People With Disabilities Have Sex Too

At the Huffington Post, Kaleigh Trace posts an impassioned editorial about persons with disabilities having sex lives. While an overall excellent article, there's a sad lack of addressing those with disabilities other limits other than physical.

I posted a comment, which is still pending; this is what I wrote:

I applaud this article. It's sad that such subjects still need to be addressed, but also sadder still that you failed to mention those people with disabilities other than physical. As the parent of a special needs child, on the Autism spectrum, I struggle with getting professionals and other parents to address this very real matter. I know talking about raising sexually educated children is frowned upon in general here in the USA, but it's a reality. A reality that special needs kids must also face. And I really wished that had been mentioned in your article too.

Moms Making Money In Phone Sex

Awhile ago, I interviewed women who are making money as phone sex operators. According to statements made on The View, there's been a 400% increase the number of work from home moms who make money as phone sex operators in the past 18 months. Economy related? Perhaps. In any case, the story of moms who are PSOs and phone sex work itself will be covered in depth on several ABC news shows this Monday.

You Know Sex Ed Is Really Bad When...

Cosmo can't even get it right. In their instructions for Sex Position of the Day: Sensual Shower, their diagram for how to achieve erotic thrills literally misses the mark -- the genitals don't even line up.




I guess the abstinence folks will start distributing this sort of diagram to prevent copulation; but I'm sure, in their frustration, people will just assume the missionary.

For more help in accurately discussing sex with your kids, check out the marvelous Beyond The Birds & The Bees.

Preventing Sexual Child Abuse

Studies show that 1 in 3 girls and 1 in 6 boys will be molested and, in many cases, children suffer in silence, allowing the abuse to both continue and escalate. When parents and care givers remain silent about abuse, they communicate that silence, that taboo, to their children. It may not be the adult's intended message, but that's the one children receive.

Parents and adults need to be educating children as a means to prevent the worst and to give our victimized children the tools to confront the truth.

Jill Starishevsky has, as Assistant District Attorney in New York City, prosecuted hundreds of sex offenders and dedicated her career to seeking justice for victims of child abuse and sex crime, and she wants to put an end to the silence which perpetuates the sexual abuse of children with her book, My Body Belongs To Me a picture book (illustrated by Sara Muller).

The book, intended to be read to children 3-8 years of age, aims to help educate kids about their rights to their own bodies and how to respond if someone should violate their rights.

The illustrations and language are amazingly nonthreatening, focusing on rights and experience from a child's point of view.

This is my body,
and it belongs just to me.

I have knees and elbows
and lots of parts you see.



Other parts I have
are not in open view.

I call them my private parts,
of course you have them too.

Even when the child is inappropriately touched, the book remains nonthreatening. It's simply a matter of the child telling a parent or a teacher of the experience, the adult believing them and comforting them. It addresses the matter of secret keeping and ends with the child saying, "I know it wasn't my fault and I did nothing wrong. This is my body, and I'm growing big and strong."

Following the story, a list of helpful resources as well as suggestions for the storyteller, to help them move past the story into age and developmentally appropriate discussions with their children.

Sexual abuse is a difficult subject few want to address with their children for fear of letting the boogey man out of the closet. But if the realities of such real world horrors are not addressed -- and addressed as honestly and openly as the danger of crossing streets, properly using the toilet, etc. -- then children will not know what to do when bad things happen to such good little people. (It is my wish that the author next turns her skills to that of educating kids about the issues of physical and emotional child abuse and domestic violence as well.)

Every parent, grandparent, child care giver, should have a copy of My Body Belongs To Me -- and should read it with the children in their lives. The book does no good sitting on a shelf, like a good intention; practice, in this case, makes for prevention.

My Body Belongs To Me can be purchased at Amazon and at the book's official website.

Note: I received my review copy from the author; other than saving it for it's personal inscription, this changes nothing in my review philosophy or policy (as regular readers will note).

Life Lessions In Lesions (Or, The Gross But Necessary Breast Post)

On Easter Sunday I had to take myself to the emergency room. It took me an hour & a half to convince myself it was necessary, even if I wasn't bleeding or otherwise looking like my life was in peril... Bad things had gone on long enough.

