bet you a one hour blowjob that not one woman in this bar knows the Casey At Bat story of which you speak." He raised an eyebrow, realizing now that I’ve brought up blowjobs I must be drunk. "You know for a man who was just bet an hour blowjob, you’re not too quick on your feet there, pal."
He began to look around, surveying the bar for women to ask. "Everyone knows this story, Stephanie."
Everyone, I argue, who’s old. "Because when you’re as old as you are Phil, there were fewer ‘musts’ to cover in class, so they had time to devote to your clever baseball poems originating in the 1800’s." Except I don’t say "poems originating in the 1800’s" because I don’t know it’s a poem until I get home to google it. And I’m sure there are exceptions to the rule. I’m sure there are women out there who of course know it, and I’m even more sure that they’ll chime in, in the comments section, declaring they’d committed it to memory in second grade, patting themselves on the back. That’s not the point.
"Believe me, everyone knows this story, Stephanie."
"Well I don’t, and I’m a pretty educated woman. An English major, even. But still, take my target audience Phil, and most American females, as much as they ‘should,’ don’t know who your Casey is."
So he asks someone, and she doesn’t know. She also doesn’t know that softball pitches have to be thrown underhand. Even I know this. Surely every woman knows there are nine players out on the field at once. Actually, no, no we don’t. If we stop to count on our fingers, under pressure to give you an answer, maybe we’ll figure it out, but we don’t all know that shit off-hand. "My friends don’t. Maybe the one who works for MLB, or maybe some chick with a hoard of brothers, or some mom who attends her son’s games. Or some really desperate chick so eager for men to like her that she plays the, ‘I’m so so cool, just like one of the guys, so marry me already’ kind of girls. Oooh, or some chick on TBS who’s so into baseball analogies and having too many guy friends that she can’t also have a boyfriend. But most American women don’t know this." And I realize of course that some women do love sports just for sports, not for the men they hope to attract. They like them because they grew up with them, because it’s nostalgia, because it’s simple when everything else seems complicated, maybe. I wouldn’t know. And then he says the shit that makes me wish I weren’t drunk.
"Don’t play the dumb card Stephanie because it’s ugly on you." And I want to club him with a wooden bat. Old school. Heavy. Not some flighty aluminum deal. Something that can splinter. Something grown men keep beneath their side of the bed just in case. I’m not "playing," and certainly not playing cards of all things. And I hate that. I hate when he insults my intelligence, preys on my intellect like it’s arm cellulite. I hate it. And I wish I weren’t drunk because it’s too easy for him to blame it on that, my belligerence and my seeming lack of intelligence , to chalk it up to the neat little okay’s-it-all word, "drunk."
"I would absolutely not know who your Casey is even if I were sober." And right then I felt a need to prove myself, the way a lot of drunks do. When asked if they’re drunk, they deny it. Vehemently. I am NOT drunk. Usually it translates to: you so are; lady that doeth protest too much. And when she finally admits, "I feel a bit buzzed," she’s just shy of pulling her hair into a knot, anticipating the arrival of a bout of projectile vomiting. And I am drunk, but not drunk enough to make what he’s doing okay. And it’s hurtful when he goes there, knowingly, after I’ve shared with him how sensitive I am to it.
Because when you’re a fat kid like I was, you hold onto smart (or funny, or talented) as your saving grace. It is the piece of your identity that pulls you afloat and lets your esteem somehow disconnect from your form, and you’re literally able to rise above it. I might have been fat, but I was smart. I got good grades. Kids asked for my notes, wanted to study with me. And when he questions my intelligence, my Achilles heel, a part of me curls in and cowers like a kicked terrier. "Why do you have to go there? Why do you have to say the word, ‘dumb?’" I wonder if I’m so sensitive to it because of my mother.
