Dear Prudence,
I'm writing because I am torn. I am married to the most perfectest man in the world, a small-town sheriff who lost his wife when their ginger son was but the least little speck of a baby. I've raised the little feller as if he were my own, and I wholeheartedly agreed with my husband's desire to father no more children when we married, a decision made concrete with his vasectomy (a decision which, BTW, has made my own contraceptive life so much easier).
Nowadays, with the little rapscallion heading off to serve our country at an Army base in Greenland, and my biological clepsydra plip plopping away, I find myself thinking back to my former beau. We were a perfect couple, on paper, but for some reason it never worked out. It may have had something to do with him raping me now and then, but a few abortions later, at least I know from that unfortunate incident that he is fertile (and so am I).
I'm writing to you despite the fact that someone close to me is a noted advice columnist. Unfortunately, she's my husband's ex-mother-in-law, who still blames my husband nearly twenty years after the death of her daughter. She refuses to talk to any of us, and when I contacted her for advice about my plip plopping, claimed that it would be a violation of professional ethics for a professional Agony Aunt to give advice to a family member.
So Prudie, please tell me, is that really true, or is she just being a hateful old bitch as usual?
Yours,
In a DIL Pickle
Showing posts with label allinone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label allinone. Show all posts
Friday, September 3, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Dear Prudence, 19 Aug 2010, All-in-one: Mommy Dimmest
The five letters this composite is based on can be found HERE.
Dear Prudence,
I’m writing for some advice about a conflict with my son’s father.
We had a great relationship for the first few weeks, until he discovered that I was a nymphomaniac with a serious sex addiction problem, due to my being sexually assaulted as a child (that's the story I tell... in fact, the guy I accused of molesting me was just a mildly creepy guy with Down Syndrome I saw at an Interstate rest area). He was a virgin when we first hooked up, and I figured I would have a better chance of bedding (or back-seating him, as it turns out) if I told him I was a virgin too. When he finally figured out that the stains on our mattress were not related to a “woman’s problem” (the first explanation that came to me when he asked what they were), but rather were the remains of my six other boyfriends at the time, he dumped me, saying that I was “not only a slut, but a liar”.
Anyhow, before he left, he got me knocked up, and once our son was born, he started raising him. I do have visitation rights once a week, so our son stays in my small one-bedroom apartment a few days each month.
I’d like to have an apartment with a spare bedroom for my son, but I don’t have much ready cash, since I’ve not been too lucky career-wise. I tend to get fired for fraternization with the male staff, which they claim impairs teamwork. Anyhow, I did have a lead for a great job recently, but it didn’t work out. I have a strong suspicion that my bitch of a cousin, who’s quite high up in the firm, had something to do with blackballing me. Jealous cunt.
Because my place is so small, my son sleeps in my bed when he’s here, unless I have a guy over (which is most of the time), when he sleeps on the loveseat in the living room.
Now that the kid’s hit his growth spurt, the loveseat’s getting too small. The kid’s dad says that sleeping in my bed is inappropriate (whatever), and has given me some cash to buy a new sofabed. The thing is, one of my current BF’s has given me an engagement ring, and when I went back to the jewellery shop to have it resized, I let myself be talked into trading up to a bigger model, using the sofabed money to pay the difference.
The father is furious about this, and is threatening to have my parental rights removed.
My question, Prudie, is: platinum or white gold?
Yours,
Mommy Dimmest
Dear Prudence,
I’m writing for some advice about a conflict with my son’s father.
We had a great relationship for the first few weeks, until he discovered that I was a nymphomaniac with a serious sex addiction problem, due to my being sexually assaulted as a child (that's the story I tell... in fact, the guy I accused of molesting me was just a mildly creepy guy with Down Syndrome I saw at an Interstate rest area). He was a virgin when we first hooked up, and I figured I would have a better chance of bedding (or back-seating him, as it turns out) if I told him I was a virgin too. When he finally figured out that the stains on our mattress were not related to a “woman’s problem” (the first explanation that came to me when he asked what they were), but rather were the remains of my six other boyfriends at the time, he dumped me, saying that I was “not only a slut, but a liar”.
Anyhow, before he left, he got me knocked up, and once our son was born, he started raising him. I do have visitation rights once a week, so our son stays in my small one-bedroom apartment a few days each month.
