It’s Fine Time

If you’ve ever had an account on Facebook or MySpace, then you probably remember that “What’s Your Fine?” game. For those of you who never wasted much time on those sites (or aren’t friends with people who share silly crap), it’s where you’re given a list of “crimes” and the fines that goes along with them. You add up your crimes and post the fine total.

I don’t think I ever shared one of those, mainly because most of my friends list consists of family members and church people, plus a couple of preachers. Plus you’d risk facing the wrath of my husband’s sweet great aunt. One time I posted a recipe for a yummy cocktail and she told me that I should be ashamed of myself and implied that I was going to hell. She didn’t seem so sweet after that. I later found out that she spent much of her free time shaming various family members via social media, so it wasn’t just me at least. I can’t speak for the others, but my husband and I were relieved when the option to hide statuses from people came along.

Anyway, here’s the Fine Game, since I know you’re dying for me to cut to the chase so you can find out just how bad you are.

You don’t have to confess your answers, just the amount of your fine.

NOTE fines to be added once, not for how ever many times you have done it.

Smoked weed — $10

Did acid or pills — $5

Ever had sex at church — $25

Woke up in the morning and did not know the person who was next to you — $40

Had sex with someone on MySpace/Facebook/Bebo etc — $25

Had sex for money — $100

Ever had sex with a Puerto Rican — $20

Vandalized something — $20

Had sex on your parents’ bed — $10

Beat up someone — $20

Been jumped — $10

Cross dressed — $10

Given money to stripper — $25

Been in love with a stripper — $20

Kissed someone who’s name you didn’t know — $0.10

Hit on some one of the same sex while at work — $15

Ever drive and drank — $20

Ever got drunk at work, or went to work while still drunk — $50

Used toys while having sex — $30

Got drunk, passed out and don’t remember the night before — $20

Went skinny dipping — $5

Had sex in a pool — $20

Kissed someone of the same sex — $10

Had sex with someone of the same sex — $20

Cheated on your significant other — $10

Masturbated — $10

Cheated on your significant other with their relative or close friend — $20

Done oral — $5

Got oral — $5

Done / got oral in a vehicle while it was moving — $25

Stole something — $10

Had sex with someone in jail — $25

Made a nasty home video or took pictures — $15

Had a threesome — $50

Had sex in public — $20

Been in the same room while someone was having sex — $25

Stole something worth over more than a hundred dollars — $20

Had sex with someone 10 years older — $20

Had sex with someone under the age accepted by rule of thumb (half your age plus 7) — $25

Been in love with two people or more at the same time– $50

Said you love someone but didn’t mean it — $25

Went streaking — $5

Went streaking in broad daylight — $15

Been arrested — $5

Spent time in jail — $15

Pissed in the pool — $0.50

Played spin the bottle — $5

Done something you regret — $20

Had sex with your best friend — $20

Had sex with someone you work with at work — $25

Had anal sex — $80

Lied to your mate — $5

Lied to your mate about the sex being good — $25

I’m kinda curious. When it says “be jumped” does that mean that a bunch of people rolled up and beat you down or does it mean your significant other rolled up on you and sexed you up? And $20 for “done something you regret”? Seriously? I probably do something regrettable every day.

And, since I’m just on my blog and there are no family members, church folk, or preachers present, I’ll cop to my fine: $225.

Fun, right? And by “fun,” I mean absolute time waster. And pretty silly. So, not so fun. My guilty pleasure remains doing pointless quizzes that reveal my soul, hobbies, and food preferences.

Don’t run off just yet, though. There is another Fine Game going around on Facebook. I saw it yesterday when a few of my friends posted their fine amounts. Only this one isn’t naughty.

Check the Church Fine Game:


Funny how things change after nearly a decade, huh? People go from vaguely confessing their naughty shit to vaguely confessing their church histories.

In case you’re wondering, my fine was $30. My husband’s was $190. One day I hope to cast out a demon, but I’m pretty sure something from the first list will be going on for that to happen.

Wanna share your fines? No? Pooh on you.


That’s Not Dinner Table Material

Tonight Little Man and I had another mommy-son date night. We went for dinner and a movie again. Well, movie and a dinner, since we caught the early show.

