What does he know about a ladies-only gift grab? Turns out nothing.

The beaded curtain rattled with impropriety as I swept aside reservations and entered the den of iniquity – the back room of the costume shop. I sifted through cock rings and weekend sex kits and flavored condoms, looking for just the right thing, something unusual, something under twenty-five dollars. And there it was, the Tickling Turtle Strap-on Vibrator. At the time, it just screamed perfect. The woman on the box, all dark hair and nudity, back arched in sweet release as the little green turtle nestled into her crotch. This will be the hit of the evening, I thought, the gift that everyone talks about and gushes over. There will be jokes about loaning it to a friend whose husband is away on business. “A turtle? Why a turtle and not a frog? Why an amphibian at all,” someone will say. This will be hashed out. Women with ruby red drinks and flushed cheeks debating the animal chosen for pleasurable purposes.

I wrapped that turtle in snow white tissue. I tied it up in a cranberry-colored satin bow and glued on little gold stars. On the night of the party, I slipped into the hostess’s living room with the designer tree decked out in stars and shells and slid it in among the other gift-grab packages, undetected. No one saw me do it. And thank god.

I knew I had made a grave mistake when the first grab was made, the gift bag opened to reveal a Starbucks gift card. My stomach dropped to the floor when the next package housed a set of coasters embossed with pictures of Tuscany. It went on like that, imported olive oil, a cook book, bath salts. Not one even slightly Naughty gift beneath the tree. Oh shit, where’s the bathroom, I thought. Is there a window. Can I fit?. I was still searching for the perfect escape from my own bad judgment when the woman wearing the Christmas tree neck scarf and velvet blazer drifted towards the tree, her bangled arm reaching for that cranberry bow, the gold stars twinkling.

And she unwrapped it there, in a room quiet with expectation. She swept the tissue paper aside to reveal the Tickling Turtle. She looked nothing like the woman on the box. She gasped. Her hand opened and the turtle fell to the floor. She jumped back as if she’d been burned. The crowd of curious party goers pressed towards the tree to better understand the insult. I thought the neck scarf/blazer woman might cry. But instead she picked it up, carefully holding it by the corner of the packaging, distancing herself from filthy thoughts of masturbation. She crossed the room and snatched the holiday china set from the clutches of another unlucky gift-grabber, placing the Turtle in this woman’s hands. A fair exchange, vibrator for dessert plates. And it was passed like that, the hot potato, from one party guest to the next until it rested there on the coffee table, the last recipient unable to even claim her gift for shame of association.

I went home with moisturizing lip scrub and thoughts of the Tickling Turtle discarded with the litter of the season or, I like to think, opened in the quiet of a living room. The hostess left to discover the magic of the season, there before the X-mas tree amongst the empty glasses and torn paper and ribbon strewn across the floor. Batteries included.

Now that it’s the real deal, I’m wondering what should I wear while answering these questions? Should I blow dry? I’m gonna imagine that I’m sitting across from Amanda on the set of The Daily Show, just to make it all official. I have always wanted to sip from the Daily Show mug, the one from which Jon Stewart’s guests wet their famous lips throughout the interview. What’s in that mug? Jagermeister? Coffee? Orangina?

So here we are, Amanda and I, wearing dark suits and shiny pumps and full coverage make-up.
She says:
You’ve recently shared with us your travails of living in an older home. If tomorrow you were to wake up with the means to walk out of your house and into another of your choosing, tell us what it would be like.

Oh wow, Amanda. (I smooth my skirt to make sure that I’m not giving the camera a shot up the gizzy). That’s a tough one. I mean, the grass is always greener so to speak, especially when the neighbors are all using Tru Green chemical enhancers and I’m out picking weeds with my teeth. But, seriously, it’s not really what house I’d choose to move into once I woke up, cleared the sleep from my eyes and decided that another day in this piece of crap might be the end of me. The more pressing question might be, not only where I would relocate but who, in the house of fools and miscreants I currently live with, would actually come with me? Ha, ha, ha (I crack myself up. Pause to sip Jagermeister from the Daily Show mug and continue). One things for damn sure, I’d leave the cats and the fish for the new owners and possibly whichever child is irritating me most that morning, probably the one that wakes before sunrise and pees all over the toilet seat leaving urine puddles for sleepy Mommy.

