Lights Out For Legendary Venue, Mr Lady's Uterus


Houston, Texas – (October 26, 2010) – Mr Lady’s Uterus, a renowned local hotspot, is closing its doors after a memorable history.  Founded on March 20, 1975, the Uterus remained an unknown until bursting onto the scene in the late-90’s when it launched the existence of 1of3.  Though it has been nearly thirteen years since those grungy days of flannel and angst, 1of3 still embodies that era and its sensibility.  “That was my first apartment.  I mean it’s not like I can go back, but I’ll still kind of miss it, ya know?” said 1of3.

Less sentimental was 2of3, who could not be reached for comment.  Though he emerged just two short years after 1of3, they don’t often play the same venues anymore.  “He tries to punch me in the face.  It’s not cool,” said 1of3.  The Uterus was dormant for a few years after 2of3, hosting only a local legend known as “Big Daddy” and of course the house band “IUD.”  But just five short years ago, 3of3 came on the scene, bringing new irreverence and joy.  “I’m a puppy!” she offered, when asked for comment.  Many will miss the historic hallowed halls of Mr Lady’s Uterus.  “That place was so fucking punk rock,” said Big Daddy.  “I rocked that joint so hard.  I helped make everything that came out of there.  It's the end of an era, man...”

Those feeling nostalgic for Mr Lady’s Uterus, will be please to know that although it will no longer be accepting new tenants (and will in fact be relocated to a nearby bio-hazard facility) visitors to the old site will be able to arrive via the newly refurbished Bionic Bubble Yum Windtunnel™.  Sound effects, wifi, a bottle opener and DVD/VCR combo are available options in the upgrade, but a full list of amenities has not been made available at press time.  Following the renovation, admittance to the Windtunnel™ will be strictly VIP, invitation only--- if admittance is even allowed at all.  Because seriously, the place will be pristine and we don’t need anything fucking it up.

For more information, please contact:
Mr Lady Reproductive Public Relations

Counting Down

Last year, I figured out what the hell an Advent calendar is. I'm a little slow on the uptake.

This will be the 11th Christmas I've ever celebrated. I still can't, with any clarity, explain precisely what the role of the Easter bunny is in April, let alone grasp all of these weird little Yuletide nuances. In fact, I am fairly certain that, 11 years ago, Advent calendars did not exist at all, and that you, the Western world at large, are simply trying to fuck with me on as many levels as possible over the holidays.

That's nice. Pick on the poor white trash cult-member kid every December. Stay classy, Western world.

Thanks to the Lord Almighty Twitter, the whole Advent Calendar thing clicked in my thick head last year and I decided that my children would be Scarred For Life if they did not have them. So I set out to procure for ourselves three lovely Advent calendars, a week into December.

My Christmas tree is full to the brim with little homemade ornaments all made out of clay or popsicle sticks, that all say, "Josh" and "197-something" on them. His mother kept everything, and we hang that everything on our tree every year. I came into this marriage with a dildo my dad gave me for my 18th birthday and one Cheshire Cat ornament that I didn't even know was an ornament until somewhere around 2002. His mother, thankfully, has been catching me up by buying me, and all of us, a new ornament every single year, and more thankfully not one single instrument of penetration, but it's not the same as having something old and handmade from your momma when it's your turn to get drunk and breed in the backseat of a Nissan start a family. I wanted, want, my kids to have something that I lovingly slaved over for months and months, beside, um, their bodies, to pass down to their kids someday. To remember me by when I'm blowing off their family Christmas to drink drinks out of coconut shells on exotic islands with their father, because I'll be damned if I'm not reclaiming our 20s in our 60's, dammit. DAMMIT.

And so I turned to the standard repository of all knowledge and wisdom in the universe today, Twitter, and not only found out what exactly the fuck an Advent calendar was, but (thanks to my friend pgoodness) how to make one. Myself. All crafty-like and good-motherly-ish.

And that I did. It took me weeks and all of my neighbor's scrapbooking tools. I cut and measured and color-coordinated and spent more money than I'll ever tell my husband, and they came together beautifully. And now I have two calenders that are both 98.26% done, and one that isn't started yet, but everything is cut out and ready to go....

These I Made

...and these, too.

These I Bought

Because there is a Target right up the street and I am significantly more Fartsy than Artsy at the end of the day. And, apparently, the one and only thing I can start and see through until the very end involves that ill-begotten dildo.

Apparently, It's Genetic. Like Blue Eyes Or Webbed Feet.

So my boys started a blog.

