Kelly Oxford’s Guide to Not Screwing Up Mother’s Day for Your Wife

If you’re like us, you’re still perfecting the all-too-important art of nailing Mother’s Day. Maybe you spaced on placing a call to Mom back in college, or got to the florist in the eleventh hour and had to settle for a cactus. Maybe you showed up in a T-shirt looking a little hungover from that double-overtime playoff game the night before. Regardless, she’s your mom, and she forgave you because she’s your mom. Moms are good that way to their offspring. That’s why there’s a friggin’ holiday named after them.

But you know who moms don’t forgive quite as easily when they screw up the Oscars of Hallmark holidays? Their husbands. Yep, the baby-daddy needs to get it right. And know this: Without help, you will not get it right. But help has arrived in the form of moms’ mom, GQ contributor, Twitter conqueror, and best-selling literary superstar (one fail-safe gift idea for any mom is a copy of her devastatingly honest, hilarious memoir, Everything Is Perfect When You’re a Liar), Kelly Oxford. Kelly answered our questions to try to save us from ourselves and rescue mother’s day for the mothers of our children.

Actual Letters, Actual Readers: Vol. 14

Just so we’re clear, we’ve published things like this and this in our magazine, and THIS is what finally prompted you to stop letting your son(s) read — sorry, peruse — GQ? Our best guess: the idea of a woman writing as enthusiastically about sex as the laddies gives you a case of the night terrors, eh? Didn’t realize that’s how you roll up in Wuh-STAH.

Quid Pro Fellatio:
Kelly Oxford On Marriage and Sex Bartering

In the beginning, every serious romantic entanglement is an electric, superconducting, steamy, fleshy hump festival. New sex partner = new sex, and new sex = lots of sex. That’s sex math. You’re in the kitchen making pasta sauce—bam!—you’re having sex on the floor. You’re parking the car in the garage—bam—you’re having sex in the car. But inevitably, invariably, it wears off. Soon all your conversations, once so filled with erotic promise, are about bills and barfy kids and how that swollen knee makes your leg look like Jackie Gleason’s.

Then, one night, she’s sitting next to you on the couch, perfecting her mock-Piers Morgan accent, when she stops and says, “Man, I really want a Slurpee.” Meaning, of course: “Will you go get me a Slurpee?” But by now you’re way past the white-knight stage of the relationship, so you don’t budge. And then it occurs to her.

"Will you get me a Slurpee if I give you a blow job?"

Longlonglongtime GQ favorite and Canadian blogtrix par excellence Kelly Oxford wrote her first piece for our print edition this month: a very funny, very frisky essay about how to boost your sex life with your cohabitant by swapping chores for tricks.