A few weeks ago, I was charmed (not!) to discover that I had a zit on the underside of my left breast. I know; what a complete "Eeeiiiwww!" But ladies, especially those ladies with large breasts, know that break-out on the bosom happens -- especially on the underside of the breast because, between bra cups & underwires, and, when you dare to go braless, the underside rests against your chest. The skin cannot breathe, and is often moist, perfect for bacteria etc.

Typically I slap a bit of Wayne's Whoop-Ass Healing Balm on the offending zit. (Seriously, that stuff is awesome!) Every now and then, when the zit is behaving stubbornly (and is twice as ugly), I apply the old hot water compress. Even in the worst case scenario, things come to a head and heal within a few days.

But not this sucker.

This zit was not your usual zit.

After sticking around over a week -- despite all my TLC -- it was only becoming more angry. After two weeks, on the Saturday before Easter, it was not only a zit with no head, but there was a hot, angry, red patch of skin surrounding it, working it's way towards my nipple...

I did just have my mammogram around the new year, and all was fine; surely if there was anything that was gonna burst out of my breast they would have seen it coming. But naturally such rational thinking did little when faced with such ugliness. So I probed, gently (which still pissed-off the zit and made 1/4 of my size E breast ache), lifting the skin to grab it to see if it was attached to my breast tissue. It felt like it was all "in my skin" only... There was a lumpier pocket where the zit was... But the red area wasn't just hot and sore -- the skin was thicker... Like a stale pancake or the hard top layer of Jello; bendable, but thick and sorta rigid too.

I gently washed it, applied a hot compress, then dried it and put on some of the healing balm before heading to bed.

The next morning I awoke to discover that nearly 1/2 of my breast was now red-hot angry. It hurt just awful. It was so bad, I refused sex with my husband.

"Let me see it," he says.

"No, you'll never want to have sex with me again -- at least not in the missionary position," I say.

But he does look at it; pronounces it an infection, as if that was "all" it was, and gave me the "let's continue" look. Uh, no, thanks.

Before dressing for Easter Sunday with family I applied more balm, popped some aspirin, and hoped it would just heal already.

When I returned home that evening, I was sore and tired. More washing & balm (was it bigger or was I imagining that?), more aspirin -- and a nap. I woke up feeling a bit better, but by the time dinner was over, I began thinking...

What if overnight it again doubled itself? Clearly this was no ordinary zit... What was it? The heat told me it was an infection, but what was that thing that, originally anyway, looked like a zit? With no other terminology, I called it a boil. Wasn't the treatment for a boil rather like a zit? But then it wasn't working and there was clearly an infection... But does one really go to the hospital for an emergency room boil lancing procedure? Not that I really wanted one. But it hurt. And it was ugly. Oh, gawd, if I went, not only would I be "the woman with the boil on her breast," but I'd have to say it out loud. In public. Oh ick. But after my son was hospitalized for three days because of an infection from a dog bite, I don't like to underestimate infections. In just a few hours, you couldn't find the nose on Hunter's face... What could this infection do, engulf my boob? Sounds funny, but it wasn't. Round & round I went with myself for 90 minutes until I decided that pride be damned, infections could be serious, and if it was worth an hour & a half of thinking, I should shut up and drive to the hospital.

There was the humiliating experience of announcing my problem to the registration staff person. There was the added humiliation of having to repeat it two more times -- to the intake nurse and then the doctor.

I used humor to diffuse my embarrassment. I was cracking jokes my whole time there. See, I have an anxiety condition (PTSD from domestic violence) and the whole thing made me nervous as hell. Which not only means I'm seconds away from crying, but my blood pressure goes up and then I have to explain that it's just nervousness & have them take it again... Which reminds me that the new-fangled automatic computerized blood pressure cuffs hurt -- actually leaves me bruised. And so I hate having to have them take it again -- nearly as much as I hate to tell people I'm an emotional mess. So it's make jokes and have a (possible) reason to cackle, or risk having them consider admitting me to the psych ward for emitting too much maniacal laughter -- while tears stream down my face.

But I digress.

There was the nearly comical reaction of the doctor's assistant who had to touch my breast and the affected area -- twice. Each time with a sourpuss look on her face followed by a dash to the wall dispenser of hand sanitizer and a furious scrubbing of her hands.