I’d like to have an apartment with a spare bedroom for my son, but I don’t have much ready cash, since I’ve not been too lucky career-wise. I tend to get fired for fraternization with the male staff, which they claim impairs teamwork. Anyhow, I did have a lead for a great job recently, but it didn’t work out. I have a strong suspicion that my bitch of a cousin, who’s quite high up in the firm, had something to do with blackballing me. Jealous cunt.
Because my place is so small, my son sleeps in my bed when he’s here, unless I have a guy over (which is most of the time), when he sleeps on the loveseat in the living room.
Now that the kid’s hit his growth spurt, the loveseat’s getting too small. The kid’s dad says that sleeping in my bed is inappropriate (whatever), and has given me some cash to buy a new sofabed. The thing is, one of my current BF’s has given me an engagement ring, and when I went back to the jewellery shop to have it resized, I let myself be talked into trading up to a bigger model, using the sofabed money to pay the difference.
The father is furious about this, and is threatening to have my parental rights removed.
My question, Prudie, is: platinum or white gold?
Yours,
Mommy Dimmest
Thursday, February 4, 2010
DP Feb 4, All-in-one
Dear Prudie,
I met my husband through his brother, who was a coworker of mine. Well before meeting my husband, I had a drunken petting session with his brother. After getting serious with my husband, I decided it was best to see as little of my future BIL as possible, so I found another job (which was no great lost, since I far preferred being a waitress to working a help line where I had to listen to dudes calling in for assistance while they sat on the can). Of course, I still see my BIL at various family events, and we do our best to ignore our indiscretion.
Nonetheless, I could not help feeling guilty, as if I had betrayed my husband, even though I wasn't married, going steady, or even aware of his existence when I almost had something similar to sex with his brother. And so I ended up telling him the whole sordid tale.
Well, as you can imagine, my husband freaked out at this news. I will spare you the insults addressed at me (and oddly enough, not at his brother), because something more significant occurred during his rant. My husband suffered a stroke caused by his intense screaming and jumping up and down.
He suffered temporary paralysis, but received great treatment, and has recovered most of his motor functions. Alas, he suffered significant memory loss, and after many months he can still not remember the last few days before the stroke.
I still feel horribly guilty, and I don't believe that I've truly unburdened myself to my husband because he can't remember my confession. And to make things worse, my new employer has gone bankrupt since he kept giving away his services to hard-luck cases for free (which seriously cramped my own finances: just what is the appropriate tip for a free lunch?), so I've had to return to my old job, where my BIL still works.
My question to you, Prudie, is:should I tell my husband again?
Yours,
Once Burned, Still Stupid
I met my husband through his brother, who was a coworker of mine. Well before meeting my husband, I had a drunken petting session with his brother. After getting serious with my husband, I decided it was best to see as little of my future BIL as possible, so I found another job (which was no great lost, since I far preferred being a waitress to working a help line where I had to listen to dudes calling in for assistance while they sat on the can). Of course, I still see my BIL at various family events, and we do our best to ignore our indiscretion.
Nonetheless, I could not help feeling guilty, as if I had betrayed my husband, even though I wasn't married, going steady, or even aware of his existence when I almost had something similar to sex with his brother. And so I ended up telling him the whole sordid tale.
Well, as you can imagine, my husband freaked out at this news. I will spare you the insults addressed at me (and oddly enough, not at his brother), because something more significant occurred during his rant. My husband suffered a stroke caused by his intense screaming and jumping up and down.
He suffered temporary paralysis, but received great treatment, and has recovered most of his motor functions. Alas, he suffered significant memory loss, and after many months he can still not remember the last few days before the stroke.
I still feel horribly guilty, and I don't believe that I've truly unburdened myself to my husband because he can't remember my confession. And to make things worse, my new employer has gone bankrupt since he kept giving away his services to hard-luck cases for free (which seriously cramped my own finances: just what is the appropriate tip for a free lunch?), so I've had to return to my old job, where my BIL still works.
My question to you, Prudie, is:should I tell my husband again?
Yours,
Once Burned, Still Stupid
Sunday, January 17, 2010
DP Jan 14: All-in-one
Dear Prudence,
I live in an apartment building in a big city. Across the street is an office building, which is great in terms of privacy. My wife and I are usually gone during the day when there are people in the building, and at night, when we like to do the naughty stuff, there's no-one there to watch. This means we can keep the blinds up and the window open, thus lowering our need for air conditioning. I know that an open window is better than air conditioning, because the Green Lantern said so.