We saw Pixels, the new movie where Adam Sandler, Kevin James, and Olaf take on Pac-Man and Donkey Kong. I wasn’t expecting much, but I thoroughly enjoyed it, as did LM. The language was a little much for young ears in a couple of parts, but otherwise it was okay.

After the movie, we stopped at this 50s style diner for hamburgers and milkshakes. While we were eating, LM asked me rather loudly, “Mom, you never told me how the baby gets out of your belly. Does it come out of your pee hole?”


“Uh…no. Why are you asking me this now?” He had been quiet for a couple of minutes–a beak from the nonstop chatter and nearly bouncing off the walls–but I hadn’t anticipated that this is where his mind had gone.

“I was thinking about things and wanted to know. So if the baby doesn’t come out of your pee hole, where does it come out of?”

The people next to us looked rather appalled. I guess they’ve never had an inquisitive almost second grader.

“That’s really not dinner table material,” I said, invoking my grandmother’s spirit. Whenever one of us–especially my dad–would say something inappropriate at supper, she’d always say “that’s not dinner table material” while looking extremely offended. “We’ll talk about it in the car, okay?”

“You promise?” Little Man asked. I understood his hesitation to let the subject go–the last time this came up was when I was carrying his sister, I think. I had told him God made the baby appear when he asked, as I wasn’t comfortable talking about this stuff with a 5-year-old. (And, no, he didn’t believe that.) I had planned to explain things before she was born, but as luck would have it, she was delivered via c-section, so I put it off.

“I promise.”

And I didn’t weasel out of it this time. While we were driving home, I did explain things, sorta.

“Can you see the hole?” he asked after I explained a little about where the baby makes its exit.

“Um…not just by glancing,” I said, thinking about how he might happen to pass by while I was changing his sister’s diaper.

“Can you see it with a microscope?”

“Little Man, you aren’t going to go looking at a woman’s private area with a microscope. Really the only person who would need to see is the doctor.”

“So you show the doctor your private parts?”

“It depends on which doctor I see, depending on what needs to be done.”

“So if I tore my penis like that guy did on The Office at the wedding, then I’d have to let the doctor see my private area so he could fix it?”


He was quiet for a moment.

“Mom, I caught two frogs in my bucket, but Bilbo ate one of them. I need to feed the other when I get home, okay? It’d be nice to have two pets, if he doesn’t die.”

The Petunia Blossom Returns [Not A Gardening Post]

[This post is of a confusing sexual nature. Only venture ahead if you’re comfortable with sexual confusion.]

Do you remember the story I told you about how my Grandma called vaginas vulvas, fuck it, vajayjays “petunia blossoms“?

Well, I have a continuation to the petunia blossom story. (I was writing about my therapy appointment today, but got too bogged down in it, and decided to go the lighter vajayjay route instead. I strongly recommend this route for any bout of writer’s block.)

My grandmother was rather protective of my petunia blossom. I would say that she wanted all of its petals to remain intact until I said “I do,” but it looks like the flower is just one giant petal, so she wanted its one big petal to remain intact until I said “I do.” (I’m sure one of you flower people can correct me on the proper terminology.)

pink-petuniaGrandma did a great job with her petunia blossom detail up until I was 20. Just when it looked like my petunia blossom was going to whither up and die–judging from the looks I had gotten from my friends over the past two or three years when I revealed that there had been no fertilizing, this was sure to happen soon–Sam came along.

Even though Grandma had tried to push me into asking Sam out (I didn’t) and gave me hell about not kissing him the first two times he tried, when things got more serious and we started spending a lot of time together, she went into super protective mode.

Must. Protect. Petunia. Blossom.

I assured her many times that nothing was going on–and it didn’t for a while. Shortly before the one-year mark of us talking online and dating, I got sick with strep throat. Sam, who was trying to be a good boyfriend, wanted to take care of me.

Big mistake. You don’t take care of Grandma’s sick 20-year-old baby. She takes care of her.

I didn’t care, let ’em fight over who fawned over me the most. I was given all the soda and hot chocolate I could stand, was vaporub’d, force fed cough drops, forced to take my nasty medicine, had my temperature checked every half hour, etc. And then Sam had the brilliant idea to spend the night–he told Grandma he’d sleep on the couch–to keep an eye on me and get me whatever I needed if I woke up in the night.

Yep, all of that for strep throat. Not ebola or something really serious. Where the fuck is that treatment when I’m sick now?!

