I'm a Supa-Staar

For a nanosecond of my life I worked at a television station. This was before I gave birth to Bug and I was still young and impressionable with stars in my eyes and had a 'kick me' sign pinned to my forehead.

I loved the people at the television station but it didn't take me long to realize I would rather bathe in a vat of acid, rip out my tongue and beat myself with it and then volunteer to model nude in for a college art class before spending my days anywhere near a camera.

Like pygmies out in the wilds of Africa or New Zealand or where ever the heck it is they live, I believe a camera sucks out my soul and leaves another double chin behind in return.

Still, when the good ladies at BlogHer asked me to tape a short piece for their new program, BackTalk, I couldn't think of a valid reason to say no resist.

Surely this wouldn't be more embarrassing than waxing poetic about beaver fever, cock rings or warming lube.

I'm not talking about the ole cooter yet again and I would keep my clothes on.

(Although they did expressly state I was not to show my boobs and to try and keep it clean. Such prudes. Wink.)

Go ahead and watch. It's totally work friendly. I promise.



Not bad, right?

They TOTALLY edited me to make me sound more rational and intelligent and less Tanis-y.

Can't say I blame them.

Here's what you didn't see:



I totally should have worn lingerie while doing this.

Heh.

Burning For You

***WARNING: SEXUAL CONTENT. PROCEED AT OWN RISK***

Last week, late at night, my husband deemed it was business time. In true marital fashion, I rolled my eyes at him and groaned about how tired I was and how my back ached and it would require entirely too much energy to get my Gumby on and get bendy.

Boo, not one to be easily dissuaded once he's had an evening beverage of the liquor variety, just waggled his eyes and offered his magic hands as a remedy to my bad back and invisible libido.

It was one of those evenings when I knew I had a choice to make. I could beat the man off and snarl at him for daring to find me attractive while he was feeling amorous or I could resign myself to one of his magical back rubs and accept the strings attached to his gift.

After all, isn't a backrub the universal code word for 'Let's get it on?'

It wasn't a hard choice to make.

"Fine," I grumped at him cooed romantically, "but don't bitch at me cuz I didn't shave my legs today. It hurt too much to bend over and find the razor."

I am all about the romance people.

Thankfully, Captain Morgan's was in full command of my husband's ship and a few hairs on my tree stumps weren't enough to deter him from his planned evening activities.

I flopped on the bed, er, sexily slinked in between the bed sheets and moaned as my back screamed in protest.

Boo climbed on board, leaned over to shut the bedroom lamp off while whispering in my ear, "I have a treat for you."

Just then I felt something wet drip on my back.

Trying to push him off my back, I screeched, "What is that?"

"Relax love," he laughed, "I bought some new personal massage oil. I thought it would help with your back rub."

I would have asked what kind of oil it was he was slathering all over my backside but I quickly lost the ability to articulate any words as his magic fingers did their job and my back starting feeling miraculously better.

I knew I married a man with strong hands for a reason. That would be the ability to give good massages, you dirty minded people.

Soon I was relaxed as humanly possible and that's when my husband decided to pounce and move further south.

"You like this?" he whispered as he continued his romantic ministrations.

I nodded my head and tried to verbalize but at this point I may have been a puddle of drool. I'm easy people. This is no secret.

"The boys at work told me this was the good stuff," he whispered as he worked.

That statement alone should have been enough of a heads up to buck my darling husband off my back like a new stallion in a small town rodeo. But, in my defense, my mind was quickly going in another direction and I may not have been thinking all that clearly at the time.

Moments passed and suddenly I started feeling something new. Something warm.

"Um, Boo? What exactly are you using?" I asked when the warming sensation suddenly turned up the temperature and bordered on uncomfortable.

"It's a new warming lube. Good for your back and all your pretty woman parts," he purred oblivious to the alarm in my voice.

Just as he voiced 'warming lube' my crotch exploded in flames. Holy mother of God, I thought to myself as I squirmed beneath him.

My husband, half drunk and obviously playing out his own romantic fantasies in his head, was not paying attention to the fact that flames were shooting out of my nether regions.

"Boo! That burns!!" I gasped.

"That's right baby. Feel the burn. Feel the flames of my desire," he murmured as he continued.

"NO BOO! It burns!!! My crotch! OW! It's on fire!!!" I yelped as I arched back and bucked him off me.

"What? Are you serious?"

