Women only. Uncork the wine & pass out the liquor-filled chocolates.

One more truffle, please. I still feel faint.

Today — after scarfing down a carton of chocolate-chip-cookie-dough ice cream and shrieking at my poker-playing, computer-hogging husband — I accidentally stumbled into a men-only emergency meeting called by makeitadouble.

Oh, the horror! The scratching and belching and — well, let's just say I haven't seen that many mounted deer heads and so much wood paneling since a visit to my darlin' BIL's house during his batchin'-it days. (BIL's deer heads have since been replaced by Precious Moments figurines. Not sure which is worse.)

Anyway.

The Men's Association members gathered at makeitadouble's place were all in tizzy. (Translation: There was a lot of unintelligible grunting. And several of the members' expressions indicated severe constipation. Which, of course, would explain all the reading material in the bathroom. Clearly, they spend a lot of time in there, as evidenced by the dozens of battered issues of Men's Health (otherwise known as Cosmo for Guys) and scrunched-up attempts at Sudoku. I know, I know. Never use the boys' potty. But I really, really had to go. All those mint juleps get to a girl, y'know?)

Apparently, a "Him-pathizer" — hey, dude, reveal yourself, please! — recently stumbled across one of my posts and clued the guys into the Sisterhood's Standard Operating Procedures, such as PMS-related sex bans and the like.

This one guy, Mitch, didn't seem to get it. But the rest of them were pretty appalled. Guess it's a good thing my previous post didn't make mention of the cocktail-napkin sketches of our favorite sexual positions.

But oh my, the things I learned today.

Sisters, let me tell you: These guys are NOT a knowledgeable bunch when it comes to How Babies Are Made. It explains so much. Like how you could tell a man that you're not only a highly fertile women with a whole herd of kids to prove it, but also ovulating and experiencing a raging case of herpes and he would STILL WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU.

"It's OK," he would say. "I'll pull out."

So he can't control his sexual urges but we're supposed to believe him when he says he can rein in millions of sperm?

Ha.

Anyway, this guy Mitch kept asking stupid questions ("Why does my wife get mad when I am incommunicado every time I head into the deer woods?") and it turns out this club recently tossed out its only Sensitive Man. *gasp*

(Greg, sugar, you're welcome over here anytime. Just make sure you bring the cheese-and-cracker tray.)

Back to my supremely educational day:

After a this weird pissing-off-the deck ritual and a couple of recitations of the Man Code -- "I hereby swear to fight for the right to keep that ugly framed picture of my old, flashback-to-the-college-years Mustang hanging in the living room" -- things took a bizarre turn.

The men watched -- I kid you not -- THREE back episodes of Grey's Anatomy.

While sipping chardonnay.

Even more stunning, several of them seemed quite familiar with each of the characters' backstories. I caught one wiping away a tear when Denny died.

Up front, someone kept sniffling.

At first I thought it was another Denny mourner. After a few more sniffs, however, I realized it was the guy I'd overheard while I was gingerly lining the toilet in the Scary Bathroom. The Sniffler had been talking very loudly, describing to everyone about how sick he'd been all week, and how his wife was so unsympathetic to his weakened condition.

Then I heard a belch that could only be beer-induced.

What a whiner, I thought as I washed my hands with a grungy bar of soap.

And there he was again, during a pivotal moment in Grey's, trying to elicit further sympathy with all the sniffling. I contemplated throwing my vodka tonic at him, but just as I was aiming ... hey, the back of The Sniffler's head looks awfully familiar ...

Yes, my friends, it was my spouse, who only last week was sprawled on the couch, seemingly incapacitated by a sinus infection.

I hustled to the front of the room.

"Oh, sweetie-pie pooh-bear, you shouldn't be out and about in your condition. All this cigar smoke can't possibly be good for those inflamed sinuses. What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were too ill to go see Juno with me. And what's this? A glass of wine? You know you shouldn't be mixing your sinus meds with alcohol. Remember my story about the time I took Benedryl and shot tequila? I ended being somebody's bad blind date."

I grabbed the Hubs' arm and hurried him from the room, cooing reassurances.

"Let's just get you home pronto, my precious. Don't worry. PMS was last week. I'll be ever so sweet and sympathetic to your fragile condition."

Just as soon as we got home, I tucked him on the couch with our toddler's blankie and a box of Kleenax. Before leaving the room, I popped in DVD 2 of Big Love's second season.

I'm considerate like that. Hubs claimed he wanted to watch High Stakes Poker, but after witnessing today's Grey's viewing, well ... now I know not to believe him. I've already updated the Netflix queue to make sure we get Big Love 3 and 4 as soon as possible.

Because it's the right thing to do.

**********************

Before wrapping up this gathering, I'd like to encourage you to drop in on Whymommy. She goes into surgery tomorrow, and I'm sure she'd appreciate your support.

Raise your glass and wish her a speedy recovery. She's a tough broad, a lot tougher than any of those Men's Association members I met today. Since being diagnosed with breast cancer, she's gone through relentless rounds of chemo while mothering two boys and writing informative posts for her sisters.

And lord knows, she's certainly got more stamina than my sniffling spouse.

*thinking of you Whymommy*

Now go kick some cancer ass.

Pshaw! Those silly, blushing menfolk

Today, a friend of mine told some co-workers about my blog.

Male co-workers.

Who, upon pulling up this here blog and reading my previous post, reportedly turned scarlet and said, "Oh, I can't read this."

Which brings us to this evening's topic:

What did these two men -- both married with children -- find so disturbing?

Is it that women have (*gasp*) periods and PMS? That women have sex with their significant others? (when they're not PMSing, that is)

Or could it be the fact that women openly discuss such things?

My bet's on No. 3.

Hubs says, "There's just some things you just don't want to know."

He says he's referring to sex and periods. I think, however, that what Hubs and these men don't want to know is that their wives and daughters are out there -- either IRL or the blogosphere -- having conversations about this stuff.

Because -- *evil cackle* -- that means we might also be talking about them.

Boys, boys, boys: It's time you learn. Women talk about everything -- and yes, sometimes you are part of the discussion. Our mothers talked. Our grandmothers talked. We accepted the torch long ago, back in 5th grade, when we started comparing bra sizes or worrying about periods that hadn't yet begun.

It's called the sisterhood, guys, and I'm not the only woman who's grateful for its existence. How liberating to know that you can look to other women -- in the coffee shop, at a book club, or on a blog -- for comfort, commiseration, or just a long hearty laugh -- when you most need that kind of support.

We sisters turn readily to one another in times of trouble. We confess our vulnerabilities, share our darkest fears and yeah, toss out a few ribald jokes. And then, eagerly, we scan our comments pages, where we know we'll find words of encouragement or a few LOLs.


Sometimes, we stumble across a blog whose aching, raw honesty humbles and touches us. We continue reading -- this blog and others -- following our sisters as their stories unfold, thinking of them, reaching out to them.


The ability to be open and honest with other women is empowering.

Too bad you menfolk are so afraid of it.

------------------------------------- moooooooving on ..............

Finally, some belated holiday photos.

Here's C., my stepdaughter...


... with little sis and bro.



And here's a hasty group shot taken just so I could prove to you that C. does indeed make me look short and stumpy. Please note: I am wearing heels.