I know it's gross, lady, but I bet at some point in your career you've been wrist-deep in a cadaver and experienced human excrement; how's a breast boil so much worse?

(Note: The doctor wasn't so reactionary, but I guess that's 'cuz he doesn't have a breast to imagine that on.)

Anyway, after a brief Q & A (how long have you had it, me describing my treatment of it, assurance that I just had a mammogram, etc.) and several words ending in "itis" etc., the determination was "an infection." Antibiotics would be the remedy. (Initial relief at no lancing; but then, "Oh, joy, a yeast infection will be here soon!") But because the doc couldn't feel a "puss sack" he wanted an ultrasound just to be sure...

Sure of what? My nervous brain wanted to know. Looking for a "puss sack" was the answer. Oh, so if chapter one was "The Breast Boil Lady", chapter two was "Looking For A Puss Sack". What an utterly charming story this was becoming.

While awaiting escort to the ultrasound, a very cool nurse tried to get an iv with an antibiotic started. I politely warned her that I'm a hard stick & that my veins blow too; she shouldn't take it personally. Of good cheer, she proceeded, confident in her ability -- greatly underestimating my non-cooperative blood vessels. Bless her, she both tried and was kind.

While she waited, gently slapping my arms to get a vessel to sit up & take notice, I regaled her with amusing stories of other iv experiences. Like when I was giving birth to my son, how the young nurse couldn't stick me either. And I told her that it was because I was royalty; that's where the expression "blue bloods" came from, our delicate thin, blue veins. It was a joke -- but she didn't get it. She was amazed -- on her way out she repeated it to another nurse, in all seriousness. *eyeball roll*

(Whenever I tell that story, I have to include the part about how during very painful labor I rhythmically chanted, "I would not, could not, in a boat..." To which the amazed & impressionable young nurse cooed in reply, "Oh, how beautiful, I've never had a laboring mom quote poetry before!" Dr. Seuss is poetry? I mean come on. That's when I ordered my mom to get that girl away from me.)

But I digress. Again.

While I babbled on the emergency room nurse laughed -- which probably helped her mood as she grappled with my non-compliant arm veins. But even she of positive attitude had to give up on my arms. I suggested my wrists; the veins are very visible there. "Oh no, that's really really painful," she warned. She gave my hand a try -- very painfully in, & then the damn disrespectful vein blew.

I asked what would happen next... Since I was going to get a script for antibiotics, couldn't they just increase them & skip the iv antibiotic? She looked at me and seriously shook her head and then quickly said, "Oh don't worry, I've only got two tries and then I pass you onto another nurse." To which I blurted, "But what if she can't either?" She continued on, "There are only 9 of us working tonight," oblivious to my horror. "So I'm looking at 18 stab-sticks before we move onto option B?!"

She went to get another nurse. A not so nice nurse. A gruff by comparison nurse. Ah, but the ultrasound tech is here and I have to go!

A momentary reprieve before I remember we're looking for a "puss sack" and start to sweat away at least the bottom half of the magic marker dotted lines Nurse Sourpuss-Wash-My-Hands-Too-Vigorously had made to monitor the size of the infection area.

Embarrassed & literally sweating out what was to happen next, I ask her -- to ease my tension, you know -- if my boil was a boy or a girl. Ba-dum-dum!

"'Cuz maybe after all this fuss, I should name it..." I babble on.

Inside to myself I'm screaming, "Shut up already!" but it's babble jokingly or cry, so I say, "I suppose I shouldn't say that; you'll admit me to a different floor..."

"No, we don't do that here. We'd kick you to the curb," she says. Images of homeless mentally ill people flood my mind. It's a sobering thought & mercifully I shut up for a bit.

Then I ask, "What are we looking for here..." I don't expect her to reply with anything other than, "The doctor will tell you that," but the tech shows me the infected area, the skin line, that the infection was not in my breast tissue, and that there was no abscess to drain (back to that lancing option, were we?).

Just as I started to relax she told me she had been called from home to come in and do my ultrasound. I didn't have any jokes for that. I apologized and just thought to myself... Umm, what didn't I know about me, my boob, and my boil sorry, my infection that required a person to get out of bed at night on a holiday? I've seen that on ER, and that's not ever good.

Oh, but the gruff nurse was waiting for me; I had more attacks at sticking me to distract me for the time being.

