Drops, I can’t think of anything but yelling at my Uterus, angrily,

and

c) I’m a lazy douche, so obviously, at some point, I won’t remember to post the PSBN piece on the right day.


All this is to say that yesterday I was supposed to publish a PSBN post, but instead, I got all wrapped up in my menstruational emotions and berated my uterus for all to see, instead.

Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to save the earth. But sticking a funnel up there next month, instead of a tampon, just might. So I’m going to order a Diva Cup this month, and next month, when I’m feeling pretty angry at my girly parts again, I’ll test-drive it and let you all know how things went.




For now, I’ll mention that we’ve started using a different shower soap around here that’s “earth kind.” It’s called Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap/18-in-1 Hemp Pure-Castille Liquid Soap.

From the website:

Completely Biodegradable and Vegetable-Based Made with Certified Fair Trade and Organic Oils Multi-Purpose: 18-in-1 Uses No Synthetic Foaming Agents, Thickeners or Preservatives
100% Post-Consumer Recycled (PCR) Cylinder Bottles and Paper Labels Simple, Ecological Formulations Based on Old-World Quality and Expertise #1-Selling Natural Brand of Soaps in North America

You can see the different fragrances here.

We’ve used 2 scents. The Lavender… um, it smells… interesting. But not in a bad way. It’s just that, well, it doesn’t particularly smell like lavender to me. ???

The peppermint one will kind of make your believe you’re a candy-cane. Compared to how I smell between my monthly showers, that’s not at all unpleasant, though.

You can use this stuff not only for body cleaning but also as shampoo – it’s an amazing all-in-one. If you have long hair, you’ll want to buy their conditioning product, b/c the soap will leave your hair a bit tangly. Other than that, it’s amazing. Cleans well, and leaves you feeling really fresh.

But I can’t talk about this stuff without mentioning the INSANE LABELS on the bottles.

Talk about some nutball-type mind control propaganda. Whew! They sure as hell want to make sure that when you buy their product you also buy into their entire philosophy on… well… everything batshit crazy under the sun, man.

(They probably have Internet Spies and will now send operatives to kill me, making the whole thing look like an accident. I am telling you all now, if I am found with a bottle of Pure Castille Soap crammed up my butt, it was NOT an accident, I did NOT fall on it! Lies! Lies!)

But on the serious, reading the labels of these soaps started making me feel that at any moment, I could be insanely driven to join a cult living in some remote place, perhaps the jungles of South America?

Random sampling of weirdness from the bottle:

“7th – Each swallow works hard to be perfect pilot – provider – builder – trainer – teacher – lover – mate, no half-true hate! So, each day like a bird, perfect thyself first! Have courage and smile my friend. Think and act 10 years ahead! And the man without fault? He’s dead! Do one thing at a time, work hard! Get done! Then teach friends & enemy the Moral ABC that unites all mankind free! Uniting One! All-One! Face the world with a smile, life is always worthwhile! To the fearless are given crowns, keep out the past, disappointments won’t last! Help unite mankind, or we’re wandering clowns! Diligent preparation, precede… spectacular restoration! So, help teach the whole human race, the Moral ABC’s All-One-God-Faith, lightning-like, for we’re All-One or None! All-One!!”

Uhhhhh, okay?

The whole bottle is covered with stuff like that, top to bottom, in tiny print.

Whenever I look at it for too long, I start wanting grape koolaid, for some reason.

Gotta go wash my hair and body with Pure Castille Soap now. If I start referring to my home as “The Compound” sometime soon, send help, okay?

Yup. Spazzazoid.

After yesterday’s slight moderate okay, huge heart-attack moment, I’m trying to stop shaking like a dorkwad and breathe normally.  Why does something like that make me go all bat-turds?

Oh, yeah.  Because I’m a slightly moronic Spazzazoid.  Yes. I just made up a word.  Use it freely.

My plan for today was to keep the “meme drawer” clean and do a couple of these thingies I’ve been tagged for.  Because if you’ve been around for awhile, you have seen what can happen when I don’t keep the Meme Drawer Clean.  And if you haven’t been around awhile, feel free to click and find out, man.  But be warned.  That’s a shizzo-lotta crap to read about me. 

But hey! If you’re really into getting to know me better you can read about My Eights.  Or, if you’d just like to point and laugh at my stupidity… Get In Line.  Uh, I meant, you’re in luck, because you can now do that… with such wonderfully embarassing anecdotes as the “floating turd story” and finding out that you’re not alone if you have, indeed, sharted… just by reading this sexy post.

*ahem*

It’s also Thursday Thirteen, and dangit if if I didn’t get my Go-Go-Gadget Brain! in gear and decide to be the incredibly whizzomatic, geniusoriffic, and smartastical person I am (*snort*) by bringing you today’s…

7 Things Meme PLUS 6 Things Meme = Your Fabuloso Thursday Thirteen!

Holy turds, who knew I could add?

I was tagged for the 7 Things Meme by the following awesomeatious persons:
Napaboaniya
Christie
Kat
Vegan Mama

And for the 6 Things Meme by these wonderiffical peeps:
Sarie
Ray
Cookiebitch

 

13 Random Thoughts that floated through Sarcastic Mom’s head today:

1. Why.do.I.have.to.wake.up?

 

2. I’m totally unprepared for the first time I catch Braden eating a Booger.  Words of advice?

 

3. I wonder if it’s possible to vote for Coffee for President.

 

4. Why can’t groceries just regenerate themselves?

 

5. Kevin & Leroy are still touching me innapropriately.
Hi. This is my backfat.

6. Has anyone’s vag.ina actually ever fallen off?

Hm. I googled it (“vag.ina fell off”) and discovered 2 awesome things.
1. It doesn’t look like there are any documented cases of vag.inas falling off.
2. The #2 Google Hit for that search is on THIS SITE.  I’m putting that on my resume.

 

7. What’s that SMELL?

 

8. My hand just had to slip while I was checkin the diaper, didn’t it?  My finger just HAD to slip into the sh*t, didn’t it???

 

9. Poop should not be allowed to exist. (Then there wouldn’t be any Scatastrophes.)

 

10. Tabitha D’umo is still mocking me.  Die, whore!

 

11. I am a good mother.  Ignore the picture below and just maintain eye contact with me, damn you.

 

12. It’s really not that hard to ignore your child’s screaming when it’s coming from inside the closet on the other side of the house.  Really.

 

13. I don’t have to pull any cheap tricks to make people visit my website. It’s just because I’m such a good writer.
“The Rack”

Have a great (rest of) Thursday, friends!  And don’t forget… *insert words of wisdom*

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