Sex The Americans Style

I’ve been watching a lot of sex on television lately, and it’s almost all doggy style.

The other day I was binge-watching, which is the the way I consume almost all of my television in the 21st century.  I’m sure when I’m older I’ll bore regale my grandchildren with tales of how once there was a time when there was absolutely no sex on television and the entire family would gather together in the living room each evening to watch shows that were only broadcast once, or at least not again until summer reruns.

Yes, I can hardly wait for the day when I’ll be sounding just like that really old guy in line behind me at the supermarket who noticed I was buying a six pack of Coke Zero and decided to share this scintillating fact from his youth: “Back then you could get a Dr. Pepper for a dime!”

Anyway, as I was saying, there’s a lot of doggy-style sex on TV.  The position is also known as “the congress of the cow” according to the Kama Sutra but I’m not recommending you use that term because no one wants to think about cows during sex.  Of course, I’m not sure anyone wants to think about dogs during sex, either, except maybe other dogs.


Even cows don’t like to think about cows during sex. We think about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

But there I was stuck thinking about dogs and sex after having seen not one, not two, but three instances of rear entry sex while binge watching the second season of the Cold War period drama, The Americans. It all happened in episode six, “Behind the Red Door.” Apparently what’s “behind the red door” is lots and lots of coitus more ferarum. First we see married Russian spies Philip and Elizabeth spicing up their sex life with role play and “wild sex,” which seems to mean nothing more than “doggy style sex.”  Next, we see Nicaraguan super-spy Lucia bent over a desk looking up at a portrait of Ronald Reagan on the wall while congressional aid Carl gives it to her from behind.  Finally, as the episode ends, Philip stumbles upon a couple having sex out on a fire escape (I think) and they, as well, are doing it like they do it on the Discovery Channel.

As luck would have it, while I’m thinking about dogs and sex and whether or not my butt looks as good as Keri Russell’s when I’m lying face down on a bed, I came across this article over on Slate, “‘Doggy Style’ Doesn’t Mean What You Think It Means.”

And the article was right!  “Doggy style” is nothing like what I thought! In fact, it’s absolutely horrible, with the poor boy-dog being stuck inside the poor girl-dog for up to an hour (an hour!) afterwards.  From the article:

Apparently, dogs doing it for the first time can get a little freaked out about the prolonged attachment, as do first-time dog breeders. If you should ever find yourself in this situation, The Encyclopedia of Dog Breeds suggests you prevent the female dog from trying to rip free from the male, because doing so can cause serious injury to the penis. Breeding websites recommend you get down on the floor and comfort the female.

I need some comforting just from reading that paragraph!

I’ve never been a fan of the position, anyway, because I need to see the man’s my husband’s face while we’re doing it, just to make sure he’s not thinking about some other woman, or dogs or cows, while he’s having sex with me.

You can see more doggy style sex, and maybe more of Keri Russell’s ass, on The Americans Wednesdays at 10pm on FX.

I Got Paid for Writing on the Internet

What would the internet do if everyone stopped giving away their work for free?

What would the internet do if everyone stopped giving away their work for free?


A while back, I decided to stop writing for free.

There were a number of factors that drove this decision:

  • I started working, off and on, with a labor law attorney and began thinking seriously about the relationship between capital (most likely, your boss, or your boss’s boss) and labor (most likely, you) for the first time since I dated that Marxist in college. The Marxist’s name was Paul and he quoted The Communist Manifesto and also introduced me to free internet porn.
  • I’ve long been troubled by the fact that so many creative people (and porn sites! but, um, this doesn’t bother me as much) give their work away for free on the internet.
  • I’ve been giving my work away for free on Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, Please.
  • I left this comment on the post It’s Not Personal, It’s the (Writing) Business on Barb Taub’s blog, barbtaub.

I agree 1000% with what you’ve written here, and I always argue (in vain) with people that giving your work away free does not lead to anyone ever paying for it. But the stark reality is this: their work isn’t good enough for someone to pay for.

