We Don't Come From the Land of the Ice and Snow

Snow days in the South are a blast. You can stay home and watch the beauty of the fat, white flakes falling gently to the ground. At some point, if you are lucky, the snow will start to stick, covering the bushes and the trees and grass with a cottony softness, until the whole neighborhood glares pure white. Children will bundle up in their warmest coats and gloves and hats and scarves and pour out of their front doors. From inside, you can hear their yells of delight as they sled down driveways and throw snowballs and pile up what little snow there is into something resembling a snowman, complete with stick arms and maybe a spare scarf and hat. After everyone is icy wet and red cheeked with cold, they come back inside to warm up with a movie and a steaming mug of hot cocoa. Sounds great, doesn't it?

Only we don’t get snow days all that often. Instead, we get the clusterfuck known as the ice storm. I don’t know how you Northerners deal with ice storms, but here in the way down South, we like to run around like decapitated chickens. First, we have to do a bunch of speculatin’. Will it or won’t it? When’s it going to start? How long is it going to last? You would think the Great Blizzard was coming, threatening to trap us inside our homes for weeks as opposed to the potentially twenty-four hours we might have to remain inside our largest investment, the one place we are supposed to be the most comfortable and relaxed. We don’t have ankle monitors or house arrest, we have unsafe roads. We need to get over ourselves here in the land of cotton.

Today is one such day. Last night across the South, we all fretted about the amount of milk and bread and eggs, whether school would be cancelled or not, if the storm was in fact a storm or a bunch of hype. In my house, we started the day with the realization that we forgot to set the alarm, followed by the shock that it wasn’t Saturday, which gave way to the panic that we had to leave in a half an hour for school, which had not been cancelled despite an eighty percent chance of sleet and freezing rain with high’s in the low thirties.

By some great miracle, the children were ready for school, dressed appropriately and breakfast eaten, in only thirty minutes. School began for my younger daughter, S, at eight, and for the older one, E, at eight-thirty. At 9:15, the school board decided to rub their three brain cells together and cancel school at ten. Forty-five minutes doesn’t allow much time for school buses and parents to figure out how to get kids home. Luckily, we had told both of our daughters to ride the bus home if school dismissed early, and they both checked to make sure they had keys, so we had our plan.

I decided to not stand out in the sleet to wait for S’s bus, figuring since she had a key, she would just walk the one lot's distance from the bus stop to her house and let herself in.  Instead, she called from one street over. It seems that since I didn’t wait for the bus, she figured I wasn’t home, and instead of letting herself into her own home with her own key, she would go to a friend’s house and call my cell phone.  Way to problem solve, eleven year old child of mine. I can see how that Montessori education has paid off with your ability to think through a situation and of course your independence.

The teen, even more resourceful, texted me at ten to let me know that school was dismissed. I reminded E that she was to ride the bus, to which she replied she was “just checking.” Then she asked where her father was. I texted back he was getting his hair cut, so she tried him next, texting him that school was out and in total chaos. He didn’t fall for it either and reminded her about the bus.

I should mention at this point that there was maybe a little frozen drizzle. We are not talking branches knocking out power lines and thick ice accumulating on roads. The town was not a skating rink.

Around 10:40, I texted E to find out where she was.  She texted back that the bus never showed up and she was still in class with the other neglected children whose parents refused to pick them up at school. I hopped in the car and drove, turning at a side road that heads to the back entrance of the school. The road was blocked by a cop car, two ambulances, and a couple of fire trucks. After being detoured through a neighborhood, I drove the other way to her school. On the bridge in that direction was another accident, less severe in that it didn’t block the whole road, but still it involved two trucks, one of which no longer had a rear axle. I was able to pass both these accidents safely because I, a woman who learned how to drive in Florida, slowed down and did not jam on my brakes. I picked up my daughter and drove back home without incident. 

A little while later, one of E’s friends texted her to see if she was hurt. It turns out that first accident I saw was E’s bus, on the way to her school. It skidded off the road and landed on its side, and luckily there were no children yet on it, although the bus driver may have been injured.

So now trapped inside, as we knew we would be, boredom has free reign. Three fights have already occurred and a giant bag of popcorn has exploded all over the floor. The laundry has been washed, but the piano remains unpracticed. The iPad needs to be charged so it can be fought over again. According to my children, there is nothing to do. According to me, there is a ton to do, and if they don't stop complaining, they are going to have to do it. The whole ton.