It's not like I didn't see it coming. I mean, I've had this thing for half of their lives. Of course, they didn't know I had it until their father found out, which was more like 1/4 of their lives ago, but once they DID know, they were all over it.

At first, they didn't quite understand what it was. And then they realized it was them, and they wanted to read it All. The. Time. And then they got bored of it, and then it became this big, running joke. "Oh, 2of3, you wish you didn't do that! Mom is totally going to put it on her blog!" And then it became a competition. "Mom, put this on your blog! 3of3 was on there 5 times this month but you haven't talked about me at all!"

And now they're getting a little too old to e-cuddle and they really want to be on Facebook and I'll let them do many various age-completely-inappropriate things but Facebook ain't nevah gonna be one of them, so they did the one thing every child does best.

They did like I do.

They started a blog.

They had a co-conspirator some help. They have this little friend online who they got to meet in real life a few months ago and when that happened, grand and very expensive birthday parties were planned and blogs were forged out of marshmallow and flame. Or dessert was, either way.
Just In Case
The birthday party? Fat chance, kids.  The blog, however? Yeah, that just happened.

Or I Could Just Do The Laundry Already

It's 12:04 in the am. I am not even close to sleep. Why? Because I didn't take a shower until 6 tonight and I'm now on my 18 millionth cup of tea and I am a moron. Someone really needs to invent a caffeinated beverage without the caffeine. Oh, wait....

So my husband walked in on me showering tonight. That's not exactly true; he walked past the bathroom while I was showering and I can't close the door to the bathroom because earlier today I decided it would be a fine idea to use the one bathroom in this house with a shower in it as a laundry basket and I haven't washed the laundry in, like, 4 days which means I have a pile of laundry taller than Everest going over here and so the bathroom door won't even come CLOSE to closing and I have a glass walk-in shower so yeah, he got a full frontal shot.

Which wouldn't be so bad, really, I mean, we've been together since I was 20 and it's not like he's never seen me in the buff before (three times, to be exact) but when a man sees me in the shower, I fully expect the shower head to be ripped out of the wall at some point. That's a fun story to explain to your landlord, by the way. What I don't expect is for that man to go wandering past the door, see that it's open, peek his head in and start talking to me while the floor is up to his knees in smelly preteen clothes, my youknowwhat's are covered in Veet and my face is slathered in Noxema.

Not hot. Not close to hot. My shower head lives to see another day.

It probably shouldn't have bothered me. It's not like he hasn't had to hold me up on the loo while I alternated puking and pooping as a person clawed his way out of what was, until mere moments before, his favorite toy in the world. It's not like I don't fart in my sleep. It's not like I haven't washed the sheets he completely destroyed during a particularly nasty bout of the roto-virus. It's not like I don't walk in on him every motherfucking morning while he takes his morning pee. In the nude. There really isn't anything we haven't seen each other do, I guess, but I just don't want him to see me THAT exposed. Noxema exposed. It's just soul-crushingly unsexy.

I never close bathroom doors when he's not home because it's usually just me and the 4 year old and she's still at that phase where she wants to hold my hands and help me squeeze the poopies out. Even when all I have to do is blow my nose. It's slightly annoying as all fuck. Wherever I go, there she is, and I accept that. 11 years of parenting has killed any hope of privacy or decency for me, and I embrace it. I don't ever bother to close the door, which only bites me square in the ass on the days when my husband is home, and I forget, because he's never home, and those are the days when I am sure to run up to the bathroom to do my thing and leave the door wide open, leaving me no choice but to jump up in the middle of certain events that don't call for jumping of any kind and try to slam the door shut before those footsteps I hear coming up the stairs reach the top and he loses the last little inkling of attraction he may or may not have left for me.

So far, so good. And when he walked in the bathroom tonight, he said whatever the hell it was that was SO FUCKING IMPORTANT it couldn't wait until I was done and then he walked out. Almost out. 90% of the way out before he turned around and said, "Oh, by the way, hot."

That bitch is totally getting Dutch Ovened tonight.

Dreams Do Come True; It Can Happen To You, If Your Mother Refuses To Let Go Of Childhood Angst. Or You're Young At Heart, Either Way.

I was born with the ability to play the piano. This is no surprise; my parents are, and I'm not kidding, two of the most gifted musicians you'll ever meet. My father taught Jim Croce's brother to play guitar, not kidding. All of us are musically inclined, whether or not we choose to use those skills. And hell, have you ever seen my fingers? They're like pipe cleaners sticking out of dough, I tell you what. They're made for three things....guitar, piano and masturbation. Thankfully or unfortunately, I can't decide which, I was so indoctrinated with cultish visions of damnation and hellfire that one of those three was forever ruined for me.

