Tag Archives: walking in on son masturbating

Desperately Seeking Search Terms

12 Apr

Photo courtesy Lucy http://www.lucy.com

A while back, I had what I thought was an amazing and original idea. Ok, I’ve had a lot of what I think are amazing and original ideas. Have ‘em all the time, usually when I’m in the shower. Something about massaging my head with fluffy fragrant bubbles gets my brain going. But I am thinking about a particular amazing and original idea.

I had the idea to write a blog post about the search terms people type into Google that then lead them to my blog. See, WordPress, the service I use to host my blog, keeps track of the search terms that are bringing people to Snide Reply. Obviously, they do this for everyone who has a blog on WordPress, though it would be really cool if they did it just for me, wouldn’t it? Every day, I can look through a list of what people were looking for that brought them to my corner of the Web. Turns out the idea is not particularly original. Lots of bloggers do posts on the humorous, disturbing, and confounding terms inquiring minds want to know more about. One blogging friend did a particularly fine job with her terms, devising a search term test. It’s fun. I recommend you try it.

My friend gets some funny search term hits, like “the most beautiful chickens.” I wondered who might be searching for the most beautiful chickens and then I recalled that Martha Stewart seems to have an unnatural fondness for chickens. She has devoted entire spreads in her magazine to close up portraits of chickens. I know Martha also likes to surf the web. (Ok, I admit it. I have an unnatural fondness for Martha. This is how I know about the chickens and the web surfing.) So, clearly, Martha Stewart has visited my friend’s blog.

I’m afraid Martha won’t be dropping by Snide Reply anytime soon, unless she’s traumatized by a view of her dad’s penis. Since her dad is dead, (I said my fondness was unnatural) I’m pretty sure that’s not likely to happen. A heck of a lot of people are coming to me after catching a gander at dad’s ‘nads. In fact, that’s the number one search term for Snide Reply. Never mind that I’ve written about everything from childish parents to stupid songs. If you’ve been brain-scarred by an eyeful of Pop’s penis, then I’m the place to come for virtual bonding, since I wrote an entire post on my adventures in parental genital awareness.

That same post covered discovering my son in the act of self-abuse, though my son probably found nothing at all abusive about it. When it happened, he screamed, I screamed, then I slammed his door shut and we pretended nothing had ever happened. Apparently, that’s not enough for some people. Seen your son spanking the monkey? Trot on over to Snide Reply and see how one mom dealt with it!

It never occurred to me that I should turn to anonymous sources on the Internet when I encountered my dad’s and son’s genitalia. My “pretend it isn’t happening” strategy worked just fine. I save my searches for truly confounding issues, like where to find a running vest for less than $80 because I gave away the one I had with the Susan G. Komen logo on it.

On a lark, I decided to try one of the searches that have been used to find me. A lot of people come to me looking for advice on dealing with their sons’ monkey spanking habits. Since I think there is nothing unnatural about a boy’s fondness for said activity, I’m not a particularly useful source. So, I searched on one of the more disgusting masturbation-related terms used to find me. My post doesn’t appear until the bottom of the second page of results. But the first result is a doozy! At Circleofmoms.com, someone wants to know how to “stop my son from masterbating at inappropraite times.” Apparently, the boy’s sister walked in on him holding a Barbie in one hand and his wiener in the other. I always tell my daughter that she needs to put her special toys away if she doesn’t want others to play with them. If she doesn’t, she’ll just have to shut the door and pretend nothing happened.

Naked Barbies featured in a post that brings lots of people to my blog looking for what to do about naked neighbors. The neighbors I wrote about were the best ones ever and the worst ones ever. We’ve had all kinds of issues with the worst neighbor, but his being naked has never been a problem. Mostly, our neighbors are a pretty well-clothed bunch, except for the pasty, paunchy guy who likes to mow his lawn shirtless. My “only Zac Efron should run shirtless” rule is hereby amended to include “only Zac Efron should mow the lawn shirtless.” Oh! And people find me by looking for Zac Efron shirtless. I blush when I think that people assume they’ll find a half-naked Zac Efron hanging out with me. Ok, I don’t blush. Let’s just say things get a little warmer around here.

