Spooked

I asked for ghosts on my big toes. Any American five year old can tell you what a ghost looks like. An amorphous white blob with two circles for eyes. It’s not like I wanted one of the backup dancers from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video replicated in perfect detail. Just some ghosts to jazz up my pre-Halloween pedicure. That is not exactly what I got.

I treated myself to a pedicure yesterday at my usual salon, but when I walked in the door, everything seemed slightly off. The floor, previously tiled, was now carpeted in a beige that was so beige there was no way to tell if it was new or had been there for years. It looked pre-stained, and the way that it blended in with the beige couch disoriented me. The nail stations (are they desks? Tables?) used to have open shelving on top, like a hutch, but that was gone as well, leaving a lot more wall visible and bare. I only recognized two of the usual bored Vietnamese nail technicians, and instead of the regular bossman with thinning hair and a faintly pubic mustache, there was a new bossman with thinning hair and a faintly pubic mustache. Like there was a glitch in the matrix.

After I picked a color, I bypassed the newer, nicer massage chairs to sit in one of the older ones at the end. While the bossman filled the foot bath with water hot enough to cook a lobster, I adjusted the seat and switched on the massage remote. It was less relaxing than I remembered, but if I were going purely on memory, I could have sworn I was outside of Rose’s, about 1975, riding on the twenty five cent carousel. I grabbed a new gossip rag from the stack next to the chair and pretended to enjoy myself.

While the bossman removed my old, chipped polish and trimmed my toenails, he tried to hard sell me a manicure. I told him no thanks, but he was determined.

“I make you nails better. I file down, put pink and white set, no one know not you nail.”I told him no thank you again.

“You want special foot scrub? Four kind. $25. You like? You pick one?”

“No, thank you,” I said again, sweetly. I was planning on ghosts. That was enough of a value added nail experience.

He inspected my calluses. I learned why K-Fed is gaining weight. He rubbed generic pink lotion on the stubble of my shins. I read about how “Jon and Kate plus 8” is now called “Kate plus 8.” He shook my nail polish bottles, then stopped. I had selected black and orange. I wanted every other toe black, with a ghost painted on each big toe. I explained that to the bossman, who cocked his head to one side like a confused puppy.

I tried again, pointing to my toes, “Black, orange, black, orange, black.”

He looked over to the bored nail technician sitting in the next chair, who stopped filing her nails and sing-songed some Vietnamese back at him.

“Okay,” he said, pointing to my big toes. “Orange, then black, then orange, then black, then orange?”

“No,” I tried again. “Black, orange, black, orange, black. With ghosts on the big toes.”

A giant light bulb went on over his head. “Ohhh,” he said. And then he painted my toes as I had explained. When he finished, he got up and pointed to the seat. The bored technician sat down, holding a basket of tiny bottles.

“You want ghost?” she asked me.

“Yes, a ghost,” I answered. “On the big toes.”

“Ghost?” she asked again.

“Yes, ghost. Oooooo. Ghost. Boo. A ghost?”

She nodded and made a white dot on each of my big toenails. She looked at this for a while, and then said,” You want hat?”

Hat? No, I don’t want a fucking hat. I want a ghost.

I said this instead, “Um, no. You might be thinking of a witch. Witches wear pointy hats.” I gestured a pointy hat atop my head. “Ghost’s don’t really wear hats.”

She nodded again and started painting little ghost bodies on the round circles. Then she stared at them some more. She painted on two black dots for eyes. I was okay with it. Then she took the black and painted on more black dots down the middle of the ghost.

“Are those buttons?” I asked her.

She stared at me blankly. Perhaps all the ghosts she knows have buttons. In December. When we call them snowmen.

After she finished painting buttons on the other ghost, she looked up at me and said, “You want hat?”

I exhaled loudly and said, “Sure, why not? Hats will be great. They’ll match the buttons.”
So she painted on little pointy hats. Like dunce caps. Or witches’ hats. Or hoods.

“Want glitter?” she asked.

“Go for it!”

The other nail technicians came over and looked at my feet. “Like star at night,” one of them said to me, pointing to the glitter. Then they began conversing in Vietnamese, which I didn’t understand, all clicks and ngs, and then they laughed hard, which I did understand.

After I left, I took some time in the parking lot to really inspect my toenails. I don’t know if they are supposed to be ghosts or snowmen or both. But with the pointy hats, they do look a lot like imperial wizards of the Ku Klux Klan. Racist ghost snowmen. With stars. My Halloween pedicure is much scarier than I could have ever imagined.

