Since I’m in the car a lot more now, I’m listening to a great deal of NPR and pop music. No judgment on which is more fulfilling for the heart and soul. I find both equally nourishing.
So I, along with my girls, are on the way to the pool club today and I’m busting out a little Lady Gaga. I belt out the following lyrics:
Let’s have some fun, this beat is sick…
I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.
And then I suddenly wonder, “Hey, hold on a second… are they talking about sex?” And then I think, oh my gosh, “disco stick” is the best name EVER for a p*nis. (And it’s not that I think you’re too delicate to handle the real word, I just don’t want to be spammed by 500 Viagra sites today.)
I just think my dating years would have been all the more awesome if my girlfriends and I could have gossiped about our love lives and used terms like “disco stick” and “disco balls” when referring to male genitalia. (By the way, “genitalia” is like one of the worst words ever. That word makes me nauseous.)
It would go something like this: “I had the weirdest date with Johnny last night. He was was so sweet and nice and took me to the best restaurant. But then during dessert, he kept trying to get me to touch his disco stick and I was all like – Johnny, I’m not that kind of girl. This is really inappropriate. So I don’t know if I’m going out with him again. Anyway, enough about me, how was your date with Gabe? I hope you didn’t give him disco blue balls again.”
You see how the options are delightfully endless.
Or maybe I’m misunderstanding Lady Gaga.
Maybe a disco stick is just a magical wand on which children ride off to glittery places where they receive ice cream and pink rainbow glitter and princess stickers.
Or at least that’s what I told my girls.