Anyhow, our problem is not the night, but on weekends, when even if we wanted to do the naughty with the windows up, we couldn't! You see, Prudie, the offices across the street from our bedroom windows are occupied by a law firm, and the older guy who occupies the large office (must be a partner) in direct view has the habit of working on weekends. I say "working" but I don’t know how many assignments he manages to finish, since he always seems to be accompanied by an attractive young woman. I'm guessing they're law students, based on their age and dress, and there's a new one every weekend.
The street is not very wide, and because we live in the business district, pretty quiet on the weekend, so we can hear the guy talking (he's old and apparently hard of hearing, so his voice carries). The first day he goes on about how unhappy he is since his wife divorced him (he's been telling the same story for three years!), and usually by the second day, he and the law student are going at it big time. Well, not so big time, since he usually has to take a break quite quickly to catch his breath, but he has all afternoon, so there ends up being quite a lot to see.
My wife usually walks the dog on Sunday afternoon (I prefer my pet, an extra cool tarantula… no need to walk them, and it's so neat when they eat crickets!!!!!!), so I can enjoy the show put on by the law students.
I was IMing a buddy at work about the latest show, and the IT guy flagged it for inappropriate use of corporate resources. Normally I'd get off with a warning, but the IT guy happens to be my brother-in-law once removed. Normally such matters are strictly confidential, but he told his wife, who told her sister, aka my wife, that I was into the "assignment viewing". What do you make of this gross violation of my personal life!!!???? Anyway, now my wife wants to punish me by taking away my tarantula!!!! And make me walk the damn dog!!!! The bitch (applies to both wife and dog)!!!!
So here's my question, Prudie: I told my wife I wouldn't watch from the bedroom anymore. But if I watch from the living room (obstructed view, but better than nothing), am I breaking my promise?
Yours,
Arachnovoyeur-in-law
I live in an apartment building in a big city. Across the street is an office building, which is great in terms of privacy. My wife and I are usually gone during the day when there are people in the building, and at night, when we like to do the naughty stuff, there's no-one there to watch. This means we can keep the blinds up and the window open, thus lowering our need for air conditioning. I know that an open window is better than air conditioning, because the Green Lantern said so.
Anyhow, our problem is not the night, but on weekends, when even if we wanted to do the naughty with the windows up, we couldn't! You see, Prudie, the offices across the street from our bedroom windows are occupied by a law firm, and the older guy who occupies the large office (must be a partner) in direct view has the habit of working on weekends. I say "working" but I don’t know how many assignments he manages to finish, since he always seems to be accompanied by an attractive young woman. I'm guessing they're law students, based on their age and dress, and there's a new one every weekend.
The street is not very wide, and because we live in the business district, pretty quiet on the weekend, so we can hear the guy talking (he's old and apparently hard of hearing, so his voice carries). The first day he goes on about how unhappy he is since his wife divorced him (he's been telling the same story for three years!), and usually by the second day, he and the law student are going at it big time. Well, not so big time, since he usually has to take a break quite quickly to catch his breath, but he has all afternoon, so there ends up being quite a lot to see.
My wife usually walks the dog on Sunday afternoon (I prefer my pet, an extra cool tarantula… no need to walk them, and it's so neat when they eat crickets!!!!!!), so I can enjoy the show put on by the law students.
I was IMing a buddy at work about the latest show, and the IT guy flagged it for inappropriate use of corporate resources. Normally I'd get off with a warning, but the IT guy happens to be my brother-in-law once removed. Normally such matters are strictly confidential, but he told his wife, who told her sister, aka my wife, that I was into the "assignment viewing". What do you make of this gross violation of my personal life!!!???? Anyway, now my wife wants to punish me by taking away my tarantula!!!! And make me walk the damn dog!!!! The bitch (applies to both wife and dog)!!!!
So here's my question, Prudie: I told my wife I wouldn't watch from the bedroom anymore. But if I watch from the living room (obstructed view, but better than nothing), am I breaking my promise?
Yours,
Arachnovoyeur-in-law
Friday, December 18, 2009
DP Dec 17: All-in-one
Dear Prudie,Times are kind of tough, and after paying for my late mother's medical bills and funeral expenses, I'm really tapped out for Christmas.