What's One More?

I really tried to say no to my older daughter, E. I did. I practiced with a couple of friends before I even attempted to have the conversation with E. I am not particularly good at no in general, but even less so when it comes to my daughters. Now, that’s not to say I let them walk all over me on a daily basis, because if I did, E would spend every day stomping around in my shoes and S’s diet would consist solely of things coated either in chocolate or cheese dust. But when it comes to things they want to do, like extracurricular activities, I have a hard time knowing when enough is enough. So when the email about basketball practice appeared in my inbox, I knew I needed some help with a strategy. Besides just deleting it, which seems obvious now but didn’t occur to me until it was too late.

When my girls were babies, I maintained a strong opinion on limiting activities, rather sanctimoniously, I can admit in retrospect. One activity at a time per child made sense. If they wanted to try something new, then they would have to give something up.

Activities, believe it or not, began in infancy. It started with Gymboree classes, where you might make one good mom friend, with whom you then quietly judged the rest of the moms on their appearance, the cuteness of their babies, and their parenting style. Gymboree had more to do with you getting out of the house than your child’s actual development, although I am sure the Gymboree people would disagree with me. The babies were delighted at the songs and crawling around, but really, the mothers were there to feel better than one another.

Then preschool started, and with it came new activities. We graduated from Gymboree and moved on to mommy and me gymnastics, swim lessons. I even signed the girls up for music classes than didn’t seem extracurricular since they took place at the preschool one morning a week and didn’t require any extra driving. It worked out to one and a half activities at a time, so it wasn't that far from my original position.

All hell broke loose in grade school. Suddenly my two girls wanted to learn a musical instrument. We opted for piano, as you get a lot of bang for your musical buck, even though E really wanted guitar lessons. We also continued with gymnastics, only without the mommy part, because, let’s face it, I’m no Mary Lou Retton. And the spring still saw swim lessons and oh my god, how did they end up with three activities each? What happened to the one activity at a time rule? I had to revise it. I rationalized music as an essential part of their education, not really extra at all. And physical activity is necessary for their health, right? Once I clarified that one at a time was an impossibility, that meant the girls could pursue other interests, such as dance, with its extra rehearsals for performances, and eventually guitar, because it is just one half hour a week. What's an extra half hour at this point?

Did I mention Sunday school? Oh, yes. Most Sundays a month, the girls attend religious school at our temple. Being Jewish isn’t something they are going to learn about in other ways in this southern state. I never went to religious school, and now I can only mumble songs and prayers, hoping the person next to me on the pew doesn’t notice when my mucus producing grunts don’t match up with their own. And when E started third grade, Sunday school spawned Wednesday night Hebrew, which will continue until the magic age of thirteen. Yet one more activity, which will be with us for years to come.

The girls eventually grew bored with swimming lessons and fearful of the more advanced gymnastic moves. So their physical activity interests have turned to team sports. In grade school, that means soccer, which is the team sport equivalent of piano. It doesn’t require much in the way of skill or coordination in order to participate, and most of the time, the kids are able to run and kick at a ball without causing damage to themselves and each other. But soccer is not a once a week activity; practices are on Mondays and the games are on Saturdays. It is a time suck and a pain in my ass, but the girls claim to love it, so I make the sacrifice of my time, driving them around, doing the extra laundry for the uniforms and odd long socks, and sitting with other parents, making small talk while rooting the child that likes to be rooted and ignoring the one who doesn’t want extra attention. It is not my idea of a good time, and saying I look forward to the end of the two and a half month season is an understatement. But I do it, because I know that as the days grow shorter, so does the number of games and practices, and eventually my Monday nights and Saturday mornings will be mine again.

That is, until I saw the basketball email. I decided no more, I have enough with the piano and dance and guitar and Hebrew and Sunday school. I didn’t need another activity without a carpool. So I rehearsed how to say no. I rationalized the need for some free time and a break from all the chauffeuring. I discussed the opportunity for simple at home exercise. And then I took a few deep breaths and talked to E.

She, unbeknownst to me, had her heart set on basketball. Soccer, according to her, is just something to do until basketball begins. She is willing to give up, well, nothing, but she must have basketball. She worked me over good. She mentioned that the team is with our temple, thus adding a uniquely Jewish experience to her childhood, an effective use of the guilt, I might add. She elaborated on how difficult it is to get exercise in the winter and what a good opportunity for her to maintain her healthy habits. How she is improving her skills and won’t be scared of the ball this season. And then she reminded me that soccer was ending and how if freed up our Mondays and Saturdays. I didn’t really have a good reason to not do it, other than I didn’t want to. So I compromised. I told her that we could only practice on Mondays, and if it wasn’t that afternoon, we just couldn’t do it this year. See, it almost sounded like a no. At least, to me it did.

