Crissy’s done a lot of work this week trying to get men to understand that good gifts = blow jobs, and I’ve been inspired to post something along those lines too. Because I love good gifts. And I like giving blow jobs. See, like. Not love so much. Because I’m not a SLUT. No, I am, but this is a family blog.

One thought I had this morning that has nothing to do with the topic, but it sort of does. Anyone remember when George Michael got married? He was married to the woman who was in his I Want Your Sex Video. Really, does anyone remember this, or is this a little like my asking every single person from San Diego if they remember Petey the Purple Pig at the Del Mar Fair and everyone says no.

Oh damn, I just googled Petey the Purple Pig and HE DOES EXIST! Thank fucking god. He was the mascot for the fair in 1984. I knew it. In your face San Diegans! No, not in your face. I love you all and want to give you blow jobs.

Okay, so I was thinking about women and crapping and crapping when you know there’s a guy around. And the truth is, I can’t do it. I mean I can now, after many years of going out with Steve. But in the beginning of all new relationships, I can’t do it. I really can’t. And I can’t really tell where that line is that I cross and I can do it. I mean I had a best friend for five years who was a guy and who had seen me barf and I still couldn’t crap at his apartment. I had to send him outside. And even then I was sitting there thinking really hard about whether this was a moment I could use my therapist’s home number.

Wait, can I be very clear here. For the guys reading this post, I want to make certain that you understand that I ACTUALLY DON’T EVER CRAP. I ALSO WAKE UP WITH PRETTY BREATH AND I ALWAYS WEAR LACEY BLACK PANTIES AND BRAS AND NEVER MY OLD MATERNITY UNDERPANTS THAT I GOT AT OLD NAVY BECAUSE THEY ARE SO SOFT AND COMFY.

Okay, got that out of the way. Even now, after Steve has actually seen me give birth and you know what happens when you push a baby our of your vagina? You poop. On the floor. Even now, I tell Steve, “Excuse me, I need to use the restroom,” and I close the door. And I think thoughts about roses. And teddy bears. Because I need to go to the happy place.

Here’s what I try to tell myself when I’m in these situations — I tell myself that guys don’t care if someone is crapping. They don’t. They’re guys. I’ve never met a guy who was like, “if you crap, you can find someone else to give a blow job to.” And of course, I’m not saying guys only care about blow jobs, they care about shopping and Bridget Jones Diary too. Anyway, why do I make myself mental about it? It’s stupid but I’m pretty certain, it’s ingrained in my X chromosomes because all girls feel this way. Right? Right?

Hey, want to read a really great book review? Here it is. It’s all the more delicious because it’s about James Frey, who as a middle class white male author, he already has my scorn. Sorry, white middle class guys, I don’t read your books. Can’t stand them. Your endless whining about how hard it is being a MAN, and WHITE, and MIDDLE CLASS doesn’t elicit much sympathy from me. I don’t want to read your books. Don’t ask me why and try to make your case. Don’t tell me “what if I said I wouldn’t read woman authors” because what if, dude. You don’t anyway. I worked as a bookseller for FIVE years and I met ONE guy the whole time I worked in books who read women authors. Oh, and don’t worry about a silly girl not reading your excellent works, my tiny girl brain can’t handle them, and you win all the awards anyway.