A workmate has invited me to the baby shower he and his husband (they slipped through the Prop 8 crack) are having for the mixed-race twins they're adopting. I can't afford anything on their organic-only registry list, and would love to simply offer them the batch of cloth diapers my workmate offered my wife at our own baby shower (they're organic, natch). Alas, she miscarried, and the diapers are a bitter reminder of our loss we would be only too happy to get rid of. I don't feel right about the retrogifting, especially since the workmate says they plan to raise the twins diaper-free.
I would be particularly uncomfortable attending this baby shower, since my workmate has been having an affair with his old high school beard he reconnected with on Facebook. He explained that it started because he wanted to hook her in as a surrogate when it looked like their application to adopt was going nowhere. Despite the success in adopting, he continues to see her. I think he's not really in love with his husband anymore, but he is into the stylish image of the cool bobo gay couple with mixed-race twins (he thinks that he and his husband are our town's version of Kevin and Scotty). Anyway, he's used me as a cover, against my will, on several occasions, and I refuse to lie to his husband, so I prefer simply to avoid them.
In any case, my wife refuses to attend the shower. She "found God" a few months ago. She thinks the miscarriage was a message from God about our own wayward behaviour (let's say we used to do it in styles other than missionary), and now refuses to associate with sinners. She won't even let me accompany her to Christmas service at her new church, saying she will not have her house of worship defiled by an unbeliever. The only way we're staying married at all is because I did some Bible study myself (1 Corinthians 7:12-14).
I could recoup some of my expenses on my mother's illness and death by getting her sister to cough up the money she received from friends and other relatives to help out my mother, and which she has greedily kept for herself. I was about to take her to small claim's court, but my wife says that would be un-Christian, which I really don't understand, because she says I'm not a real Christian, and my aunt is a goddamn Wiccan.
So Prudie, here's my question: Can I get out of the shower by pointing out that parents are not supposed to be begging for presents?
Yours,
Broke in so many ways
--------------
This response came in from Smagboy:
Dear Broke,
I think that you should tell your workmate that you've given your aunt a few thousand dollars to be used to purchase gifts, from you, to present at his baby shower (which, unfortunately, you'll be unable to attend as you'll be out of town). That way, your workmate will know to expect the gifts from you aunt. Make sure to tell him that you've instructed your aunt to buy only the finest mixed-race, Kevin and Scotty-endorsed, Angelina Jolie-inspired goods. Give him your aunt's telephone number, e-mail address and street address. No need to tell you aunt about this, by the way. As a matter of fact, I discourage it.
I believe this will solve two of your three problems. Your aunt will be pissed and never speak to you again, nor will your workmate. Either that or they'll find love in each others' shallowness and never bother you again. Now, for you wife, might I suggest, reading to her (1 Cor 2:15) instead of (7:12-14). This verse will allow her to feel justified in leaving you faster than a crack of lightning. You may believe that to be a problem, but you'll then be free to start a new life, without three of the loads with which you're currently burdened. That may unbreak you considerably and might actually begin to heal.
Sincerely,
The Smag
Thursday, November 19, 2009
DP Nov 19: All-in-one
Dear Prudie,
Last week I wrote you about my refusal to be part of my future husband's family's holiday photo/greeting card. I sure took a lot of flak from you and your readers!
In my haste to get your advice, I may have left out some important information, which I'd like to add to support my "case".
First of all, their name is not really "Smith". It's "Peesucker". I am keeping my name, and my husband is taking mine in order to be free from a lifetime of insults and derision. I really don't want to have my identity associated with the name "Peesucker", especially since my first name is Polly.
Something you all need to know is that all the women in the photo are expected to dress in flesh-tone lingerie. My father-in-law (actually my husband's stepfather) explains that ever since they moved down to Florida, they love to stick it to their old friends and neighbors back in Minnesota and show off the balmy temperature down here. I've always felt that as a rather plain girl, I shouldn't try to flirt or show off, and I just can't see myself nearly naked on a photo sent to a bunch of complete strangers, and before I'm even officially part of the family.
