Striking in the nude to protest low wages for nude models? Reminds me of something about a cow and buying milk….

My tattoo-artist friend is coming to town next week. For my Christmas present, she wants to give me a tattoo since she’s been trying to talk me into getting inked for years. For her Christmas present I’m going to let her give me one.

A small one, most likely on my shoulder where I’ve been told it will hurt the least.

So, what should I get?

For months now, The Venomous Daughter — who turned 17 last summer — has been pleading for a car. Not just any car, mind you: she wants something sporty and pretty so she won’t be embarrassed driving it, something with a little zip and, most importantly (in her mind), something that will make all of her friends turn green with envy. Something, in other words, that is the exact the opposite of what her father and I have in mind.

Undeterred by the annoying constraints of reality, economics and a true appreciation for the cost of gas and insurance, she’s been trying to convince the Venomous Husband to give her his 2000 Mercury Cougar, a car which she says is far more suitable for a girl of her age than a man of his increasingly advanced years. In its place, she thinks he needs something rugged and long-lasting, a vehicle that’s functional and manly… a vehicle more like himself. To be specific, she’s been trying to convince him that he’d look better in a GMC Sierra.

Of course, we know that’s not going to happen. Having finally paid off VH’s Cougar as well as my mini-van, we’re not about to take on a new note for yet another vehicle, much less outright give a car to a child who has never been able to save up more than $55 at a time. We know that, despite her promises, she’d be hitting us up for gas money each week, and then for more money when her insurance payment was due at the end of the month. No, the only way this kid’s getting a car is if she gets a job and saves up for one… or marries well. Whichever. Which is not to say that we haven’t been having fun with her over the matter.

The Venomous Daughter outgrew her belief in Santa Claus quite some time ago, so as parents we don’t have the same carrot to use with her this time of year that we have with The Big-Eyed Boy. With him, we just have to start humming that Christmas carol about Santa coming to town and immediately he turns into a kind, sweet little kid who can be relied upon to fetch Mommy another box of Kleenex or grab Daddy a cold beer from the fridge. It’s a bit tougher to manipulate a teenager who’s already picking out decor for next fall’s college dorm room.

But not impossible.

Letting her “catch” me reading GMC Sierra reviews means I can count on her doing the laundry. Discussing the Sierra’s various body options with VH — the work truck, the SL or the SLE — is a sure-fire way to get the dishes done. And when I just don’t feel like cleaning? Well, that’s when we start debating 2- and 4-wheel drive options and a V6 or V8 engine while my daughter’s just within hearing range. Within moments she’s vacuuming the house.

Yeah, it’s probably a bad parenting thing, but we figure we’ve already screwed her up so bad that what’s a little more therapy, right? And it’s not like we’re really lying about buying one. After all, the 2009 GMC Sierra is a great looking truck!

I know, because I found a Christmas ornament of one and hung it on the tree last weekend. Now we just have to see how long it takes her to realize that’s the only new car we’re buying for quite some time.

My latest column, Fat Kids Have Their Parents To Blame, is up at Pajamas Media (and, as always, it’s ruffling feathers).

It’s almost Christmas, and here in Kansas that means it’s also really freaking cold. With snow expected tomorrow and an overnight low in the mid-teens, just going outside for the morning paper now requires bundling up in multiple layers.

So naturally, being a bit of a clothes freak who insists on having the right shoes for every outfit, I’ve been asking myself, “Self, what shoes does one wear with all of these bulky and heavy layers?” And, obviously, the answer is: something warm.

So lately I’ve been thinking about buying myself a pair of ugg boots. Oh, I know: thanks to celebs like Pam Anderson, Paris Hilton and Britney Spears pairing their Uggs with sloppy sweatpants, the Australian-born boots have, to many, become a bad fashion choice.

But with the premium merino sheepskin and thick inner fleece providing all that warmth and comfort, I’m willing to take that style risk. (I do the same thing in the summer with Crocs, although I hear that the Ugg boots’ fleece, which keeps feet warm in the winter, helps keep them cool in the summer, too.)

The only question is whether wearing them will make me look like Pam Anderson, Paris Hilton or Britney Spears? Yeah, I know: that’s asking a lot out of a pair of boots, isn’t it?

For several months now, I’ve made it a point to stay offline on weekends. During the work week I’m rather tolerant of the way the internet plays with time: how the 55 seconds it takes for a poorly-coded page to load can seem like an hour; how the time between when I sit down at the keyboard in the morning and when my son gets out of school can pass in the blink of an eye.

On the weekends, though, my time is just that: my time, and I want to be in charge of it. The older I get, the more protective I am of that, too. Come Friday evening, I turn off the laptop and swear — every single weekend — that I won’t sit down in front of it again until Monday morning. I like to think my computer’s glad for the time apart, too.

Ever since I began doing this, my weekends have grown exponentially productive in a non-productive sort of way. What I mean is that, rather than losing the weekend to researching and drafting outlines for future columns, answering email and reading the news — all things pertinent to my income during the week — I take an old-fashioned approach to Saturday and Sunday, the way pre-internet generations did. I don’t work, nor do I do anything that resembles my regular work week. (Evidently, this weekend Luddite thing is catching on.)

Instead, I read. (This weekend it was both New Moon and Eclipse, the second and third books in the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyers.) I watch movies. I lounge on the sofa with my iPhone headset jammed into my ears while listening to music. I veg.

