Candid Camera

I don't talk on the phone that often these days. I email, I Facebook, I text. I get videos, recipes, jokes, pictures of kitties, "How're things?" enquiries, invitations and 50% off coupons all the time. You know what I don't get? What I've never received, not once? A cock shot. And I'm fine with living a cock-shot free life.

I don't think I'm alone in this. An informal survey of women I know would support this - not a 2D penis  recipient in the bunch, and they don't feel they're missing anything. I'd ask my guys friends if they've ever sent one, but at least half of them would likely misinterpret my query and crash my inbox.

So what's up with Anthony Weiner and his numerous Kodak moments? Were these women requesting the snaps, or was he just uploading them to his entire address book, phishing with his very own pole?

Men may have the reputation of being the more "visual" of the sexes, but we gals are no slouches when it comes to  filling up on eye candy. And what we like to look at pretty much falls into two categories - David Beckham and everybody else. Some of us like chests and abs, some of us forearms or biceps, some a nice ass. But I have yet to meet the woman who heads to the latest romantic comedy thinking "I don't care if they get together at the end, but I really hope I see some cock!" Full disclosure: I have, a time or two, asked a guy to send me some pictures. But the requests were firmly along the lines of "I miss your face - send me a picture". And I was always obliged with smiling, occasionally goofy shots that made my day. Not once did I receive a picture I couldn't show my mom. And she was a nurse for 40 years, so not much phases her.

 But never in my life have I requested a below the belt snapshot. And if I had, the men I've dated would have refused. Well, except maybe one; they've likely had to stop him from unzipping his fly at the DMV. In retrospect, though, I'm pretty sure he meets the legal definition of a pervert, so it's likely I was spared only by virtue of the fact we were involved long before the unholy union of Facebook and camera phones.

So if the vast majority of women don't have the slightest interest in a naughty snapshot, not even from their beloved, where the hell did guys ever get the idea that women they don't even know might like a little crotch candid? Was there some article in Maxim's April Fool's issue that you idiots took to heart? Some sort of "Sexy Secret Revealed! She LOVES Dick Pics!" article that they meant as a joke you didn't quite get? What motivates a guy to take these pictures and send them unsolicited?  Mr. Favre? Anyone? There's such a prevalence of cock shots these days that Gawker had their "genital experts" (a term that made me laugh for five minutes) critique at least half a dozen famous phallus photos. Sadly, they reserved the highest praise for Kanye West's composition and use of props. Somewhere, Taylor Swift just threw up in her mouth. 

Look, all you would-be Mapplethorpes, I don't mean to unleash a downpour on your pantsless parade. If you're lucky enough to have a woman actually request a snap, there is a chance it's because she really does get turned on by that sort of thing. These women do exist. Somewhere.  But there's a much bigger chance she's planning on hiring Gloria Allred and scheduling a press conference. This is particularly true if you're a married, elected public official, a professional athlete, or Prince Harry.

This snap happiness can't be a new phenomenon. It's not like men just discovered their junk right around the time digital cameras were invented. So I have to assume the 70s and 80s were lousy with furtive trips to the one hour photo mart on the other side of town, hoping like hell some teenage boy was working the late shift and would give you a knowing "'Who's the lucky lady?" head nod while developing your 4 x 6 (okay 51/2, but I'm rounding up) efforts. Or perhaps Sears Portrait Studios did a booming bootleg boner business on the side?  Maybe that photo booth at the mall saw way more action than I did my senior year of high school. I spent a lot of time in that booth. Ew.

I think I speak for most women when I say we're not adverse to looking at it. Far from it; most of us are very fond of the goods, when attached to someone we find attractive. In person, I'll play paparazzi all you want; I'll even ask it who it's wearing. But if you just can't help yourself, if you won't rest until your junk has its 15 minutes of fame, at least pick your moment and your medium.  You're away for a few days, it's late at night, you know I check my email right before bed? Fine. But if I'm at the store after work to pick up a few things, my phone had better not buzz with a text from you suggesting I add your nuts to my grocery list.