Another reason for my concern is "Uncle Pete", my fiancé's mother's brother. Pete has just been released from prison after serving a two-year prison term for involuntary manslaughter, a charge to which he plea bargained after a mysterious "hunting accident". With the support of the NRA, he's fighting the ban on firearms permits to felons, and has received a temporary order from a judge to grant him the right to carry a variety of handguns and rifles, which he takes full advantage of. Since part of the family tradition is to get everyone "in the holiday spirit" by serving ample quantities of eggnog (and not the child-friendly stuff), I worry about being the victim of a tinsel-bedecked tragedy.
Perhaps the biggest reason for not wanting to be part of this family photo is the presence of Gretchen, my husband's first cousin. Gretchen works as a medical secretary for a well-known oncologist, and sees the endless stream of dying men who come to the practice as her personal dating pool. Because she favors guys with less than three months to live, we never see the some one twice. I have enough problems remembering names without having to meet a new chemoboy every time I see her.
If all this doesn’t help you see my request in a new light, here's the killer: that flesh-toned lingerie? It's hand knit by my fiancé's grandmother. And it's in mohair!
Signed,
Won't Say "Cheese"
Last week I wrote you about my refusal to be part of my future husband's family's holiday photo/greeting card. I sure took a lot of flak from you and your readers!
In my haste to get your advice, I may have left out some important information, which I'd like to add to support my "case".
First of all, their name is not really "Smith". It's "Peesucker". I am keeping my name, and my husband is taking mine in order to be free from a lifetime of insults and derision. I really don't want to have my identity associated with the name "Peesucker", especially since my first name is Polly.
Something you all need to know is that all the women in the photo are expected to dress in flesh-tone lingerie. My father-in-law (actually my husband's stepfather) explains that ever since they moved down to Florida, they love to stick it to their old friends and neighbors back in Minnesota and show off the balmy temperature down here. I've always felt that as a rather plain girl, I shouldn't try to flirt or show off, and I just can't see myself nearly naked on a photo sent to a bunch of complete strangers, and before I'm even officially part of the family.
Another reason for my concern is "Uncle Pete", my fiancé's mother's brother. Pete has just been released from prison after serving a two-year prison term for involuntary manslaughter, a charge to which he plea bargained after a mysterious "hunting accident". With the support of the NRA, he's fighting the ban on firearms permits to felons, and has received a temporary order from a judge to grant him the right to carry a variety of handguns and rifles, which he takes full advantage of. Since part of the family tradition is to get everyone "in the holiday spirit" by serving ample quantities of eggnog (and not the child-friendly stuff), I worry about being the victim of a tinsel-bedecked tragedy.
Perhaps the biggest reason for not wanting to be part of this family photo is the presence of Gretchen, my husband's first cousin. Gretchen works as a medical secretary for a well-known oncologist, and sees the endless stream of dying men who come to the practice as her personal dating pool. Because she favors guys with less than three months to live, we never see the some one twice. I have enough problems remembering names without having to meet a new chemoboy every time I see her.
If all this doesn’t help you see my request in a new light, here's the killer: that flesh-toned lingerie? It's hand knit by my fiancé's grandmother. And it's in mohair!
Signed,
Won't Say "Cheese"
Sunday, November 15, 2009
DP Nov 12: All-in-one
Dear Prudie,
Thanksgiving is soon upon us, and I'm dreading our family "celebration". This year my sister-in-law is once again hosting all and sundry, at her insistence, and will give us one of her patented traditional Norman Rockwell-vs-Currier and Ives tableaux of bounty and familial warmth. If we don't come dressed in hand-knit sweaters, she makes us wear one from her stash of thousands of woollen monstrosities. She rents a sleigh or haywagon (depending on the weather) that we all have take a ride on through the subdivision. And God forbid she should use anything store bought or disposable while trying to feed the hordes of family and friends she manages to invite each time.
The result of her desire for a perfect holiday celebration is a very predictable breakdown. Last time, it was provoked by a neighbour choking on a giblet. She leapt across the table, Heimliched the guy, and after assuring herself that he was well, crumpled onto the floor a heaving wreck of gravy-laden humanity, before calling her husband out on the carpet for preferring to watch the football rather than listening to her recount for the tenth time the story of how Fred almost died, and how she saved him, and how traumatic it all was, and how we truly could be thankful this year. All I could think about was how I was going to get stuck handwashing her crystal during her breakdown since she can't imagine using dishwasher-safe glasses. Bitch.