Apparently the smoke rising from between the sheets wasn't obvious to him so I grabbed the bed sheet and tried to wipe away the vicious oil flaming my tender parts.

"Oh my GAWD, I'm DYING," I half cried, half laughed. "Boo, do something before you have to tell the coroner that you killed me with warming lube!"

Boo jumped off the bed and ran into our ensuite bathroom and came back with a wet face cloth.

Grabbing it, I realized it was hot and I threw it back at him. "A COLD FACE CLOTH YOU TWIT! I've enough heat here to melt an igloo!"

"Oops, sorry. Didn't think of that," he called as he went to remedy the situation.

Snatching the cold face cloth from him when he returned, I snarled something about how next time I was going to pour hot sauce on his wanker and watch him smoke as I writhed in pain on the bed.

"I know!" Boo exclaimed. "Ice!!"

Seconds later, he was back with a tray of ice cubes and I greedily grabbed some and applied to the areas on fire. That warming lube must have been doing its job because those ice blocks were water within seconds.

A few minutes of intense personal pain later, the burning subsided and all traces of the evil acid had been eradicated.

I laid back on my pillow, panting (and not from the way my husband had hoped minutes earlier) and watched my husband laugh hysterically.

"I always told you I thought you were hot stuff," he giggled as I tossed a pillow at his head.

"Very funny." If looks could kill, my children would be fatherless.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" he asked contritely as he ducked from flying objects.

Luckily for him, the fire was extinguished and I was beginning to see the humour of the situation. From his perspective, I guess it would be fairly funny to watch me shove ice cubes up my cooter while begging to be killed.

Asshat.

"Let me make it up to you, darlin'," he purred as he reached for me.

"You. Have. Got. To. Be. Joking," I snarled and swatted at his roving hands.

"I promise, no more massage oil!"

It's hard to get back in the mood of things when the smell of burnt va-jay-jay lingered in the air like acrid smoke. My pink parts were a little tender from the recent barbeque sizzle they had been subjected to.

But still, a girl has to do what a girl has to do and the show must go on.

Afterwards, as Boo lay staring at the ceiling reliving the evening's festivities in his mind, he reached over in an attempt to engage in the requisite post-coital cuddle.

I squirmed away and hopped out of bed as Boo asked what I was doing.

"I'm finding that demon lube and throwing it in the trash so that the next time the only burn I feel will be from desire and not from my cooter being boiled alive," I huffed as I bent down to grab the lube from under the chair where it had landed when I hurled it at his head earlier.

"Oh, now, now. It couldn't have been that bad. You just weren't prepared for it. Next time I'm sure it will work like it's supposed to," he snorted as visions of my smoking hooha danced before his eyes.

Next time? I thought. Next time? Are you f*cking kidding me, I sneered in my mind while smiling sweetly at my husband from the bathroom.

"You're right darling. I'm sure next time will be better," I called out from over my shoulder in the bathroom. Ever so carefully I quietly snapped the lid open and poured a few drops on my fingertips before chucking the bottle into the garbage can with a grin of good riddance.

Hopping back into bed, I draped myself over Boo's body and nibbled at his neck, careful not to wipe the lube off my hand.

"Well, at least it took my mind off my back pain for a moment," I whispered as I tugged on his earlobe with my teeth.

Boo and his buddy Captain Morgan quickly charted a course for round two. It was right then I reached down slowly and wrapped my lubricated fingers around my husband's lovely man stick.

"Oh T," he breathed as I smiled sadistically in the dark and waited.

"Oh, OH..OHHHH!!! OH Shit! Oh Shit!!!" Boo cried as he pushed me off the bed and raced into the bathroom.

Picture my husband at full mast standing at the bathroom sink trying to splash cold water onto his johnson while I howled with laughter from the bed.

"Feeling the burn, baby?" I called out. "I always knew you were smoking hot darling. Maybe NEXT TIME you'll believe me."

Needless to say, once Boo's flame of desire was duly put out he double checked to make sure his newly purchased massage oil was safely ensconced in the garbage can.

I knew he'd see things my way sooner or later.

Heh.

Plight of Pillsbury

****WARNING: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT. GO NO FURTHER IF YOU ARE A PRUDE, DEVOID OF HUMOUR OR HAPPEN TO BE RELATED TO ME.*****

Dear menfolk everywhere,

Being a heterosexual male, I know you worship at the altar of the pink petaled blossom of love, but I fear you don't fully understand just how complicated a woman's love machine really is.