  • I knew suspected my work might be good enough for someone to pay for.

All these thoughts were rolling through my head on one of the days I wasn’t trolling the internet for free porn when I came across the pop culture site whatculture! features articles about television, movies, music, sport (it’s a British site, so they call it “sport” as though there were only one, and if there were only one, they would probably want to call it “football” instead of “soccer”) and professional wrestling.  I ignored the professional wrestling stuff when I saw the “Compose An Article & Get Paid” in the upper right corner of my screen.

So I did compose an article and get paid (you can read about the process whereby you, too, can compose an article and get paid here).

And this is the article I wrote: Game of Thrones: Ten Things to Do While Waiting for Season Four.

Monopoly money

I have not quite three of these jingling in my pocket!


That article wound up getting around 7,000 pageviews which resulted in a payment of £2.89, which is $4.81 in real money.

As you can tell by the grin on my face, I’m absolutely thrilled that 7,000 nerds on the internet clicked on something I wrote, and the $4.81 (I’ll have to search under the cushions of my sofa to make up the difference for a Caramel Macchiato at Starbucks) is absolutely the sweetest bit of coin I’ve ever earned.



But don’t worry.  I’m not going to start charging you for reading Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, Please.

Royalty free stock photos including the images in this post can be found at Stock.XCHNG.

It’s 3am, I Must Be Up Reading Your Blog

Daily Post at

The Daily Prompt from the Daily Post for February 26:

What is the best dream you’ve ever had? Recount it for us in all its ethereal glory. If no dream stands out in your memory, recount your worst nightmare. Leave no frightening detail out.

Photographers, artists, poets: show us IMAGINARY.


I’m one of those people who not only remembers my dreams, but I’m also annoying enough to tell you about them, in excruciating detail, over breakfast.

“. . . and then all my teeth started to fall out,” I’ll say to you while you’re waiting for your cup of coffee to cool enough to drink.

“And they felt like shards of broken glass in my mouth,” I’ll continue, even though you’re not even listening anymore, you’re thinking about how your period is late and that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to hook up with Brad after all.  Or else you’re thinking about how the dog’s breath has been smelling like poop lately and you should make an appointment with the vet for her after work.

But there I am, my voice droning on, still detailing my dream to you, as though I haven’t even noticed your eyes glazing over.  Sometimes I’ll even add dramatic hand gestures to my story telling, pantomiming the dream sequence.

“So I had to spit them out of my mouth and into my hand, one by one, like this.” I hold my hands before my mouth and make several loud “Ptooey!” noises.

“And then I held my hands out for everyone to see.” I hold out my palms to you and then, with only a slight hesitation, you lean forward to check to see if there are any teeth there.  There are not.  It was only a dream.

"Mmmm, of course I'll be your girlfriend, James Franco."

“Mmmm, of course I’ll be your girlfriend, James Franco.”

My husband is one of those people who never remembers his dreams.

“Not even the sex ones?” I asked.

“No, not even the sex ones, ” he said.

“Ok, well, then let me tell you about this sex dream I had last night . . .” Fortunately, this particular sex dream co-starred my husband (they don’t always).

Anyway, I’ve always assumed that people, like my husband, who don’t remember their dreams are rational and no-nonsense.  Meanwhile, people who do remember their dreams, like me, are creative and maybe a little bit dippy.

Now along comes this study, “Resting Brain Activity Varies with Dream Recall Frequency Between Subjects”, published last week in the scientific journal, Neuropsychopharmacologythat says that I’m all wrong.  Dream recall has nothing to do with being creative!  It’s merely a matter of how soundly one sleeps.  From the Washington Post article on the research:

In general, dream recall is thought to require some amount of wakefulness during the night for the vision to be encoded in longer-term memory. But it is not known what causes some people to wake up more than others.

So people who wake up a lot at night have the opportunity to remember their dreams and store them in long term memory so they can recall them later, while people who sleep through until the alarm clock goes off never get that chance.

