Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

My Boobs Attend A Wedding.

A good push up bra can change your entire outlook.

I rarely wear things that show off my cleavage and I'm always surprised by the power of boobs. For example, I am rarely, if ever, flirted with. I don't know what the problem is...maybe it's the wild unmedicated look in my eye that scares all the men off. Whatever it is, it's solved when I wear a deep v neck top and a push up bra.

It's really all smoke and mirrors and if I were actually looking for a male companion, I wouldn't wear that bra since it's false advertising.

Anyway, we went to a wedding last night and my boobs wielded their mighty power. Not really, but my boobs and I had two odd interactions. One from an older gentleman I did not know. He walked past me and threw his arms up in the air and yelled, "Hey!!!!!!!!!" at me. It was really, really weird.

My other boob related interaction involved the bride (whom I didn't get much chance to photograph) who hugged me in the receiving line and exclaimed, 'Your rack is competing with mine!' (This was hardly true. She had a cocktail resting on hers, it was amazing.)

This is the first time I've ever had that conversation in a receiving line and it was really an enjoyable alternative to the usual dribble.

I didn't get many pictures at this wedding. It was a lovely affair and the camera seemed too intrusive at the posh country club. Sometimes we just don't want to make jack asses of ourselves. I did take this picture of our friends who will be getting married in October, in Las Vegas so, sadly, my boobs can't attend their wedding.

I did take a couple of shots however, because I can't help myself.

Have you ever gotten a Mashed Potato Cocktail? Neither have I, but I'll tell you we enjoyed it.

Logan made this sign for the bride and groom. He also made this version (note the groom's name is Tim...not Jim...Logan and I easily amuse ourselves.) and yet another one for the bride's mother who had gotten a reputation during the wedding planning as being a little domineering in the process.

All in all the wedding was lovely and the old man yelling 'Hey!!!!' at my boobs really did something for my attitude. Well it's either that or the medication or the fact that:

SCHOOL STARTS TOMORROW!

SCHOOOOOOOL STARTS TOMORROW!!!!!!!!!!

Oh My God.....School Starts Tomorrow!!!! My summer imprisonment with The Bickerson's ends tomorrow!

Sweet Dreams

Today I saw the doctor.

I've been slowly reaching the bottom. I won't bore you with the details but today I bored my doctor with the details. I talked about the 'Big Deal' and the elephant nightlight and swallowing my children after dipping them in fine belgian chocolate.

He seemed stunned. I don't blame him. Who knew belgian chocolates were so delicious?

Also he thought it odd that I'm always tired. No matter how much sleep I get I'm still tired. I've been into the office about this issue in the past and the bloodwork didn't show anything. At that time I wasn't under a lot of stress or strain, but I was always exhausted. I was sleeping 8-12 hours in a night and was still always exhausted, never refreshed when I dragged myself from my bed.

Now I'm depressed, so getting out of bed takes a lot of effort and encouragement...mainly fears of my children burning down the house.

So he theorizes that, although I'm depressed and overstressed, I'm most likely not coping well with the real stress of my life because I'm not sleeping properly. He likened my sleep deprivation to a child who gets overtired and can't cope with life in general.

I found this comparison amusing, comparing me to an overtired child since I really am nothing but a flailing infant pretending to be a grown up. I also found it amusing that he doesn't classify contemplating eating your children 'Coping Well'. He's obviously never dipped his children in belgian chocolate. Irresistible.

So I'm on a new medication and honestly I fear once I'm not depressed anymore I won't have anything to talk about here. I'll have to close down Suburban Bliss because now I'll just be happy all the time and who wants to read about how happy my day was and how the sun was shining and it warmed my face and life is just swell!

In fact my newest plan is to spend 2-3 months in angst ridden creative mode, where I'll stop my medication and drink nothing but bourbon and I'll write! Write! I'll feel slightly insane and depressed and out of this will come wonderful work. But also I won't be able to get out of bed or be a parent.

