The Explanation of a Queef

It was a typical evening dinner at my parents’ house. My brother and I both were both in town visiting, so my mother did what she does and cooked a huge, tremendous meal. Really, it was full of love.

At my mother’s table, any topic of conversation can come into play. Having four brothers and too many nephews to keep count, the topics tend to lean in one direction. In typical Castle fashion on this particular evening, the conversation turned that corner.

It doesn’t really matter how the word queef was brought up. Actually it does, but some might take offense to it, so I’m going to leave that little detail out so as to not upset anyone.

But it happened. Someone said queef. It was my mom, and the boys in the house lost their minds. Multiple mouths spat tea across the table, plates upturned and a roar of laughter echoed across the golden plains of West Texas.

I looked down at my plate avoiding any kind of eye contact with anyone in my family. Anyone.

“What’s so funny?” My sweet mom asked.

My thirteen year old nephew whispered, “Nana said queef.”

I squelched the laughter I was keeping at bay.

Another nephew choked on his fried okra. I watched my brother beat him on the back while focusing intently on his corn on the cob.

“What is so funny?” Mom asked again, laughing along with the rest of us who had now lost any resemblance of control.

Tears poured out of my brother’s eyes onto his red cheeks.

My dad laughed his one-of-a-kind laugh. We were a mess. All of us.

“Is queef a bad word?” Mom said again

“Oh my god, Nana said queef again,” my older nephew said.

“Stop saying queef, Mom,” I managed to get out through bursts of laughter.

“Why? What’s  queef?” My mom asked.

The sound of laughter and silverware scratching plates ceased.

Everyone looked at me. The only girl.

Like it was my job to explain female bodily functions to MY MOM!

“I’m not telling her,” I said to my brother.

“You have to. I can’t,” he said, shaking his head.

“I CAN’T EITHER.”

“You have to, Mandi.”

“Tell me,” my mom said.

“No!”

“Tell her,” my dad chimed in.

“No, you tell her, Dad.” I said to him. He shook his head at me.

We were all still sporadically laughing at this point, but the mood in the room had gotten a little more…tense.

I took a big drink of my sweet tea (the strongest liquid courage you’ll find in my mom’s house) and walked over to where my mom sat at the table.

I leaned in and whispered, “a vaginal fart.”

“What?”

A little louder this time, “a vaginal fart.”

“Mandi, you’re gonna have to talk louder and quit laughin’. I can’t understand you.”

I cupped my hands around my mouth and said quietly into my mother’s 74 year old ear, “A queef is a fart that comes out of your vagina, Mom.”

Her blue eyes widened, and immediately, she filled the room with the best sound on Earth, her laugh.

I returned to my seat and started to put a bite of mashed potatoes into my mouth when my dad said, “So, what is it?”

 

head-in-hands

 

Advertisements

And the Wind Cries . . . Samara

It can happen unexpectedly. Every once in a while, someone stumbles into your life, and you just know there’s something there. A kind of connection. Chemistry.

When I first met her, she was a phone girl in a whore house. Immediately, I developed a full blown girl crush. I thought to myself, I don’t hardly know her, but I think I could love herInfatuated with her words, I devoured them, unable to stop. Reading post after post, I became more and more enamored with her.

Cautiously and bravely, I typed a comment and hit “post.” She responded quite quickly,  and an easy and comfortable friendship developed. We learned we had a lot of things in common like our love for boys music.

She has taught me many valuable lessons about life. I’ve viewed a tragedy from another person’s perspective. I’ve felt a mother’s love for her son. She makes me laugh. She makes me cry, and she makes me think.

I’m lucky to call her my friend, to call her my SisterWife, and today, I’m fortunate to wish her a very happy birthday.

Samara, I am so very glad you were born and so happy that fate placed me on your blog. You have welcomed me with open arms into your world, and for that, I thank you. In those moments when I’m not feeling like myself, you are always there. Everybody needs someone beside them, shining like a lighthouse from the sea.

Go celebrate your day, shine brighter than the sun, and for all of us, please continue to sing your life. (any fool can think of words that rhyme.)

(I couldn’t pick just one song. You’re more than one song to me.)

Happy birthday, Samara!

Samara pimping me at BlogHer (true friendship, people)

Samara pimping me at BlogHer (true friendship, people)

Long and Smooth

I’ve always had a healthy admiration of Latin men. It’s no secret. I love dark mysterious eyes framed in whispy black lashes, light chestnut skin, pretty pink lips. Ay Dios Mio! Tulipanes humedos!