She tied that rubber thing on my arm so tight that all but the tails of the knot disappeared in the flesh of my arm. I complained and got the gruff tough love explanation of how a tourniquet works. Uh, yeah, I know that; but sheesh when I came in here tonight my pain was a 2 or a 3 and now it was at a 5... Could we be a little nicer?

Oh, and can't we just give me a larger script for oral antibiotics and skip this iv mess?

"Oh, no then you'd need the shot."

"Fine, the shot can't be any worse than all this painful sticking."

"No, this shot hurts."

I don't think she understood the pain I was experiencing.

Anyway, this nurse fares no better -- in fact, she doesn't even try to stab me but instead, after minutes of none-to-gently slapping my arms, she says she's going to go get this lady EMT who "can stick anyone in a vehicle bouncing down the road." Awesome, I'll go anywhere to get this stabbing over with -- take me to the bouncing rescue vehicle!

But I didn't have to leave; she came to me.

She assess my multiple stab wounds & frowns; suggests my wrist.

"That's what I said, but the first nurse said it hurts a lot."

"I think it hurts worse on the hand than the wrist," she says matter-of-factly.

What the hell, let's try it.

It worked. It hurt a lot (about the same as the hand, I'd say), but it was done.

Now for the iv antibiotic. Twenty minutes of sitting and reading from the book I'd brought for the waiting area. But then, in calling hubby (so he doesn't worry about how long this is all taking), it occurs to me that I've never had this much fuss ever. Forget about the problems sticking me (I'm trying to), emergency room ultrasounds from staff that had to be called from home? Intravenous antibiotics? In addition to multiple scripts for simultaneous antibiotics? And I have to return to the urgent care center tomorrow to have it looked at again? Just what the hell did I have?

Well, as it turns out, the check-out slip says I have cellulitis. So it was a good thing I went in. Even if it was all so bizarre.

I went home and have followed all instructions -- except the "keep the area raised on pillows" because the whole area is a pillow. The directive to "rest until healed" is easy to do because cellulitis knocks you on your ass.

Days later, I've still got an ugly breast. See?



I'd apologize for this photo's grossness, but felt it was important to show women what it looks like -- so that those who recognize something like this on their own breast know to get medical attention. Got this thing or one like it? Get thee to a doctor.

I apologize for the photo's blurriness. I had to take it myself because hubby now doesn't want to see my icky boob. When I hinted at sex he was looking at my (fully covered) breast with that "Eeeiwww" expression.

"What, now that it's getting better, you don't want to see it?"

"I didn't know how gross it was; now that I do, no thank you."

Nice.

But I can wait him out. *wink*

Oh, and should you ever need to know, I was told by the doctor who gave me my follow-up exam the next day, that increased redness at the infection site for the 36 hours following antibiotics is normal. It seems contrary, but give it a few days and it will start to clear up.

And that concludes today's life lessons in lesions.

Adieu.

The Bra Nazi: I Wish I Was Just Some Ultra-Conservative Worry-Wart, But I'm Not

It began with Des' mom and her grandma (hubby's mom) buying Des very short skirts and high-heeled black boots because they think it's a cool look (for her?!). When I met Des at age six, she had plenty of those outfits. But they made me cringe so badly (I've written before about how I feel about inappropriately dressing children), that I told hubby I would not appear in public with her dressed like that and by the 5th grade it was forbidden because it was inappropriate.

Des, now 12, is obsessed with wearing black. It's not quite the typical "goth" thing, more of a rock-n-roll-slash-biker rebellion dealio, a carry-over from those "cool" outfits, I suppose. (Those boots are still popular with her, but now she only wears them with pants or long skirts; and Des is now too prudish to wear short skirts unless her 80's leggings are underneath them.) But the fact is, Des will do just about anything to wear her black clothes, including picking them out of the dirty laundry pile. If she can't do that, she'll at least wear a black bra under a white t-shirt.

I've repeatedly told Destiny that she cannot wear her black bras under white or other light clothing; it shows thru. Each and every time I get a, "Oh, I didn't know." Which one might be inclined to believe if they weren't the one telling her once a week -- and if the kid weren't extremely weirded-out by anything remotely "risque". But after so many times, it's infuriating.