Guess what day basketball practice is going to be?

If These Lips Could Talk

My friend MJ went to the gynecologist last week for her annual exam, and no, she doesn’t care if I tell you. She called me in the morning before her appointment just to check in, which is what friends do when they don’t have actual time to spend with each other. These brief calls are typically conducted via cell phone as we drive around town, since no one sits still for a corded conversation anymore. Anyway, we were going over our day’s agendas for each other when she mentioned her exam. Then she asked me one of those personal questions, which are also easier to ask over the phone rather than in person.

“Do you tidy up down there before you go to see the doctor?” she asked me, more demurely than she is ever capable of in real life.
“No, I prefer to go in all overgrown, preferably with little bits of toilet paper and lint stuck everywhere. She has to use a machete to cut through the underbrush,” I told her. She didn’t answer. “Not really,” I said. “Everyone cleans it up a little. Some might even get a blow-out, maybe use a little mousse or gel.”
“Seriously,” she tried again. “Should I shave before my appointment?”
"Of course you should! It shows you care. Perhaps while she is between your thighs you should ask her preference. Not with her own, but as a professional. Does she like it up or down? Maybe braided?”
“I know, I’ll do a landing strip,” MJ said cheerily. “No, wait, definitely the Hitler.”

The Hitler, also known as Hitler’s Mustache, is the name MJ and I coined for a neatly trimmed trim, all boxy and Germanic, which resembles the notorious Aryan’s upper lip, only on your lower ones. I think you get the idea. Landing strip, the Hitler, lightning bolts, a sweet little heart. I wonder if waxing kits come with templates.

“Mach schnell,” I said. “That’ll get the doctor's attention. Achtung!”
‘I think I will ask her what she likes,” MJ said.
“I think you should,” I answered. “I once asked a massage therapist her position on moaning during a massage.”
“For real?” MJ asked.
“Yeah, I've always wondered if it creeped them out when people make noise. It’s bad enough they have to rub another person’s naked body, but to listen to their expressions of enjoyment while they do it? Blech. It’s not like they get to rub anyone they would actually want to touch.”
“Well, what did she say?”
“She said noises are kind of like feedback. But come to think of it, she didn't say if that was good or bad. I stayed quiet. So anyway, let me know what the doctor says about her pube preference.”
"Will do. Later, tater."

MJ called me back later with the report.

“So? What did she say?”
“I chickened out,” MJ admitted. “She’s all business, very ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am.’ There wasn’t a window for casual conversation. I lost my nerve.”

MJ and I go to the same gynecologist. She is the model of OB-GYN efficiency. She’s out of there before you even realize she’s in.

“Well, did you at least get a rectal?”
“No six pack today,” MJ said.
“Why don’t doctors do that anymore? I used to get that done every time, but now it’s like they don’t care enough.”
“Maybe you could ask her that next time you go,” MJ offered.
“Like I’m gonna ask her to stuff her finger up my ass? I don’t think so. And now I don’t even know how to wear my pubic hair to her liking. Thanks for nothing.”

I’m curious about professions that deal with the human body in general and, more specifically, its orifices and odor-producing regions. Does the dentist know what you ate last by the smell emanating from your gaping pie hole? Does the nail technician think your feet stink and your calluses are disgusting? Does your hair dresser gag a little at combing out your dandruff? What does the Pilates instructor think when someone’s ass goes off during the open leg rocker? Is everyone else more comfortable with their bodies, or the human body itself, and I am the uptight exception? I don’t think so. After all, at least one other person I know worries about the appearance of her pubic hair before stepping into the stirrups. No wonder we’re such good friends.

Fetus, Don't Fail Me Now

The juxtaposition of local news stories in The Greenville News got my attention the other day in a way that the Monday edition rarely does. Normally, Monday’s newspaper is devoid of actual news, as somehow events know not to occur on a Sunday. It’s so thin you could hardly line your bird cage with it. So, when I read “fetus” and “abortion protest” on the same page of newsprint, I just had to keep reading.