So then! I'll go back on medication and I'll spend 2-3 months being a nice mommy and I'll sell all the depressive work I've just created while drunk and insane. Then I'll feel boring and I'll decide to go off my medication again. And so on and so on. Won't that be a pleasant childhood for the children?

I thought so too.

(Remind me to tell you about my Aunt Kay sometime....or, as we 'affectionately' called her, 'Aunt Kay-razy!')

Anyway. The sleep problem. He thinks I have Sleep Apnea. Actually, he'd like to make sure I don't have Sleep Apnea, subtle difference there.

I have large tonsils. (Doesn't that sound a little dirty?) I mentioned them before. Specifically, my Sinister Right Tonsil.

The doctor thinks maybe my tonsils are choking me in my sleep and making me unable to fall into a deep sleep pattern.

Do you have any idea what this means?! I get to go to a Sleep Clinic!

All they want me to do is sleep! For hours! This is as close to a vacation I'm getting. I'm hoping they need many many nights of data to diagnose my specific problem.

As long as the 'cure' doesn't involve this. I don't need to look like a porn star when I get in bed, but come on?

The only downside to the sleep center I can come up with (beside the possibility of that thing coming home on my face), is the fact that all the nurses and doctors will see, with their own eyes and several recording devices....my excessive sleepy time drooling issue.

There I said it. I drool in my sleep.

Pre-Medication

Oh Internet.

I wish I had more for you these days. I really do.

Pretty much everything is the same here.

Children who need ANSWERS about EVERYTHING. Mother who needs medicating. Father busily juggling.

But school is starting in just 7 more days...not that I'm counting. Medicating will begin soon. Father will continue to juggle and hopefully the Mother Medicating will make it matter a little less.

There's not much happening here. Other than continued neurosis on my part. Same old, same old.

Other than that though, I've decided the only thing I can do, as a job, is write. It's the only thing I can do relatively well and that I also enjoy doing and I don't see anyway around it.

I have to make writing my 'job' because every other job I can come up with has the same appeal as, say, eating lunch with Dr. Phil every day for the rest of my life, getting meaningless advice in the form of nonsensical catchphrases.

Me: "I don't know Dr Phil. I'm just struggling through everyday and this job isn't going that great so I'm going to need a new job and it's all really overwhelming."

Phil: "You don't need anyone or anything to poop on a cracker."

Me: "What?"

Phil: "You don't need a spice rack to dare to be stupid."

Me: "What!?"

Phil: "You don't need to send out a press release to eat a bug."

Me: "Look, this bullshit might work on Oprah, but not me."

When I look back over the jobs in my past, I realize I sucked at every single one of them, except the Life Drawing job since all I had to do was sit there.

There was the summer I worked as a bank teller. I never once balanced my drawer at the end of the day. It was never a significant amount, but enough that my line at the bank was always the longest. I thought it was my cleavage, but then I remembered I don't have any. Probably people were lining up to visit my teller window since I was giving away extra $20 bills with each transaction....because I'm too stupid to be a bank teller.

There was the job at the service desk of a large discount store where I worked for exactly 2 hours before I excused myself for a bathroom break and ran screaming from the premises. I'm not kidding, I actually just left without saying a word.

Even at Crate and Barrel I was mainly good at meeting future spouses. On the other hand, I was really quite bad at cleaning merchandise displays. In fact, once while cleaning a display of handblown beer mugs, I pulled out one particular beer mug which had a pivotal role in the complicated display.

By 'pivotal' I mean that one beer mug was holding up the other 199 beer mugs in the display and when I pulled out that 1 beer mug...all the others (and about 6 bottles of sam adams beer) came crashing to the ground. Loudly, as you might imagine because glass breaking on a wooden floor in the middle of a store is typically kind of loud.

That's $1,781.05 in merchandise for those of you playing along at home.

Etc etc....office jobs were less dramatically horrid, retail jobs were varying degrees of hell. Now I'm 'working' as a stay at home mother and we've established how Awesome! I am at this particular job.