She didn’t graduate college and always felt inferior to someone, namely my father, because of it. And I’m her in that moment, on that bar stool, despite graduating magna cume laude, or however it goes. Because what it says, that list of accomplishments, isn’t the dialog I have with myself. It’s not what I feel. It’s a list of facts, so far removed from who I am and what I feel, so incongruent with who I believe I am, at the heart of things. And along with wishing I knew these things about myself–no, felt, believed, lived! these things about myself, I wish I were with someone kinder, someone who grew up fat or chastised who’d be more sensitive and less…
And that’s where words fail me. Because I want to default to"cruel" as the word to cap off the sentence. But he’s not cruel. He’s just insensitive and easily frustrated. Angry. And when I say this, he tells me it’s my fault. I make him angry. I don’t do enough. He always shoulders burdens, picks up slack, and wants a partner, not another child. I’ve told him so many times not to do that, not to say, "I know you’re smart, so stop acting so stupid." Because I’m sensitive to it, maybe overly sensitive, but please don’t do that because when you do it makes me feel small. It makes me feel bruised and hurt, like I should just stop talking because anything I could add wouldn’t carry any value. I feel inconsequential, like I don’t matter. That I’m worthless. A cipher. All with the word, "stupid." Or "dumb." Or "retarded."
In his frustration he relies on little words, clings to them. I think it’s his brand of lazy. "Lazy Beer." It’s the #2 Beer of Jamaica. And when I bring it up to him, sighting that his words were hurtful, he doesn’t acknowledge it but instead turns it around, turns it into a game of, "Want to talk about inappropriate?" And then rattles off a list of my inappropriate. And I can be. And I freely admit it. "You’re right," I say, "I was inappropriate, but what can I do about it now? It’s done. There’s nothing more I can do but to move on." And he continues to hammer on, insisting I "play stupid as some form of manipulation," as my form of lazy. He analyzes my "I don’t understand"s as some strategic move, when simply, I’m a girl, talking to a boy, across a bar. I’m just being me. And he throws up his hands and changes the subject, focusing on the wrong in my actions, even in my admittance that I’m imperfect.
"Stephanie, saying ‘I was inappropriate, BUT’ isn’t what I’m looking to hear. The minute you bring ‘but’ into your sentence it negates everything that came before it." Yes, I know. I saw that episode of Dr. Phil, too. And he’ll spend the night refusing to discuss my issue with him and instead make the focus his issue with me. How inappropriate I was, to reiterate this story to others, to use the word "blowjob," in front of others. And it’s something I cannot explain via the blog, something you won’t get the whole story on. Because that’s not the way blogs other than those titled "he said; she said" work. It’s not about fair, of who’s right or wrong, and I’m never looking for that, "leave him" or "let him be" advice. I’m just looking to capture it, that moment, that feeling, when you’re drunk, clinging in that bar, to the grain of the wood, and in your alcohol, wondering how your life could be different, what brought you here and what you can learn while you’re here. And that you’re not so alone in it, any of it. Even the feelings of mistakes, of regrets, of "how could my life be different?"
Because when you’re a fat kid, you eventually grow up and realize maybe we’ve all of us always felt alone, or wronged, or misunderstood. And most certainly felt like we just wanted someone else to admit they were wrong. Wrong to hurt us, wrong to be insensitive, wrong to judge, and wrong to think they were something so different from who we were.
Because Phil and I want the same things, to be heard. To have the other person really understand how we feel. And my "There’s nothing more I can do about it, so let’s move on," isn’t good enough. It’s not the same as, "I’m sorry if my behavior hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you. I love you and think you’re the greatest. And sometimes I’m inappropriate, and that kinda sucks. But for you I will work on it." Or at least I’ll water down my adult beverages.
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cheers to y'all! i had a crush on a boy in school who recited the casey poem every year for our 'oratorical celebration' in school. maybe that's how i ended up working for mlb (btw, i wouldn't have automatically known, but don't tell my boss).