So that leaves me, one hyper dog, My Better Half (only if her agrees to stop taking the Resveratrol supplements) and the child of the day, headed off for greener pastures in say, the Tuscan hills or the Green Mountains of Vermont or perhaps California. I’ve never been there, to California I mean, but everyone tells me it’s clear skies and breathtaking views and boob jobs as far as the eye can see. So I will need supplementation to make to the move to California and while a lift would be nice, I’m not too sure about the added baggage. And Tuscany is lovely but far from family and the Green Mountains has, like, one grocery store named for a guy called Murray and Murray hates Massholes that buy property in Vermont and actually improve the place so I’d better just stay here.

But, bottom line. To stay here, I’ll need more money. This Old House we live in already has some pretty great potential. Super town, A plus schools, lovely piece of property 25 miles from Boston, 30 minutes from the coast. But it would really be ideal if someone would just give us say $200,000 to, you know, add a bathroom or two, an exercise suite. Change the exterior color to Pale Oak with Antique Black shutters and Brilliant White trim. It’ll need new windows and we’d love to do a slate roof. The landscaping needs total refurbishment and this will also require an irrigation system. And then there’s the long drive that would be stately and grand if planted with wild flowers and lined with granite blocks and freshly graveled. The back porch should probably be razed and re-built as a family room/entertainment den just off the kitchen. And, you know, once all that was taken care of, I’d be pretty content. Pretty damn content. So, Amanda, we’re staying here. And now that you’re a Daily Show correspondent, maybe you could help us in starting a Madmarriage This Old House Charity Fundraiser Shameless Begging for Renovation Money telethon or marathon or walkathon or whatever.

(Another pause and long sip of Jagermeister while Amanda shuffles through her notes for another question.Clearing of throats all around. Recrossing of legs. Subtle chatter from the studio audience.)

Amanda says:
A recent foray into bedroom blogging over at Madmarriage has me wondering, What is your worst bedroomish pre-marriage memory?

(Studio audience laughs in anticipation of some sort of Girls Gone Wild, Mary Does Mardi Gras type of story.)

Well, I hate to disappoint but the only truly horrifying incidents I can think of from my sordid past involve a sort of pathological over indulgence in drugs and alcohol that pretty much rendered me incoherent for about six years. These stories mostly end in my vomiting or having my stomach pumped or wetting my pants and aren’t really as entertaining as I once thought they were.
As for my sex life, pre-marriage… Well, truth be told, even as a young woman, I had a tendency towards serial monogamy. Before My Better Half, I dated only a few guys and those few were sort of epic relationships that tied up whole years of my life. There’s not a whole lot of shenanigans to report from those pre-marriage marriages, but there is a whole heck of a lot of heartbreak to unearth there. Thus the drugs and the alcohol and a scathing poem entitled ‘Never Date and Actor’ that I’d be happy to share at a later date.

( I smooth my skirt again, clear throat and polish off the Jager, pushing the mug across the desk at Amanda.) Any more of that stuff around here?
(Amanda reaches beneath the Daily Show desk and pours me another mug full of the good stuff and says?)

What is your most treasured possession?

I have some lovely paintings and sketches done by my great grandfather who was a fairly successful artist and famous art historian and who hung out with fabulous people like Isabella Stewart Gardner and John Singer Sargent. I’d be pretty despondent if anything should happen to these works of art because, well, they’re kind of priceless in my mind even though there’s not much of a market for them.
I know, I know, a straight up answer, snark free. How unlike me.
(I turn to the camera and stick out my tongue as if to say, forgive me the gravitas, I’m still quirky and carefree and can poke fun at myself despite the fact that I love art and my great grandfather.)

What book are you currently looking at with a sense of defeat because you bought it months ago but haven’t been able to get to it?