By 'Awesome!' I mean 'Really Bad', only I can't quit.

I can't excuse myself to go to the restroom and then slip out the side door. I can't break $1,781.05 in merchandise and get sent home for the day (but I've tried, oh, I've tried.) No one lets me leave.

Unless I get a job. But I can't think of a job I want because there isn't a job I've ever had I really liked.

Can we add this to the 'Great Big List Of Things That Keep Melissa Awake At Night' please?

Another thing to add to the 'Great Big List Of Things That Keep Melissa Awake At Night' (Read the post, then read the comments....). I thought my weekend was pretty fucking fun, but now my weekend seems downright provincial.

This seems like a good place for a shopping post.

I feel like I need to clarify. I'm not opposed to cute and unique items of clothing that happen to be made by expensive designers. I appreciate well made items as much as the next person and I love something that's unique and won't be found just anywhere.

My 'problem' is wearing something designer that so obviously screams to everyone around you "LOOK AT ME! I'M WEARING DESIGNER WEAR!!!!!" Only it's a stupid T-SHIRT. Or a pair of SOCKS. I assure you, Tommy Hillfiger didn't sit at his drawing table and design that T shirt and Ralph Lauren didn't sit down and make sure those socks fit your child's foot like a glove. Sorry.

I like cute clothes that aren't from Old Navy or the Gap or Target as much as the next person.

I especially like them for my kids. Like this or this and this or this (which doesn't really fit with my theory since it's just a stupid polo shirt...but I always wanted an alligator threatening to clamp down on my nipple and my mother always said no) and this entire collection, in spite of myself makes me squeal like a little girl. (Look at that Molly coat at the bottom. Jesus!). This, a $200 diaper bag makes absolute sense to me...see I'm not entirely reasonable.

Yes, I love adorable clothes, and sometimes those adorable clothes happen to be name brand (but they'll only find their way into our house if they're a gift, a hand me down or deeply discounted). I just draw the line at buying things that are entirely utilitarian at a designer price. Like this makes no sense to me. It's a onesie. God never intended onesies to cost $35.00, it's in the Bible somewhere if you look hard enough.

I mean, please, give me a break. But at the same time, Maddie had this dress (in red) and Holy Shit! She was adorable in it.

Thank God for Aunt Jenn and also Target socks.

Designer Socks.

I love Alice. I said I was going to talk about my love of others more in this year of blogging and then I forgot. But Alice was talking about her son's frilly ankle socks and it made me love her even more. The mention of frilly ankle socks also made Max ask me who this Henry is, because we all know how my son feels about frilly ankle socks.

Her story brought to mind the socks Max wears. No, he doesn't wear anklets with lace. He inherited a whole batch of hand-me-down designer socks from an acquaintance. I've always hesitated to write about this particular issue of mine, since it's really nice that someone hands me down her designer socks (and sometimes other clothes), but now I've just decided to go completely crazy and cut all ties with anyone who has been even remotely friendly to me because I'm currently in the drowning throes of depression and why do I need acquaintances?

I don't even have a problem with hand me down socks. I've, somewhere along the way, lost my sense of pride and hand me down socks seem like a great idea to me. One less thing to buy! However, I have a problem with logos on socks. On socks!

Who cares if you have Ralph Lauren socks? This makes as much sense as having a Ralph Lauren toilet plunger. Why would you want to spend good money on something so utilitarian? There's good money to be wasted elsewhere. I mean, I'm good at wasting money and I have never in my life plopped down a premium price on socks.

I may have wanted to. Or at least I may have wanted my mother to when I was 17 and in high school with kids who woke up on their birthday morning to a brand new Land Rover sitting in their driveway.

Maybe some part of me felt that socks would prove to everyone, once and for all, that I too could have a Land Rover if I wanted one but they haven't made a Ralph Lauren one yet and as you can see by my socks, I am very loyal to this brand. In fact, I have a Ralph Lauren plunger in my bathroom. I don't even own a toilet brush because Ralph Lauren hasn't come out with one yet. But when he does....I will be scrubbing my toilet in high style. Until then I guess I'll just make due with my socks and you can have your absolutely generic Land Rover. Ha!