Oh, sometimes that’s easier said than done, particularly if I’m behind on a writing deadline or have a client with a rush job who just can’t stand the thought of waiting 48 hours.

Or my mother, who seems to think that weekends are best spent forwarding the umpteen gazillion email jokes she received throughout the week from her senior citizen friends, the very same people who’ve been circulating the same damn email jokes for the past 3 years since they discovered the internet but, because they are senior citizens, they don’t remember having read and forwarded the damn things before.

And these, of course, are followed by the emails from my mother asking if I got all of the other emails she’d sent, and why aren’t I responding, and am I okay or am I sick? Because, being a senior citizen, she apparently can’t remember that I’ve told her every single Monday for months now that I do not read email over the weekend (and that even during the week I pretty much ignore all of those chain emails, too).

This week, however, she truly topped herself. Not only did she send 23 email forwards (down by half from last weekend, perhaps because I told her that I’m in the midst of a couple of very hectic weeks), but then she called to ask if I’d seen any of them. And when she got my voice mail since I also don’t answer the phone much over the weekend, either? Why, she sent me yet another email asking if I got the voice mail she’d left.

All of which makes me realize that my goal of unplugging over the weekend in order to protect my leisure time a bit more, and thereby make my work week more efficient, might actually be counterproductive since it means that I have to spend all day Monday reading and responding to the very crap I’d been seeking refuge from in the first place.

My latest column, Michelle Obama and the New Face of Feminism is up at Pajamas Media.

Here’s a round-up of last week’s entries from around my blogs:

I Think Therefore I Blog

• Naughty Blogger
• Note to my Husband
• Recipe: Homemade Cream of Mushroom Soup (Gluten-free)
• It’s Safer Shopping At Home
• I’m Ready To Jingle My Bells

Chubby Mommy

• Seeing Less of Me

This week’s most popular posts on Electric Venom:

• The Church of the Almighty Orgasm
• Word Fugue: The Multi-Tasking Edition
• Do You Know The Answer?

Despite being what VH1 calls “the Goddess of Googling”, I’m having a heck of a time finding the answer to a question that’s been plaguing me today.

Now, to be fair, I didn’t wake up with a hangover this morning, despite having attended a party last night while VH stayed home to watch the Big-Eyed Boy. In fact, I was a good girl and was home by 8 pm after a mere two glasses of wine and asleep by 11 pm, perfectly sober. (I had work to do this morning and, besides, the one person whose company I most crave wasn’t there.)

Anyway.

I’m trying to compile a list, preferably with book titles or other readable references, of famous correspondents. By that I mean, people who — back in the day — wrote snail mail to each other which became noteworthy literature in its own right.

Can anyone come up with some names?

Anyone? Anyone??? Buehler???

Not only is it Tippling Tuesday — the day on which we celebrate, with alcohol, the most under-celebrated day of the week — but it’s also time to play Word Fugue. Why’s that? Well, because I’m going to a party this evening and don’t have anything else with which to keep you miscreants entertained.

To tide you over until I recover from tomorrow morning’s hangover we might as well play that addictive little word association game that we’ve all come to love, or at least tolerate. If you’ve never played it before, here are the rules:

1. I start it off with a word.

2. You look at the most recently posted comment.

3. You leave ONE word that comes to mind upon reading the most recent comment.

4. You may play as many times as you like, but you may not use the same word twice.

5. Don’t leave links. They’ll only send you into comment moderation.

6. Word Fugues that wind up in comment moderation will get deleted.

7. The game continues until you bore me, at which point comments are closed.

Ready?

Here’s the word:

paralyze

Your turn.

Look, I love a good orgasm as much as the next person, but to start a church for one? That seems a bit odd, even to me. But, hey, I’m nothing if not open-minded.

Not surprisingly, the church was founded by an artist, Carlos Bebeacua from Lövestad (no joke) in southern Sweden, a place known for being a bit more in tune with their inner sex freaks than we are here in the U.S.

“The orgasm is God, the orgasm should be worshiped,” Bebeacua told the Kvällsposten newspaper.

“The orgasm is the ultimate feeling of lust, it shouldn’t be limited to ejaculation. You can reach it through art or by looking at a landscape and thinking ‘Wow!’”

As such, the church has only priestesses, and its scriptures are the Catechism of Orgasm which preaches the gospel of sex.

Sound good? Then get down on your knees and… pray.

Apparently, the chaps composing Monty Python were as irritated as their fans by the crappy YouTube ripoffs of their work. So they’ve launched the Monty Python YouTube channel featuring high-quality video clips from their vault.

That’s right, folks. Next time you’ve got a hankering to hear The Penis Song you can enjoy it in full, vivid color!

First place: Charity!

Second place: Bryan with “Excellent! Smithers, release the hounds.”

Honorable mention: Will Wallace with “I’ll get you my pretty; and your little dog too!”

When Obama’s campaign made such a big deal over John McCain’s inexperience with email, Republicans swiftly responded that such things aren’t relevant when it comes to being presidential material. Of course, the libs refused to believe it, but it turns out the Right was right.

In addition to concerns about e-mail security, he faces the Presidential Records Act, which puts his correspondence in the official record and ultimately up for public review, and the threat of subpoenas. A decision has not been made on whether he could become the first e-mailing president, but aides said that seemed doubtful. (Source: NY Times)

I suspect that in the days to come we’re going to find out the Right was right about a lot more, too.