On the plus side, I have just witnessed a thirteen year old have an actual lying on the floor kicking and flailing and crying tantrum. It looks a lot like when a three year old does it, only with black tears from the massive amounts of caked-on mascara. I had to issue a time out, but not until it was declared that I don’t understand and I don’t care, which is kind of true. I don’t care. It’s sleet. Go practice for the SAT you might not be taking tomorrow. Go read a book. Go take a shower or text your friends or learn how to masturbate. There are LOTS of things you could be doing if you got off my floor and acted your age.

Anyway, it’s sleeting. I can hear the little icy pellets bouncing off the windows.  Tomorrow it is supposed to be sunny and in the fifties. And all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I better go hide all the axes.

Mom's Morning Out

If you have a teenager, when was the last time you spent a full day alone with it? I had that misfortune last week when my daughter had three doctor’s appointments, and let me tell you, I don’t plan on doing that again anytime soon. My daughter, E, is now thirteen, only she thinks she’s sixteen. While she still occasionally wants a hug or to have a conversation with me, she has decided that she knows everything and therefore doesn’t have to listen to her parents or teachers anymore.

Since there is nothing left to learn, she finds the world a pretty boring place, especially the part of the world in which she spends most of her time. Her family is boring, her school is boring, her friends are boring, there’s nothing to do, nowhere to go, blah blah blah. I can’t even understand half her complaints because she has taken to mumbling full time. If I don’t respond to what I can’t hear, then she adds sighing and eye rolling. Three year old tantrums are starting to be a reminder of the good old days, when I could at least pick up my child and cart them off to another room for a time out.

 We started the morning at the orthodontist’s office. E has been wearing orthodontia of some form since she was eight. She’s had four rounds of expanders and has been in braces for over two years now. You would think she’d be pretty eager to get them off, but sadly, no.

It all comes down to rubber bands. Every six weeks we go to the orthodontist, and he gives her a couple of packs of rubber bands which she is supposed to hook in various versions of cat’s cradle inside her mouth. She is to wear them at all times except during meals. She chooses not to.

Instead, she hides her bags of rubber bands in my car or in my purse.  Which means that the braces she should have had removed over a year ago are still hanging out on her teeth. I didn’t realize she could have been train track free for that long because she has forbidden me from joining her for her orthodontist exams, since I talk too much and therefore embarrass her. I wanted to ask her doctor specifically what she needed to do to get those braces off. He said, as politely as he could, that if she would just wear the rubber bands, she would be finished with the braces.

When we got in the car, I said to her, “You want your lecture now or later?”

She said, “I’ll take it now,” and proceeded to lecture me about why she still has her braces on, about how it’s not her fault and she forgets and they hurt and they shouldn’t make that much difference anyway and who cares if her teeth are straight.

“Wait a minute,” I said, “it doesn’t work like this. I am going to lecture you, not the other way around. You are the one who has to sit there and listen.”

I went off on what a waste of everyone’s time it was to continue to go to these appointments if she wasn’t going to do what she was supposed to do. I made her find every package of rubber bands and hold them in her hands to illustrate how many days she has been noncompliant with her treatment. I pointed out that she must really like braces since the only reason she still wears them is because of her. And I raised my voice some, because the more I talked, the better it felt to say everything louder.

 

 

That is a pile of rubber bands, not rubbers.

 

We went home. She stormed upstairs to her room, and I stayed downstairs and took out my frustration on Facebook.

Next it was time to go to the pediatrician. She refuses to see any doctor except the one she has gone to since she was a baby. He now practices on the other side of town, so I indulged her by driving twenty five minutes to get to his new office. She was measured and weighed and had her hearing checked, which, shockingly, was completely normal.  Then the doctor came in the exam room and attempted interaction. He has a thirteen year old daughter as well, so he knows a little about the breed.

He did the usual stuff and then reviewed her growth over the past year. She declared herself fatter than her friends, which is infuriating. She wears a size three jeans, and she is 5’7”. Plus, every afternoon when she gets home from school, she raids the pantry of all its chocolate. Seriously, even the chocolate chips I buy for cookies are half gone, the bag wide open, I might add, just like the pantry doors, which is how I can tell she had been looting. Anyway, she isn’t fat, which the doctor told her in a professional and tactful manner. She interrupted him several times to argue about why she thinks she’s a porker, including bringing up her 80 pound friend who is severely underweight as an example of normal. He ended every sentence with, “What do I know; I’m just a doctor.”

