Subourbon Mom

Cleaning Up the End Zone

Apparently Gwyneth Paltrow, life guru to…no one, really…is touting the energizing and cleansing effects of something called the “Vaginal Steam.”

Yeah, you read that right.

It seems there is a new spa option that allows women to sit on a throne-like chair, and let steam infused with an herb called mugwort…cleanse the End Zone.Unknown-2

I’m not a medical expert, and the research I did (which consisted of talking to some friends) raised a few questions in my mind.

First of all, according to WebMD, one of the many uses of mugwort is as an energy tonic, which I suppose is why Gwyneth thought it might be “energizing.” Among many other things, Mugwort is also used for “worm infestations” and to “stimulate gastric juices and bile.” For worm infestations and gastric juice production, I refer you to a professional—especially if they’re in your End Zone.

WebMd also says Mugwort “might stimulate the uterus.” Um…to do what? Unless I’m pregnant and days past my kid’s due date, I don’t want my uterus doing much of anything, thank you very much. When you’re in your 40’s the less End Zone upheaval the better.

As far as I know, most people steam their bodies for three reasons: to relieve a sinus infection, to ease sore muscles, or to try and reduce the signs of age, sun and smoke damage.

If your End Zone is having unusual drainage, steaming it at a spa is not going to help. Chances are, you’ve had a few too many touchdowns in your End Zone and you need to see a professional, who hopefully has a quick antibiotic-related fix.

If your End Zone has muscles so sore that they need some time in a sauna, you need to re-think the level of play you’re allowing on the field. And by the way, the End Zone is already kind of its own personal sauna, don’t you think?

If your End Zone has sun or smoke damage…I don’t even know what to tell you. Maybe steam cleaning will be your thing after all.

I have no idea what the signs of End Zone aging might be, other than the grass changing colors, images-1but I’m pretty sure that unless you’re okay with altering your End Zone using Botox, lifts and chemical peels, you might not want to steam down there either. If you really are concerned with the visual appeal, you can always repaint the lines, and get a new team logo.   Unknown-1

So thanks, Gwyneth, for making me aware of something I now can’t ever forget exists.

Inventions I’ll Never Patent, But Someone Will

As promised last week, here are a few inventions I would like to patent but never will, because I am lazy, can’t do math or chemistry, and don’t want librarians or activists to hunt me down. Football coaches, I’ve seen your physiques–good luck catching me.

1.  Condoms with the words “What Would Jesus Do?” printed on them. It’s the perfect compromise, people—pro-choice, and yet discouraging at the same time. For the non-Christians among us, substitute whatever deity you believe in. For atheists and religions that don’t worry so much about sex as much as Christians do, change it to “Do you like changing diapers?”  If you are more worried about disease than pregnancy, or if you work for the CDC, change it to, “Do you have your $50 co-pay ready?”


Puke Pourri:
Spritz our smelly stuff about,
And the puke smell’s gone
By the time you check out!

2.  A spray that makes library books stop smelling like vomit. Daughter #2 always asks me, “When we can go to Barnes & Noble?,” (we are not electronic readers) and I always reply that the library books are free, so we should go there instead. “Not thanks,” is her reply. When I asked her why she never wanted to go to the library, Daughter #2 said, “They always smell like throw-up.” So of course, I went to the library and amused myself (and others I’m sure) by smelling lots of books in the children and teen sections. You know what? She was right. They do smell like vomit. So, in the same spirit as the incredibly wonderful Poo-Pourri spray (sold at Hallmark–thanks Debra!) that eliminates poo odors in the bathroom, I would invent “Puke-Pourri” spray, conveniently sold at all libraries. It could even be a fundraiser for our national libraries!

3.  A remote, phone-specific disconnection timer app that would disconnect certain phones in my house from the WiFi for certain periods of time during the day, like 7:00-8:00am, and during scheduled homework times.  This would make getting out the door in the mornings with teenagers easier, and the process of getting homework done much faster.   This app would be controlled by specific phones (mine), so the teenagers could not turn it off. I Googled it–so far all I saw was a list of sites complaining about phones disconnecting all by themselves…

4.  The hormone alert wristband.  If only humans were as straight-forward as cats when they want to have sex.  When a cat is in heat, she will meow incessantly, sending out her mating call for all the tomcats in the area to hear (It’s only finny if it’s not your cat).  If only men and women could send out signals like that in a bar, or, even better, after a decade or three of marriage.  The hormone alert wristband can be made for both men and women. The woman’s band would determine estrogen and progesterone fluctuations, alerting her partner that her emotions might be running high, or that her estrogen levels are low, so trying any hanky-panky is most likely futile (unless you want to keep pestering for some pity sex, in which case I say good luck to you–keep trying and you might draw back a bloody stump). The men’s wristband would detect testosterone levels, alerting his companion to the fact that he is more likely to be aggressive; and it would detect vasopressin levels which, according to a Men’s Health article (, are involved in regulating sexual persistence, assertiveness, dominance, and territorial marking.  High vasopressin levels could alert his partner to the increased likelihood that the man will want sex, or might be inclined to wander. Either way, if a woman’s estrogen levels are low at the same time, put the basketball game on–he won’t bother you or anyone else.