As for the other two, I taught myself how to play guitar with a book full of Janis Ian sheet music and my 4th grade music teacher realized one day that I could just play piano. He taught me basic notes and chords and sent me home, and my mother handed me the sheet music to The Incredible Hulk and a dry erase marker for the piano keys and told me to have at it. A year later, I could really play the piano. It's the ugliest thing in the world, watching me hammer away on the keys, but it sounds right and hell, I'm sure that Beethoven looked like an asshole when he played, too, but no one's smacking him down for form today, now are they?

I am no Beethoven. I am no Elmo on a piano, but if I wanted to be, I probably could rock that shit.

For a while, I wanted to be. We had two player pianos in our house, side by side in our tiny living room, donated to us by our church in what I can only guess was a misguided attempt at keeping our little fingers busy with anything that didn't involve our naughty places. I used to BEG my mother for lessons, but she refused on the grounds that we couldn't afford it, which was probably true seeings how we only ate a few times a week, and no amount of the Rainbow Connection and church hymns filling the air would also fill our tummies, but it didn't make me want them any less. I was very understanding of the whole situation, though. I'd sit while my bat-shit crazy grandmother who thought she could channel George Washington and make the dog levitate tried to teach me how to play the score from Oklahoma with her squeaky little voice that wasn't completely unlike that shrimp from Poltergeist's demon voice. I'd hammer out Suicide is Painless, which maybe wasn't exactly the smartest sheet music to hand a suicidal pre-teen in hindsight, but bygones, until I got it right, and I still fall asleep with Ted Cassidy's voice in my head, telling me about science gone awry and Dr David Banner's struggles with elastic waist bands, muscle shirts and finding a nice shade of lipstick to compliment his earthy skin tone. Or something like that.

And then one day, after spending the better part of a year teaching my little brother to play the Pink Panther theme, my mother announced that she was getting him piano lessons because he was clearly gifted and deserved the extra help.

Cue head explosion.

I swore, SWORE, that no matter what my kids wanted to be in life, I'd make it happen. If they dreamed of being a world-class marathon runner, I'd put down the cigarettes and strap on the Nike's and train with them. If they wanted to be carpenters, I'd hand them a hammer. And a bandaid. If they wanted to be starving musicians, I'd buy them their first Les Paul.

IMG_3277Can We Build It?Ain't Noise Pollution

Of COURSE I ended up with the kid who's only goal in life is to beat every level of Guitar Hero and then become, not just a professional, but a sponsored skateboarder. I have a really hard time asking my husband for $8 when I need milk and bread, but I'm supposed to figure out how to get Element to pay my kid to skate? Christ on a goddamn cracker, yo.

The boy is dead serious. He will skate for someone, and well, and he's not going to stop until this happens for him. Or he breaks his legs. Or he starves to death under a half pipe. Or he falls over backwards at the skatepark and hits his head so hard he cracked his Bell helmet all the way up the back. Oh, wait, that already happened, and it really didn't stop him. It did stop any number of parts on me, however, but I think I've started breathing again and I seem to have a pulse, so I think I'll recover. He thinks it's pretty cool. Bastard. Bastard who now wears his helmet everywhere he goes, though, so I win.

Of course, I have these dreams of my boys winning Pulitzers and accepting Nobel prizes and graduating from Ivy League colleges but maybe that's not in their cards. Do I want my kid to put everything he has behind skateboarding? Honestly, a little. Skateboarding is awesome. But there's that grown-up in me that wants to tell him to have a "fall back" career, some "real" skill, something "substantial" to base his life's dreams on. Because I didn't even go to college and it's taken me 34 years to even find a job that doesn't require an apron. And if I want anything in this world, it's for my children to know more than I did, to live better than I ever could have.

But my baby wants to skateboard, and I can't deny that. I mean, look at that shit. It's poetry.


God shield I should disturb devotion. So tomorrow, I'm packing these boys up and, under the guise of testing out the new Tony Hawk video game Ride, I'm lugging them down to San Diego to spend a weekend with His Holiness himself, Mr Tony Fucking Hawk. Because maybe I'd also like him to have a law degree, but I'd really much rather watch him have his dreams come true. And of all the things that matter to me, the fact that my kid knows I support him, in whatever, is the most important thing to me in this whole world.

Besides getting to meet Tony Hawk, of course. I'm kind of flipping out about that one.