The same thing happened during their argument over the effectiveness of ibuprofen on menstrual cramps. The teen mumbled. The doctor patiently explained how ibuprofen works. Then the teen argued about it some more, with mumbles, until the pediatrician said a variation of his other line, “Well, if I were a doctor, I might know what I am talking about.” Clearly she feels comfortable with him, at least enough to treat him like an idiot, much like she does with her father and me.

Then we drove home again. On the way, she had to tell me when to switch lanes on the interstate, as if she knew what she was talking about. I ignored her and told her what options we had for lunch. Bagels, soup, macaroni and cheese, peanut butter, veggie burgers. She rejected everything and went for a giant bowl of Fruity Pebbles when we got home. Those don't make you fat at all.

After lunch, it was time to go to the dermatologist. I told her I would stay in the waiting room, but this time she insisted I go back with her. She seemed to have lost her will to fight, perhaps because she was sleepy, so she just mumbled at him but kept the arguing to a minimum. He asked her if she had any concerns, and she said no, so I reminded her she was worried about some new moles that had appeared on her youthful milky white skin. He examined them and told her they were looked normal. She glared at me for speaking.

After that appointment, I didn’t drive home. I drove to school.

“Where are we going now?” she mumbled at me.

“School,” I said. “The day’s not over yet.”

“Why can’t I just stay home? I’ve missed most of the day anyway,” she said to me.

“It’s not yet sixth period,” I answered. “If I drive faster, I can get you there in time.”

She mumbled at me and turned to face the passenger window to let me know she was mad at me, again.

The day was all about her, but she didn’t see it that way. She didn’t want to be at school, but she didn’t want to be home. She didn’t want to go to the doctors’ offices. She didn’t want to go back alone, but she didn’t want me there either. She didn’t want to hear what any of her doctors had to say, and she didn’t want to do what she was told to. She doesn’t know what she wants. She wants to be treated like an adult but wants to act like a kid.

No wonder she is tired all the time. That shit is exhausting.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Just when you thought reality television couldn’t get any worse, The Learning Channel?? decided to lower the bar. Last Sunday, a new series began, called “Best Funeral Ever,” which features the Golden Gate Funeral Home in Louisiana. Not only can I not believe that a funeral can be the best ever, I am also stumped that A. I watched a show about this place, and B. that the demand for themed funerals is so great in Louisiana that this place even exists.

The Learning Channel??, in case you forgot, is the network that brings you such educational programming as “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” and “Abby and Britney,” a reality show featuring conjoined twins just trying to live a normal life. If you have a show about your life, conjoined or not, on that network, you can guarantee that you and normal will not cross paths any time in the near future.

“Best Funeral Ever” showcases the Golden Gate Funeral Home’s fantastic ability to give the deceased a sendoff their loved ones will never forget. Some people might think funerals should be a solemn and respectful affair. And some people think the best way to honor someone is by dipping a rib in a barbecue sauce fountain and offering it up to Jesus. This second group of people is the one who calls upon Golden Gate Funeral Home in their hour of need.  I was half asleep when I watched the show, which I literally could not turn off because I couldn’t find the remote, so I don’t know if the staff at the funeral home come up with the wacky funeral ideas or if the family members have some cray cray in mind and the staff just finds a way to make it happen. I appreciate a good party theme, don’t get me wrong. It’s just I never really thought about funerals as being in need of a theme. They already have a theme, and that theme is death.

One of the memorial services/parties was for a disabled man who passed away. He suffered from spina bifida and was confined to a wheelchair his whole life. When he died, his family members thought the best way to honor him was to take his urn to the local county fair and ride all the rides with it, the very rides he would never have been able to enjoy while alive. Nothing helps a family heal from the loss of a loved one like cradling an ash-filled urn on the bumper cars.

The show also had a segment about a family who mourned a young family member who either loved Christmas or died right before it. I’m not quite sure about that part because I couldn’t devote that level of attention span to it, but the end result was a Christmas tree and a man dressed like Santa Claus, only without the beard, sharing the alter with Jesus and the preacher. The dead guy’s coffin came down the aisle on a big red sleigh. A man with a large gingerbread man head sat in the pew. A couple of people were dressed like elves. Was it the Christmas shop at Macy’s or an interment?