Photo courtesy of

Photo courtesy of

6.    An NFL coach that teaches players how to tackle. 

Football Funerals
September 18, 2013, 1:36 am
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts, Sports | Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

I’m a Redskin Fan, and have been since I was barely a two-glasses-of-bourbon suggestion one night. That makes me an eternal optimist (what fan of a losing team isn’t?).

We’ve had our moments in the sun–who could forget John Riggins calling Sandra Day O’Connor ‘Sandy Baby?’ Or watching the super-fan in the stands waving his tomahawk and head dress in a touchdown celebration? Or laughing as the Hogettes paraded through the parking lots in dresses and pig noses? Or watching Gus Ferotte slam himself into the end zone and give himself a concussion? Ah…the Glory Days!

The Hogettes, photo courtesy of

For years, these types of things were the highlights of my Sunday afternoons.  We spent hours agonizing over bad calls, yelling at the television, and listening to the scratchy sounds of Sonny and Sam slur their way through the broadcasts.  Beers were drunk and spaghetti was gobbled off of t.v. trays.

When the Redskins won, we viewed our entire week through burgundy and gold colored glasses, riding around with flags on our cars, and wearing our Redskins hats, sweatshirts and jerseys everywhere. When the Skins lost, we listlessly slogged our way through work and school until the next possibility of glory…six long days away.

Now, there is no week of second-hand glory.

There is no mourning period.

We are no longer allowed to grieve–and this is going to do damage to the football fan psyche.

In 1970, Pete Rozelle wanted to have a football game broadcasted on a weeknight, in an effort to create more exposure and popularity for the newly-merged NFL. ABC was the only taker.  Forty years later, Pete Rozelle should be thrilled–we have football on Thursday nights, all day Sunday, Monday nights, and sometimes on Saturdays. For some, this is like scoring a touchdown on 4th and 1 in OT.

But I miss the grieving process.

I’m a football junkie. I’ve played different versions of fantasy football for years.  I even love the idea of the NFL Sunday Ticket, especially since I lived overseas for a while—it was the only way I could watch my team.  And football is better than melatonin for putting me to sleep on the couch three nights a week.

But by the time I’ve finished watching Monday night’s game, I have to turn around on Tuesday and start figuring out who I’m starting where in my Fantasy pool. I have to look at all of the games coming up, read the injury reports, and determine which games are important enough for me to watch. With only three days between weeks, time is of the essence. The pressure is more intense.

images-2But more importantly, what’s going through my head when we lose, especially when we lose HUGE, like we did against Philly, never gets dealt with (puh—leeeease…the only thing worse would have been to lose like that against Dallas!).

These days, when the Redskins lose, there are only three days to let the anger I have at my own daily life safely filter into the venting I do about my team.  There used to be six.

Monday through Wednesday, I rage at the Redskins and how much I hate Michael Vick, and argue that Tony Romo is a less than mediocre quarterback—and no one realizes how close to the edge I am, or how angry I got at something someone said or did to me. But if something sets me off on Thursday, everybody better just step off. On Thursdays, I’ve been forced to start thinking about the next set of games instead of working through the last ones. I have no safety valve to let off steam since I’ve been forced to move on—so I start taking it out on real people, like Hubby (see

Just imagine how high the crime rate would be if everybody was like me, and needed the grieving process of the non-football days like I do.  Thankfully, most people seem to have other outlets for their frustrations.

Like sexting, getting caught, and doing it some more, all the while running for Mayor of New York.

Or something like that.

So please, Mr. Goodell, please let us grieve.  Give us our Thursday nights back. The world might be a safer place.

Super Bowl Porn

You know you’re getting old when you realize the half-time show and commercials during the Super Bowl are clearly not aimed at you. And yes, People-Who-Knew-Me-Back-In-The-Day, I am aware of the HUGE hypocrisy I’m about to sling, like Flacco to Anquan Boldin.

So there I sat with twenty people in my living room, excited to see what new heights of comedy the advertising community could come up with. Within five minutes, I was glancing back and forth between my 75-year-old mom and my 13-year-old daughter, trying to take their mental temperatures as I watched a larger than life make-out session on tv. Yep, nothing better than watching slimy tongues do their thing as surround sound speakers amplify the lip-smacking, sucking noises, coming from the couple on the screen. At least porn has cheesy music to cover up what no one wants to hear (so I’ve been told). My mom was pursing her lips in disapproval—no surprise there. But Daughter #2 had actually glanced up from her phone, a look of fascinated horror on her face, as if she had caught me (again) watching another episode of The Vampire Diaries.