This makes perfect sense to me, because I remember my dreams and I never sleep through the night! In fact, you may have noticed the odd time stamps on the comments I leave on your blog and you’ve been scratching your head wondering what time zone I live in.  Is it Brunei Darussalam Time? How about Hawaii-Aleutian Daylight Time?  No, it’s Eastern Standard Time and it really is 3am and I’m up reading your blog.

Royalty free stock photos including the image in this post can be found at Stock.XCHNG.

Tin Pan Anniversary

Like a railroad train bearing down on me in an episode of a silent movie serial, my wedding anniversary is fast approaching.

I’ve long struggled with what to give my husband for the day that will live in infamy our anniversary and find myself consulting those lists of traditional gifts each year.  You can find out what you’re supposed to give (or get) every year here. For those of you who don’t know how the internet works, I’ll provide the list for the first ten years of marriage:

  1. Paper
  2. Cotton
  3. Leather
  4. Fruit, flowers
  5. Wood
  6. Sugar
  7. Copper, wool
  8. Bronze
  9. Pottery, willow
  10. Tin
I knew I should have gotten him the DVD!

How am I supposed to wrap this?

Looks like last year I was supposed to give him a piece of pottery or a willow.  A willow?   Yes, a willow.  I wonder if that means the tree or the filmI guess it doesn’t matter since we both forgot our anniversary last year.  About a week later I finally remembered that I’d forgotten, but since he didn’t even remember that he forgot, I decided to save this bit of information to use against him in our next argument (“Not only did you leave the toilet seat up, but you forgot our anniversary, you bastard!”)

So this year it looks like I’m supposed to give him something made of tin. suggests the “luxurious” Bentley’s Finest Tea Classic Collection Tin Gift Set (certified Kosher!), as well as tin cufflinks and a photo frame (“Cheap looking and definitely not what was expected” writes one disappointed customer).

I guess any of those ideas would be better than what one Pennsylvania couple decided to do together to commemorate their three-week (here I am, worrying about what to give for ten years of marriage while other couples celebrate their marriages as a weekly event!) anniversary.  From the NY Daily News:

They celebrated their three-week wedding anniversary and Veteran’s Day by killing a man for the thrill of it, according to police.

Elytte Barbour, 22, and his 18-year-old bride, Miranda, are charged with murder for the Nov. 11 killing of Troy LaFerrara, 42, a man who answered the woman’s Craigslist ad offering companionship in the form of “delightful conversation.”

I’ve warned you all about Craigslist before in the posts You Really Can Find Anything on CraigslistAdventures in Babymaking and Too Stupid to Live but I guess poor, doomed Troy LaFerrara was not a follower of Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, Please . Let his life (and death) be a lesson to you all to keep on following my blog.

As if murdering a stranger off Craigslist to celebrate your anniversary isn’t shocking enough, Mrs. Barbour is now claiming to be a mass-murdering Satanist.  Because, you know, why not?  I’m sure she has nothing better to do than think up crazy bullshit while lying around her cell waiting for trial.

As for me, I’m lying around wondering if it’s too much to hope my husband will forget about our anniversary again this year.

Royalty free stock photos including the image in this post can be found at Stock.XCHNG.

Who’s in Charge Here, Anyway?

I made the mistake of clicking on this link, GOP congressman’s book: ‘The wife is to voluntarily submit’ to her husband, only because I thought it would be a kinky BDSM sex story.  I was disappointed to find that it was just more of the same-old reactionary blather from a Republican Congressman about how his marriage is better than my marriage on account of submission.  Or subjugation.  Or subshrubs, or something.  (Subshrub is actually a word, I’m not making it up.  It’s a synonym for bush, which brings me right around the circle back to sex, I think.)

The supposed inspiration for the congressman’s ideas for connubial bliss comes from the book of Ephesians, chapter five, verses 22-24.

