Cradling the Mustache

The title of this blog post is not a euphemism for female masturbation, though maybe it should be. If want to read my thoughts on that subject, click here (i.e. Mom, DO NOT CLICK THERE).

When I talk about cradling or cuddling with my mustache, this is the mustache I mean:

A few things to know about my mustache:

1. His name is Maurice.
2. He is from Provence*.
3. I share my bed with Maurice almost every night.

*He was a gift, so I don't know his actual origins. Probably he's from somewhere terrible like Urban Outfitters that sells kitschy Japanese plush toys, but I like to pretend he's from France.

Yes, I am a 29-year-old woman who sleeps with a stuffed mustache. And sometimes, Maurice is not alone in bed with me (and Maude). Allow me to introduce a few of my other bed fellows:

Laufgraben the Lion

Mr. T-T-T

M.J.

Master P, who lost his left foot in a tragic Maude-related incident. I don't actually sleep with him though, because when you squeeze him, he goes "Uhnnnn....na na na na."

So as you can see, it's often a menage-a-many in my futon.

When I'm sad, cuddling with stuffed animals is especially useful. My mother still endorses this practice -- I called her crying the other night (yeah, that whole happiness thing? Crock. I'm back to my normal ups-and-downs existence) and after calming me down, she asked "You have a stuffed animal you can cuddle, right?"

I can do you one better, Mom: I've got a stuffed mustache. A stuffed mustache WITH a mustache. And he's a great photo accessory at parties!