I also fear that I will be confronted with my third cousin, a rather plain girl who had the bad idea last time of following her friends' advice to doll up to try to snag herself a man. It's true that with the number of divorced men from the neighbourhood my SIL takes in each year (poor things, alone on Thanksgiving, far from their kids), the pickings are good. But seeing a first-season-4-month-pregnant Peggy Olson trying to pull off a January Jones GQ number does nothing for my holiday appetite, and I ended up blurting out something about sow's ears and silk purses… 
Things will be even worse this year, since "Peggy" is out of a job, having failed in an attempt to get her boss the dentist to dump his wife by denouncing the insurance fraud his office manager/spouse was engaging in. Guess what: the boss knew, and Peg was out on her keester, with some compromising January Jones-style nude photos she had sent to the doc ensuring that she would keep her mouth shut.
I could go on about the horrors I face, but all I really need to know is: when I get my Chinese takeout this year, should I get the salty or sweet soy sauce?Yours,
"Giving thanks to Mr. Won down the street this year"
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
DP Nov 5: All-in-one
The original HERE.
Dear Prudence,
Although I might be better off writing to Randy Cohen at the NY Times, I figured I'd have a better chance of getting an answer from you. From the number of obviously made-up letters, I can tell you aren't getting that many real ones…
I thought of Randy Cohen first because this is sort of an ethical question. I run a custom design shop for electronics and other goods. Typically an inventor seeking investors will have me put together a prototype based on a design concept they've come up with. But lately I've had a few unusual requests, and I'd like your opinion on them.
The first request was for a "personal massage device". The target market seems to be adolescent girls, because the client is asking for a "My Pretty Pony" model. I'm not sure if that means it's supposed to have a silky tail attached to the end, or maybe something else, but it gives me the willies, for sure. The client has explained that there is a market for "personal massage devices" that look like something else, aimed at teenage girls who are embarrassed about having such things where their parents might find them. Prudie: since when is massage a taboo subject?
The second request comes from a woman who wants me to create an invisible femidom. Why in the world would a woman need such a thing? I would think any woman would be happy for her partner to know she was using such a reliable form of birth control. I did see this episode of Nip/Tuck where Julia was collecting semen to use in her cosmetics line. Prudie: do you think this is that sort of deal? And if so, should I be getting a cut?
The third request comes from a different teenage girl. She's asked me to produce a 1/8-scale version of a traditional bear trap. I'm a little worried, because in the package she sent me, she included a life-size baby boy doll to test the device on. Prudie: who collects life-size baby dolls? That's just too weird for words.
The fourth comes from a client who wants me to devise an invention to automatically lower the toilet seat. That's not really hard to do, but she wants me to incorporate a pair of socks as the elastic band for the device. I'd be happy to do so, but do you think this is hygienic?
These jobs are all a bit of a pain, and my aim is to save time and trouble by combining them into one. I'm going to come up with a toilet seat weight in the form of a personal massage device shaped like a pony's you-know-what, that is hooked onto the toilet seat by a sock that has a plastic lining suitable for use as a discreet femidom. My question to you, Prudie, is: can I charge each client full price, or do I have to give them a discount?
Signed,
Not your prototypical prototyper
Dear Prudence,
Although I might be better off writing to Randy Cohen at the NY Times, I figured I'd have a better chance of getting an answer from you. From the number of obviously made-up letters, I can tell you aren't getting that many real ones…
I thought of Randy Cohen first because this is sort of an ethical question. I run a custom design shop for electronics and other goods. Typically an inventor seeking investors will have me put together a prototype based on a design concept they've come up with. But lately I've had a few unusual requests, and I'd like your opinion on them.