22 Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord. 23 For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Savior. 24 Now as the church submits to Christ, so also wives should submit to their husbands in everything.

It's a metaphor. No, it's supposed to be taken literally.  No, it's a metaphor . . .

It’s a metaphor. No, it’s supposed to be taken literally. No, it’s a metaphor . . .

I never understood why Christians take certain passages of the Bible literally while other passages are meant metaphorically.  How am I supposed to know to submit to my husband in everything, and also know not  to gouge out my own eyes when I sin (Mark 9:47)? Long-time (even short-time) readers of this blog know that I enjoy a bit of sinning now and then, and I don’t think my husband is going to be happy being married to a woman with two bloody eye sockets, no matter how much I submit.

It’s all very confusing.

But I want my marriage to be as happy as Congressman Pearce’s, so I’m willing to give this submission thing a go.  I went to the store and bought what I needed before approaching my husband with this new idea to improve our marriage.

“What do you think you’re doing with those handcuffs and nipple clips?” he asked me.

I pointed to Congressman Pearce’s book on the coffee table.  I know.  I know.  You thought I already understood that the Congressman didn’t mean that sort of submission, but I was counting on the fact that my husband had not bothered to read the book.

We'll have Twizzlers for dessert.

It’s what’s for dinner.

“He doesn’t mean that kind of submission,” my husband said.  Drat!  He had read the book.  “I think he means I’m supposed to command you to make what I want for dinner and stuff like that.”

I threw the handcuffs and nipple clips down in disgust.  “Forget about it!  We’re not eating bacon cheeseburgers and malted milk balls for dinner every night!”

My husband moved closer to me.  “What about doing that thing with your tongue that I like?”

“I save that for your birthday.”

My husband thought hard about how else he could get me to submit.  Finally, something occurred to him.  “How about you let me watch that public television special on model trains?”

“All right.  But not on the big TV.  You can watch on the little one, upstairs in the attic, by yourself.”

My husband smiled and nodded and then climbed the three flights of stairs to our musty attic where he watched his television program alone.

Maybe this submission thing really is good for your marriage.

Royalty free stock photos including the image in this post can be found at Stock.XCHNGThe image of the box of Whoppers® is taken from Hershey corporate website and is believed to comply with fair or acceptable use principles established in U.S. and international copyright law.



The Top Five Things I Would Do if I Could Travel Back in Time

According to the physicists, time travel is possible but only into the future, so there’s no chance for me to go back in time and zip up my slacks before my presentation to the senior vice presidents in 2003.

Nor is there any hope that I’ll be able to go back in time and make out with James Fraser, the sexy 18th century Scotsman who is the love interest of heroine Claire Randall in Diane Galbadon’s Outlander series of books about love and sex and time travel.  The books are coming to television this summer in a miniseries on Starz.

I’m currently reading the first book, Outlander.  The novel was published in the UK under the title Cross Stitch and I guess I understand why the publishers changed the title for the American audience because Cross Stitch sounds to this American like a murder mystery involving embroidery rather than science fiction involving time travel and sex: the protagonist, Claire Randall, gets it on a lot with her 20th century husband, Frank, in the first fifty pages or so, and, although I haven’t gotten that far yet, I’m expecting her to get it on, a lot, with her 18th century lover in future chapters.

I’m not sure if the first thing I would do as a time traveler would be to have sex but it would certainly be in the top five.  I don’t think it counts as cheating if you have sex in a time where it is theoretically impossible for you to be, right?  Well, I’m not going to count it.

No, they aren't!  Stop saying that!

They’re having sex in there.

Speaking of physicists and their strange ideas about time-space travel, when I was in college I triggered an absolute melt down in a physics major when I suggested that astronauts had sex in space.  He was excitedly telling me about the latest space shuttle mission (that’s nerd for flirting) when I interrupted his explanation of trajectory and aerobraking by asking (and this is nerd for foreplay), “Do you think they’ve had sex on the Space Shuttle?”