Some of you might recall the last time Beth and I had coffee. We coined the phrase: Moist Tulips ©. Well, here’s a new phrase for you: Long and Smooth ©. I can’t explain this one, but I’ll add some content in this post that might help.

Last week, Beth received something very special in the mail: Her first ever paperback copy of her first ever novel. If you haven’t pre-ordered your copy, do so now here.

To celebrate, we decided to have some Mexican food, margaritas, and laughs. We had ample amounts of all three, particularly the last.

We took pictures that will only make sense to our SisterWives, but made us spew tequila all over the table. Here’s one. Use your imagination with this one.

I did not purposely take a photo of the female waitress pegging the male waiter.

I did not purposely take a photo of the female waitress pegging the male waiter.

Thanks to our very eccentric waiter who wanted to motorboat  lick ravage become a fan of Beth, the night will not soon be forgotten. Gonzavo esta muy guapo. Gonzavo loved Beth, and her book. He said to her once, and I quote in a sexy Latin accent, “I am keeping an eye for you. Or is it better for you or on you?”

To which Beth replied, “In me. (cleared throat) I mean on me. On me.” And I concurred. Like a doctor.

When we showed him her book, he got reader wood.

Reader Wood

Reader Wood

Coming soon to a book store near you. Oo7 read by Gonzavo.

Coming soon to a book store near you. Oo7 read by Gonzavo.

 

He focused on the number seven and even gave us a very confusing yet intriguing bible lesson. Again in sexy Latin accent, “Did you know of the importance of the number,” pause for dramatic effect,  “of seven?” We nodded and leaned in closer to hear more of his seductive patois compelling lecture. I have no idea what he said, but it sounded … sigh … enticing.

I never realized I was a match maker, but I think I may have helped these two create a love connection.

Es amor?

Es amor?

As we paid our check, Gonzavo said to Beth, “I think I will be watching you. That was something really special to me. You brought it.”

When Gonzavo left us, Beth looked at me and said, “I’m about to get some long and smooth.” (There’s your explanation. You’re welcome.)

At some point, I noted that Beth said, “You can’t forget ten cats. That’s a lot of pussy.” But I cannot figure out the context of this one, so there you have an added Bethism.  I promise this is true.

See? I took notes. Who does that?

See? I took notes. Who does that?

 

At any rate, when two bloggers who are real life friends get together to celebrate a book that has been the topic of more than a gazillion conversations, well, sparks fly.

Two writers in a parking lot with an iPhone = trouble

Two writers in a parking lot with an iPhone = trouble

Que le gusta hombres latinos? Have you read Beth’s book? Do you like margaritas and getting caught in the rain? Do you like reading posts about nothing? Still here? Click here to get a sneak peak at my book cover … see it wasn’t about nothing after all. (That was a purposeful double negative.)

Could I Have This Dance

Occasionally, someone strolls into my life and just fits right in and becomes an instant friend. Today I get to introduce you to one of those people. Briton of Punk Rock Papa is one of the kindest bloggers on the internet. He is always quick to help out if you need something or to just send a “how’s it going?” message. He makes me laugh, and hearing him talk about his wife,  his twin toddlers, and brand new baby boy warms my heart.  Please give a warm welcome to my new friend, Briton. 

**********************************************

What an honor to be here!

After talking to Mandi, I ran out and bought some shoes to dance and groove in. Then I realized, I can’t dance!

Much to the dismay of probably every follower of Mandi’s, I am not the cool gay Briton she danced with in Kansas City.

My insecurity is rising and anxiety from being in over my head is swelling to a burst of full-blown panic attack.

I must find something interesting to share with the one or two people who haven’t yet exited the screen when they realized I am not Gay Briton from Kansas City.

—–

When my wife and I found out we were having twins, I almost fainted. Tunnel vision set in. My life flashed before my eyes. There was no way I could handle two babies at once!

Eight months and a scary emergency C-section later, there I was! Holding two of the most handsome babies to ever grace the world with their beauty and life. (I’m allowed to be biased; I made these little guys with my skilled unprotected coitus). I assume parents everywhere know that feeling when they first hold their offspring – the swell of happiness and love that fills your chest. It’s a really spiritual moment, even for those not spiritually inclined. You feel the bond, like an invisible umbilical cord, between you and the child.

I didn’t sleep for a month after my kids were born. Absolutely terrified of SIDS, I would get out of bed intermittently and jab my kids in the stomach with a finger to make sure they were still alive. If I was working, the wife would get a “poke the babies” text.

Flash forward six more months. (We are at around seventh months of life for those not very good with counting)

“Killian and Nicolas Underwood?”