I don't think Phil is really insensitive to the fact that these things really get to you; he wouldn't use those specific words if he didn't know just how well they worked. I think he just has a double standard about it. By telling you not to "play the dumb card," it's really HIM who is using the dumb card. Just like you talk about inherited insecurities from your mother, maybe his parents used to argue this way. And that kind of thing is hard to move on from.
reading this is like coming home…. thank you.
btw no clue about Casey at Bat…
In your final paragraph, you hit a home run. Casey would be proud.
"it looked extremely rocky for the mudville 9 that day; the score stood 2 to 4 with but one inning left to play…… but there is no joy in mudville, mighty casey has struck out." i know nothing about baseball, incidentally, but i did have to perform that by memory in third grade (and i'm only 24 so it wasn't THAT) long ago. but not sure i'd have any reason to know it otherwise :)
by the way, this paragraph, "I'm just looking to capture it, that moment, that feeling, when you're drunk, clinging in that bar, to the grain of the wood, and in your alcohol, wondering how your life could be different, what brought you here and what you can learn while you're here. And that you're not so alone in it, any of it", is brilliant, and i love your conclusion.
all the best to you and your family as always
I actually DO know about Casey and his travails but then I'm one of those women who love baseball for baseball's sake. If it's any consolation, my husband probably doesn't know about Casey – he's not much into sports.
Yup, I know I'm missing the point, but — just have to say — that I'm 25 and I know about Mighty Casey Who Struck Out. I thought everyone did! ;-)
I know the Casey at the Bat story. I hate sports. But I know Casey. I keep seeing him in cartoon. Disney must have done it. Or something.
I truly cannot fathom how one can be with someone who uses words so carelessly. I am not judging, I just cant imagine it – I would be in pieces every day. I could never forget.
It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville Nine that day
The score stood two to four with but one inning left to play…
My Dad taught it to me as a child and I can still recite every word. And, sorry, I am more or less the same age as you. It really is a well known poem, I'm afraid. That doesnt mean Phil has the right to belittle you, though.
You mean I'm one of the few females who know there's no joy in Mudville 'cause Casey has struck out? Had I been in that bar you would've lost the bet.
ugh, I can't wait until you get over the whole "I was fat thing."
FROM STEPHANIE: Well, I actually wrote this a while ago (see the past tense category), and I was considering using a part of it for MOOSE… that's why there's the reference to being fat… out of left field… no pun intended.
I don't think I'm old. Wait, I know I'm not old (I'm 33) and I know the Casey poem. Not well enough to recite from memory at this point but I know the gist and a few lines here and there.
I'm 33 and I had to memorize and recite that "mighty casey has struck out" in about 3rd/4th grade, so I think it's pretty well known.
Melinda, if you're not old at 33, I hope I'm not old at 37, but man am I feeling it. All four cheeks are sliding south, and I swear they've picked up speed lately. Anyway, I kind of know (of) the Casey poem, but Stephanie–if I'd been in that bar and if I'd known about your bet, I totally would've lied for you, girl. And afterward maybe procured for you the bat with which to clobber Phil when he gets out of line like that. In keeping with the topic at hand: "FOUL!"
I do not know about Casey – and I'm 40. Whatever.
Two quick things –
1. I hope Lucas is doing fabulously – he's on my mind more than any internet baby should be – and thank you for letting me think of him – sending courage and strength from here.
2. I was with a man for a long time who played on the whole 'you're dumb because you're blonde' or 'you're dumb because you're pregnant' or finally 'you're dumb'. I AM blonde, I'm NOT pregnant, and by god, I'm not fucking dumb. But it took a long time to say those things.
YOU'RE not dumb. You're amazing. You're doing great, and I'm behind ya, 110%!
Ahem.
I really liked this. You've captured the moment, the experience, the insights and influences all so fluidly and beautifully.
First mistake: when he turns it back to you and says *you're* inappropriate, the correct response is that you are not talking about you right now, you're talking about him. If he has a problem with you and your appropriateness, the time to bring it up is at the time it happens. But right now you are talking about him. Total deflection technique–don't get sucked into it. He's as insecure as you are, you just can't see it.