The Half-time show was the usual spectacular light and dance extravaganza, with the same strange group of kids screaming madly at the bottom of the stage (Who are they, anyway? Professional seat fillers?). All was as expected, except that Beyonce, a beautiful girl and phenomenal singer, was wearing…a teddy? Maybe this is the reason the Grammys have put limits on the “puffy skin” exposure. But I give Beyonce full credit—she can dance and move her body in ways I never could, even at parties with way too many beers and AC/DC pounding “You Shook Me All Night Long” on the stereo. She’s amazing. Ten years ago, I probably would have been fine with it, but these days, when I’m having weekly discussions with my teenage daughters about what’s appropriate to wear, I found myself wincing with every glimpse of black lace.

Thanks for backing me up, NFL.

I could have overlooked all of that because I really enjoy the Super Bowl commercials, and all the western gluttony that they portray. And a few of them were great—the traditional Clydesdale and “God made a farmer” commercials come to mind–but the creepy, dark Budweiser commercials that tried to make a bunch of Twenty-Somethings look mysterious and sophisticated missed the mark. Chances are, those post-Twi-Hards in the ads are probably broke, still living at home, and have college degrees that are useless. And I don’t care what color you name the beer (Sapphire, Black Crown, etc.), or what sophisticated-looking label you slap on the bottle, it’s still Budweiser…the same Bud our dads drank when they were working on the car, mowing the grass or fishing.

You may ask, “Are you banning the Super Bowl?” Hell no. I’m just going to turn down the sound at half-time, put on some cheesey porn tunes (can you buy those on iTunes?), and see if I can tell the difference. I’ll still judge the commercials.

Playoff Warm-Ups…Taunting a Mall Cop
January 11, 2013, 12:31 pm
Filed under: Sports | Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Can I just say again that I love football? Even though my team lost on Sunday, and RG3 is hurt way worse than anyone dares to even whisper, there is something about the game that brings out the inner wolf in me that stalks its prey and joins in the gory gluttony after the kill. It makes my mouth open and emit visceral screams that have no meaning, but sound something like “DeeeeeeeeeeFeeeeeense!”

It also makes me sink to a pre-game aggressiveness that puts me only slightly higher than tripping a blind man with a cane—taunting mall cops.

That’s right—I taunted a mall cop as a Playoff warm-up.

As if his job wasn’t bad enough, sitting in that Fisher Price pick-up with the not-quite-a-cop yellow lights flashing in the (now) HH Gregg parking lot.

For over a decade, my family has met in the Circuit City parking lot near the stadium to coalesce into one window-flag-waving, magnet-bearing metal container of Redskin enthusiasm. This Sunday, Hubby and I met Big Brother to continue the tradition. As usual, we waited for His Greatness, The Lateness, fretting over the possibility of losing a good parking space because of the delay, and texting our impatience in a steady stream (never mind that Big Brother had bought and assembled a new fire pit and remembered to bring wood, a lighter and newspaper—thanks, man!).

When he finally arrived, we leapt out of the car and rapidly began unloading our gear into his truck. As we did, I noticed Paul Blart, Mall Cop, sitting across the lot, watching us through his C.H.I.P.S. shades and scowling.

“Dude, I think he’s watching us,” I reported, as my status of Little Sis, a.k.a. Lookout, required.

“So?” Hubby replied. “We’ll just park somewhere else.”

After a brief discussion of where to leave our car (while I gave Mall Cop the stink-eye the whole time), we agreed to meet a couple of blocks away. As we began to pull out of our space, Mall Cop began to follow us, just to make sure we were not leaving one of our cars. I could practically see is hands twitching, ready to punch in the tow truck number.

“We should drive around a while,” Hubby said, grinning and looking in the rearview mirror.

I looked at my watch. Precious tailgating minutes were passing by, but sometimes in life, there are moments just require a sacrifice.

So off we went, Hubby and I, a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde, cruising through the HH Gregg parking lot. Mall Cop followed us at a crawl, lights flashing. We circled the lot, meandering between rows, carefully looking as suspicious as we could.

Finally, Mall Cop got wise and stopped. We stopped, too. He waited at the end of a row for our next move.

We paused for a moment, hoping he would move and we could follow him around the lot for a while, but time was short. Dan Sneider would probably have noticed that one space in the stadium lot was still empty, and sold it.

Disappointed, we left Mall Cop stewing and met Big Brother far away from Mall Cop’s prying eyes. We piled into Big Brother’s truck and proceeded to the game. It was a great day, no matter what the end result was. The Skins had done better than anyone ever expected, the tailgate food was delicious, the fans were upbeat (even after the game), and we were home by 11:00pm.

But there was one, small cloud left hanging around—I taunted a mall cop, who was probably a fan, and got stuck working on Playoff day. So for that, I’m just a wee bit sorry…but if he’s there next season, I’m putting on my Eric Estrada sunglasses, tan leggings, and boots, and following him.

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