In between segments, the show featured all the tension and fighting between employees striving to top one another as they planned and executed, if you will, each and every funeral service. I don’t know if Golden Gate Funeral Home operates like an episode of “The Apprentice” or if the editing just made it look that competitive, but damn, those people were not nice to each other. They were, however, nice and respectful to the families, because really, isn’t that what it’s all about?

But back to the barbecue fountain. Much like an episode of “Fantasy Island” or “The Love Boat,” only one of the vignettes of the show was truly interesting, while the rest just took up minutes. The best of the best funerals was for the man who sang the Chili’s Baby Back Ribs song. You remember it, right? “I want my baby back, baby back, baby back…Chili’s, baby back ribs…barbecue sauce.” Well, I regret to inform you that the singer of this timeless jingle has passed away. And his funeral was on a television show. His family decided to have a big ole BBQ feast in his honor. Complete with giant fake ribs carried by pretty young things, real smoky ribs for eating, and that sauce fountain for slathering. His casket was shaped like a big smoker, and a few pigs were running around the building in case you couldn’t remember where the ribs came from. People were waving their ribs up toward heaven, singing the baby back ribs song like it was the word of God.

I’ve been to a few funerals and memorial services in my day. I’ve been to one in a Baptist church. I’ve sat shiva. I’ve had a memorial service in my home. Hell, I even have a small bag of my grandmother’s ashes hidden in my china cabinet going on eleven years now.  And in all that time, never have I seen a funeral Christmas party, carnival, or hoe down. I don’t know if those are the best funerals ever, or but they sure aren’t boring.

Sticks and Stones

Kids. They say the darndest things. I don’t mean when they are little and mix up the letters in “spaghetti” or shorten “fire truck” down to the first and last three letters. Those little kid words are charming and adorable, but my kids are older now. Their vocabularies and abilities to wound you to your very core are very advanced compared to the naïve three year old. Here’re a few of my personal favorites I’ve been trying to store in my long term memory in case I need them for blackmail purposes later on in life.

Most moms get to experience the joy of their teenager saying “I hate you” at some point during the adolescent years. My teen is more specific than that. A year or so ago, she said to me,” You suck all the fun out of life.” That’s a pretty precise response to my asking her to do something as banal as make her bed or put her shoes away, don’t you think? Over the holiday break, she told me that “I am an awful person.” This one might have been in response to me telling her to put on a jacket or that she couldn’t have any more soda. Hitler was an awful person.  Genghis Khan was an awful person. Ted Bundy was an awful person, even if attractive, charismatic, and misunderstood. Seriously, am I really as bad as Attila the Hun?

My younger daughter has also said some pretty terrible things to me, but less about me as a person and more about my physical characteristics. Hers weren’t meant to be hurtful, more just descriptive to a fault. When she was younger and I cared less about being naked in front of her, she spent a long time studying my breasts before she said to me, “Your nipples look like the ends of hot dogs.” I should have told her it was all her fault for not weaning like a regular baby, but instead I went in the bathroom and locked the door, then sat down to have a little cry. I’m sure she meant that as a compliment, as she still loves hot dogs to this day, but I can’t look at a package of franks without feeling a kindred spirit with them, and also a hefty dose of self-loathing.

More recently, she put her hand on my belly and told me she loved it because it reminded her of a water bed, the way it rolled and squished. And she meant it as a compliment. In fact, she still didn’t understand how that could have hurt my feelings, even after my husband and other daughter went on and on about why it was such a horrible thing to say about my flabby abdomen despite hours spent at the gym.

 Yes, that’s me. Hot dog nippled and waterbed bellied, a fun-hating terrible excuse for a human. Is there any wonder why I have self-esteem issues? Here I am trying to build up my children, while at the same time, they are tearing me down.

 And no, this is not retribution for how I treated my mother as a child, because she deserved it.

I'm No Webster

We all know the internet is the world’s biggest time suck, but some websites are more of a black hole than others. Now, obviously I am not talking about porn, because really, who needs to watch more than about five or ten minutes of that to do the trick? I’m talking about the kind of time suck where you sit down to look at a restaurant menu or maybe the weather forecast and the next thing you know, it’s two days later. And what do you have to show for yourself after those two days?  A new lexicon of expressions about crapping on your partner during lovemaking.