I know "Casey at the Bat"..I'm in my 40s. This reminds me of the time that Britney Spears didn't know who Yoko Ono was.
Hey Stephanie – I have been reading your blog for years now and have never commented. I admire you from afar in so many ways. The first and foremost being your bravery in writing this – this type of entry you just wrote – down. It is emotional honesty on a scale that I can't fathom. The vulnerability that you show to the world is so brave and so inspiring. I read this entry, and even though it pisses me off and I want to scream at Phil, I realize how much value your writing brings to me. I get back to that place of appreciating how this act of sharing of your intimacies is making me want reach to get there as well. Thank you. And I have Lucas and your family in my thoughts.
He shouldnt talk to you like that even if it's out of frustration but then again if you're high maintenance and he's at his wit's end.
Still, that dumb shit needs to go. He surely wouldnt like you saying something like that to him, right?
Oh and I have never ever heard of the Casey poem but here it is if you want to post it since no one has. heh.
Warm fuzzies to sweet Lucas and Abigail.
Casey at the Bat
By Ernest Lawrence Thayer
Taken From the San Francisco Examiner – June 3, 1888
Casey At Bat The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that —
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped —
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said "Strike two!"
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.
Unsolicited feedback here….
You are both going through a truly terrifying crisis right now and will continue to have irrational anger towards one another, as you can only have that kind of intense irrational anger towards someone you love and trust deeply.
This is probably one of those situations where you should let it all slide and chalk it up to "blowing off steam." Sure, there are probably underlying issues that need to be addressed at some point, but in terms of the sport of picking your battles? This isn't one of them. You both need to be known and understood and consoled, but it probably seems entirely too needy to ask for that, given the circumstances, and you would have to trade shifts anyway. Hence, the passive aggressive – or, at the very least, low brow jabs at each other. It must be pretty disconcerting for both of you – very self-aware- to put all of that on the back burner. You can't ignore or neglect each other, but nor can you truly focus on one another, either. At least, not the way you could have before the babies were on the brain.
I know Casey at the Bat only because the poem was played over and over as a cartoon when I was young (I'm 37) on Disney.
Stephanie I love your coherence in writing about these moments.
Sometimes when we're in an argument about something I'm passionate about, and when he knows he's wrong or going to lose. My husband plays the 'calm down' card. That one is my top blood boiler/button pusher. Of course I'm not being hysterical just arguing my case, but 'calm down' never fails to conjure up images of some Victorian woman with the vapors, or some unreasonable screaming witch, and I hate those ideas. It makes me want to cry because I try so hard for reason and logic, and to see both sides, and he knows that, and of course it makes me want to scream at him or slap him which would mean I do need to calm down, but then he put me there. He made me uncalm when I was calm, when I was just having a fun conversation that all of a sudden headed South. Yeuchh. Just wanted to share my button.
3 teens' mom-
That reminds me of a quote I read about Dolly Parton once. She was asked during an interview, "What do you think about people calling you a dumb blonde?"
To which she responded: "Well, that's just silly. I know that I am not dumb, and I know that I am not blonde."
1) Suggest that Mr. Wonderful recite "Tinkers to Evers to Chance". Here's your cheat sheet:
These are the saddest of possible words:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."
Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,
Tinker and Evers and Chance.
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double —
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."
2)Suggest he define "gonfalon" (it's a team pennant or flag).
3)Mock him mercilessly.
4) Enjoy.
I absolutely loved this. I am dating a guy who tends to belittle me when I am not being appropriate. And it is hard to explain to him how I am. "Misunderstood." Perfect. Thank you.
I'm confused as to why he thought you were playing the dumb card to begin with.. because you didn't know the Casey story and you were asserting that many people don't?
The rest of this post really resonated with me. Great writing.
And for the record, I can't wait until I get over the whole "I was fat" thing either. Oh wait, I guess I have to get skinny first. Hmph.