My mother wasn't forking down $15 on a pair of Ralph Lauren socks (not even a bathroom plunger) and so I wore *gasp* generic socks. Now that I'm an adult I just don't see the allure of designer things for no reason other than a little logo on them. I like nice things. I like a stylish purse or a well made frock. But socks? No. A designer sweatshirt? No. A designer toilet brush? Okay well, I'm still tempted on that end.

Max though, inherited 40 pairs of designer socks, all with a blazing logo meant to impress people. The logos fill me with embarrassment and I hope no one will notice and think I actually wasted my hard earned money on socks with a stupid logo on the side.

I'm afraid they'll see me at the grocery store buying generic food and using coupons and they'll say to themselves...."Look at that woman spending all her money on socks to impress people and buying 'Jolly Value Canned Beef' for her family."

Today I was at the post office and a woman was collecting signatures in front.

Max was running from me on the sidewalk and I was watching him (I was!) with one eye and listening to her with my ear...it's my superpower.

The signature collecting woman was very concerned my son was going to throw himself in front of a car or a disgruntled employee (this is the Royal Oak post office after all, Original Home of Workplace Violence) so she watched him while I signed the petition.

This is a true story (I am not even exaggerating for comic effect)! She watched him by talking to him, keeping him engaged so he wouldn't do anything crazy like run into traffic. But her choice of conversation was my worst nightmare come true.

"Hi Max. Hey Max! Are those Polo socks you're wearing! Oh those are nice Polo socks you have there young man! What nice Polo socks you have little man! And I bet that shirt is Polo and those shorts and how about those shoes! Are those Polo shoes Max?"

I was furiously writing my name and address and saying under my breath...'No..just the socks. Just the stupid socks! I know they're absurd, I didn't buy them. I didn't buy them.'

I'm guessing she didn't really care about his brand name socks and she was just trying to make conversation with a three year old that didn't include the words, 'Do you have to go potty now?', because that's all he hears from me anymore.

But I felt a little stupid putting my son's designer sock ensconced feet in our 12 year old car and driving off I was certain I heard the signature lady yelling, "Hey Max! Is that your Polo car? That's a nice Polo car you've got there Max!"

I hate those socks.

Too Much Birthday Party.

Saturday we went out with friends to celebrate Logan's 36th birthday.

Also we were celebrating his completion of the Run Through Hell without any incidents of Runner's Trots. Poop and running is a hot topic in our house lately, specifically keeping the poop part out of the running part.

We went out with Cari and Joe.

There are a few things one would want to know about Cari and Joe. Cari weighs 45 pounds and is so petite I feel like an ungainly mammoth around her. I sometimes fear I will crush her with the weight of my teeth. Also she has lovely thick hair and I feel compelled to lick it. I'm not sure why. Probably because of the black hole in the top of my head and also because my hair has stopped growing, entirely.

Joe is a photographer Logan sometimes works with. Joe is a very patient photographer who once took pictures of Max for some sort of work related thing. It was supposed to be a simple picture of Max on Logan's shoulders standing in front of a shiny pick up truck. It ended up taking 34 consecutive hours and 231 Rice Krispie Treats to get Max to smile for the picture because my children, though much cuter than me, have the same hatred of the camera I do.

Joe wears nice shoes and stylish denim and he also wears his shirt both tucked and untucked because he's a versatile type of man. He has a great sense of style because he is dating Cari who is very stylish and writes about style and is actually a photo stylist. She knows about style people. Cari and Joe were an integral part of the transformation of my husband from regular guy to metrosexual guy...and I'm not sure if I should thank them or curse them.

When Logan first started working with 'Joe Vaughn', I thought he was either Jovan like the musk or Giovan....and quite honestly I expected a very snooty and annoying photographer who was so cool he wanted just one name. But as it turns out he's just Joe!, and he's nice and normal and exceedingly stylish.