You mean what book shelf am I currently looking at with defeat. There is not a room in this dive that doesn’t house about 12 books that I really should read but would rather not. You see, we are members of the Hundred Greatest Books club and every month we receive a leather bound copy of some worthy tomb and, after it’s unpackaged My Better Half immediately reads it and then shelves it after saying, “Life’s too short for anything but the classics,” while looking contemptuously at whatever modern best seller I am reading at the time. I was an English major. I spent four years of my life reading books that other people wanted me to read. Damn them all. I have no time for Moby Dick or The Talisman or Ivanhoe when there is Dave Eggers still to be read.
(I pound the table for emphasis and spill my mug of Jagermeister all over my lap.) Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh sorry, can I say that on air? Bad guest, bad guest. Next question.

You took a long break from blogging and now you are back, having warned us all that you would take it day by day, how’s it going?
You know, I took a break because I just couldn’t see how anyone was benefiting from my daily blathering about my very ordinary life until I realized that this blogging thing is the only true record of what it is to be a parent, wife, dog owner, 21st century American woman and though it is not profound or earth shattering or even all that different from a thousand other blogs out there, it is mine and with it I capture the essence of the Madmarriage unit right now…the good, the bad and the ugly. Some day my children can print it all out and bring it to their therapist.

It’s also a great writing exercise. While most days are busy enough to prevent my sitting down and writing for hours at a time, I can usually get off a blog post. With this writing thing, it’s sort of use it or lose it. I pretend that blogging is like doing chords or scales or whatever musicians do to warm up. It’s my way of tuning up before working on my novel or a short story.
And, as an aside, I’m having some fun with blogging now that I’ve disabled Google analytics and can’t see just how many tens of people aren’t reading my stuff on a daily basis. Ignorance is bliss.

(I stand, pump Amanda’s outstretched hand enthusiastically and bow to the studio audience of four.)

You guys are the heroes. The people who make it all worthwhile. I love you guys. And if any of you four would like your own time on the opposite side of the Daily Show desk, I’m providing the Jagermeister and the questions and I promise to blow dry and not spill anything.
(Amanda shows me the way back stage and to the green room where I’ve heard they offer guests bong hits and more Jagermeister. Some things don’t change.)

I received my own spousal notice of the Browns’ dogged devotion to consecutive copulations back in August. It came on the heels of an argument we’d had in the bedroom. My Better Half was clearly experiencing a surge in sexual energy reminiscent of college and I was still the thirty-four year old mother of two with (My Better Half has informed me) the libido of a rock. “What the hell’s gotten in to you?” I asked. “You’re as randy as an 18 year old,” I asked while deflecting his advances. It was the fourth consecutive night of suggestive hand wandering and attempts to administer foot massages. The change was sudden and pressing. Up until that point, I thought we were on the same page – content with once a week, or once a month or once a leap year, as life would have it.

While he claims that it is perfectly normal for a 35 year old male to want sex with his wife of ten years each and every night, I think there’s something else afoot. Perhaps the renewed interest is driven by my wearing tennis outfits with short skirts all summer but I’m skeptical. I suspect that it’s more than an exposed thigh every now and again that has rekindled the flame.

I’m no scientist but I have nonetheless decided that it’s got everything to do with the Resveratrol supplements that he’s been taking. While the small molecule found in red wine and peanuts and grapes has been touted to improve health and increase life spans, no one’s talking about its libido boosting attributes.

The study the NIH published, Resveratrol Improves Health and Survival in Aged, Overweight, Male Mice back in ‘06 does not mention that fat, old rodents pursue their female rat companions relentlessly while taking Resveratrol. Was this just scientific omission or, I wonder, were there no female rats present during the experiment?

Could one of you male, overweight, aged, sciency-types get yourself a bottle of Resveratrol supplements and let us know your findings on he subject? And please, apologize to your wife for me ahead of time. There are just some things we females are forced to endure in the name of science.

I’ll be off filling the supplement bottle with deceivingly similar sleep-inducing capsules and hoping for a restful night.