:)
37 yrs. old. I remember almost every childhood song/poem/story, but no Casey. I just asked several of my female co-workers(ages: 28-41), even let them read some of the above snippets. Casey was completely foreign to everyone and it's only 8:55am here, so we are drunk…yet.
So did you go to NY?
Friends episode, Chandler is taking a phone message at Monica/Rachel's apartment, and when the guy who's calling gives his name Chandler says "is that Casey as in 'at the bat' or Kasey as in 'and the Sunshine Band'". It's in the zeitgeist like that.
I'm sorry, but maybe i'm the dumb one – i truly don't get it – why did he call you dumb for not knowing the poem? You can be bright and/or educated and still not know every single piece of poetry/literature that's ever been written…
Did he think your response that no other woman would know it was dumb? Sexist, maybe. I could even see him thinking you're naiive or conceited to assume that if you don't know something, nobody else must know it either, but it still doesn't strike me as dumb, esp. in the context of a flirtatious debate that takes place at a bar.
So that leads me to – what is it that Phil wanted to be 'heard' on? Did he want to recite the poem to you and you wouldn't listen? (ok, i'm just playing dumb, now), but seriously, while it's a nicely written bit, i don't at all get how the anecdote relates to your conclusion that we all just want to be 'heard'. sorry, not trying to be rude (or dumb), just honest.
Glad that you added that some girls actually like sports or else i would have gone mad on you. i've grown up with sports and i knew about the poem and all the other "sports" questions that you were asking without having to think about it. i wouldn't say that most American women don't know this, perhaps just the ones that you know. i think it's tough to use words like most when you don't really know if that is a fact.
I know everything and I didn't know the Casey story so it's not that popular but also I'm 23 (which is why I know everything lol)
But at least you can tell Phil that because of your blog he has a better chance of getting a blow job next time you make that wager at a bar.
Why do take that? Where is it written that in a marriage you should be belittled? Or in any relationship? I'm a girly girl with no knowledge of sports – my husband cracks up when I ask "dumb" sports questions and then patiently answers them. He never makes me feel dumb. Like it or not your desciptions of Phil make him sound verbally abusive. And nasty.
I understand that a blog is one-sided – it's your story and your point of view. And yes, there are two sides to every tale – I just wish that you were able to describe your husband as warm, loving, generous and supportive. He should enrich your life, not berate you.
Sounds like there is "no joy in Mudville" in your house.
..every time you write about your interactions with Phil, it feels like you are ill-suited for each other and will not make it for the longterm.
oh Jesus, people. it says PAST TENSE.
Stephanie, i hope you're doing as well as you possibly can be. keep us posted on Lucas! :)
"Because when you're a fat kid like I was, you hold onto smart (or funny, or talented) as your saving grace."
Even the fat adults do this. We also cling on to a time (no matter how brief) in our life when we weren't "the fat girl" – even if we should have moved on by now.
You know, I don't know when you wrote this or when this happened. It could have been last night or last year I guess. But when I started reading, I thought to myself "Oh that's nice. Phil and Stephanie are out for a date. Getting away from everything they're going through for a couple of hours. Flirting and being silly and relating to each other as a boy and girl". It's too bad that it turned into such a "tug of war"…. it reads like it started out as a fun evening.
I have to agree with the other commenters who say that Phil sounds…how do I say this…. a little douchy. It just sounds like a general lack of respect for you. Two sides to every story and all but in ANY context – when you respect your partner you don't try to push their buttons. You love them for (or despite) their quirks and imperfections and only make fun of the things you know they can handle. Every relationship needs rules.
Now about that one hour blow job – I have to say– If it takes that long- you ain't doing it right….
I don't like Phil. Or, rather, I hate how he treats you, 'whole story' be d'@mned. But, I don't have to be around him.
Ugh, I feel you Stephanie. The only thing I hate worse than "You're playing the dumb card" is "You're being irrational". Yeah, I'm being fucking irrational. But that doesn't make my arguments less valid!
