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Friday, November 21, 2014

Friday Frenzy- I've Got Balls of Steel

(Today I'm very happy to welcome Mary from Outmanned here for Friday Frenzy. Being the only female in a house full of males (though she's pregnant with a girl now!), she writes her way through the hilarious happenings. Every one of her posts makes me laugh out loud, so definitely check her out!! ~Tatted Mom)

I've Got Balls Of Steel

Ever since 50 Shades of Grey took the stay at home mom market by the nipple clamps, Ben Wa balls have started popping up (hopefully not out!) everywhere. As an over-worked, under-rested, I-can't-remember-the-last-time-I-had-sex mother of two, I naturally assumed that I had about as much use for a pair of Ben Wa balls as I did an alarm clock or a bathroom door.

Surely, sex toys are for energetic sex-nymphs with delicate vaginas: the kind that should only be talked about in hushed, reverent tones, and inspire floral paintings. Mine, on the other hand, is gnarled and scarred like a war veteran. She is hard as nails. Don't get me wrong. I have the utmost respect for my vagina, but my overwhelming thought while reading 50 Shades was "Oh honey, my vagina could eat you for breakfast."

What use did I have for Ben Wa balls when the closest thing I was having to kinky sex was the time I fell asleep half-way through?

Ben Wa balls offer more than a smutty story to tell your friends. The muscles used to hold the marble-sized steel balls in your vagina are the same muscles responsible for stopping urinary incontinence. You know, the ones your baby shredded like confetti on his way out of the birth canal? Squeezing the balls for 15 minutes every day can increase sexual arousal and satisfaction while also
reducing the need to change your underwear every time you sneeze, jump, run, laugh, or make sudden movements.

It's vaginal multitasking. I was sold.
Pic Courtesy

I bought a pair online and when the kids finally went to bed that night I popped in the little silver miracle-workers. I waited curiously for the sexy, tingly feelings to start, but I guess my vagina is too jaded for such frivolous shenanigans. Oh well. As I tentatively started my evening chores I began to suspect that my haggard vagina was some sort of Ben Wa prodigy.

Fifteen minutes? Ha. I could go all night.

Until exactly 1 minute and 48 seconds later when the first ball escaped. I felt it start to move as my pelvic muscles gave up faster than a dieter in a Twinkie factory, but was powerless to stop it. I quickly shoved it back into place. Two minutes later it shot out again. This time I caught it between my thighs as it hurtled toward the ground. As I stood there, knock-kneed, I was grateful I hadn't attempted this while anyone else was around.

By the eighth minute I was literally holding the balls in place with my finger, like plugging a dam. After 10 minutes I called it a day. I had no trouble retrieving the first ball. I simply moved my hand and it came flying out, but the second one had lodged itself up in my who-knows-where and I had to send in a search party. This was going to be harder than I thought, and way less sexy.

I'm not sure if it's physically possible, but my vagina felt tired. I'd done 5 minutes of yoga the other morning and could barely walk. I hoped my vagina wouldn't be as stiff the next day.

I dutifully aimed to insert the balls every night after the kids went to bed. By the third night I'd reached a new personal best of 3 minutes. I would have made it longer if the dogs hadn't barked. Apparently shouting at dogs while holding in Ben Wa balls results in something like a blow gun. Those suckers clanked so loudly on the floor they scared the dogs into silence. Handy new training technique? I filed it away for further consideration.

After one week I was able to squeeze the balls for a full fifteen minutes with only one or two slips. I'd also perfected an expulsion technique so I was no longer having to fish the second ball out of the vacuous abyss that is my lady parts. Vaginas learn fast. I wish the rest of me whipped into shape that quickly.

I could once again sneeze with impunity, as long as I was careful to stop walking and think "tight" thoughts immediately before. It was a small, but important victory.

So should you ever run into me in the check out line at Target and notice an odd, constipated look on my face, don't be offended. I'm not unhappy to see you. I'm just squeezing my balls even tighter.

Trust me, it's a compliment of the highest magnitude.

***
Mary Widdicks is a 31 year old mother of two boys and two male dogs. Once a cognitive psychologist, she now spends her time trying to outsmart her kids. She is the writer behind the humorous parenting blog Outmanned (www.outmannedmommy.com), where she turns for entertainment when she's had enough of fart jokes and belching contests. Mary's writing has been featured on parenting sites such as Mamapedia, Mamalode, and Scary Mommy. She is a regular contributor on BLUNTmoms and has been honored as a 2014 Voice of the Year by BlogHer.

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Thursday, November 20, 2014

A Work-at-Home Mom's Ultimate Fantasy

Today, I'm absolutely knackered (and maybe have been watching too much of the British TV show "Call the Midwife"). I'm on the verge of throwing myself a small Pity Party, complete with Cheese and Whine and I-Scream.
Sorry, just my witty sense of humor...

This is a pretty rare occurrence, so I think you should join me.

I find myself fantasizing every day now, caught in a particular daydream at different points throughout my packed schedule; a daydream that is so amazing that I never want to come back to reality.

Ryan Gosling? Nope, not this time.

This fantasy involves my family- sometimes the kids, sometimes Hubby, sometimes the whole gang, looking right at me, holding out a hand, concern in their eyes, and saying, "Mom/Honey, what can I do to help you with everything?"

OMG, the bliss. I get all excited just thinking about it, then I'm plummeted back into reality and continue dusting, or vacuuming, or folding clothes.

I completely understood what I was getting myself into when Hubby and I got back together 3 years

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Surging My Kids into My Past

I ordered a 12 pack of Surge last week.

Yes, the heart-attack-inducing, tastes-how-I-envision-ghosts'-ectoplasm-tasting, colored-like-something-from-a-nuclear-waste-site Surge.

Shipping details say it will be here today.

I'm like a kid on Christmas Eve right now.

As a parent, will I be sharing Surge with my kids, aged 12 and almost 10?

You bet your sweet ass I am.

I'm the Mom who forces the 80s and 90s on my kids. They've seen "The Goonies," (The Ginger liked it more than The Girl), "The Princess Bride" (didn't like it), "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" (liked that one), the TV show "All That" (they loved it), "Sabrina the Teenage Witch" (The Girl adores that show), and countless other fave movies and shows from my childhood ("Camp Nowhere" and "Newsies" are next, and I was totally bummed to find seasons 1 and 2 of "Blossom" available, but due to legal rights of songs in the show, no more seasons of "Blossom" will ever be released on DVD. Super saddening...).

I'm not quite sure why I introduce so many things from my childhood to my kids. I've talked with other moms; I seem to be the biggest 80s/90s Dealer of them all, offering my kids episodes of "Saved By the Bell" like they are crack. ("Here, just try one episode, please... We don't have to watch any more if you don't like this one, just give it a try.") Most moms I know just let their kids watch what
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