Well, in the middle of the night, I woke up to hearing them arguing. I was all “whatever” and went back to sleep.

When I woke up later that morning, I woke up to a rather furious Grandma.

Grandma caught Sam “sneaking out of my bedroom” in the middle of the night and accused him of staying there just to have sex. I was mortified. Sam told her that wasn’t true and that he had heard me coughing and had gone in to check on me and was coming out at the same time she had been walking in to check on me, also because she heard me coughing.

(Note: Sam’s amazing hearing ceased to exist when my pregnancy morning sickness occurred in the middle of the night. What a shame.)

So, Grandma called my dad up and told him to get out there because there was a problem. When he walked in, she told him how Sam had stayed overnight to keep an eye on me while I was sick and that she caught him sneaking out of my room and that we were obviously having sex.

My mortification reached epic proportions.

“Is that true?” my dad asked Sam and me, although he seemed rather mortified himself, as well as unclear on why he was being asked to intervene in his almost 21-year-old daughter’s alleged sex life. Sam, who was 26 at the time, was probably regretting the whole “date a younger girl” thing.

“No,” I told him. I pointed out that I had strep throat, and obviously, who would have sex while being sick with strep throat? (I later learned that strep throat or other illnesses don’t necessarily mean no sex.)

“No!” Sam said, with such a pitiful look on his sex-deprived face that it convinced my dad immediately that nothing had happened.

“Ask them if they’re having sex at all then,” Grandma said.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad more uncomfortable.

“No!” I exclaimed. This was true–if we can mix a flower metaphor with a sports metaphor, Sam had only made it to third petal. Venturing beyond that wouldn’t happen for a couple more weeks.

“Okay,” my dad said. “Mama, nothing happened.”

My grandma sat in her recliner just steaming mad. “I know it did.” She folded her arms and pursed her lips together. There was no convincing her otherwise–even when she brought it up after I had been married for a year and I told her she had been wrong, she still didn’t believe me.

So, if any of you guys out there have wonderful intentions and want to show your girlfriends how awesome you are by taking care of her when she’s sick–rethink that shit if she’s living with her grandma. You don’t want to be getting in a turf war with a grandmother. It won’t end well. Drop off some chicken soup and a movie and leave.

The Birds and the Bees – It’s Way Too Early for This

Wanna know the best time to have The Talk with your kid, who happens to be in the first grade?

Not before 7:00 in the freaking morning.

Little Man’s doc is getting fixed today. My husband is going to take LM to school and then drop Bilbo off at the vet to have his jewels removed.

Sam mentioned the dog tagging along and when he was asked “why,” he told LM that he was having a surgery to have his privates removed.

“Come on LM, get your shoes on,” I prodded him. He just sat there staring.

“What’s wrong?”

“Daddy said that Bilbo is getting his privates cut off!” He seemed very concerned.

“Oh.” I thought for a moment. “Well, you know he’s keeping the part he potties from and is just having the part that contains the baby making goods removed.”


Shit. Why had I never gotten around to using the proper names for everything?

My husband tapped in.

“You know…the round things down there? That’s what he’s having removed.”

“Oh!” Little Man exclaimed. “You mean the thing with those two little balls.”


“Yes; those are your testicles and the other part is your penis,” I told him. “Bilbo is having his testicles removed so he can’t contribute to making babies, which was part of our adoption agreement.”

“Wait. I thought only women made babies?” Little Man inquired.

“They do, but not on their own,” I said.

“They’re like chickens; men have to fertilize their eggs,” Sam offered.

LM gave me a look. “Cool! You have eggs in there?” I can only imagine he thought this was the reason for Mommy’s lumpy tummy. Or maybe he was thinking about me being like a piñata and being full of Cadbury eggs. I’m locking the bedroom door tonight.

“Yeah, remember the video I showed you last year about pregnancy? How it started with an egg?”

“Well how many eggs do you have?”

I should know the rough answer to that, but brain fail. “I dunno, like a million.”

“And they can all be babies if they’re fertilized?” LM pressed.

“Well, yes, but that isn’t happening.”

And then the Big Question came.

“How does the daddy actually fertilize the egg?”



“He just does,” I said. “Now eat your toast.”

Yep, I’m pretty sure I’ll be getting a message from his teacher today.