He insisted they didn’t, and I insisted they must have, and, yada yada yada*, I never had sex with him.

Anyway, here are the top five things I would do if I could travel back in time.

  1. Zip up my pants.
  2. Kill Hitler.
  3. Tell Einstein that it appears he was wrong about the time travel thing.
  4. Bet my entire 401k balance on the Boston Red Sox winning the 2013 World Series.
  5. Show off my freaky 21st century sex moves.

Outlander, a Starz original series, premieres in summer 2014.

*I still miss Seinfeld.

Royalty free stock photos including the image in this post can be found at Stock.XCHNG.

Reproduction Ruined My Sex Life

From the file “Water is Wet, Also” comes this news: Happier Relationships for Couples Without Children,  a headline to which all the fruitful and multiplying couples in the world collectively responded, “No shit.”

If you click on the linky-link you’ll find out that the Open University interviewed over 5,000 people to come to this not-so-startling conclusion.  The Open University, by the way, sounds like a totally made up name for a fake school, which it sort of is.  You can check out their website here if you want.  Anyway, in 100 years, we’ll all probably be speaking of Open University in revered tones and praying that our great-great-great grandchildren get accepted there.  People probably snickered about Cambridge and Yale and the Toni & Guy Hairdressing Academy when they were new, too.

Let’s see what the 5,000 folks at the Open University had to say about relationships and happiness and everything.

For both men and women, those who did not have children ranked the quality of their relationship more highly than those who did. They also did significantly more to “maintain” their relationship, such as taking time to go out together or talk, than those with children.

By “taking time to go out together or talk” they mean “have sex”, right?  Because that’s what I would mean by it.

I think that was just the cat using the litterbox!

Did you just hear one of the kids cough?

My own robust marital sex life took a downward turn the night our four year old wandered into our bedroom looking for a glass of water.  The experience so scarred my husband he was still shaking about it three days later.  Luckily, his psyche (and his penis) eventually recovered and we resumed our sexual relationship, only now sex was quiet, quick and furtive.  Also, my husband added this tantalizing question to his foreplay routine:

“Are you sure they’re asleep?”

I don’t know what he expected me to do to ensure our kids were soundly asleep.  Maybe spike their juice boxes with Vicks® Nyquil®?

Since the phenomenon of coitus interruptus de filii (or whatever we want to call it) is so widespread,

Mommy put on her nice underwear tonight.  Time to come down with a stomach virus!

Mommy put on her nice underwear tonight. Time to come down with a stomach virus!

there must be some advantage to children having evolved this ability to disrupt their parents’ sex lives.  Now that I think about it, it’s quite obvious: family resources are limited and the more children there are the thinner those resources get spread around, so it makes sense for the existing children to not want more children.  It’s the same reason why baby birds peck their siblings (sometimes to death) in the nest: they want a bigger share of that worm.  Since humans don’t have beaks, we had to develop another technique to limit the number of competitors within the family.  I imagine it works something like this, just as Daddy puts a little Marvin Gaye on the stereo and Mommy slips out of her pair of good underwear.

INT. Children’s Bedroom. Night.

Older Sister: (throwing a shoe across the room at Younger Sister asleep in bed)  Wake up!  I think they’re trying to have sex again!

Younger Sister: Huh?  What?

Older Sister:  They’re trying to have sex!  You better go in there and tell them you had a scary dream or something.

Younger Sister: Why?

Older Sister: To stop them from having sex!

Younger Sister: Why do I want them to stop having sex?  What do I care?  I don’t even know what sex is!

Older Sister: Sex is how you make babies, stupid.  If only I’d known what they were up to the night you were conceived.  Oh, well.  Now it’s in both our interest to stop anymore babies from coming into this house!   As it is, my future is already full of Friday nights waiting tables to pay for college.  And you better start taking kindergarten more seriously! They’re not going to throw away our limited financial resources on someone who gets a “Needs to Improve” in Listens Attentively!  Now go on, get in there.  Tell them your tummy hurts and I’ll go downstairs and start a fire in the microwave with a piece of aluminum foil.