We went out with a few other people too. Rebecca, who is shown here enduring an Awkward Hug from me. I'm not much for the hugging as you can clearly see from the photograph. Also, Jeff who is very pretty, in a more handsome kind of way than my other pretty friend. I'd like to see him go head to head in the 'Pretty Pageant' with our friend John to see who the prettiest in the land really is.

Brad was there also. Brad shares a first name with our lawyer. When I sent Brad the pictures of our night out....I accidentally sent them to the lawyer, who most likely doesn't really care about my night out.

I object!

Keep in mind I'll share these pictures with you Internet so I'm not really that horrified. But it's one thing to stick up pictures of yourself behaving poorly for whomever happens upon them and an entirely other thing to personally request someone look at pictures of you licking someone's hair.

There was another lovely young lady there Saturday night. I took a lot of pictures of her and she's the newest roomate of Brad and Jeff and she's also very tall and while standing near Cari makes me feel like a behemoth, standing next to the new roomate made me feel like a short and portly little person. I'm a horrible and very portly little person with zero social graces because I have forgotten her name.

Also in attendance was Logan's bicep.

It was a fun night and we arrived home at 1am and Mr Roboto headed off to the office at 8am the following morning. Abandoning me, a mere mortal woman, with a hangover and two children who deserve more than a lump of crackling brains laying on the sofa. But that's what they got. That and a bowl of cereal and all the tv they could watch until their Robotic Father came home later.

You can see the entire collection of images here, we even played a little of 'Pretend You're With' but it just wasn't the same without John and Asa.

I'm Pretty Sure Making Fun Of Your Mother Puts You In The Carpool Lane To Hell.

My mother is afraid of the air conditioning in her car. She refuses to use it. She truly believes her car is a fiery inferno just waiting to happen. Sometimes I force her to turn it on and she's tense at every stop light and if we get stuck in traffic, forget it and just put down the windows, because there's nothing worse than watching my mother wait for her car to burst into flames!

Once she drove to Indianapolis to visit my brother and his wife. When she arrived she was totally unrecognizable as our mother. Her hair was a wild tangled mess on top of her head, like Medusa and underneath the wild hair was nothing but a puddle of sweat.

When my brother opened the car door my mother seeped out onto the driveway.

My brother said, "Mom?"

"Yes, it's me! I made it!"

"But what happened to you?"

"What do you mean?"

Then my brother realized what happened. "Muth-errrr! It's 105 degrees....why didn't you use your air conditioning?"

The puddle of sweat with the wild hair on the driveway said, "I did...it's just when I got into the city...I worried the car would overheat so I turned it off. It's no big deal, I'm fine!"

The Perfect Storm.

My mother's name is Bonnie. When I heard the tropical storm coming into Florida had been named Bonnie, I wept for Florida.

If this tropical storm is anything like my mother....Florida is really in for it.

Bonnie will reduce you to an eye rolling teenager no matter how old you are. Anything Bonnie does or says will make you roll your eyes and say, "You are so embarassing!" You'll ask Bonnie to pick you up around the block from school because it's totally uncool to have your tropical storm pick you up from school. Duh! But then, even though you don't want to you'll ask the storm to drive you to the mall. But don't drop me off at the front door. God!

Bonnie might horrify you with her love of John Tesh (she will actually see John Tesh live and proclaim him 'Phenomenal') and maybe even worse....Bonnie will love Josh Groban. Which might just cause you to have a horrible seizure where you swallow your tongue and die of embarassment and also strangulation.

On the other hand, if this tropical storm is anything like it's namesake, it will not have a clue how to operate 'Call Waiting'. So if Bonnie gets a little overly enthusiastic, two people just need to call the storm on it's cell phone. When the second call comes through....Tropical Storm Bonnie will be stopped dead in it's tracks.

"Hold on, I'm getting another call. Now, where is that button.....hello? Oh, it's still you....hold on.....Hello?"