Addendum to today’s post:
My Better Half, after reading today’s post, has sent me a link about his supplements.
They’re called Rez-V and some goon at Testosterone Nation (I know, it’s just amazing that such a website exists but bear with me), has this to say about them,

“Resveratrol has a whole lot of good things going for it, but the one we’re most interested in has to do with estrogen. You see, resveratrol acts as a potent estrogen antagonist (while also acting as an agonist in some tissues, similar to the drugs clomiphene and tamoxifen).
In higher concentrations, it acts as an aromatase inhibitor. That means that it stops the body from whittling away at your Testosterone.

This is cool because if a substance stops Testosterone from being converted to estrogen or estradiol, it not only prevents the nasty effects of estrogen (loss of muscle and strength and accrual of body fat), but it increases your level of Testosterone, leading to additional strength and muscle!

What’s equally important is that it won’t cause your Testicles to go on vacation, i.e. shrink. The testicles don’t get a signal from the pituitary to shut down because estrogen has been curtailed!”

Turns out those male mice really were old and fat and randy after taking Resveratrol. And lucky them, their testicles did not go on vacation (whatever that means). So, there it is folks, Resveratrol is, in fact, the new male libido booster, as if they needed any help in that department. Now what will the aging, female mice with developing mid-sections and sagging fannies do to keep up. Bathe in red wine, nibble special testosterone laced cheese?

When I took a step back to dissect the day, retracing the time line of events to determine how to approach these problems in the same effective manner again (what works bears repeating), I was struck by the truth. There was one obvious ‘thing’ that made my urging and reminders effective – that ‘thing’ was sex.

Even though this ’sex’ strategy was not a deliberate plan, concocted to ensure he’d resolve the conflict surrounding his changed policy number, it seems that my rebuffing his recent attempts to ‘faire amour’ has provided motivation for him to please me. He figures, I make her happy and she’ll show me just how sexy she finds my binding life insurance.

I can’t believe I’m just figuring it out, after ten years I’ve finally connected the dot. He who hopes to get lucky crosses thing off the to-do list with great gusto.

I’ve been feeling ill and tired lately ( a bit off my game). And after googling my vague and common symptoms, I have become convinced that I am dying of some terminal disease. This is the beauty of the internet. It’s such a simple leap from sore throat to Ovarian cancer. It takes less than two minutes to make the self-diagnosis. It follows that, since I’m dying of advanced, metastasized cancer, I have little interest in sex – it’s been a few weeks.

Coincidently, in the few weeks that I’ve been convalescing, My Better Half has finished painting the side of the house, has been seen folding the laundry on several occasions and has even woken early enough to send the kids off to school on two occasions. Currently he is reading them a bedtime story…this abstinence thing works wonders.

The only catch is, having done all these good deeds, he will tuck the children into bed and slink downstairs to stand beside my computer where he will look at me longingly, with pleading bedroom eyes. And, well, I couldn’t possibly entertain his advances. I just ate too much and have several hundred blogs to read and, of course, there’s that lingering terminal illness.

So I struggle. If I continue to withhold favors will his efforts increase (I mean, my car needs a good cleaning and the basement needs organizing and a back rub would be nice) or will all the partnership and domestic help eventually cease as hopes dwindle and longing fades to desperation and resentment?

How long is too long?

I know I’m not alone. Those of you who have also been married for several hundred years must recognize the situation I describe. Please, pass some wisdom along.

Until then I’ll send My Better Half the link to the Flight of the Conchords video, Business Time. So apt, so bitingly true. It’ll make him feel better. He’s not missing much. I, too, wear oversized team building t-shirts to bed and leap up in the midst of the action, remembering that it’s recycling day. (If you all have been under a rock for the past year and haven’t seen this clip, you must head on over and check it out. It’s absolutely hilarious.)

Until future notice, I’m still closed for business.