Now oddities about Des aside, and leaving out the "typical power struggles of the pre-teen in Western culture" conversation, we must first deal with the fact that I am step-mom.

As step-mom, it's only "natural" (and I say this because what we call "natural" and "normal" regarding the role of the step-parent in this culture is mainly out-of-whack because as a society we allow and perpetuate it), that she test me. Many times that I've pointed out Des' visible black bra her father has been present -- but said nothing. What's more, he's been the first to see her, send her off to school, without, apparently, noticing it. So understandably she might think that the lack of comment of disapproval on his part is approval by omission, and I, by comparison, am just noise she can ignore.

I needed to get hubby to support my statements.

Step one was to educate him about how serious this was. Not just giving Des the impression that she could divide and conquer, or ignore what I say, but because I see this "bra thing," like the short skirts and boots, to be a safety issue.

He doesn't get it because he's never had to live like a woman.

The fact is that as much as I wish it otherwise, girls and women are held responsible for the actions of boys and men.

I'm not (only) talking about date rape ("She went on a date with him, didn't she?" "Why else would she let him in her apartment?" "She was dating him for so long... it can't be rape."), or "real rape" ("What was she wearing?" "What was she doing in that parking lot?" "What is her job?") -- and don't even get me started talking about domestic violence!

And I'm not some alarmist prude either, imagining every boy, man-child and man as a sex predator or abuser. I'm just talking about the facts.

Ever since Allie was in middle school, continuing through high school and Des' start of middle school, I've been getting those notices about how girls should and shouldn't dress at school -- specifically stating things such as no visible bra straps protruding from or sliding out beneath the straps of tank tops. Girls with blossoming buds and young women with full breasts are monitored for the "snugness" of their t-shirts.

Why?

Because the boys in class could be distracted.

We can't have boys running around distracted! And we certainly can't teach them to control themselves. No,no, no. It would be much better if we taught the females, the tempting sinful devils that they are, to behave in ways which do not elicit problematic male responses.

So, like Muslim women who must pray at the back of the mosque so that their prostrated backsides won't distract men from their God, girls and young women here in the US must mind their place and their dress so that boys and young men will not have to be responsible for their own thoughts and actions.

I certainly don't think a young girl needs to display her thong or otherwise dress like a mature sexualized adult, but I am completely against this notion that females are the ones responsible for male thought and action. It makes me furious!

But...

Knowing that this is the world we live in...

That the girl with the showing bra straps is the one who will be sent home -- not the leering boy.

That should some young man touch her, she will not only be the one abused but she will have to defend herself, her actions & her dress -- and, no matter the outcome, she will be the one with a ruined reputation.

Knowing all this, it would be damn-near criminal of me not to protect her from the fall-out of a visible bra.

It's not right, it's not fair; but it's what happens in our world.

And so Des cannot dress as she likes. She (and anyone else) can hate me for it for the rest of her life. But it will be a safer one.

"I miss my mother’s body."

Because I refuse to shy-away from honest sex talk -- even if it's not "sex ed" -- I have to share with you this lovely piece on a woman remembering her mother, titled Musings on curvitude -- even if it's on an 'adult site'. You've now been warned; but don't summarily reject the link, because it's worth it.

Because I Care, And Think You Should Too

Dear friend,

Thank you. Your name has been added to the message and your comments will be delivered to Health and Human Services Secretary Mike Leavitt.

Another great way to generate a lot of heat on this issue is to spread the word to your friends and family. The more signatures we gather, the better our chance to win. You can just forward the sample letter below.

Spreading the word is critical, but please only pass this message along to those who know you -- spam hurts our campaign.

Thanks for all you do.

--The MoveOn.org Political Action Team

Here's a sample message to send to your friends:

Subject: Contraception is abortion?

Hi,

I had to share something with you. Can you imagine living in a place where birth control is considered an "abortion" and health insurers won't cover it? Where even rape victims are denied emergency contraception?

It seems unbelievable, but the Bush Administration is quietly trying to redefine "abortion" to include birth control. The Houston Chronicle says this could wipe out dozens of state laws that protect women's reproductive freedom and protect rape victims. And this proposed "rule change" doesn't need congressional approval.

