This picture has nothing to do with what I’m about to write.  I found it and felt it was just so damn rediculous that it had to be shared with the world.  And also, I sort of want to do this to one of my trees.

Before you read the rest of this little post, I’m going to need you to go back and read my previous warning. 

All done?

Good.  You may continue.

So my revelation the other day about one miserable side effect of a deffective ICD got me close to my highest reader count of all time.  My actual highest reader day was on Thursday, May 3rd, 2007.  This is mind blowing to me because while I’ve had this blog spot saved for a couple of years, I didn’t actually start writing in it until a few weeks ago.  Who knows what brought people to my site in droves back then?  Maybe word got out there was an image of the virgin Mary or something?  She does occasionally need a place to crash between potato chip appearances, so I’ve offered her my blog.

In addition to high readership, I got a few phone calls and 22 e-mails (if you count messages from other social sites as well) about that post.  But only two of you had the guts to post a comment publicly.  High fives to Michele and Dawn.

In one particular phone call from she who must not be named (and if you want to think I am friends with Lord Voldemort’s wife, that’s fine by me), I was asked if the KY product was really that disappointing.   In short, yes.

Here is the official critique and another embarassing confession.

The stuff almost has no smell at all.  If you have a hyper-sensitive nose like I do, first and foremost, I’m sorry.  Second, you might detect the faintest smell of menthol.  This is not a criticism.  I’m glad it doesn’t smell.

The pink tube is labled “Mine” and the blue tube is labled “Yours.”  This makes me think that the KY company knows fully well women are the ones who are going to waste their money on this.  And hey, they’re right.  But I’m not sure how I feel about that.

The big question from Lady Voldemort:  Did it feel good? 

Well, yes and no.  Of course it felt good to have him rub Mine on me and I’m sure he liked me rubbing Yours on him.  (See, I told you the directions were a little quirky.  And don’t you feel a little violated that you’ve been dragged into this?) - but it didn’t feel any different than rubbing anything else on.  Canola oil was an example I gave, drawing from the theoretical world again, of course. 

When Yours and Mine met, there wasn’t any additional sensation either.  And here’s where the embarassing confession comes in…

When it was over, there was the obligatory and mutual, “Whew, that was good” as sweaty bodies disengaged and breaths were caught. 

Despite 10 years of togetherness, I still can’t read the man’s mind.  But I can tell you what I was thinking.  As someone who occasionally wakes up to find parts of her body missing – or at least, their sensation (can’t feel an arm here, a leg there, no eyesight on one side, etc…) – only to have them return like the prodigal son days or weeks later with no explanation of their where abouts, I was more than just a little concerned that I’d lost feeling in my Lady Business.  Had I stopped to think about it, though, I probably would have realized I wouldn’t have felt the rest of ‘all that’ either.  Fortunately I’m not an alarmist and I didn’t make a big deal out of it.  Actually, I made no deal what so ever.

Then a couple of nights later, we retired to the boudoir after what felt like a long day of toiling in random tool aisles of Home Depot.  We were both bored and a little restless.  “Do you want to try the new KY again?” I asked. 

I realize it’s not a sexy way to propisition your man, but I wasn’t looking for romantic encounters – just something to pass the time. 

He thought about it a second and said, “Nah.”  Then quickly added, “I mean, we can if you want to.”

“Not really,” I said.

It was then that I realized we’d gone 2 whole days without saying what we were both thinking.  “So that stuff didn’t do anything for you either, huh?”

“Not so much.”

So I’m happier to report than you are to hear that I can still feel what goes on below the c-section scar. 

For those of you who read this far expecting Dr. Seuss verse or a Big Mama sighting, sorry to disappoint.