Tropical Storm Bonnie will be totally distracted by call waiting and will be unable to wreak havoc on Florida. Catastrophe diverted.

Mr. Rock and Roll Hair.

Today Logan turns 36. I wasn't exactly sure what to write about.

I started with stories his parents had told me about his birth. He was born at Henry Ford Hospital in Detroit in 1968. Before my father in law could take his wife and new baby home, he had to pay the hospital bill in full. If I had been required to pay the entire hospital bill before bringing one of my children home, I may have just decided to visit.

Then I covered old family audio tapes of Christmas morning. There are three children experiencing Christmas on the tape but mostly you hear Logan! Because Logan! Talks! A lot!

So odd.

So I guess the thing is.

You're supposed to ignore people who are addicted to hating you.

I guess posting about them at your site just keeps things brewing for them in some odd way.

My lips are now zipped.

Don't Rain On My Parade.

I'm a pretty pessimistic person in general. Even at my most chemically enhanced, I'm a bit of a pain in the ass.

So when you're a really negative person who sees the often ugly reality of all situations, what you do is marry the most positive and optimistic person in the world.

You do this so that a lot of your life is spent, in effect, raining on your optimistic spouse's parade.

In other news! My problems are solved!

According to Cal, who commented on my last post, the answer is finding Christ!

Weeeeee!

According to Cal I didn't realize life is hard! Oh, you mean life is hard? I thought that part where my father was a raging alcoholic was easy! I thought that part where my father killed himself was easy! I thought the part where my marriage nearly combusted was easy!

But life is hard so I should be an emotionless drone who pushes forward without feeling depressed or sleepless or in need of answers to big questions hanging over the Summers Domicile.

How could I expect not to have the 'Big Thing' interrupting my life! How could I be such a tool of the marketing machine to expect to sleep. I'm nothing but a sheep who expects to be happy! To live is to suffer, asshole.

I should go find Christ now.

In other, other news: Many of you have asked what the 'Big Deal' is, both here and in email and the thing is I have left it vague because really the 'Big Deal' isn't important. It's important to me and it's bothering me but you could fill that empty spot with anything that's troubling to you. My 'Big Deal' may not be a 'Big Deal' for you. For me it is.

Everyone has a 'Big Deal' and we all have our worries and things that keep us up at night sometimes.

Well, unless our name is 'Calzones' and we have found Christ and we spend our time spreading the word of the Lord lovingly through the blog-o-sphere.

My Elephant Nightlight.

Do you smell that? Jesus. What is that? Oh right it's my horribly shitty attitude. Sorry about that.

Have you ever been so down for so long, you start to forget why you're so depressed? You start to think it must be a chemical depression because, My Life Is Great! What is my problem?

Then all the sudden what you're so depressed about slaps you in the face and you think....how did I forget this was so depressing?

I don't have an answer for that....how did I forget how depressing this thing is? I think it's simple denial.

Max has been sleeping so much better since we found him a little paper lamp shaped like an elephant (his favorite animal). He's staying in his bed from 8pm until 8am. He falls asleep within minutes thanks to my swell job as activities director. He wakes up happy and he's more pleasant through out the day.

The elephant nightlight saved his life.

So now Max is sleeping all night and I have the most horrible insomnia. I'm laying in bed for 2-4 hours each night trying to fall asleep. I take tylenol pm and there I lay.

For a while I wondered why I had insomnia and then I remembered this thing I've been pretending isn't such a big deal is a big deal and I'm not handling it very well.

All day I think about the 'Big Deal' and all night, in the dark while my robotic husband recharges, I lay and think about the 'Big Deal'. All this thinking has produced nothing more than an inability to handle my life in a day to day sense. I haven't found some great answer for the 'Big Deal'.

Actually I have an answer for the 'Big Deal' but my robotic husband seems blissfully unaware of the seriousness of the 'Big Deal'. He keeps plugging away while I silently (and sometimes not silently) panic day and night about the 'Big Deal'.