Royalty free stock photos including the images in this post can be found at Stock.XCHNG.

A Different Sort of Hunger Games

I can’t decide what I find more amazing about the news story, Woman Sets Speed Record Eating 72-Ounce Steak: is it the size of the steak (four and a half pounds!) or the speed it took Molly Schuyler to eat it (four minutes!)?

There used to be a reality show on the Travel Channel, Man v. Food, in which the host took on eating challenges at restaurants around the United States.  On one episode he ate a bucket of chicken wings, on another episode he ate a gigantic burrito–you get the idea.  I first discovered the show when I was pregnant and ravenous and nauseous (all at the same time) years ago.  The show has since wrapped production but it airs endlessly in repeats so you can still catch it if you want to watch a guy eat a whole mess of not-always-appetizing food.

Here’s a bit from the episode filmed in Philadelphia where he ate a giant cheesesteak, natch.

I like burritos and chicken wings and steak as much as the next non-competitive food eating woman, but just last week at Outback Steakhouse® I dithered over whether to order the 6 oz. or 9 oz. filet.

My Patient Bloke Husband:  How hungry are you?

Sheila Me: I’m pretty hungry.

No Rules. Just Right. Wait, there is one rule. You have to eat it all in four minutes.

My Decisive Bloke Husband: The nine ounce.

Sheila Me: I may not be that hungry.

My Five Year Old Joey:  (pointing to the 20 oz. Porterhouse) I want this.

My Nine Year Old Joey: You can’t get that.  You have to order off the Joey menu.  (pointing to the 24 oz. ribeye)  I’m gonna order that, though.

Outback Server: Are you folks ready to order?

My Annoyed Bloke Husband: They’ll both have the Grilled Cheese-a-roos.  She’ll have the 9 oz filet and I’ll have the New York Strip.  And a Classic Steakhouse Martini.  Make it a double.

Needless to say, I didn’t finish the 9 oz filet (I knew I should have ordered the 6 oz!) and I can’t imagine a scenario in which I could scarf down 72 ounces of beef, like Molly Schuyler did. And she weighs 120 pounds, so she ate 1/27 of her weight!  She’s sort of like those ants who can lift 50x their own weight, only instead of heaving that grain of sand to the very top of the anthill, she eats it!

You can (still!) watch episodes of Man v. Food on the Travel Channel.  Check your cable listings for dates and times.

The image in this post comes from the Outback Steakhouse® corporate website and is believed to comply with fair or acceptable use principles established in U.S. and international copyright law.

The Daily Prompt today:

Click over to whatever website you visit most frequently to get news. Find the third headline on the page. Make sure that headline is in your post.

Photographers, artists, poets: show us a CURRENT EVENT.

One More Reason Why I Have No Followers

Lately, I’ve been witnessing a disturbing trend among bloggers: they’re writing what people want to read.

You can see it here on Lara Chase’s blog in the post, “So Are You Still Writing or What?” where she explains why she’s writing what she’s writing about:

When I started this blog I mostly wrote about the craft of writing, and some tips about the publishing market. For the last several months I’ve had posts on fall pilots, cooking, how to button tuft a couch, exercise, etc. Occasionally, this has led to someone asking me, “Hey, what’s the deal?”

In case you didn’t read the articles and statistics that lead up to the switch (according to my blog stats, few of you did), I realized that no one but other aspiring authors care about dialogue and how to write a convincing antagonist. So, I started writing blog posts about other things that interested me: food, home décor, TV, and whatever else I thought others might find informative. Turns out, you guys seem to find these topics more interesting as well.

cheezit-logo(Lara’s post is awesome for another reason: go over and look at how she’s organized her work space for writing.  I’m absolutely ashamed and humiliated that I write at my dining room table, hunched over my lap top eating Cheez-its® while my husband, children and two cats mill around me).