My vagina is here to help.

We're here (me and my cooter are rather inseparable) to explain the mysteries of the va-jay-jay and why sometimes it's best left to leave the lid closed on your favorite love box.

I realize many of you only know about the enigma of a woman's sacred spot through the fuzzy recollections of long ago sex-ed classes where an awkward teacher once tried to explain the instruction manual of vaginal science while wrestling a condom on a banana and telling little Jimmy to get his hands out of his pants.

Some of you may have furthered your education in vaginal studies by picking up how-to magazines at the local corner store and studied the pictures intently when you thought you were alone.

But I'm here to tell you it doesn't matter how often you studied those diagrams and drooled over those pictures, we know you didn't read the articles. We understand you were distracted by thoughts of all the fun you and your future va-jay-jay may find together.

I'm here to lift the veil of secrecy that we women keep shrouded for your own protection. I'm here to help you and wives everywhere by explaining why the candy store sometimes closes its doors and shuts down business for service repairs.

You see, there are times a woman's vagina turns into a snarling angry beast. And no, I'm not talking about when the circus comes to town.

I'm talking about something much more sinister.

I'm here to tell you about the Plight Of Pillsbury. Better known as crotch rot.  This is officially diagnosed as a yeast infection but women everywhere know better.

I know, I know, it's an unpleasant subject and your swizzle stick of love just shriveled into a tiny twig at the mere thought, but as a woman it's my duty to explain to you why women everywhere are snarling at their mates and letting the hedges go untrimmed and begging to be left alone as they munch on chocolate and read trashy romance novels while shooting you death looks if you so much as breathe on her.

I know it doesn't seem fair when you have a love sausage just waiting for some muff love, but I'm here to explain why it's in your best interest to just hand over the ice cream container and a spoon rather than risk permanent damage to your manhood by poking at our nest.

You see, every now and then, for a variety of reasons a hoard of angry beavers comes and attacks a woman's cooter. It's known as beaver fever and it's vicious. Imagine the gnashing of angry little beaver teeth tearing at your man bits and you may have a better idea of what we women occasionally have to deal with all in the name of womanhood.

It's itchy, it burns and it kills any sexual desire we may hold for our loving partners. Crotch rot kills cooter love.

There isn't much a man can do for his friendly neighbourhood vagina during this time other than to be sensitive to the fact there is unwanted bread in the shed and perhaps go to the local pharmacy to pick up some ointment (and now is not the time to pinch pennies and buy the cheap stuff) to lovingly be snatched out of his hands as his beloved partner tries to fix her snatch.

We women know how much our favorite one-eyed snakes like to play in our grass, but boys, when there is yeast in our beast the last thing we want to do is listen to you men whine about how you aren't getting any and how it was just last week the circus was in town.

You aren't the only ones suffering. While you are going through a dry spell, our cooters are driving us crazy with mold in the folds and it's all we can do to keep from tearing your faces off when you dare ask if we're open for business yet.

Yes, we acknowledge it is unfortunate that Pillsbury is hampering our dreams of mattress dancing with our loved ones, but it is a small price we women occasionally have to pay for the privilege of possessing the lotus flower of love.

Understandably having one's pink bits being descended on by yeast gone astray is not fun for anyone. But men, until you have a vagina that has been stretched like a rubber band as your child tries to claw it's way to freedom, subsequently stitched back together and then have to suffer the indignities of the monthly visit from Aunt Flo, you need to learn to keep your damn yap shut and not remind us we have a mouth we can use while our cooch is closed.

Lest we remind you our mouths contain teeth. Teeth we are just itching to chomp on something like a rabid raccoon so that you too may feel the angry burn of crotch rot.

I'm here to remind you it doesn't matter how much wine you ply us with while we fight the sourdough, there will be no cake for anyone as our cooters hold us hostage with itchy reminders of our femininity and we are forced to fight the fungus.

So menfolk near and far, my vagina would like you all to know that women everywhere are working our hardest to get the situation under control and resume business operations as normal but in the mean time, it would all be in your best penile interest if you took this unwanted vacation from sexy times to celebrate the unique condition of a woman's body and thank your God, the universe or the dude next door that you weren't saddled with a bearded clam.

With patience and understanding (and perhaps a back massage free from any strings), it won't be long before the lid is lifted off your favorite box once more and romance is restored.

Your local vagina will thank you for it.

Signed,

My Vagina