The abortion protest which took place Sunday on Woodruff Road is not what I would consider newsworthy. Here’s the abridged version: some holy rollers from the small town (Anderson) came to the big city (Greenville, which is really just a bigger small town) to condemn our sinful lifestyle, and they chose one of our main thoroughfares to garner more attention to the horrors of murdering the unborn. Well, holy rollers, I got some news for you. We sinners don’t even do abortions in this town, unless they are of the hush-hush back alley wire hanger/stomach punching variety. And even if we did, which we don’t, we certainly don’t do them at the Barnes and Noble on a Sunday. So why waste your time and ours harassing Sunday shoppers with your graphic posters and empty baby strollers? If you want to protest abortion, I suggest you pack it up and tootle on down the interstate to the capital, where the only abortions in this state are actually performed. And save it for a weekday. No one is murdering babies on the Lord’s Day in South Carolina.

I have witnessed this little protest before, when out on a Sunday afternoon with the family. I recall my youngest daughter asking what an abortion is. I was impressed she could read the sign, and told her so. My husband was more direct, saying, “Oh, don’t pay any attention to them. They’re crazy people.” He dismissed the protesters and the question at the same time, which saved me from having to explain something I didn’t care to discuss over pizza at Whole Foods.

On to the fetus article. It turns out that a fetus was found at the water treatment plant on Sunday. I am somewhat skeptical about this news as well. Is it really that rare of an occurrence? I would think that amidst the many used condoms, goldfish corpses, and prescription drugs that are flushed on any given day, a fetus or two would not be that uncommon. But apparently this was a rather developed fetus, one which deserved an autopsy and full media coverage. The follow-up story the next day did lessen the shock by saying it was in fact a stillborn, not older than eighteen weeks, weighing less than a pound, and having no chance for survival, even prior to being flushed. There was also some concern about finding the fetus’s owner, but also doubt, as what woman wanted to step up and claim that miscarriage as her own? Maybe it was one of those unfortunate ladies who didn’t even realize she was pregnant, like on that TLC show. Maybe she thought it was just a really good bowel movement.

I liked that those two news stories ran next to each other on the page, but I think the paper should go one step further and combine them. The small town religious protesters should move their demonstration to the water treatment plant. It seems that is the only location in town where fetuses are found outside their host bodies. It sounds like the ideal place to mourn their passing and raise awareness for their cause. I like to think I am not the only one who wants to see an anti-abortion rally as much as I want to know what’s fished out of the water at the treatment facility. Which is to say, not at all.

Faster, Faster

Well, another Jewish year has begun (5770; it sounds like the title for a post-apocalyptic film starring Tom Cruise) and with it came Yom Kippur and another day of fasting. I try to fast every year, and I normally make it through my twenty four hours of self-imposed starvation fairly successfully. I did have that one year where I abstained from both food and water, which didn’t do much for my outlook but did cause a nasty bladder infection. So now I sip water judiciously throughout the day, both to stay hydrated and to take the occasional Advil. What? Advil does not count as food. And this isn’t the Jetsons, where a pill counts as a meal.

Last year, while I was fasting and bitching about fasting, my sister, CK, asked me why I even do it. I didn’t have an answer for her, other than because I was supposed to, which she felt was the worst reason ever to do anything. I saw her point, but continued fasting, if for no other reason than to see if I could.

This year was different, though. I had a reason to fast. My weight has been creeping up, and my will power has disappeared entirely, leaving a hole only chocolate seems to fill. I thought maybe a day of self-control and reflection might be just the ticket to making this the week I regained control over my eating habits and my weight. Just in time for the trifecta of uncontrolled eating months-October (Halloween candy), November (Thanksgiving), and December (Oh my G-d, I have to see both my family and my in-laws). And yes, I am aware that this is the wrong reason to fast for the Day of Atonement. I'll make peace with this one next Yom Kippur.

Some people I know fast until they can’t take it anymore and give up. Some people just don’t do it at all. Some people spend most of the day at temple, avoiding their kitchens at home. Still others nap their starvation-induced lethargy away. I suppose some people rub one out too, which is usually an excellent way to both pass the time and take your mind off of food, although frankly, while fasting, who has the energy?

But I have my own method for braving the fast. I employ some bizarre brain washing. I go with the obvious. Millions of people around the world are starving, not by choice or alleged religious obligations. They go to bed hungry and they wake up hungry and have no idea where their next meal is coming from. I know exactly where my next meal was coming from, Greenfield’s Deli (the ONLY place for bagels in the upstate of South Carolina), and I also know I could eat as much as I wanted to, if I could hold out until dinnertime. Sometimes I will reflect on the plight of concentration camp survivors, who made it through with only a crust of bread and a rotten potato for daily nutrition. I can live off my own blubber for a day and not even really notice. How lucky am I?