I just signed a message to Health and Human Services Secretary Mike Leavitt, whose department is considering this rule change, telling him: "Contraception is NOT abortion." Can you add your voice to this cause? Click here to sign the message: http://pol.moveon.org/contraception/?r_by=-9950595-JRzmsAx&rc=confemail

Thanks!

He's Growing Up

Last fall I took my youngest, Hunter, then 7, to the art museum. He was quite prudish and giggly about seeing men nude; he said nothing about the nude women, but had a flushed, awkward look to him...

Flash forward about 9 months. Hunter is now 8 years old.

We spent a Saturday afternoon teaching the kids to make altered art books. Since we left the junk on the dinning room table, the kids (and myself) have been puttering around with creating more pages every now and then.

Just a few days ago, both the kids and myself were cuttin' & pastin' away to our hearts' content while Derek was at work. Des is quite prudish too, and so when she asked for me to hand her a magazine from the pile, I jokingly asked if she wanted the Victoria's Secret catalog.

She turned pink and gave a laughing but emphatic, "No!"

Hunter, seeing her discomfort, asked what it was. When I told him it was a ladies underwear catalog he asked for it.

I gave it to him knowing that A) he was likely only trying to get his sister's goat (or, more likely, to get her to groan), and that B) he's rather prudish himself and would likely blanch at it and put it down in a minute.

But he didn't.

Just seconds before he had been all squirrelly over a "sexy woman" on the front of Interview Magazine, but now, he was completely entranced.

He sat there cutting with what can only be described as "dedicated frenzy".

He made a few comments about how "hot" this one or that one was. After a few of such comments, I simply asked him how he would feel if Des & I were to make those comments about men in their underwear? (I thought Des would puke she turned so green at the idea.) He got the point quickly and said little else.

Well, OK, I did have to have a few such discussions; but they were short and he did seem to absorb them as important and modified his behavior.

He was then pretty quiet -- until he made a mistake.

Suddenly he turned to Des, trying to get her to look at one of his paper ladies. She refused, saying she didn't want to look at them. "But, I accidentally tore part of the page, and now I had to cut her leg off -- does she look OK?" he asked, really worried.

I reassured him it was OK. And that he could cut her off at the waist; she'd fit better on the page that way and no one would know.

"But I like her legs!" he wailed.

So he pasted in his one-legged beauty & continued to work in silent earnest.

Until --

"Oh no! Wh-What? Why would they--?"

I turned to look at him frantically paging through the catalog until he sighed and said, "OK, good."

Feeling my question, he said, "They had started to put them in clothes."

Ugh.

"There's nothing wrong with a lady in clothes," I reminded him, "Just as there is nothing wrong with the human body, there is nothing wrong with the body clothed."

"Yeah, but I like their boobs and legs," he said.

"Well, it's natural to notice them and find them pretty," I replied, knowing Des was crimson -- but listening too. "But remember, these ladies have mothers, brothers, maybe even kids; and they laugh & cry and want to do things, just like everyone else. They are not pieces of paper or toys you can just think of as parts. They are people."

"I know," he said thoughtfully. "I just like to look at them."

We each continued to work in silence for a bit. I had to admit, he was far more interested in the altered arts book project than ever before. I mean he liked it before, but usually his max time working on it was 30 minutes at a time; it was at least an hour this time, with no signs of leaving anytime soon.

"Hunter," I said, "You sure seem to like those ladies..."

"What. They are pretty."

"Yeah, but you were just all grossed-out over that other lady on the cover of that magazine," I gestured, "And now...?"

"Mom, you have to face it; I'm growing up."

"Yes, but that was only ten minutes ago," I said.

"Some of us mature faster," he said.

How true.

He returned to his cutting and pasting.

I then began to wonder if this was a problem... Should I have let him have the magazine?

But let's face it, the ladies in VS aren't nude and he can see all that and more on the beach or TV.

And I figured at least he was there, with me, having his questions answered & his enthusiasm properly channeled -- without the freak-out to send him into sexual guilt and repression.

I figure that this is far better than discovering the catalog on his own or with a peer (very likely, given how they litter most homes) and having no proper context for understanding. This time with him was a gift.

Sex Ed - From The Kid

My eldest, the Auspie, was always a hoot at the museum. From 3 on, when I was in college and had the discounted student pass, she'd stomp around the library-quiet museum with me during weekdays in this pair of brightly colored cowboy boots that she had to wear, no matter the weather or season.