I'm kind of tired of living like this. It's sucking the life right out of me. I thought it was just the kids sucking the life out of me, and believe me...they are. But they might not be doing such a great job of it if I could actually stop thinking about the 'Big Deal'. I might have more energy for them if the 'Big Deal' wasn't sucking every bit of energy from me 24 hours a day.

When I suffered through post partum depression I used to look at myself in the mirror and say, over and over, "You are struggling." Somehow it made me feel better to acknowledge it. To just accept it: This is hard, and I am struggling. But I can do this. I can hold onto this sink and I will make it through this.

I'm finding it hard to accept this struggling anymore.

Max changes when he doesn't get enough sleep. He becomes unhappy and extremely unpleasant when he is waking up in the night. Maybe the 'Big Deal' was getting to him too?

But then we found the elephant night light and he's been sleeping peacefully since. Since he's sleeping better and not staying awake all night worrying about the 'Big Deal', he's also happier and more pleasant through out the day. All because of the elephant nightlight.

I'd really like my elephant nightlight now.

Dirty Words.

Logan's office email has a device meant to prevent potentially offensive emails from being sent through to employees.

I first found out about this scanning program many, many months ago while discussing my husband's recent vasectomy. As I recall, the email said something along the lines of,

"Your poor testicles have been through the wringer."

The email was sent back to me claiming my 'message contained potentially offensive material' and would not be sent to my husband. I was livid. My email response to 'Mr Interscan' was:

"Dear Mr Interscan, If I want to discuss my husband's tortured testicles, I will do so as his lawfully married wife. Thank you."

'Mr Interscan' bounced that message also!

I edited my email, explaining to Logan that his office does not allow anyone to discuss t*e*s*t*i*c*l*e*s. However, because I tested it, 'balls', 'scrot', 'nuts', 'nut sack', 'hairy nutsack' are all okay.

I think Logan got 147 emails that day with the subject line 'Testing', as I tested all potentially offensive words in email to him.

'Vagina' is forbidden, but all other nasty slang words for vagina (I'll let you think of them yourself) are allowed.

'Breast' is forbidden, but all other names pass. 'Penis' is forbidden, but even the most nasty names my dirty little mind could come up with made it through. 'Prostitute' is forbidden...but again all nasty slang for prostitute is gladly patched right through!

Imagine Logan's glee that day when he received a hundred emails with every dirty slang word I could think of.

He was beyond thrilled!

As far as I can tell via my exhaustive research: Logan's agency wants everyone to speak in a crass and dirty manner. Anatomical names are not okay, dirty slang is what they're all about.

I don't get it.

Speaking of Vaginas.

I have this really funny story I've been wanting to tell for a few weeks now. Angela was discussing the V word in relation to her daughter last week. Specifically what to call it. Then today I saw that Mimi Smartypants was also thinking about the same topic. It's really more of a blog comment than a blog entry but when Dooce opened up the topic, I felt my story might get lost in the 6,359 comments she received.

So here is my little Vagina story.

It seemed a good idea to Logan and I to use the word vagina for our daughters private parts. Really, technically, it's not her vagina that we're talking about, so I'm not sure why we decided to teach her that rather than say, Vulva, but that's what we did. From very early on. When she was 2 she called it a 'Mygina'...which I liked. Not as harsh as the 'V' thing, but still...to the point. It is hers!

It's yours so don't let anyone touch it....except you, since it's your 'mygina'.

I even adopted the term for my own vagina.

But then we couldn't leave well enough alone and she eventually called it her 'Vagina'. This never bothered me at all. I never batted an eye.

Until, one day when Maddie was 3, my brother was carrying her through a parking lot into a restaurant. Right there in front of my mom and anyone else within earshot, Madison said, matter of factly, "Uncle Scott, can you put me down? You're hurting my VAGINA."

The sheer weight of the word made my brother send Madison crashing to the ground and I'm not sure he's ever recovered from the entire scene.

Really, that's the only time I wished I had taught Madison to call it her Cheeseburger.