But alas, fasting to jump start a diet (not, by the way, a part of the Weight Watchers plan) is not what Yom Kippur is about. It is the Day of Atonement, a day of reflecting on self improvement and forgiveness, not just of the physical kind. It is sort of like a day for New Year’s resolutions, only with more Jewish guilt. We as Jews are supposed to look within, to think about how we have failed over the last year to be good, and how we can be better people in the coming year. The fasting is a great tool to attain that level of self-reflection. You can get a little starvation high, which might cause some delusional thought, which in turn is how you are able to forgive people who, really, we all know don’t deserve it. But ultimately, fasting is you devoid of feeding your need, and the gift of time to think about need in general.

Here’s what I don’t understand about fasting: if it is supposed to be a physical reminder of a spiritual obligation, why do we (meaning starving Jews) all wish each other an easy fast? It isn’t supposed to be easy. It is supposed to lay you bare and wrench your gut so that you know you did something hard on a day when you should do something hard. My friend TA agrees with me, and instead of an easy fast, she wishes people a meaningful one. She gets it.

I did spend some time reflecting and atoning on Yom Kippur, in the midst of trying to accomplish little tasks throughout the day. After temple, I ran errands until I was concerned I would pass out at Marshall’s. Honestly, I don’t know how the anorexics do it. 24 hours once a year is a small achievement compared to a life style of voluntary deprivation. I didn’t get sleepy or crabby, at least I don’t think I did, but I did get silly and slap happy. And then the sun set and I overate and drank too much red wine and felt like I needed another fast to get over that bit of unpleasantness. My fast brought me a little heightened awareness and a couple of pounds of water weight loss. A win-win, wouldn’t you agree?

Nutcracker? More Like Ballbreaker.

My daughter, S, doesn’t want to be a mouse. She wants to be a snowflake. Not in real life, but rather in the Nutcracker Ballet that her dance school performs in conjunction with its sister professional ballet company. This is the last thing I thought would be an issue on a Monday night in September, but sometimes that’s how it goes. My daughters have been known to fret about their birthday party themes a full eight months before their actual birthdays. Pre-suffering is a constant theme in my house. That’s how we roll.

In the case of mouse versus snowflake, however, it was not premature at all. The day before, S auditioned for a part in the Nutcracker. Audition is a generous word for what took place, though, since every child who is enrolled in the dance school can participate as long as a parent wrote a check and agreed to the mysterious rehearsal schedule. So if your check clears and so does your weekend calendar for the next two months, you’re in!

I am sure more consideration goes into tryouts and assigning parts than it appeared, based on some incredibly complicated dance rubric that only the school director knows. My daughter was fairly stressed about the entire process, since we didn’t realize it was an automatic thing. When it comes to the Nutcracker, what’s one more mouse or party child, really? But S went through the motions, black leotard and pink tights on, her hair tucked up in a snood. She loves to say snood. When the audition was over, S was very excited about being in the dance and thought she did very well.

Cut to last night. My husband informed us that an email had been received from the dance school while I was reading bed time stories. The subject line read “mice recital.”

“Mice?” S asked incredulously. “I don’t want to be a mouse.” The tears began, the lip stuck out in a pout.
“Great,” I said to my husband, shooting him a look.
“What did I do? I thought she’d want to know.”

If there’s one thing I learned about my children, it’s that you don’t share news with them at bedtime. Not if you want them to sleep. I calmed S down the best I could using my arsenal of lullabies and back rubs.

No less than ten minutes after my husband left for the gym and the girls were tucked in bed, S came running down the hallway to where I sat on the couch watching television. She was really crying now and throwing herself on the loveseat, rolling back and forth. A tantrum, I think it’s called.

“What’s up?” I asked her noncommittally. “Is this still about the mouse?”
“Yessss,” she wailed. “I want to be a sssnowflakkke.”
“What’s so great about a snowflake? I’ve seen the Nutcracker a gazillion times and I don’t even remember a snowflake in it. But the dance with the mice is really important. Everyone remembers that part.”
“But the mouse dance is boring. And stupid. All they do is spin in a circle. Besides, I was a mouse last year in the school play.”
“Well, maybe they thought you would make a good mouse since you had experience. Or a better mouse than a snowflake. I’m sure they have a reason.”
“Yes, it’s cause I am a bad dancer. I’m never gonna dance again!” Fresh tears started, and S threw herself on the loveseat a couple more times.