The first request was for a "personal massage device". The target market seems to be adolescent girls, because the client is asking for a "My Pretty Pony" model. I'm not sure if that means it's supposed to have a silky tail attached to the end, or maybe something else, but it gives me the willies, for sure. The client has explained that there is a market for "personal massage devices" that look like something else, aimed at teenage girls who are embarrassed about having such things where their parents might find them. Prudie: since when is massage a taboo subject?The second request comes from a woman who wants me to create an invisible femidom. Why in the world would a woman need such a thing? I would think any woman would be happy for her partner to know she was using such a reliable form of birth control. I did see this episode of Nip/Tuck where Julia was collecting semen to use in her cosmetics line. Prudie: do you think this is that sort of deal? And if so, should I be getting a cut?The third request comes from a different teenage girl. She's asked me to produce a 1/8-scale version of a traditional bear trap. I'm a little worried, because in the package she sent me, she included a life-size baby boy doll to test the device on. Prudie: who collects life-size baby dolls? That's just too weird for words.The fourth comes from a client who wants me to devise an invention to automatically lower the toilet seat. That's not really hard to do, but she wants me to incorporate a pair of socks as the elastic band for the device. I'd be happy to do so, but do you think this is hygienic?These jobs are all a bit of a pain, and my aim is to save time and trouble by combining them into one. I'm going to come up with a toilet seat weight in the form of a personal massage device shaped like a pony's you-know-what, that is hooked onto the toilet seat by a sock that has a plastic lining suitable for use as a discreet femidom. My question to you, Prudie, is: can I charge each client full price, or do I have to give them a discount?
Signed,
Not your prototypical prototyper
Thursday, October 29, 2009
DP Oct 29: All-in-one
Read letters HEREDear Prudence,
I'm a recent graduate of a prestigious PhD program at a prestigious Ivy League school. I saw all these undergrads I had to TA who seemed really at ease with all the social graces, and now that I've got my first job and my first real grown-up apartment, I'm trying to show off the things I learned by imitating a bunch of privileged wankers.
The thing is, my degree was in the humanities, so my first grown-up apartment is barely bigger than my study carrel in the library back at grad school. I'm about to have my first dinner party (no paper or plastic for the first time!), and need to decide whom to invite.
There's my birth mother, who's recently come back into my life. My birth mother was a drunken whore who neglected me for the first five years of my life. I was fortunate enough to be adopted by a wonderful couple, who gave me a lot of love and a great education. I know they're very proud of my achievements, as they're always going on about their daughter the PhD, who they rescued from a life of poverty, neglect, and fetal alcohol syndrome (although they do sometimes say that if my birth mother hadn't been a drunk, I might have become a real doctor… although if my birth mother hadn't been a drunk, they would never have been able to adopt me, so that's neither here nor there, is it?).
My birth mother has been sober for a whole six months, and is keen to catch up on our missing 25 years. She's been treating me to a series of lunches and dinners, during which I have to give a recap of a year in my life. At every meal we've had together, she rolls a pair of D&D dice to determine the year I will recap. While I don't mind this so much, I really don't think my very first grown-up dinner party should be the place for another year-in-review.
I also think I should invite my adoptive parents. They did their best to be very modern about my adoption, and kept taking me on visits to my birth mother and her crazy family until I was 12, when I finally put my foot down and told them I didn't want to do that anymore. I didn't mind visiting my biological family that much: they were a refreshing change from my very PC, very regimented, very straightlaced adoptive family. But I just couldn't bear the sighs from my adoptive parents for days after our visits, all focused on how lucky I was to be taken from such a dreadful environment. My adoptive parents haven't seen my birth mother for over 10 years, and I don't think they'll appreciate the fact that birth mother has cleaned up her act, depriving them of the satisfaction of knowing they're better human beings than my birth mother.
Then there's my boyfriend. He's perfect in every way, except that he enjoys stabbing me with red-hot knives. He says that I must enjoy it, because I make exactly the same screams when he pokes me the knives as when he pokes me with his cock. The argument does seem strong, but I'm thinking that I've just about had enough of his impromptu cauterizations.
I also want to invite some grad school pals, as well as some of my new colleagues. I can just about squeeze everybody in, but at least one person has to go.
So my question to you, Dear Prudence, is:
Should I just wait for my birth mother to show up and borrow her dice to determine who needs to be instantly disinvited?
Yours,
Not Julia, Not Julie, Just Juliette
Thursday, October 15, 2009
DP 15 Oct 2009: All-in-one
http://www.slate.com/id/2232269/
Dear Prudence,
As an infant, I was traumatized by a confusion induced by my aunt and uncle. In order to conform to their decision that my mother's father should be addressed soley by the name adopted by their child (my cousin), I was forced to call our mutual grandfather "Gwumgwum". My inclination was toward greater formality, and I tended to call him "Mister Grandfather Sir", but whenever I did so, my aunt and uncle slapped me across the face. Because I spent many weekends and holidays with them, they had ample opportunity to indoctrinate me.