Here we came around the corner at the doctor’s office. Dad and kids. It should be noted that I was *carrying* the kids by the front of their winter bear suits. Here we come, Papa Bear and his Cubs, arms and legs wildly dangling.

The look on the face of the nurse at the pediatricians office said everything.

Shock quickly turned to laughter. The kids and I are rather popular at the doctor’s office. We laugh and joke and hate the nurses who give shots. Usually when we’re called in, I’ve got one kid tucked under my arm, newspaper-style, and I’m dangling the other one upside down.

Why do you care, why does this story matter?

Rewind! (I know, bear with me.) (See what I did there?)

After finding out we were expecting twins, the first place we visited was the bookstore. From What To Expect When You’re Expecting to Twins, Multiples, we got All The Books!  Even found some dad books for me to read!

And read, I did

By the end of the first book I had to check and make sure the author wasn’t Stephen King.

The second book had me calling a doctor asking for a prescription to quell my parent anxiety attacks.

SIDS! Sidebumpers! Cradle Cap! OH MY!

The first month of parenting I leaned on these terrifying books. They are the cousins to the whole “if you have unprotected sex you will get an STD and die!” style of teaching. Their motto is, “If you don’t do this, your child will die of SIDS!”

After the first month, I was ready to purchase bubble boy suits for the kids.

I can’t remember the exact moment I realized I had been worked up into a frenzy. I just remember it happened after about a month of sleep deprivation and being alert to every possible sign of baby sleep apnea. I had to dial back. I couldn’t live in fear that my Nemos might run into something bad at the drop off.

Flash forward! (Hop in my DeLorean. We are going Back to the Future!)

My kids are almost two. We have a blast. All my friends have largely fallen off the radar, so my kids take up that space and time. From wrestling to running around, I simply love fatherhood. Even snuggling up and watching Kipper the Dog is time well spent. I still poke my kids occasionally to make sure they’re breathing, but I don’t have nearly as many heart attacks as I used to.

And the best part?

We DANCE!

Yes, this has all been a big build up so I could follow up on Mandi’s awesome dance post with ANOTHER post about dancing. We have the most fun kitchen dance parties! Nothing like two toddlers and a dorky dad moving and grooving during lunch time. So, on a late night in Kansas City you might be able to catch a ride to dance at the gay bar with Briton. You can also, if you’re inclined to do so, come catch an afternoon kitchen dance party in New London.

Either way, life should be fun! Whatever you’re doing – from dancing late into the night, to shimmying around a kitchen with toddlers, live in the moment  – and enjoy it.

briton

Briton “Punk Rock Papa” Underwood is a proud Parent, Writer and Original Bunker Punk. His passion for writing is second only to his passion for parenting. Co-founder of the Original Bunker Punks, Punk Rock Papa enjoys helping people’s thoughts, stories and emotions be heard. You can find him on his personal blog or on the Original Bunker Punks writing about what he loves, the people around him.

To learn more visit: Punk Rock Papa, Original Bunker Punks

Connect with Briton:

Are You There God? It’s Me, Mandi

A while back, I got a private message on Facebook from another blogger who I admire and not just because she writes everywhere: Huffington Post, In the Powder Room, and Humor Outcasts, to name a few. No big deal, right? Cue heart palpitations. In the message, she said that she wanted to feature me on her weekly post known as Wacky Wednesday Writer.

Wacky Wednesday

I said, “yes,” of course, so today, I’m over there with the one and only Marcia of Menopausal Mother talking about an incident where, well, the good Lord Himself played a not so very funny joke on me.

So what are you waiting for? Click here, and show me some love.

A Case of the Mondays and the Martians

I know it’s Thursday.

Whatever.

But Monday happened, and I feel compelled to share this with you. It’s necessary for my psyche, for my sanity, and maybe so that when I end up on an episode of Snapped, you will all understand. You’ll say, “Oh, well she’s the girl who woke up to shit prints that morning when she was peacefully dreaming about sexing with Adrian Grenier.” And maybe you’ll riot outside of the courtroom with signs that say, “Set Mandi Free For Adrian” or not. Again, whatever. I’m not planning on murdering anybody. (There you go detective. It wasn’t premeditated.) I digress. Continue reading

Gonna Sip Bacardi Like it’s My Birfday….

It’s my birthday! *throws confetti*

Funny, actually my birthday is never really a big deal for me. Ever. I grew up in a family where if we said “happy birthday, so and so,” that was enough. It was a BIG deal to get a card, and gifts..pfft. Who needs ’em?

But this year, wow. This year, people, a lot of people, came together and made my birthday a big deal. A really big deal, and I am floored, gobsmacked, honored, and humbled to no end at the thought. Continue reading