Men.
I just don't understand why YOU would want a blow job Stephanie!
OK, I asked Stephanie if I should give my take on her most recent post and her response "Go ahead. Everyone will confirm what an asshole you are to me". This wasn't said in anger but more an I DARE YOU tone.
A few points of clarification-
Me calling Stephanie dumb- I'll give an example of a real life situation. The situation with Casey At The Bat had more to it and wouldn't make for easy writing so here is a Similar and equal interaction.
A few weeks ago Stephanie asked me to pick up a battery operated aspirator for suctioning stuff out of the twin's noses. The manual one is a rubber bulb you stick in the nostril, squeeze and all comes out. I went to Walmart and picked one up. After a day of doing the laundry, cleaning, working, caring for the twins, arguing with health insurance people, scheduling terminex and other assorted tasks I am half asleep in bed when Stephanie comes in and asks where the new Aspirator is. I respond I do not know. A minute later she says "any idea where the aspirator is?". This is her way of pretty much asking me to get up and get it. I say "just look for it. Her response- "I have no idea what it looks like". Incredulous I ask "no idea?". "No. None. not even a clue". I then start walking through how that sounds to me. my partner who can lighten the load just a little won't take the initiative to look rather I should. "What could it possibly look like?" "I have no idea" she exclaims. "Do you think it looks like a car? a blanket? a cd?" "no" "wouldn't you think it looks like an aspirator? So you do have an idea of what it would looks like." And this is where my wrong choice of words comes out. "I know you are a very smart person. Can't you go find it with a guess of what it looks like rather than me waking?" Now this is interpreted as calling Stephanie dumb and i'm abusive…
On the changing subject point during Casey At The Bat bet. I did state something similar to the situation as above during that exchange. On the way home, we call our Nanny to let her know we are running late and ask if she would like us to pick up anything. Stephanie takes the phone from me and proceeds to regal the story about hour long blowjob bet and asking her opinion. To me this was inappropriate. Although me discussing my choice of words and interaction was important, we were on our way home and I thought it prudent to make a priority to discuss how there is a line between someone who works for you and your friend and Stephanie very well might have made our nanny uncomfortable and that was inappropriate and not fair to her. I wasn't diverting attention or refusing to discuss Stephanie's issue with me but when involving another person it takes precedents.
I know that this post isn't about baseball and it's about Stephanie's relationship with Phil, but have you heard the baseball song "The Greatest" from Kenny Rogers? It's the best. :)
Phil,
Glad to hear the other side of the story.
Many incorrect perceptions are made by only hearing one side of a story.
Steph,
You'll laugh at this post when the kiddies get a bit older and you finally see the Disney telling of this poem – it's actually really cute and still pertty humerous to watch!
I'm a girl, hate sports, 26, and know the Casey at the Bat story. I graduated magna cum laude, too! Not knowing the story doesn't make you dumb, but being defensive about it is silly. There's a ton of stuff I don't know, and that doesn't make me dumb.
As a former fat kid, and current fat woman, I totally identify with your statement about fat people relying on a self-perception for self-worth. In my case it was also intelligence in school, and consequently whenever I feel like someone doesn't feel I'm "smart," it feels like a slap in the face. That will make me cry sooner than anything else.
I do agree with Phil that discussing blowjobs with employees crosses a line. You know your nanny better than I, however, and perhaps it doesn't cross a line in your house. I just know I wouldn't do it with my cleaning lady, nanny, etc.
Holy shit. This is much better than THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV. Why am I even bothering with that when I can read posts by Phil?
Awesome.
ps: you're slightly off in your suctioning technique.
Jesus. I don't know when this was written, but regardless of whether the two of you are going through a stressful time, no husband has a right to talk to his wife like that. And the fact that you keep justifying his behavior is beginning to make you sound like a classic abused spouse.
I love rats and bats. They are so pretty.