Here’s my question: What do boys do? If they don’t get to play the position they want on a sports team, do they cry and carry on? How do they handle their disappointment? I don’t know, since I don’t have one of those. All I have are worrisome self-blaming drama queens. Not that S’s disappointment isn’t deserved nor understandable. It’s the leap from not getting the part to not wanting to dance anymore that I don’t get.

I tried to channel my inner Oprah and convince her that it is just an honor to be in the ballet. How wonderful that she will get to dance with grownups whose career path is dance because that is what they love to do. How next year she will probably get an even bigger part since she will have more experience. How she will be on the big stage, not the little one they use for the children’s theater. It worked well enough to stop her crying and drift off to sleep, her, not me. I spent the next two hours wondering if I was going to have to talk her off the ledge after each rehearsal.

A little disappointment is a good thing now and then. It will prepare her much better for adulthood than being a snowflake ever could.

Doggy Style

We all have needs. We need to eat, to rest, to feel safe, and to be loved. And as much as some people like deny it, we all have physical needs, sexual needs. Even chihuahuas.

My friend JR has a matching pair of black and white chihuahuas which shake and piss their way all over her house. They bark at the door bell and at men, pee on the floor , and strut around on their back feet before they settle down on the lap of the cat person (me) in the room, shedding only the white hairs all over that person’s (mine) clothes. If that person (me again) makes the mistake of making direct eye contact, the chihuahuas will dart their little tongues out and try to touch that person’s (mine) with theirs.

But sometimes, french kissing guests is not enough to satisfy the urges of one of the little dogs. While Bella, the more reserved and graceful of the two, prefers quality time reclining on JR’s pillow, Sprout, the more googly-eyed one, likes to get her freak on. Her unassuming partner is a Jewish dog toy, which I will a minute to describe. It is a blue plush dachshund shaped stuffed animal, but more generic dog-like than breed specific. He sports a little yarmulke and is clutching a dreidel in his front paws, while his back paws hang stunted and useless like flippers. He is about the length of Sprout’s torso, or at least from her front paws to her little puta nut. Sprout doesn’t just like her toy, she LOVES it. In fact, it is her lover.

JR has told me before about the intense chihuahua-dog toy lovemaking sessions that take place on her upstairs sectional sofa, but the other night, I was lucky enough to witness it for myself. JR and I were having a lovely time, sipping a little red wine and engaging in thoughtful conversation. Sprout was shaking happily on my lap. Then, we had a break in the discussion, and one of us (me) suggested that Sprout put on a show for us. A sex show. JR wasn’t interested in walking upstairs to get the nasty toy, but after I pleaded with her, she begrudgingly fetched it (ha!) for the dog.

Now, Sprout, like most ladies, doesn’t go from cold to hot without a little foreplay. To get her in the mood, JR had to toss the lover toy across the room a few times for Sprout to fetch and shake about before she was ready to get down to business. When Sprout had enough of the toy playing hard to get, she positioned it under her belly and kind of grabbed it with her one front paw in an awkward embrace. The other paw was on the couch for leverage, and Sprout tentatively gave the toy a hump or two. Getting everything just right isn’t easy for Sprout since she doesn’t have thumbs, so this step took a while. It was a delicate dance.

When the stars aligned and the mood was right, Sprout knew she was ready to power drive that toy. She wedged it up against her little Mexican jumping bean and started humping and grinding unabashedly. She went from pelvic thrusting to violent bouncing. Seriously, the whole couch moved. Being the pervs we are, JR and I sat and watched in sheer delight, with JR breaking the tension to ponder whether Sprout even has a magic button. The whole thing was over before we knew it, with Sprout’s little bulgy eyes showing her contentment while she snuggled into JR’s skirts. “It helps her sleep,” JR said. “It helps everyone sleep,” I replied.

We tried to interest Sprout in another toy, but without much luck. JR teased her a bit with a skunk road kill toy, which Sprout started to eat out, much to our amusement. But then, it was right back to the blue boy toy. After a brief rest, Sprout was ready to have another go, and before long, she was happily jack hammering away. Sprout didn’t throw back her head and howl or bark or anything, so it was hard to tell if she had a happy ending or just lost interest, but again, she rested and cuddled when she was finished abusing that disgusting thing.

“Dude,” I said to JR, “you gotta put that shit on YouTube.” I left soon after since JR and I didn’t really know what to say to each other after that. I think we both felt a little dirty. But Sprout slept the sleep of the innocent, without a care in the world.