Good Times, Good Times.

(sung to the tune of The Lone Ranger)

Happy Anniversary,
Happy Anniversary,
Happy Anniversary,
Ha-a-a-ppy Anniversary!

Happy Happy Happy Happy Happy Anniversary!
Happy Happy Happy Happy Happy Anniversary!

And so on, and so forth.

Yes, Loyal Readers, it's been a year today since both of you have tuned in to read my wild, hilarious ramblings, philosophical breakthroughs of an unparalleled nature, and stories of carsickness galore. Since joining the BlogWorld, sharing one's thoughts with the World Wide Internet thingie has been enlightening, empowering, and empanada. See? I've even learned fancy Spanish words in the process. I am, as they say, broadening my horizons.

So to celebrate this momentous passage of time, instead of the anniversary gifts that I'm sure are en route to me via UPS as we speak (the brown truck keeps passing by my house, I think he's trying to figure out the best place to park to unload all the fabulous anniversary booty) I offer, instead, an Anniversary Gift to you, my Loyal Reader(s). It's the best and most appropriate gift I can think of. It's the gift of love, or as I like to call it, the Story of My First Sex-Toy Party. No thanks necessary--it's really my pleasure to share this true and absolutely un-embellished tale. Trust me. Embellishments would be wasted words.

Two feet in the door of my lovely friend's house (I'll call her "Wanda" for the sake of anonymity), I was greeted with a veritable rainbow of bendy, vibrating, nubbed...uhhh...accoutrement. (See? Totally broadening more horizons, even as I type. That was French.) There was liquid accoutrement, gel accoutrement, accoutrement with bull's horns, accoutrement with Cleopatra, there was so much accoutrement, I thought I might choke on it. Which I think is what the representative of this party was hoping I would do, at some later date. Or, right there at the party during a so-called "demo." She calls it "demo," I call it being embarrassed and violated by someone who is getting paid to do it. Previously, I had thought this was the job of a callgirl specializing in dominatrixity. (That's the technical term.)

Three things I saw "demo'd" at this party were, in no particular order and having NOTHING WHATEVER to do with me, I swear on my Catholic-School education, were, a white bondage set (white so you can convince yourself of your own lasting purity, even as you wield your mini-rubber-whip-with-many-tentacles-like-a-modified-cheerleading-pompom) a tingly, vapo-rub-like-cream that was requested to be put in...places, in the privacy of Wanda's bathroom whilst the angelic faces of a photo of her children all soaped up in the bath looked down at one with utter disgust, one swears, and also a, uhhhhh, strap...thing. Now, a word about the uhhhh...strap. If a body is prone to engaging in particular activities as a randy canine would, and the other body would like a little more...power, the body second in line to the operation might use the strap to do this. So there's my sweet friend, Hedwig (again, name has been changed) all 100 pounds of her, being, as she put it, violated from behind by this, shall we say, healthy girl? All for the sake of selling this $20 item? Please. I don't think the dominatrix call-girls work this hard for twenty bucks.

So yes, there we were, ten smart, sweet thirtysomething mothers of darling young children, sitting in a lovely room enjoying this fine company, passing around spinach dip, strawberry tartlets, and big, red, vibrating dildoes. I've never been more proud to be a gal of the 21st century, and more afraid that my mother would find out.

Needless to say, I'm totally placing an order. There was that scented massage oil, y'know. And that pretty candle. Also, batteries come with all purchases. Y'know, for convenience.

And of course, I couldn't have scripted it better, today my five-year-old Captain Picklepants reached into my handbag today, asking, "What's this, Mom? Is it for me?"

In his hand? A cute little red lollipop in the shape of a penis. My party prize.

My response?

"Didn't you say you wanted a popsicle? And some marshmallows? And another hour of tv?"

Distraction. Works every time.

(If anyone wants the rep's number to purchase a...candle...or anything, let me know. This way, Wanda gets more credit for new additions for her secret bag of toys she hides in the basement. But don't tell her I told you.)