That’s right; I’m obsessed with urbandictionary.com. My problem began back when I saw “The Forty Year Old Virgin.” In one scene, one of the main characters’ co-workers, a small older man named Mooj, rattles off a bunch of expressions about sex that I had never before heard, ones that are not part of a normal list of dirty words. I didn’t know what they meant, the Cincinnati bow tie and the rusty trombone, and so of course I went to the best source for research, the internet. Now I know what they mean, and the dirty Sanchez too, and no, I am not interested in trying any of them. Shit and sex don’t mix, as far as I am concerned. No matter how you slice it, shit is just not sexy.

For the past several years, I periodically stop by urbandictionary.com for more than just the word of the day. I stay awhile, and browse, and honestly, it’s been time well spent. How else would I know about the angry pirate, the strawberry shortcake, or the Abraham Lincoln? Sex, it turns out, can be violent, vengeful, and just plain weird. It’s not just for procreation anymore!

The other night, my husband and I had a few friends over to watch football. I baked a cake as a gift for one of them, our dear friend SS, and it was downstairs sending him secret messages from its cake plate while we all sat upstairs in front of the big screen television. One of the messages it sent him was “Don’t share me with anyone. I am all yours, meant for your lips only.” I knew SS wanted to break into that cake but didn’t want anyone else to have any, so he sat there worrying and obsessing about it all through the football game. I made sure there were plenty of other snacks to distract our other guests from the fact that a delicious cake was waiting in the kitchen, unsliced. No one except for SS was even aware of its existence, so happy were they that a marriage of Nutella and rice krispy treat had taken place earlier in the day for them to experience.

When my husband walked one of our friends downstairs after the game, SS sat there quietly, listening to what was happening.  Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer.

“What the fuck is taking so long down there?” he asked me.

“What do you care? You’re acting all squirrelly.”

“I just don’t know why two people need to linger talking when they’ve been talking all night.” This last part he said loudly so that it could be heard as far away as, I don't know, the downstairs.

“They aren’t talking. They are eating your gift right now.”

“Hush your mouth,” SS said.

“I will not. I hear them slicing it right now. Are you going to stand for that?  They are chewing your cake.”

SS looked at me and I looked back at him. We both burst out laughing, the kind that hurts your stomach and makes you cry. Did I mention we had been drinking while watching the football game? It was that kind of laughter, the kind that makes something not funny the most hilarious thing in the world.

My husband rejoined us. Who knows how long we had been laughing and crying?

“What’s so funny?” he asked us.

“Chewing your cake!” SS screeched, as we rolled around on the couch.

“What’s so funny about that?” my husband asked.

“Doesn’t it sound dirty?” SS said. “But it isn’t. What does it even mean? Does it mean anything?”

I sobered up immediately and began researching the expression “chewing your cake.”

After not finding a satisfying answer through Google, I went straight to the best source, urbandictionary.com.  Lo and behold, “chewing your cake” was not there. Instead of that being the end of it, however, I kept browsing and finding other things, which I would then read out loud, followed by a snort or just some regular laughter. I don’t know how long I sat there looking up words, but to say I became antisocial would be an understatement.

Finally, my husband said, “Enough.”

I said, “Please, just one more. We have to end strongly.”

And there it was, the most disgusting expression I ever saw. “I found it,” I said. “What’s another expression for a young girl’s vagina?”

They both looked at me like two men over forty should, like they wanted no part of knowing that young girls even have vaginas.

“No guesses?” I said. “Okay, here goes, the perfect ending. Sippy cup.”

"Sippy cup?" my husband repeated.

“On that note, I’m going home,” SS said. “Good night.” My husband, being the gentleman, escorted him downstairs, leaving me there alone to think about what I said.

“I still think it’s funny,” I said to the cat, who stared back at me with judgment with his normally vacant eyes.

Maybe it’s time for a new internet obsession?

Objects of Desire

Without their testicles, aren’t male cats supposed to get fat and lazy and decidedly asexual? Someone needs to explain that to my sister’s cat, Max. He was fixed years ago, but recently he has developed a new found lust for life. It’s like someone slipped a little Cialis in his Meow Mix.