My favorite Allie In An Art Museum Story took place during her first visit to the MAM.

We were looking through the "classic masters" section of paintings, when I heard her grunt and stomp out of the room. I did my own classic mommy bit then, trying to quietly catch up with her. When I did, I asked her why she left so quickly.

Hands on her hips, she turned to me and said, "I just don't understand why they have to put the fur there."

I stood stupefied for a moment -- and then remembered the partial female nude. "Fur" meant public hair.

"It's just the human body," I said. As 'mommy' -- and a single parent then too -- she'd never minded barging in on me in the bath (as you'll see in a bit) or getting dressed and so had seen me nude enough to know that pubic hair was, is, normal.

But apparently 'normal' had no place in art.

"They just shouldn't show that. They should paint a dress on them or something," was her reply.

As if nude models were understandable, but painting them thus was the problem.

Speaking of Allie and pubic hair...

Once when she was little she pushed her way into the bathroom while I was on the potty myself. She took one look at my pubic hair, pointed her little chubby toddler finger at it, and said, "Chipmunks live in there."

I knew if I laughed, I'd hear that forever; so I bit my tongue and replied, "No, they do not. When ladies and men grow-up, part of maturing is growing hair on their private parts."

She stood and stared at me.

Then she raised her finger along with her voice and shouted, "No! Chipmunks live in there!" Then she stormed out of the bathroom.

Leaving me a very puzzled mother on the toilet -- still too afraid to laugh.

A Bookish TMI Tuesday

1. What was your favorite book as a kid?

Oh, any in the Black Stallion Series by Walter Farley. And anything to do with ancient Egypt.

2. If you were stranded on that proverbial desert island (again!), what book or books (up to 5) would you want to have with you?

Only five?! This is why I do dream of endless amounts of time to just read, I do not dream of isolation which would limit my reading.

This is question is not only an exercise in emotional torture, but an exercise in memory as well. And, I must also state as a disclaimer, that this list is also based on today's mood. (We'll not even go into the matter of what mood would I be in stranded on the island.)

1 Temple of My Familiar, by Alice Walker
2 Beloved, by Toni Morisson
3 Tad Williams Otherland series, any book in the series would be fine.

(Because of their rich layers and ability to make one think long after reading them -- which is important when I only am allowed 5 books!)

4 The Island Stallion, by Walter Farley. (Because now that I'm thinking of my younger days and horse love, why not relive it here on the island and have the story of a boy equally stranded who finds a dream horse?)

And 5, James Tiptree, Jr: The Double Life of Alice B. Sheldon, by Julie Phillips -- because I've just started it and I have to finish it!

3. What was the first "naughty" book you read and in what way was it naughty?

The Summer of '42, which I've written about here.

But I do also remember reading the Flowers in The Attic series too -- with a much different reaction. It was a very popular series -- even my non-reading friends were all reading it. I remember reading of the love affair between siblings and feeling quite torn, nearly ill, over making the choice to surrender to it. Not just to surrender to suspend belief, but to actually submit to the notion of romance and longing over such a relationship. It made me feel dirty when I did so; or like I let the author down when I didn't. Reading can be a complicated business.

4. If you were to publish your autobiography today, what would be the title?

Hubby and I joke all the time about this. I'm constantly finding phrases which would be an excellent title for my biography and have decided that my biography would consist of nothing but these titles -- arranged as chapter titles and subtitles. Hubby says at this rate that the book would still be a tome. *wink*

Given the sheer volume of such potential titles, and the fact that I'm gonna use them somehow, someway, someday... I'm not sharing them now. :p

5. Would you rather look at nude pictures/pornography or read erotic fiction and why?

Do I have to choose?

I love the written word, but sometimes a photo is rather grand. The two mixed, well, that's distracting. If I must comply, I'll say the written work. But I do collect both.

Bonus (as in optional): Do you know the whereabouts today of the first person with whom you had sex?

No. Last I heard he was in Chicago, working as a tailor or tailor's apprentice. But I had no interest in looking for him then; and none now. However, if I did bump into him, I would enjoy a catch-up conversation. I have no ill-will; just not enough interest in looking for that conversation.

You can play along with TMI Tuesdays #119 here.