But then, probing the topic (pun intended) a bit further, I discovered the truth about this surgery. There seems to be two types of “clients” that hire these male surgeons who specialize in vaginal rejuvenation: those that no longer achieve orgasm with a partner that they once found adequately stimulating, and those that feel that their veejejay isn’t as beautiful as they would like it to be.
Whether you’re the type that no longer looks forward to getting it on with your long-time partner or you’re the kind that frets about your vagina having lost its youthful appearance, either way, your decision to endure cosmetic surgery on your privates would seem a suspiciously dramatic reaction to your dilemma. I smell pervasive male attitude and can’t help but wonder who’s really behind the push for prettier, more responsive vaginas? Doesn’t it seem an entirely male idea that if your female partner fails to climax each time you spend three minutes stroking her thigh and moaning into the pillowcase before you get yourself off on her leg, there must be something wrong with her equipment?

Could I suggest dinner and a movie, taking out the trash, depositing your paycheck on time and not leaving a pile of dirty laundry at the foot of the bed. I know you guys might think that nothing says “I love you” like a pair of dirty underwear on the bathroom floor and late credit card payments that result in $50 penalties, but I can assure you that your partner’s inability to climax has something to do with the fact that you’ve put on 35 pounds since the wedding and your idea of a sit-up is reaching for another slice of pizza that’s just out of reach on the coffee table.
And, fellow females, if your partner really can’t make some simple adjustments like picking up after himself, working out twice a week and preparing a meal or two in order to improve your relations, you may be tempted to purchase a little device called the Slightest Touch. For a mere $139.95 this Slightest Touch with its batteries and electrodes and wires and a very sexy humming sound akin to fluorescent lighting or the dishwasher, promises that when the female drinks 12 ounces of Gatorade, washes her inner ankles, smears gel used for conductivity on her ankles and attaches electrodes to cleaned and gel-smeared ankles, and then sits there while enduring 30 minutes of only the slightest electrocution before commencing the sexual act, will only require minutes of foreplay, beating the male to orgasm and achieving many orgasms immediately thereafter with minimal amounts of effort. If this sounds inherently unsexy (the thing about the electrodes and the Gatorade and the electrocution), then you must be female because males see nothing wrong with this method of foreplay. And if it seems like wishful thinking, that’s because it is. As for the money back guarantee offered, I wouldn’t know because this of course is all conjecture and heresy. I have no real experience with the device in question, really, I swear.
So, you’re still considering vaginal rejuvenation because your partner refuses to do laundry and join the gym, and electrodes and Gatorade are a definite buzz kill. If you’ve already had rhinoplasty and had a boob job, removed a rib and peeled off your face and had it reattached, wrinkle free, then you’ve probably exhausted all other re constructive possibilities and are just dying to spend that $5000 that’s burning a hole in your pocket. Sounds like you’re going to do this thing so you might as well indulge the male perspective for a minute. Anonymous, who is entirely male, suggests you consider some sort of reconstruction that, “guarantees stimulation without having to shout instructions. For example, a gifted surgeon might construct a flap to the vagina connected to a lever which spins a silicone nubbin mounted directly above and in contact with the clitoris he’s just supersized. Any act of penetration would suffice to spin the nubbin and satisfy all concerned. Certainly, nubbins could be replaced depending upon mood and energy level; metal for angry, smooth quartz for relaxed and ready, oversized wood paddles for the elderly.”

And if you’re one of those individuals having this surgery because you fear your labia are just not attractive enough, let anonymous remind you that, “very few men really care what “it” looks like. A woman could tattoo a smiley face to her %&@# and most men wouldn’t notice much less care.”

Smiley faces and paddles aside, there are a few sad individuals that have this surgery in order to restore their hymen. Occasionally this is a manifestation of cultural expectations having to do with virginity but mostly it’s a gift some very psychotic women decide to give their husbands. I guess they cherish the memory of searing pain and sweaty humping in the back of Jimmy Lukens Toronado with the pleather seats that smelled of cat piss. Whoever feels that the moment of losing their virginity is an interlude they’re willing to pay $5000 to recreate, had a very different experience than I.

No matter your reasons, please, before calling your local vaginal rejuvenation clinic, see the attached photo of “Doctor Labia” because he’s the guy who will be working between your legs for a couple hours with a laser. Now if he’s not the picture of medical reliability!