Much as lefthanders forced to use their right hand become dyslexic and physically maladroit (literally), I became dysphonic and verbally clumsy. I also developed a bit of a thing for older men, especially ones who let me call them "Mister Grandfather Sir".
I think it was because of this that I had a short but intense affair with my undergraduate economics professor. The affair is over, but we remain close, and he is now my grad school thesis advisor. No one knows about our relationship, including my boyfriend of one year, who thinks I was a virgin when we met.
Alas, during a recent love-making session with the BF, I happened to notice his first gray hair, and I inadvertently fell into a practice my professor described as "curve bending" (you can imagine how odd it is for me to read Mickey Kaus going on about this practice in a totally different context). My BF was astounded by my obviously practiced moves, and asked me wherever I had learned this particular sequence of contortions. The fact that I cried out "gwumgwum" when I came didn't help, especially since "gwumgwum" has a very special meaning in my BF's native language (let's just say that it has something to do with expressing satisfaction).
Reluctant to tell the BF the truth (I would be devastated if he learned about my grand-daddy fetish), I told him that I had seen the "curve bending" on a porn video a friend played at the bridal shower of a mutual friend. In fact, I couldn't be bothered to go to the shower, since the bride is a bridezilla and her friends are not much better. But now that've I lied (twice), my BF is wondering why I'm not going to the wedding (which he now expects to attend himself as my plus-one).
The problem, Prudie, is that if I go, she expects me to be a bridesmaid, and to pay for not only my own revolting orange bridesmaid dress (I have red hair: can you imagine?), but to chip into paying for her wedding dress. As she got knocked up to force her own BF to marry her, and there have been a series of delays in the wedding date, her dress has had to be altered four times already, and the bill has skyrocketed.
I'm a graduate student without much money. My question is: who do I hit up for a loan? My grandfather or my professor, that is to say, Gwumgwum or Mister Grandfather Sir?
Yours,
"Up in the gwumgwum tree"
Dear Prudence,
As an infant, I was traumatized by a confusion induced by my aunt and uncle. In order to conform to their decision that my mother's father should be addressed soley by the name adopted by their child (my cousin), I was forced to call our mutual grandfather "Gwumgwum". My inclination was toward greater formality, and I tended to call him "Mister Grandfather Sir", but whenever I did so, my aunt and uncle slapped me across the face. Because I spent many weekends and holidays with them, they had ample opportunity to indoctrinate me.
Much as lefthanders forced to use their right hand become dyslexic and physically maladroit (literally), I became dysphonic and verbally clumsy. I also developed a bit of a thing for older men, especially ones who let me call them "Mister Grandfather Sir".
I think it was because of this that I had a short but intense affair with my undergraduate economics professor. The affair is over, but we remain close, and he is now my grad school thesis advisor. No one knows about our relationship, including my boyfriend of one year, who thinks I was a virgin when we met.
Alas, during a recent love-making session with the BF, I happened to notice his first gray hair, and I inadvertently fell into a practice my professor described as "curve bending" (you can imagine how odd it is for me to read Mickey Kaus going on about this practice in a totally different context). My BF was astounded by my obviously practiced moves, and asked me wherever I had learned this particular sequence of contortions. The fact that I cried out "gwumgwum" when I came didn't help, especially since "gwumgwum" has a very special meaning in my BF's native language (let's just say that it has something to do with expressing satisfaction).
Reluctant to tell the BF the truth (I would be devastated if he learned about my grand-daddy fetish), I told him that I had seen the "curve bending" on a porn video a friend played at the bridal shower of a mutual friend. In fact, I couldn't be bothered to go to the shower, since the bride is a bridezilla and her friends are not much better. But now that've I lied (twice), my BF is wondering why I'm not going to the wedding (which he now expects to attend himself as my plus-one).
The problem, Prudie, is that if I go, she expects me to be a bridesmaid, and to pay for not only my own revolting orange bridesmaid dress (I have red hair: can you imagine?), but to chip into paying for her wedding dress. As she got knocked up to force her own BF to marry her, and there have been a series of delays in the wedding date, her dress has had to be altered four times already, and the bill has skyrocketed.
I'm a graduate student without much money. My question is: who do I hit up for a loan? My grandfather or my professor, that is to say, Gwumgwum or Mister Grandfather Sir?
Yours,
"Up in the gwumgwum tree"
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