Usually when you think about a horny pet, you think about getting your leg humped by a dog. When I was young, my family had one of those dogs, the kind that would hump anything. Gus was the Dog Juan of the neighborhood, and even though he was a fat dachshund with a horrible flea problem, he still scored with all the bitches. I remember seeing him trying to mount an English sheepdog once. He could have used a step ladder, but somehow, he made it work with his short, stubby legs.
  
He didn’t even care if his paramour was another dog. He would hump guests in our house, once even going so far as to mount my mother’s date’s chest when he sat down. I guess Gus was a big fan of his cologne or his looks or something. Whatever the reason, he found that man irresistible, just as my mother did, which is even more disgusting than the dog humping him if you think about it, which I would prefer not to do. Gus also used to hump our cat. Our male cat. He was the kind of dog who would find a way to meet his needs even if it went against the grain of acceptable animal lovemaking protocol.

In his defense, Gus was not neutered, so he swung those plums of his proudly, strutting up and down the street while his balls slapped from side to side. But my sister’s cat, Max, well, his little kitty ball sack is supposedly empty. Is he regenerating his testicular tissue, or did they leave him a little something something when they snipped him?

It all started when my sister received a Slanket for Christmas a few years ago. A Slanket is the upscale version of a Snuggie, and hers was the same gray color as Max’s fur. Max was instantly attracted to it, and whoever would get all comfy under it could be guaranteed that Max would soon come round and mount the Slanket, humping it until the Slanket wearer shoved him away. If Max had balls, they most certainly would have been blue-gray from all that Slanket interruptus.

Max decided to branch out, looking for more worthy recipients of his passionate attention. His newest target is my brother in law’s dirty laundry. When no one is looking, Max sneaks into the closet and selects one of the articles of clothing from the laundry basket. He drags whatever he decides to seduce into the foyer, where he sweet talks it with a stream of annoying mews. He spoons it, holding it gently between his teeth and front paws, giving it a playful kick now and again. Then, when he thinks he’s provided enough foreplay to the t-shirt or boxer briefs or sock that he has chosen, he mounts it and, as they say, goes to town.

My sister, being what most people would describe as “normal,” does much in her power to discourage this behavior. She makes a point to limit Max’s access to articles of temptation by keeping up with the laundry, or, at the very least, keeping my brother in law’s closet door closed. If Max slips by her undetected, she will get up and take away the alluring garment, leaving Max sexually frustrated and thus reduced to taking care of himself the way human men wish they could but most, due to poor flexibility or small penis size, find themselves unable to. Even though Max would lick his wounds, as it were, he still had that sheepish look on his cat face, like he got caught doing something he knew he shouldn’t have done, but he just couldn’t help himself. If he was lucky enough to complete his dance of love, Max would slink off, leaving the frock feeling used and cheap.

When my family visited my sister’s family over the holidays, we were able to witness Max’s sexual addiction to the contents of the laundry basket. My youngest daughter thought he was so cute, the way he played with her uncle’s clothes. My teen thought it was gross. I found the whole display hilariously fascinating. My husband found me gross. 

I often look at my own pets and reflect on how odd it is to have animals living in one’s house, just walking around, doing what animals do. They don’t kill each other, but given the opportunity, they will snuff the life out of a centipede. They beg for food and eat like every bite is their last. They sleep peacefully, knowing they are safe. And in the case of Max, they make love like their very species depended on it. Just because your pet is spayed or neutered doesn’t mean he or she can’t ruin the reputation of your slippers or favorite sweater and freak out your children at the same time.

Here’s what I want to know. When my cats purr  and walk across me and knead me with their tender little paws, is it because they are showing affection, they think of me as their mother, or they want to cross an unspoken interspecial barrier? When I pet my kitty, am I sending him the wrong signal? I like my cats, but I don’t like like my cats. And poor Max, are his needs not being met to such a degree that he has to abuse the dirty laundry? Is that the cat equivalent of paying a hooker to take a dump on you?

It must be nice to be an animal. You eat when you’re hungry. You crap wherever because you feel like it. You can sleep just about anywhere or with anyone. And if you’re feeling randy, anything that’s laying about can do the trick: another animal, a leg, even a dirty t-shirt. What do you care? It’s not like you have to clean up afterwards. And if you choose to, hell, you’ve got a perfectly good tongue. Your sex tape might end up on YouTube, but no one will think less of you. We should all be so lucky.