Some people who find me aren’t looking for advice related to masturbation, genitals or nakedness in any way. I’m pleased to report I’m a source for advice on good songs to run to as well as Thich Nhat Hahn and the Naperville Library. People find me looking for Journey lyrics, family sayings and bad dad jokes. Someone even turned to me wondering if “you have to wear thongs with yoga pants,” to which I’d have to say, “Search me!”

Say Hello To Mr. Johnson

1 Feb

When I lived in Oak Park, my next-door neighbor was an Armenian woman, about my age, who grew up in the Soviet Union. While she had an M. D. and a Ph.D., was working on curing breast cancer and could speak at least three languages, there was one she desperately wanted to learn. She felt her lack hindered her ability to truly interact with her colleagues.

My friend wanted to learn the language of American vulgarity. I don’t discriminate in verbal acquisition, so my vocabulary includes an extensive collection of American swear words. And I know how to use them.

So on our nightly walks, I would instruct her in how to swear in American English.  We spent at least two sessions discussing the various terms for copulation. I ranked them in increasing order of severity from “fooling around” up to the “F” word. She was astounded at how versatile that word could be, but couldn’t really master its use. Still she was eager to try her newly acquired skills. At a meeting of her research team, presented with a problem that confounded her, she said, “What fuck is this?!”

With the “F” word behind us, she turned her interest to vulgar synonyms for “penis.” Again, she was amazed at the variety of monikers Americans have devised for the male appendage. I don’t think she believed me when I mentioned that many men actually have a pet name for their penis, “just like women have a term for their breasts.” The look on her face told me that Soviet women probably don’t have terms of endearment for their “girls.”

I was reminded of my friend while taking care of my dad recently. Cancer treatment doesn’t just make you tired. It doesn’t just make you nauseous. In my dad’s case, there is a lot of sleeplessness. He also has a feeding tube installed in his small intestine. All night, the adult version of formula is pumped into his body. So, along with the sleeplessness, he has toileting issues.

It was in the course of dealing with one of these issues that I came face-to-face, as it were, with my dad’s . . .um . . .Johnson. I knew what came next. I dreaded what came next. Out of respect for my dad’s ability to retain his dignity in a terrible situation, I got over myself and did what needed to be done.

Dad and I both survived the incident and others as well, but it struck me that we had crossed a significant invisible barrier. In a moment, it became appropriate to do something that had been completely inappropriate a heartbeat prior.

When we were kids, my dad would dress in his swim trunks and get in the shower with my sister and me. With the water beating down on us, he would rock back and forth making storm noises. Now, I’m grabbing a handful of cleansing wipes and helping dad do what he can’t do for himself.

Ironically, it’s now ok for me to see dad’s unit, but no longer appropriate for me to see my son’s. When my son was an infant, I didn’t just see the teeny, weenie peenie, but was its primary care giver. The doctor assured me that post-circumcision care was simple. She lied. I think she did it on purpose. Prior to amending my son’s constitution, she told me “circumcision is completely unnecessary. We used to think the procedure didn’t hurt them, but now we believe that isn’t true.” She then gave me the pursed-lip “I dare you to be a bad mother” look. I gave her the “it’s none of your damn business” look and said, “My husband is Jewish.”

My intimate relationship with my son’s winky continued. He refused to use the toilet any way but the way his father did: standing up. This meant that the only time he did not pee in a diaper was at Brookfield Zoo, where there is a pint-sized urinal in the women’s restroom. At nearly four years old, he finally stood tall enough to (sort of) hit the mark in the potty. He still is only sort of making the mark, but I think he does it so he doesn’t have to share a bathroom with his sister.

The day it became inappropriate for me to see my son’s penis is burned into my mind. I was bringing laundry to his room, just as I had done for years. I seldom knocked. On the day that shall live in infamy, I opened the door and found my son exercising his right to the pursuit of happiness. We looked at each other in horror. I said, “AHHHHHH!!!!” He said, “AHHHHHHHHH!!!! I slammed the door. Now, I knock and he locks.

I don’t think I’ll ever completely recover from seeing my baby boy behaving in a very un-babyish manner. That kind of thing has a way of searing the corneas. But, I’m behaving like an adult when it comes to caring for dad. He needs it and I’m glad to do it.

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