And then I saw it again, over on Musical Wishes Blog, where the blogger came right out and asked readers to vote (there’s a poll!) on what they wanted to read next.  Head on over and vote!  I voted for The Closeted Bisexual because I’m a Democrat and couldn’t vote for Rick Santorum in the Republican primary.

I’m about a year and a half late with that Rick Santorum joke, aren’t I?  Or maybe I’m a year and a half early.

Anyway, I’m not sure how I feel about the audience dictating the subject matter of my posts.  I mean, why should I write what they want to read?  That would be like feeding my kids just because they’re hungry, or paying my mortgage just because it’s due.

So if I’m not going to take cues from my readers, how do I come up with topics to blog about?  Usually, I get some ridiculous moronic idea for a post and then proceed to have an inner dialogue with myself.

Oh, and you bought me lube!  How thoughtful!

After I blow out the candles, let’s have anal sex.

Me: Maybe I should write a post about anal sex.

My Inner Voice:  Are you crazy? What’s wrong with you?  No one wants to read about anal sex!  Why do you think of these things?

Me: Well, it could be funny.  I could tell that story about how I got drunk on my birthday that one year and decided that would be the night I would try to have anal sex with my husband. That was pretty funny.

My Inner Voice:  That story isn’t funny! It’s embarrassing!  There really is something wrong with you!

And because whenever I hear that little voice in my head telling me “No! No! No!” I absolutely must do whatever it’s warning me against, you can expect a post on anal sex from me in the near future, whether you want to read it or not.

Royalty free stock photos including the images in this post can be found at Stock.XCHNG.  The Cheez-It® logo is from the Kellogg Company web site and is believed to comply with fair or acceptable use principles established in U.S. and international copyright law.

My Tagline is Killing My Blog

I think I’ve finally figured out why Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, Please has not propelled me into blogging superstardom, despite years of writing raucously funny posts about France and swinging and bugs (oh, wait, that post is not really about insects).

It’s my tag line.  It’s killing my blog.

I figured this out after taking a look at the writing prompts over at the Daily Post Zero to Hero: 30 Days to a Better Blog. Here’s the prompt from Friday, January 2, 2013 (day 2 of the challenge):

Day 2: What’s your name?

We make snap judgements about websites all the time — how many times have you disregarded a site because it wasn’t immediately clear what it was about? Today, you’ll name your blog and expand on that with an “About this Blog” widget, drawing on the introductory post you published yesterday. Let no reader click away to the next site because they were unsure of your focus!

I was explaining all this to my husband, about how the name of my blog and my tag line were probably turning off readers and how I really needed an “About this Blog” widget and then, look out,

Why do you ask?  Did you stop reading it???

Yes, I’m still writing that blog.

there would be no stopping Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, PleaseI had worked myself up into a lather while pacing the floor and making wild hand gestures as I spoke when he pulled earbuds out of his ears and said, “Sorry, I’m listening to a lecture.  What did you say?”

This grievance was multiplied a thousandfold after I repeated what I had been saying and he then asked, “You’re still writing that blog?”

Realizing I’d receive no help from the man with whom I had made the disastrous (or so it seemed at the moment) decision to procreate with, I sat down and tried to think of a new tagline that would make readers “immediately clear” about Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, Please.

Here’s what I came up with:

  1. Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, Please.  Humor.  Or, at least, I think it’s funny.
  2. Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, Please.  Humor and Sex.  Not really that much sex.  You perverts will be disappointed.
  3. Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, Please.  Not really about plumbing.  You plumbers will be disappointed.
  4. Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, Please.  Blogging and Swearing.
  5. Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, Please.  Humor and Sex.  Mixing them together with embarrassing results since 2012.

If you’ve read this far and you remain disappointed, check out P Simpson Plumbing and Heating.

Royalty free stock photos including the images in this post can be found at Stock.XCHNG.  The Zero to Hero logo was snatched from the Daily Post @ page.


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