I'd like to think that men, both elected and otherwise, would learn a lesson from Mr. Weiner's transgressions. But something tells me they won't. And you know what that something is? Gawker posted a helpful how-to called "How to take a dong shot" a few weeks ago (the angle is key, apparently). And as of a few minutes ago, it had 78,461 views. So ladies, the next time you get an email with an attachment, you might want to brace yourselves.

Scenes from a garden

So I haven't posted anything in well over a week. I can explain. I've been spending most of my free time trying to make my back yard look presentable, and less like the overgrown crackhouse lawn it was starting to resemble. I like gardening, really I do. Except for a couple of things. The sun, which, ironically, makes me wilt like a delicate flower. And the bugs. I know no one, except four year old boys and medical examiners on crime shows, really LOVES bugs, but I dislike them immensely. Creepy multi-legged bastards. Actually -  I've changed my mind ; I fucking hate gardening.

I started off well, sometime in mid to late April.  Did some raking. Bagged some leaves. Used a snow shovel to put leaves in bags. What? It was still leaning against my house. Oh, like yours was tucked away in the shed come March 21st. Liars.

May 6 - May 27:  Pretty much no progress.  I started so well, then rain happened. And season finales. I did buy an eensy iron gnome for the garden. So not no progress, exactly. Gnome progress. Also manage to actually poke self in eye with sharp stick. Buy some flowers. Hope they don't die before I get a chance to kill them.

Notice bees buzzing around giant bush at edge of deck are abnormally large. Remind self to google actual geographical range of "Africanized bees" later.

May 27-29: Sun, finally. Need to finish pruning, raking, pulling and generally tidying up nature. Curse self for not searching "lawn boy" on Kijiji.

Mother, a prolific gardener, visits and asks why I haven't done more weeding. I tell her it's because I wasn't sure which ones were weeds. She looks at me the way she did when I told her I was quitting band. Not having grandchildren yet she's accepted, but me not knowing astilbe from rag weed gets me a throat clear and judgement face. But she did arrive with loads of my favourite flowers, so judge away, Mommy.

Buy more flowers. Try to determine if 100 litres of potting soil is enough. Why is it measured in litres? I'm not planning on drinking it.

Despite wearing awesome bug-be-gone bracelets, get a bug bite. On ass. Gardening in ripped to shit jeans not the smartest idea I've ever had. (Mother's note: "I told you so").

May 31 - Finish rest of "clean up" before the (allegedly) fun flower planting stuff. Involves digging around in crevices in rock wall. Wonder if bats spend their downtime sleeping in rock walls?  Become convinced attack by sleep deprived bats is imminent.

Hear rustling in overgrown area at back of property. Do we have badgers? Brandish rake.

June 1 - Inform woman at gardening centre that "Calibrachoa and Million Bells are actually the same thing". Feel smug. Buy more flowers.

 Use plant stake and twine to tie up droopy bush. Giggle to self while doing so.

Take break when SPF 60 ends up in eye. Between sharp stick and sun protection, gardening had now resulted in vision impairment.

Call mother to announce "The rhododendrons are coming! The rhododendrons are coming!" Am like Paul Revere, in pink Crocs.

Put flowers in planters. Try and craft interesting yet harmonious colour combinations. Abandon this plan when back starts to ache, firing plants into pots willy nilly, aesthetics be damned. Wonder if this is how some of the outfits at Wal-mart happen? 

June 2 - Salamanders are cute. Slugs the size of a Vienna sausage are not. Buy more flowers.

June 3 - Buy new sandals. What? I have enough damn flowers.

June 4 - Try to describe the type of ivy I'm looking for to garden centre guy who, despite all signage to the contrary, does not appear to actually be "Farmer Clem". Neither of us can remember the name, but he knows what I'm talking about and no, they don't have any. Is it German? No. It's sort of like Swedish, but not. Wonder if there's such a thing as Austrian ivy.  It would be quite robust, but try to goose the housekeeper every time you turned your back.  Buy more flowers.

June 6 - I think I'm done! Dirt under fingernails may be permanent, as is back ache. But when I come up my steps after work, and everything is blooming, and smells all flowery, and there are what surely must be ten thousand different colours on my deck to greet me, it's all worth it. Except for that bug bite on my ass...